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.

Alphabet Soup

December 28, 2021 :: 2:09 PM

the boxes (and bags) OF DOOM

I don’t know what started it, but there has been a trend among my friends to post articles about ADHD.

I’ve already been diagnosed with a few things, with bipolar being the #1 diagnosis - from several doctors, and even a few therapists - so bipolar is the benchmark.

Anyhoo… one of the things I’ve seen several times is the tendency to put clutter in boxes so that it doesn’t have to be dealt with immediately, but it’s removed from sight. And, oh, holy fuck, does that make so much sense. I’ve had clutter boxes my entire life. Once I found out I was bipolar, I decided that this was a symptom of it. I clean during manic phases and I box during depressed ones. What happens when I’m forever depressed? MORE BOXES!

So, yeah. In the spirit of full disclosure, this is about two or three years worth of clutter boxes (and several bags). We painted my office last year and I’m just now finally working my way through the Boxes of Doom!.

Why the Boxes of Doom!, you ask? Because, half the fucking time, they’re filled with memory landmines.

You know, those things you randomly stumble across that rip open wounds that had been slow to heal in the first place? Yeah. Those.

I’ve gone through three boxes this morning and I have cried during every one. My offer letter from the Cats was in one box, photos of my parents and I at Disney World in another… just weird shit that I am not equipped to deal with right now.

And, can we talk about that photo with my parents? The photo is of myself and my parents in front of the castle and we are wearing matching Mickey Mouse shirts. OH. MY. GOD. We were that family back in 1980. We were wearing MATCHING SHIRTS. (I’m pretty sure it was my idea, too.) I make fun of those families now… and I am obviously the one that started the trend. Fuck. Me.

I still have boxes and boxes of clutter - and memory landmines - to get through, but I’m pretty sure this is what the articles are talking about.

I feel both seen and attacked, and I don’t like either.

(I suppose the joke’s on my most recent former employer… I had two clutter boxes at the office and a clutter folder on my desktop and a clutter folder in my inbox. In my defence, those things did not appear until Ida decided to visit Louisiana this year and I was overloaded with minutiae. Oh well. I hope they have fun with that.)

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