I. Am. An. Idiot.

February 18, 2022 :: 6:36 PM


Remember when I said that I didn’t think 2022 was going to be full of, um, triggering activities?



I’m a fucking idiot.


I turn 47 this year. If you want to work in specifics, I will now be two years older than my mother was when she died. (She died in March, but her birthday is (was?) in May.) It’s pretty hard to wrap my head around that. Like seriously. How the fuck did I outlive my mother? I certainly don’t take care of myself, other than pretending to be a runner and pumping my body full of all kinds of (prescription) chemicals.

Oh, and while we’re on the topic… she died in 1992. The calendar is telling me we survived 2020 and 2021 and are now in 2022. You probably don’t need to be an accountant to do that math in your head…

She has been dead for thirty fucking years. THIRTY.  (And yet, she continues to live in my head rent free.)

Moving on.

While we’re talking about easy math, how about 2022 less 2001?

Yup. Dad’s been dead for 21 years this April.

Holy Jesus motherfuck.

I am not ready for these milestones.

And I thought that being married for twenty years this August was going to rock my world.


- - - - - - - - - -

Recently, my six year old MacBook shit the bed. The power button broke into little bitty pieces and the fan ran all the time. It would overheat. It would freeze up. It was getting pretty nerve wracking. I was never sure which laptop was going to boot up.

I ended up getting a new one for Christmas.

While moving all the software and crap was easy, hooking up all my peripherals was a bitch and a half.

I love Macs, but they are, hands down, the worst fucking piece of equipment to upgrade.

I have a Logitech wireless keyboard that I am so in love with it would be illegal. But, it’s got a USB/Bluetooth dongle thingy.

I have a great black and white laser printer, but it’s USB only.

I have a super nice HP colour laser printer that works sporadically over Wi-Fi, so that is normally connected via USB.

I have an old LaCie drive that holds all my music and photos. It’s Thunderbolt 2.

I have two HDMI monitors. One that actually connects over HDMI and one that used a Thunderbolt 2 / HDMI dongle.

The new Mac has Thunderbolt 3 ports and does not have a single USB port. (Well, technically, I guess it does, but it’s USB-C and everything is USB A? B? 2.0? 3.0? I don’t know. The “normal” USB.)

I spent a lot of time researching my options because upgrading everything to work with the new Thunderbolt 3 bullshit wasn’t going to happen.

I bought a really expensive dock. I bought HDMI to DisplayPort cords because the highly recommended dock didn’t have HDMI ports. I dropped over $250 on what could essentially be called band-aids.

Only to get it all hooked up to find out that NOTHING worked.

No monitors. No keyboard. No LaCie drive. Absolutely fucking nothing worked.

Because I’m not a total idiot, I always spend the extravagant amount for AppleCare. (I’ve really only needed it twice and both times it was a lifesaver. As my father used to say, you buy insurance hoping you never need it, but you’ll be glad you did when the world falls apart around you.)

The poor tech dude who took my call… They’re not supposed to recommend things that aren’t Apple branded or aren’t affiliated with Apple in one way or another, but I finally got him to give me a brand name.

$65 out of pocket for a dock and a little stupid USB dongle for the keyboard.

Fuck me.

Should have just called Apple before I even bought the damn computer.

(Also, I just realised that I got my first Apple Macintosh desktop computer in 1992. Right after my mother died… so I’m also celebrating thirty years of my love/hate relationship with Apple products.)

I’m fucking old.

When you lose something you cannot replace

February 12, 2022 :: 10:45 AM

reminiscin’ this ‘n’ that ‘n’ havin’ such a good time… oo-de-lally, oo-de-lally, golly, what a day

I’m in a few Disney running groups, but my favourite is, hands down, #runDopey. The people are so great in there. It’s truly one of the safest Facebook groups there is, everyone is friendly, and there never seems to be any conflict. (Can you imagine that? A Facebook group without the token asshole? I KNOW!)

So anyway, a while back, they created an offshoot, called DFF. One of the mods has had some pretty debilitating depression lately. He’s so open about posting it that it breaks my heart. It hurts to hear what he’s going through because I’ve been there / I am there / I know I will be there.

Behold: twelve years of psychiatric care records.

I haven’t had the heart to go through them - I had them sent to me when I was going to pursue an EEOC violation against that former employer. I didn’t, in the end. The money I would win from the lawsuit (and I was told I had a textbook case) wasn’t enough to justify keeping that wound open for however long it would take to go through the EEOC process and subsequent legal bullshit. In all honesty, I don’t know how much would have been enough… No matter how you slice it, it wouldn’t give me the closure I still so desperately need. I’m not sure that’s attainable. I’m always going to be bipolar. I’m always going to carry that stigma. Getting fired because of it was unavoidable considering how fucked up that job made me. So yeah.

It is what it is.

Acknowledge. Move on.

But, to circle back to the DFF… we may run hills on Tuesday and flex on Fridays, but Mondays are mental health days. So many people unload their issues and we all reach out to comfort each other / share coping skills. It’s beautiful. I’ve been pretty open there. Even more open than I am here sometimes, because they understand in a way I’m not sure you all can. (I don’t even check my stats… I could be screaming into the void for all I know.)

They give me hope when I’ve lost it. When I don’t know how to talk about the noise in my head, they sort through it for me. Nobody tells me I’m crazy. Nobody tells me I’m broken. Nobody tells me it’s all in my head and I should get over it.

Depression is a bad-ass motherfucker and I don’t mean it in the ‘good’, Samuel L Jackson, way. Lately, I’ve been struggling. A metric fuck-ton. That group is my safe harbour. That group reminds that depression lies. That I am a bad-ass motherfucker, in the good way. (I mean, fuck, that man could teach me a thing or two.)

It’s good to find those places online - anonymity is awesome. People just know me from the little bit I share in the group. I love it. Face to face therapy does me more harm than good, because they want to dig, dig, dig until all my wounds open and I bleed out all the defences I’ve built over the years. Plus, half of them want to change my meds right off the bat. Um, no.

I don’t know… I guess all those words just to say that I love my DFF family. They keep me sane when no one else can.

Every mile is magic

January 22, 2022 :: 11:54 AM

I love this so much

I need to vent about this…

My old AR person, at the other company, kept 6 spreadsheets that all had the same information. AND NONE OF IT MATCHED. She had collection notes spread across them and none of them were the same. If you opened spreadsheet A, it had a note that on [date] she talked to the insured and they said blah, blah, blah. If you opened spreadsheet B, it had a note that on [same date] she called and the number was disconnected. The amounts she was trying to collect on were different. The adjuster’s name, phone number. email were all different. Her replacement and I didn’t know which one was right, so we nuked it all and started from scratch.

That was such a miserable experience.

At the new job (a printing company), the woman I’m replacing is just as bad. I plan on consolidating a few of her spreadsheets because I just can’t deal with it.

Maybe it’s my background in construction, or my interest in becoming a CMA, or just the way I’m wired, but work-in-progress schedules turn me on. Why do you need to keep a pending and a sales spreadsheet with you can combine both? I mean, once you have the billed amount on the spreadsheet, you can see if it’s pending or sold. Why not track the costs? There’s so much this simple schedule can do and so many ways you can tweak it… I mean, this is a portion of the final report I built. IT’S SO USEFUL!


(Yes, it’s blurry on purpose. Yes, those numbers aren’t real. I’m not THAT stupid.)

So… yeah. They don’t track their inventory. They don’t have any means to compare estimates to actuals except by looking at several different reports. They barely know if something’s been billed. (The Controller doesn’t sit in on the Production Meetings!?! She’s too busy - no doubt, because she’s managing a BILLION spreadsheets. Gah.)

OH! And I am SALTY about something that went down yesterday. I accidentally calculated the sales tax on a job that was tax-exempt. The spreadsheet was deleted and redone, without the tax calculation. Supposedly because I didn’t have the time to do needless work, habits be damned. THEN, I find out that I did need that sales tax number after all (to go on yet another spreadsheet). So I had to redo that. I TOUCHED THE SAME SPREADSHEET THREE TIMES TO GET ONE NUMBER.

How do I always find these places?

I don’t know… she’s retiring in March so I just have to hold on until then.

Gotta run. (HA!) I have a hot date with the treadmill. I’m getting a jump start on Dopey training because I refuse to let the dwarf beat me two years in a row. Now that I know exactly what to expect, I have a better idea of how I (personally) need to train. Most training plans are one size fits all, and well, I don’t fit that mold.

She’s Running the Distance

January 10, 2022 :: 8:17 PM

that is what a half marathon pr looks like

Let’s get the ugly bit out of the way: I did not complete the marathon and therefore, did not complete the Dopey Challenge.

Instead of coming home with six medals, I received four. The marathon’s medal was given to me after I got off the party bus, but I didn’t receive the Goofy or Dopey Challenge medals. I’m not nearly as upset as I could be about getting swept during the marathon. In all honesty, I made it farther than I thought I would.


I PR’d the half marathon.

Shaved 13 minutes off my previous best race.

I got stronger as the race got longer, too. I walked most of the first half and then I started doing intervals -  run the chorus, walk the lyrics - when a good song came on.

The balloon ladies passed me, but I finished a whopping 30 seconds behind them this time.

I may have gotten pulled at mile 4 of the marathon, but at the end of the day, I completed a 5K, a 10K, and a half marathon.

Maybe I was crazy to attempt a Dopey without getting an IRL marathon under my belt first, but I don’t care.



The One Where I Talk About Dicks

January 02, 2022 :: 10:46 PM

This. Is. Perfection.

OK. So. First things first. That picture is the most perfect photo of Bunnywest’s Stiles.

(Scrolling through 300+ photos on IMDB to find the perfect photo for a blog post? Yup. I suffer for my art. For YOU.)

Bunnywest is my favourite TeenWolf fan fiction author and I am shocked. SHOCKED! that I missed this amazing piece of wonderfulness. The fact that Discontented Winter co-authored really annoys me because I am subscribed to them both. So yeah. I don’t know how I missed BunnyWinter.


This one deserves a link: Dirt, Death, and Dildoes.

A retelling of the Trump Campaign’s failed presser at Four Seasons Total Landscaping. OMG. I’m just dying. Dead. Six feet under. Zombie Wendell. Whatever. I was in tears, because Stiles TOTALLY has an AO3 account and would write fan fiction.

I wish, one day, I could write stuff like this:

There will also be media interest as journalists try to figure out what the hell is happening here. Is Stiles an Argent supporter actually dumb enough to think that Gerard Argent gives a fuck about him and his little landscaping business? Is he a smart guy who knew the campaign had fucked up but decided to go with it anyway for publicity? Or is he—and anyone who knows him won’t need the media to tell them this is the one—a troublemaker, troll and inveterate little shit?

So. Is that picture of Dylan O’Brien the perfect representation of a troublemaker, a troll, and inveterate little shit, or not?

(Dick # 1 - dildoes count, so *check*)

Speaking of wanting to write well, a deep dive into my archives last night found me this. I can’t even remember who the fuck R2D2 is, but:

R2’s reaction to proofreading my Johnlock fan fic has really brought on a huge happy which is diminishing the fear of making a bad job mistake:
I will be honest I haven’t finished it, but I think you are fooling yourself. You have the enthusiasm, more than I do that’s for certain, and the chops, you just need a little refining, and maybe a little more focus. Just constructive criticism. If writing is your passion, (which from what I read it clearly is) then what the eff are you waiting for? An invitation? Nobody’s going to give you one. In this business you have to go out and take it.

(Dick # 2 - Not Richard, but Dick *check*)

This happened this morning:
“You’re such an asshole,” the boy said fondly. “Morning wood doesn’t bother me.”

Yuri was blown away by how pink Beka’s face became. It became even pinker when Dmitriy cleared his throat. “Morning wood bothers me. Especially because Yuri’s underage.”

The boy rolled his eyes. “Only for three months.”

“And you will not do anything during those three months or I will have to arrest Mr. Altin.” He locked eyes with Yuri. “Sex with a minor is considered statutory rape. The punishment is three to six years in prison. That’s if a judge lets him off without adding additional years because of your status.”

God bless Dmitriy. Some one has to keep those two away from each other, since I’m doing a pretty shit job at it.

(Also, I know way more about morning wood than a person without a dick should. I can also give you all kinds of information on the following as pertains to Russia: statutory rape, the age of consent (in Japan and Kazakhstan as well!), and the best way to make kvass. Yes, it’s Ukrainian, but thankfully it’s made in Russia as well.)

(Dick # 3 - Morning. Wood. *check*)


- - - - - - - - - -

Done with dicks, for the moment. Maybe.



Chicks with dicks, count, right?

Quoting a Kevin Smith movie is a really odd segue way into JKR and the Potter Reunion, even for me. And we all know I go to some really fucking crazy places.

Glad she wasn’t there. Really glad she wasn’t included.

It was so nice to see all the actors again and listen to them talk about their experiences. Granted, I am a book canon nerd, and I can’t really stand the movies (IT’S NOT A FUCKING RAVEN. IT IS AN EAGLE. AND OUR HOUSE COLOURS ARE BLUE AND BRONZE), but, I don’t know. I cried throughout the entire thing.

(Dick # 4 - JKR *check*)

Another takeaway from the reunion is that I apparently know the difference between Oliver (George) and James (Fred) Phelps.

This has nothing to do with the fact that one of my WIPs is an Eighth Year AU / soulmate fic with a side of Drarry. Fred - my favourite Weasley - is Harry’s soulmate. A plot that is complicated by Fred’s death in Deathly Hallows and an absolutely brutal game of Truth or Seven Minutes in Heaven/Hell. (Draco’s father will not be hearing about that!) A lot of it is told in flashback, of course, so I needed to find a way to differentiate the twins. Harry could certainly tell the difference between the twins, so I needed to, also.

I have a list somewhere - a fucking list! - of the ways to tell the twins apart.

At one point during the show, the twins were talking and I thought they were labeled incorrectly. Yup. I was right. They were labelled backwards. Oliver actually made fun of it on Instagram.

I’m not sure if I should be shocked or proud of that little obsession I have with getting it right.

(This one’s a threeway: Dick # 5 - Fred, Dick # 6 - Harry, and Dick # 7 - Draco. Slash fiction will get you there every time. *check* *check* *check*)

(Oh shit. I forgot… that Seven Minutes portion? A very drunk Hermione takes truth instead of Seven Minutes because ‘I already snog Ron enough, thank you very much’ and ends up talking about the night she pegged him.

Dick # 8 - Hermione’s strap-on. *check*)


- - - - - - - - - -

OK. Enough dicks.

Let’s talk about running.


A week from today, I’ll be hating the world, but wearing my Dopey medal around Disney.

I could have been training for this for 20 years or 20 minutes. It doesn’t matter. Running may be physical, but it’s mostly mental. I’ve been freaking out about it, which led me to a rather loud, one sided, conversation with the husband. Don’t get me wrong - I love him madly, but he never talks. I’ll joke from time to time that I should write him a script of what I need to hear sometimes. Yeah. I should have given him a script. Everything he said or did rubbed me the wrong way.

It was ugly.

But I’m over it.


(Dick # 9 - my husband *check*)


- - - - - - - - - -



I meant to mention this earlier, but I completely forgot. Most of the time I see this it’s on Inell’s fics, not Bunnywest’s, though. So I think I can forgive myself.

(Dick # 10 - This tag exists! I giggle every. single. time. I see it on a fic.)

And on that note, I’m going to bed. Play nice, kids.

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