Therapy issue

I’m almost embarrassed (“almost” being the operative word here) to admit this but do you know what I just said to my dog (as I was carrying her away, and not caring about her comfort, from something she would not leave)?

I said, “Yeah, well, you should’ve thought of that before you did it.”

Seriously. I just can’t believe that came out of my mouth. To a dog

Remarks like that just must be deeply deeply ingrained (engrained?) in a person so they can be blurted out before even realizing it’s a concept to think. I just have to hold onto the hope of it being deeply en/ingrained because otherwise it means I’m crazy.



Be quiet — I heard you think that.

<related post>


Yeah, it’s true: I’m bi.

Bi-focular, that is. (Yep, made up another word.)

After 6 years I could no longer avoid them, the b-fs that is. Before, I could just peek over or under my frames and see, but lately I’ve had to take off my glasses AND get close to see some things.

Like books. Reee reee reee — that’s when the alarm bells went off. That and too many headaches.

It was like 3rd grade all over again, only now I can’t see up close and I’m 45, not 10.

Other than that though, it’s just like 3rd grade:

  • Even when wearing them, I can’t see yet. Everything around the edges is blurry and fish-eyed.
  • I loved riding the RoundUp in 3rd grade. I feel like I’m riding the RoundUp now too. Unlike 3rd grade though, I now have recurring vertigo, so riding the RoundUp is not so appealing.
  • Headaches indicate you need glasses, yet ironically, when you get the new glasses you may also get headaches until you’re “used” to them. Happened in 3rd grade when I got my 1st pair; happened now that I’ve gotten my first progressive lenses. Please note: I will no longer refer to them as “bi-focals” because that sounds — way older than 3rd grade.

The one big difference between now and 3rd grade though: When I was in 3rd grade, I wanted whatever my aunt, who is 4 years older than me, had.

So in 3rd grade, I got granny glasses, which were all the rage then (merely coincidental to the fact that my idol wore them).

Now, even though I’m told these “all the rage” (style-wise) (same with the last 2 pairs), I always (at first anyway) hate the frames I “decided” on, and I need a lot of reassurance and validation from others.

To give you an idea of how bad it is, I had to have one trip with my sister (4 if you count all the places we went) and one with my friend, and I got the optician’s advice and the doctor’s advice, and took pix with my phone’s camera (which, BTW, I’m told is NOT unusual for glasses-triers-onners).

Then (irony or subconscious choice? You be the judge) I think I ended up getting the one pair I vetoed when I looked through my phone pix. I can’t bear to rehash it all by looking through the pix because really, what would be the point? It’s too late now.

You can imagine how much the place I ended up buying them from was sooooooooooo glad to see me go. It’s a good thing I can make people laugh while they hate me.

But here’s the thing: I feel vulnerable when I get new glasses. I want to project a certain image: professional, yet kind of funky, chic, au courant AND halfway decent-looking. If you make a poor attempt for the same in undergarments, you can at least hide them. You can’t hide your glasses though.

Plus, unlike underwear, they’re so effing expensive that you can’t just go get another pair if you don’t like what you end up with. Hell, I’d easily have 50-60 pairs if that were the case.

So I’m just wearing them at home for now, until I get my non-roundup legs and no more headaches. Hopefully by then I’ll like them more too.

I was all excited about looking forward to wearing my new u-wear today. I got it on sale, it has no lines to show through, I needed more anyway, style is different, blah blah blah.

It’s a new style for me, the “boyshort.” I won’t go into my underwear preferences (yeah yeah, I know: “Why stop now Marie/y? You tell us every other TMI detail?”) <previous post about same>

(In hindsight, I think this was the style — and my body — that I saw in my mind’s eye when I bought them.)

So I wore them all day, no lines, they didn’t bunch, no belly over-rolls, I loved the color (dark brown). I couldn’t have been happier with them—until I got home, changed into my play clothes and caught myself in the mirror.

OMG they are granny garments. I looked like a freakin’ granny. Or a 10-year old with no taste. I was absolutely aPPALLED when I saw myself in the mirror.

(what I GOT, although the flat 18″-torsoed model makes them look acceptable here if not cute, and I didn’t buy white — borrring on pale caucasian skin)

The only difference between these and what I wore as a (not – too – hip – didn’t – have – a – say – in – the – purchase – anyway – they – just – magically – appeared – underwear) 10 year old was that my belly button showed more in these, these have a hell of lot more lycra, and I AM FAT now.

(I remember solid colored ones in this style.)

Holy crap! It’s a good thing I’m not dating anyone right now, ’cause one look at those bad boys and he’d be outta here. Have I sufficiently conveyed the degree of my shock and awe?! Reality was harsh. I don’t like harsh.

(I think this is really how they looked on me even though the 2nd ones shown are literally the same brand & style I bought)

In fairness to myself (lovingkindness, lovingkindness), if I still was built like my youngest sister they’d probably be cute, but as it is, I am either a 10-year old or a grandma — I’m not sure which. Why in the hell do I bother going to the gym if it’s all just gonna fall to my knees anyway?!

Between the “girls” and the rest of my torso falling I am just going to stop wearing a bra, go commando and start wearing a mumuu (sp?). I’d be a hell of a lot more comfortable and it’s not like you could tell the difference between my boobs and my thighs anyway, since I realized this evening that they kind of meet in the middle (i.e.-my gut).

No wonder women have lipo , boob lifts and tummy tucks?! It’s not so much about looking old. OK, who am I kidding? Of course it is, but really it’s more about: who the hell wants to look at the uni-torso in the mirror? ‘

Especially when you still feel so 18-year old on the inside — semi-cliché alert: (a) youth (ful body) is wasted on the young.

I’m listening to a podcast of “Wait Wait…Don’t Tell Me!” (an NPR show, natch).

They said that ’80s songs are now being marketed by radio executives as oldies.*

(The show then joked that ’60s and ’70s songs are being marketed as “decrepit hits” and ’50s songs are labelled “primitive tribal dances.”)

* i.e. for the over 35 crowd

Few things are more alarming than getting mail with the IRS logo and red writing .

All I managed to read — before I got heart palpitations — was “ENCLOSED IS AN IMPORTANT MESSAGE FROM THE IRS…”

Since I’m having my refund direct deposited, the first thing I thought was “Oh sh**—an AUDIT?!”

Not that I have anything to hide from them, mind you. Far from it. I love the IRS — they perform a valuable service for the U.S. people.

It’s just that it in my never-ending battle ever-vigilant attempts to keep paper to a minimum, I don’t keep old bank statements, flexible spending info., stuff I don’t think they’d care about…

If mean, if I know I should keep it I scan or file it. But usually I end up thinking “Well, it’s stored at the bank / vendor / insurance co. I could just get them to dig it up if I need it. All I end up doing is shredding it eventually anyway … The odds of an audit are small.”

But let me tell you, if you ever see those capitalized red letters (and don’t read the rest of the text), you too might have a borderline heart attack.

And then I read the rest of it:


Jeez — can’t they lighten up? Make it look like a winning Publishers’ Clearinghouse Sweepstakes entry or something?! Get people happy to see mail from the IRS, not heart-attacky.

But then I thought about it more (I know, hard to believe)…

Even if only 1 in 10 who gets this has a heart attack and dies, the government will save millions, maybe trillions on this “stimulus package.” Again, remember math isn’t my strong suit < pi day > so it could save them even more. The gov’t. might not want the “stimulus package” to work.

OTOH if people have heart attacks and live, they’d use their “stimulus” check on medical bills. That would certainly stimulate the economy.

Either way, I’m now convinced that heart attacks are part of the “economic stimulus package.”

…writing about your latest breakup. Posting MRI scans on it does not increase your traffic, though. As Omar’s comment implied in here: Another one bites the dust…, I’m apparently not unique in having a CD of my brain. (I know—it was hard to absorb that. Is having your brain MRI on CD becoming cliché?)

Anyway, I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say that it’ll be a while until I post about my next latest breakup.

That’s because I’m becoming:

  • a re-born-again virgin
  • lesbian
  • Buddhist monk
  • who lives by herself on a deserted island
  • with only:
    • Pina Coladas
    • a rechargeable music player
    • infinite amount of reading material
    • an on-call boy toy (me a lesbian*–who am I kidding?! <–*not that there’s anything wrong with that)
    • unlimited funds to fly in a friend or relative periodically to bring me Ted Drewes and stay ’til we’re sick of each other

–>Off-topic: You would not believe the number of hits I get for Ted Drewes. If I got a free Oreo extra Oreo for every hit on “Ted Drewes,” I’d weigh about 500 lbs. They really need to get a website.

With just the above, I do believe I’d be set.

  • Oh, add a toilet, potable water and a cook.

I’m still at the weep-weep –>IHopeYouGetTheToledoSize KidneyStone –>I knew this was coming, so why didn’t I do it then? –> weep-weep –> Thoughts I’m not willing to share but have to do with sex if you really must know –> weep weep –> IHopeYouGetTheToledoSize KidneyStone –> weep-weep –>I miss him. –>weep weep –> ToledoSize KidneyStone –> I’m relieved –> No more dating ever again –> I knew it’d never work so why didn’t I break it off –> oh I’ll be fine –> weep weep –> oh goody I don’t have to shave until summer! –> vicious circle that keeps going ’round and ’round until I distract myself phase.

Unfortunately for me, unlike The ExMan and a few other XMen come to think of it (like the one who forgot to tell me we were done before he started dating again—doncha hate when you forget to do stuff like that?!), I can’t just come to a relationshipy decision, execute it, then walk away cleanly and unemotionally. <3/9 I just remembered an exception – I did do it once.>

I have to understand why, go through the vicious circle for a while (this one’ll hopefully be short since we weren’t together long), then swear off men (again).

I’m also specifically swearing off Virgo men (again). I hate to generalize (not to mention acknowledge an affinity to horoscopes) but me+Virgo=NoGo.

And I’m not saying they’re a-holes, mind you (although I say it plenty while I’m still in the vicious circle). These have been wonderful, funny, usually good-hearted intelligent men.

I keep going for the Virgos, but no more. I have really learned my lesson this time. I’ve already told my friends to just shoot me if I ever even talk about one again. I mean it. I’m inherently attracted to them, yet it’s a guaranteed destruction in the making.

But anyway, back to the major point here–have had major spikes in traffic, but only a few clicks on the MRI images. I’d thought more people would want to see either them or the witty comments I inserted but no, not so much…

Here’s another opportunity though. I just think it’s really cool (and am apparently one of few that thinks this) to have dozens of images of the inside of your brain.

I have pictures of where all of my (over-thinking highly-attuned thinking) originates! I can watch the cd and see images of my brain changing over time.

I think it’s fascinating, but maybe I think it’s fascinating the same way new parents think their baby’s first fart is fascinating.

But don’t tell me that right now, ok? Just play along, cheer me up a little, leave a comment, and agree that these are — without a doubt — the most interesting, life-altering images you have ever seen:



Note: All images are of my brain from an MRI. The images are on a cd and are my backup in case I lose my real mind. Do you have a cd of YOUR brain?

I may not post this–I don’t know. But I need to vent, and to who better than to an audience that gets here by googling something like ‘why is my dog stupid’ or ‘ASKED NEIGHBOR ABOUT TREE – GOT MAD’ or ‘how do panties work.’

All of which are real searches people have done to get here, BTW…though admittedly me dissing them like that wasn’t a good way to endear my readership.

In my (unfortunately) vast experience, breakups often happen like this: You know in the back of your mind that something’s wrong but you can’t quite get that thought transfered to the front of your mind.


Something is happening of course, which you don’t realize until immediately–and I do mean immediately—as the main event begins. Maybe it’s been that the back of your mind hasn’t been yelling loudly enough to the front of your mind or you’re in profound denial. Or both.

I guess it is denial come to think of it. Because usually a breakup is preceeded by this faintly-heard, screaming voice in the back of your mind that’s going “nooooooooooooooo.” You’d think by now I’d have learned to listen to it (and THEN what would I do).


In fact, the front of your mind even says stuff like “if the Man and I don’t work out I’m going to either move South or move to France.” Or (to a friend) “I think we’re near the end…” Yet there’s still this “dense matter” in your brain that doesn’t allow the back and the front to synch up with each other.

That “dense matter” my friends, is the heart. That stupid heart somehow expands big enough to invade your brainspace and actually block thought, as illustrated in this slightly modified MRI image of my brain:



Until the main event: he says something along the lines of “It’s not you. It’s me.” Or the trite (yet oft-used) “I don’t know what it is <editorial comment: bull****> is but my heart’s just not in it,” or <Insert another lame-ass excuse here>. Whatever.

He could’ve said it was because you’re a crazy effing beeatch and he’s scared of you, but in the end it doesn’t matter.

All you hear is that “nooooooooooooooooooooooooooo” sound again, followed by an “ohhhhhhhhhhhhh,” followed by a tear that seeps out even though you swear to god you will not let him see you cry.

You hear your heart crumpling up and going ‘not again.’ I can’t do this again. I really like you. Rapidly this turns into I hate you and HowCouldYouDoThisRightBeforeMyPeriodYouAssholeIHopeYouGetA KidneyStoneTheSizeOfToledo. But I’m not at that point right now. I’m still at “noooooooooooooooooooooo.”



It was late last night. I was feeling something wasn’t right…and a feeling you feel so strong…I knew that there was something wrong…then you gazed up at me and the answer was plain to see, ’cause I saw the light in your eyes.

But we had our fling (echo: we had our fling) I just never would suspect a thing (another echo: suspect a thing), ‘til that little bell began to ring….in my head (echo: in my heaaaaddd)…I tried to run, though I knew it wouldn’t help me none…

Thank you Todd baby (from Something/Anything?). You’ve helped me through many of these effing life experiences…



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