під лежачий камінь вода не тече

I’m sure johnlock exists because Conan Doyle used ejaculate so much…

I haven’t run or walked since my disastrous finish at the Turkey Trot.

I deferred my entry for a 5K / Half Marathon combo this weekend.

I have the Dopey Challenge in less than a month and I haven’t successfully finished a half marathon since last January.

You can’t fake a marathon, so as long as I get a little further than when I was swept last year, I’ll be happy.

I keep thinking about why I chose to start running.

Why I chose to do Dopey two years in a row, knowing that I wasn’t going to train for it properly.

I don’t know if this is depression or weight gain or… something I can’t put my finger on.

I’m still shocked that I put in all that work with a running coach and didn’t even plateau.

No. I couldn’t do something that actually makes sense.

Instead, I went on a downward spiral so brutal I’m still trying to figure out what went wrong.

And I really doubt it’s a simple as exercise induced asthma, although that’s a great excuse.

 

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In other news, last Sunday, I had my first nosebleed. (Seriously. Never had one before.)

Monday, I had my second and third.

Tuesday, I had my fourth, my fifth, and my sixth.

Wednesday, I went to Urgent Care looking for a quick fix or a reason. Had my seventh.

Thursday, saw an ENT who found the equivalent of a pimple in my nose and zapped it. Was told more nosebleeds were part of the healing process. (What the actual FUCK?!?!?!?!?!?!)

Friday, had my eighth right as a zoom meeting started. Ninth was so bad I freaked out. Tenth was annoying.

I haven’t had a nosebleed since Friday night, but I’m terrified of it starting again.

That’s part of why I deferred my race entry. I didn’t want to be on a course somewhere, not near a med tent, if it started again. It wasn’t like I could carry a box of Kleenex and a garbage can with me.

 

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I’m getting a very generous raise effective January first, and a nice Christmas bonus.

Except, since my longevity at jobs is so bad (can I call it shortgevity?), that the owner said it was a bribe to make me stay.

I wanted to tell him that hurt and that he could keep his money…

It’s not like I take jobs planning to leave in a year or two.

Seriously. Why the fuck would I do this myself?

More importantly, with the exception of Global Spectrum, who actually plans on leaving a place every few years? (At Global, it was the norm to look for better positions, at better arenas. Every week, they sent out an internal job posting email, and by the end of the 30 day posting period, most of those jobs were gone. I love the hire from within culture as long as it’s followed through.)

I really like it at most of the jobs I take, but I always end up leaving when something triggers the bipolar, or the politics in the office become unbearable.

For example: I kind of liked my job at an airport, but the owner was spending so much and the books were so bad, that payroll was withheld twice. I can’t work and not get paid.

For example: I liked the health care company I worked at, but there were two bullies who made everyone miserable. I was given a promotion, but no raise, with the entire job description being to keep those two in line. In the end, I guess the joke’s on them. I had been working with the Controller on a super secret project to prepare the financials needed to sell the company. The company was sold and everyone lost their jobs. I would have been one of them if I hadn’t left before that.

For example: I liked the HVAC company I worked for, but I hated the Assistant Controller. She was on a mission to get the CFO fired so she could take his job. When he retired, we were supposed to be co-Controllers, but she started doing some shady shit with the financials to get him out the door. I left for Florida, and she got fired by the Board because they didn’t like her. I still can’t help but wonder if she would have taken me down with her. My gut says yes.

For example: I LOVED my job with the Cats… but that was the third time I had stayed until I couldn’t fight the bipolar any more. We all know how that ended. It was the first time I’d ever been fired for losing control of it. Because I refused to let myself quit. That only confirmed that my pattern was correct… so I stuck to it.

All in all, it makes me wonder if I should give up. We can’t really afford the loss of my salary if I were to go on Disability, and I need to work or I’ll go crazy. (Which is awesome considering it is holding a job that creates issues.)

But.

I guess it’s nice to have that option in my back pocket… even if it’s going to be a battle to qualify.

 

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And finally, I’ve given up on my Ukrainian lessons for a bit.

I only want to learn from native speakers. From Ukraine.

Of course, Ukraine is still having problems with their electrical grid and rolling blackouts are a thing. I’ve had two classes that needed to be rescheduled because of Putin.

But I know my teacher needs the money more than I do, so I’ve been doing the best I can to work with it.

But for as frustrating as it is for me, I can only imagine what it’s like for her.

The strain of living there is obvious in the lines of her face, the forced way she says ‘good’ when I ask her how she is doing.

Related: I’ve been watching Sims YouTubers who narrate in Ukrainian, and that’s been helping my listening comprehension quite a bit.

So. On that happy note, I’m going to end it right here. Have the best rest of your day and I’ll see you all tomorrow.

Bye, everybody.

(I need to cut back on the lilsimsie videos…)

Бо я тащусь від тебе давно

What? You asked.

The year my mother died, I was taking a drama class. I was friends with all the theatre geeks and I liked the drama club teacher, so why the fuck not?

(Long time readers will recognise the fuck it factor at work…)

The homework assignment was to describe an emotional day you had - the day you got your driver’s license, for example. You know. Emotional shit.

My essay might have started by grabbing you by the short hairs and didn’t let go for two pages.

On Wednesday, March 18th, I walked into the condo to see my father crying at the kitchen table.

My father never cries.

When he finally looked at me, I knew.

“Ding dong, the witch is dead,” I asked.

“Ding dong,” he answered.

Have I said how absolutely fucking thrilled I am to be cleaning out 40+ years of memories I’d rather forget? (STILL!)

Do you know, I couldn’t remember what grade I got? I couldn’t just flip to the end and look. No! That would have been the sensible thing to do. The easy thing.

When the fuck have I ever done the easy thing?

I read the entire fucking thing. Cried through all of it. Wondered how it would end.

(Spoiler alert: it ends with my mother six feet under.)

And the grade? As if there were any doubt: A+  The relationship between mother and child can be difficult and you captured that.

Can. Be. Difficult.

Oh, Doc L., you have no idea.

BBQ sauce on my titties would have been a much better story.

 

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I ran last night.

Willingly got on the treadmill with my puffer in hand.

2 miles - intervals for all of it: 30 seconds (13mm) / 2 minutes (20mm).

Not speedy. Not balloon lady safe.

I did two beginner iFit workouts because I wanted to zone out and let the treadmill tell me what to do.

(The girl who drives a stick and refuses to use cruise control because she drives the car put the treadmill in charge. Yeah.)

I didn’t enjoy it.

But, I didn’t hate it, either.

I have a Turkey Trot coming up on the 24th. In fucking Miami.

I wasn’t really looking forward to the race, but… I’ve always done well at 10Ks. Especially there.

It’s not enough to salvage my Dopey training, but it’s a start.

My new shoes and socks don’t cause blisters, so maybe I can get father in the marathon than mile four.

I have no idea and I don’t really care.

I’ll do what I can and then I’m hanging up the sneakers.

I had a fucked up week that lasted years.

Shrinky Dinks, invented in 1973, are a children’s toy and activity kit consisting of large flexible sheets which, when heated in an oven, shrink to small hard plates without altering their colour or shape. (see also: drug dealer)

It’s a Matt Nathanson sort of day around these parts.

I hit a wall with running about the same time Potterhead was forced to shut down. Despite my running coach’s best efforts, I couldn’t improve. In fact, I swiftly went from success to abject failure. He thought I had exercise induced asthma and that’s why I had not improved. I wasn’t fully convinced (I’m still not), but I saw a doctor he recommended. Guy was a complete douchenozzle, but I took the prescription for the inhaler and went on my merry way.

Fast forward to Wine and Dine.

I hated the 5K, was absolutely miserable during the 10K, and walked off the half marathon course at mile 7. The truth is, it wasn’t the humidity. It wasn’t the heat. It wasn’t the asthma. I just didn’t want to be there.

I’ve been joking about how I hate running, but the soundtrack in my head during those 16 miles… well, let’s just say that those little voices in my head? The ones I’m not supposed to talk about? They were right.

I. FUCKING. HATE. RUNNING.

It doesn’t spark joy. I don’t get a runner’s high.

I. Get. Absolutely. Nothing. out of it.

NOTHING.

So. Really. What’s the fucking point?

I walk a 5K in a little less than a hour. Longer if I’m on the treadmill because that’s when I allow myself to read certain fan fics… but even with reading the un-put-downable pr0n (as the Chicken calls it), I fucking hate it. That’s an hour I could spend doing anything that actually makes me feel good.

I fired my running coach last night.

I left all but one of my Disney running groups.

Being able to admit that I hate it has taken a huge weight off of my shoulders…

but, of course, I’m a fucking idiot and posted in my favourite running (non-RTI FB) group about my struggles and asking if it’s normal.

And… there was that one asshole who told me I was mentally ill and needed to see a psychiatrist.

Bitch, please.

You mean the psychiatrist who held my hand and walked me out of the most suicidal mindset I’ve ever experienced? (Fuck you, CrossFit.)

You mean the psychiatrist who has been trying to help me get past the closure of the only place that has ever truly inspired me to run?

Or, perhaps, you mean the psychiatrist who has pushed me - repeatedly - to find a simple prop to occupy my time?

This one goes out to the one I love…  FIRE! She’s coming down on her own now…

I’m sorry.

I lost the plot there for a minute.

I guess I’m fucked in the head after all.

Thank you for the diagnosis, internet stranger. I feel much better now.

Proud member of the wherethefuckarewe tribe

oh, bestie, have I got a story for you…

Let’s start with the title of the entry.

Get the boring shit out of the way.

My dad, in all of his politically (in)correctness, used to tell me we were part Indian.

But not any of the tribes you would find in East Buttfuck, Maine.

Nope. We were members of the wherethefuckarewe tribe. (God, I wish I could type his pronunciation… it was a thing of beauty.)

I always lie when I talk about the things I inherited from my father.

Well, I suppose it’s not a lie if it’s omitted.

Mousy, crap brown hair? Check.

Blue-ish eyes? Check.

Potty mouth and blue humor? Oh, fuck yes.

Sense of direction or lack thereof? Nothing to see here. Move along.

Yeah. I get lost so fucking easily that it’s almost comical.

Eh, fuck it. It is comical.

I got lost today during a half marathon. Between mile markers 2 and 3.

Long story short, I walked 5.4 miles. The majority of those were trying to get back to the finish line,

I swear, it’s a resume worthy skill.

Right up there with making Excel do things that it was never meant to do.

 

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*looks around*

*grabs axe*

*puts axe down*

*grabs gasoline and a zippo lighter*

*walks over to family tree and douses that fucker in gas*

*starts to walk away*

*throws zippo over shoulder*

*strut like a bad ass while the tree goes up in flames behind me*

*zoom in on a shit eating grin*

 

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Take a seat. Get comfy.

Shit’s about to get real.

The other day, I get this random DM with a GoFundMe link from one of my cousins.

Let me set one thing straight:

I. FUCKING. HATE. GOFUNDME.

Nothing says “I only care about your money” like a link to a GFM page.

Which, let’s be honest, is pretty much on brand for that branch of the family tree.

Not a word as to WHY there’s a GFM link in my DMs. Just the link.

So I click on it to find out that in MAY, she was in a terrible accident. Life support, serious injuries, yadda, yadda, yadda.

(I suppose it says a lot that I’m so blasé, instead of treating it seriously.)

Shall we view a timeline?

May: accident happens

October: random DM in my inbox

Hmmmm… let’s see. October less May, multiplied by the square root of cheese, and divided by a pizza pie, gives you, what? Five months?

For five months I had no idea that a person I used to care deeply for was staring death in the face.

I didn’t even know why I was getting the GFM link. There was nothing to put it in context.

So… yeah. Fuck that noise.

Fuck her.

Happy 40th, Epcot!

I really need to rethink my priorities.

I got tired of answering message after message during Irma (which was our first hurricane as Florida residents), so I started posting #bluedotupdates on my Facebook page. Normally with a screenshot of the current conditions. Of course, hurricanes are hard to predict. They can change course in the blink of an eye. Like, for Irma, it was headed straight for Sunrise, so we decided maybe it would be smart to go north west. Well, Irma decided to go there before we could totally make our minds up. Probably a good thing that we were frozen by fear…

We’re located between Miami and West Palm. Closer to Boca than Fort Lauderdale. We are often in the Cone of Uncertainty. We are often nervous. We are often scared. The #bluedotupdates are often soothing. People know where we are and how we’re fairing. While I can get exhausted thinking about what could happen, and answering the same “Are you guys OK” day after day, I appreciate that people care.

I mean, it’s not like I have many friends… mostly acquaintances. People I want to meet up with when they’re near… then blow me off after making tentative plans. And I get it - I absolutely suck donkey balls at staying in touch with people. I hate the phone, but I would rather talk than text. Texting takes too long and I’m never sure where the conversation actually ends. Quick likes on Facebook are more my speed, but they don’t breed intimate friendships.

I’m a fucking walking disaster.

But anyhoo… that’s not the point.

The point is that I’m Facebook friends with three members of my blood family. Two that I was really close to growing up and one that I became close with recently. M & C are my aunt’s daughters and L is my godfather’s oldest.

I’ll give you one guess as to who reached out to see if I was OK.

I’m tired of being angry. I’m tired of being hurt. I’m tired of letting that branch of the family tree live rent free in my head. (...And if you read the archives, I tend to say the same things about my mother.)

The sad thing is that I know therapy would probably help with bits and pieces of that, but every therapist I’ve ever seen wants to dive into the minutiae of my parents’ alcoholism, the physical and mental abuse my mother put me through… and I know that that’s probably the root of all my problems that are outside the scope of the bipolar.

But.

It’s easier to work through that shit here than it is to talk to a complete stranger. I don’t know. Despite everything, I’m still a little protective of my family. Not that they deserve it. (Well maybe my father does. He tried the hardest to do right by me… but the rest of them can go fuck themselves.) Here I can edit my word vomit. Dial back the emotions. Engage in unhealthy behaviours. *shrug*

Maybe I like constantly feeling like shit.

Who knows.

 

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In other news, and not really in order of importance:

• We went to Universal last weekend for Halloween Horror Nights. The only house worth the price of admission was the Halloween (1978) house. We had express passes - which is the only way to do the event, tbh - they’re great if we want to do certain houses more than once. (We can justify the cost of those since the HHN ticket is included in our annual pass.) Since we had early access, we were able to get into Halloween before the doors opened to the crowd. And it freaked me the fuck out. (That movie is the only one to consistently scare the shit out of me no matter how many times I’ve seen it. I hear the music and my blood runs cold.) We also got lost in the house. There was one room that was a hall of mirrors and… GAH! That, of course, was the one room we couldn’t find our way out of.  We used the express pass to go through it a second time (when the wait was two-ish hours) and it scared me even more the second time, despite knowing where the jump scares were.


• I’m running a ridiculous amount of races between now and Wine & Dine: 5K tomorrow, two 5Ks next weekend, a 5K the weekend after that, and a half marathon the weekend after that. Then, I take the weekend off for my first trip back to UConn in years. (And I almost got a room in Storrs before remembering that the football stadium is in East Hartford… I’m close enough to the stadium to walk to the game.) Have I mentioned that I HATE running?


• My Stetopher fic is a struggle. I haven’t figured out the actual plot yet, so it’s eleven chapters of backstory / exposition. I’m oddly OK with the struggle; it means the characters are more in character than most of my fan fic. I’m also loving bouncing in between the three characters thoughts. It’s a fun project, even if it makes me want to tear my hair out.


• I’ve taken a break from using italki for Ukrainian lessons. I’m not feeling it right now. I just haven’t found the right teacher and it’s frustrating. I found a (online, yet a true classroom setting) class based in NYC, affiliated with a Ukrainian group that I am familiar with and trust. When I was going through everything with the class organiser, I mentioned my struggles with italki. It boiled down to: there’s a huge difference between a native speaker trying to teach a language and someone who has been trained to teach that as a second language. I looked into teaching English as a Second Language a few years ago, and opted not to because I would essentially have to relearn English. Yeah. No. It tracks. Except now, I’m in the ridiculously odd position of using the Яблуко text for a third class. And, that book has been written in to the point where I have to retype the assignments because I can’t just take a photo of the page. Plus, the paper is C2S so I can’t write in pencil. It has to be pen, and it can only be one type of pen. (Staedtler triplus fineliner, if you must know. It’s the only one that doesn’t smudge… but who the fuck prints a textbook on coated paper?!?!)
  
  At any rate, we have that basic chapter one conversation: How are you? Fine. (Як справи? (Добре!)) What’s your name? Wendell (Як вас звати? (Вендел)) Where do you live? America (Звідки ви? (З Америки)) What’s your profession? Accountant (Яка ваша професія? (Бугалтер)) How old are you? 47 (Скільки вам років? (Сорок сім)) —and next thing I know, I’m in Beginner Two. ACK!!!! Also, it is an absolute bitch to switch between languages on the keyboard. First world problems?


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