Pretend boyfriends rock!  Their depreciation value is next to nothing so you can always return ‘em inna week or two and get your money back, or a nice trade in.
 
My pretend boyfriend from last week, Zach Braff the writer/director of Garden State, was unceremoniously dropped last night for a mysterious foreigner.  We’re just going to refer to him as “Tony” since his last name is incredibly foreign and it’d be a waste of time for me to spell it, let alone ever recall it again.

The DSL line was hosed for the weekend and our options were limited; converse with each other or watch movies.  We opted for movies.  I’ve actually been introducing Mother to the world of independent film.  Obviously we watched Garden State and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (Which no doesn’t necessarily classify as an independent film, but it did differ from the norm and was only a limited release.  So in my book it’s independentish).  

Also for some mind numbing Hollywood historical bastardizing and the chance to see Brad Pitt and Orlando Bloom flounce around  inna skirt, we watched Troy.  

Note to self: Consider Orlando Bloom as future contender for pretend boyfriend – even though I don’t go for those lil willowy type guys.

Now, finally to reveal my pretend boyfriend of the week: Although not an independent film, it was foreign so Mother and I still retained our snooty intellectualness because we watched a movie with “sub-titles”.  The movie was Hero, and even though it contained those annoying Peter Pan type fighting scenes similar to those of Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon, it was great.  Anyways, the leading guy who played Broken Sword* (also known as Tony Whathisname) is officially my new pretend boyfriend for at least the next five minutes.

*Note: Yes I originally had Broken Arrow as opposed to Sword, but ask me sometime about the horrible terrorization that was Gospel Bill’s Bible Camp for Kids in fucking Broken Arrow, Oklahoma and perhaps you’ll learn why I’m still haunted to this day.

It’s true; I sold out to this website.  Its basic design is user friendly even to the most drooling of rejects.  

Long long ago, inna far away land I ran my own website but what a bitch!  Have you any idea the time and energy it takes to be a webmaster?  Screw that.  So I coulda designed my own blog or use someone’s idiot friendly software.  Clearly selling out was the best option for a lazy bastard like myself.

Obviously the prudent thing to do here would be to read the “manual”, however I’ve opted for the good ol’ blind man’s hunt and peck method.

In honor of the self glorifying and over indulgent Oscars I present to you my own narcissistic version of an awards show.

Welcome to The First Annual Fookers, honoring those who have served this household well.  Let’s take a moment a remember those who are no longer with us.

. . .

That should do it.  Our first award will be presented to my cat Molly for Best Dookie Bucket inna supporting role.

Best elderly cat with failing kidneys inna supporting role goes to my other cat Allie.

Once again my Father was able to nab The Best Fat Guy inna leading male role.

Mother came away with two awards this evening: Best producer/financial backer and Best Gimp.

And although it was a tight race I did manage to sweep the remaining awards such as: Best director, Best editing, Best choreography and Best costume just to name a few.

Before you ask, yes this awards show is rigged.

Well I would be if I believed in it.  

As this moment in time I’ve become an ordained minister for The Universal Church Triumphant of the Apathetic Agnostic (http://www.apatheticagnostic.com/); obviously registered and started a website called Imma Fooker; just received a shipping order for some Xanax I didn’t buy (that’s gonna be interesting to try and undo); and am seriously considering going out of state to attend a slumber party with a bunch of transvestites that I was cordially invited to last night.

Here’s the thing about ordering drugs off the net.  

Number one: Yes they’re expensive.  

Number two: The companies will sell your info and soul to every other druggie seeker out there.

The good news is your majority of spam will consist of pharmaceutical offerings as opposed to Viagra and naked pre-pubescent teens.  The bad news is they’ll never stop calling and judging from the email I received today will bill your credit card when the fancy strikes them.

Note exhibit A:

Dear My Name:

We have received and will process the following order:

Alprazolam 1mg (60 Pills) (Gen. for Xanax)

Once shipped please allow 5-7 business days for delivery. If we may be of further assistance, please do not hesitate to contact our customer service via e-mail rx_help@yahoo.com or call customer service @866-869-6497.
We will continue to keep you updated on your order's progress.

The total charge for your order is: $183.00.

IMPORTANT INFORMATION ABOUT YOUR ORDER

 Order #32…
 Customer #10…

Your order will be shipped to:

My Name
My Address

Thank you for choosing !
We appreciate your business.

 Order #32…

Pfffft!  That’s not even a good price Alprazolam.

Welcome!  Isn't this thrilling?  I've mildly moved up in the world.

I've decided to become an ordained minister.

All right I'll admit it: I did originally form this idea after watching this week's new episode of The Simpsons.  Unfortunately I was unable to enjoy my TV show as my Mother and Father were screeching in the background over my Father's schedule.  Between his long hours as a truck driver and the countless time he spends at a local charismatic Christian church, my Mother and I are left with very little.  So I waddled into the computer room, announced my complete dissatisfaction with my beloved cartoon show and how it was their doing, then turned to my Father and said, "So I've decided to become an ordained minister and preside over gay marriages.  Up!  Outta my chair!"

Once ordained I can change my name to Imma Fooker.  Her Holiness Imma Fooker;  Her Most Esteemed Sanctimoniousness Imma Fooker;  Her Most Pure and Chaste Reverence Imma Fooker.

I think it’ll be great.  If not, I can always have this tattooed on my ass.

I recently fashioned a crude cutout of my butt from memory foam.  The idea is to jam it down my pants then carefully lower myself on the stationary bike.  Careful or not, it still needs some adjusting, but it does lower the butt numbness immensely.

I’ve been having the most annoying malady while I sleep.  Go to sleep, wake up in the morning only to find I’m swimming inna pool of my own sweat -- its loads of fun.  I removed some of the heavier down debris from the bed – didn’t help.  I tried sleeping in other beds, same problem occurred.  Mother suggested I Google night sweats.  I expected mostly menopause documents, but I was bombarded with “The end is near”.  Apparently night sweats has its own fancy name: Sleep Hyperhidrosis and it’s a sign of HIV, Hodgkin’s disease, Epilepsy, brain stem strokes, Tuberculosis and other fun diagnosis.  Pffft!  Whatever, I think I’m just gonna ignore it and see how that works out for me.

I did something fun at the grocery store today.  I was heading down the cookie/ice cream aisle, always a crowd pleaser and popular.  There was this tall skinny guy with red hair, his pants were literally swimming around his knees – his camouflage undies were very visible.  I considered coming up behind him and hiking his pants up for him, however that seemed a lil too personal so I opted to stand behind him and say, “I can see your underwear.”  He turned around while trying to yank it up at the same time, “Ummm yeah, I lost my belt.”  Poor lad, hope that belt turned up for him.

Someone gave a link to a realistic goal weight website.  Now if I enter my current weight of 285 I get a realistic goal weight of 179, and if I enter my starting weight of 430 I get a realistic goal weight of 231; compared to 130 both are purty damn attainable.  According to a medical chart I should weigh within 104-134.  104?  Perhaps if this planet’s gravitational pull wasn’t so prominent then yes there might be a chance for 104, but as it is, we don’t live on the moon.

Honestly, let me get to 200 and I’ll tell ya what I feel like then.

So, I tattled on Mother.  The idea of blood clots was really weighing on me, and I also had the suspicion that I sounded like Chicken Little.  So while in the doctor’s office I voiced my concerns.  Mother tried to play this down with a, “But I’ve never had any problem with blood clots.”  I hollered back, “I don’t care!”  The doctor wheeled her lil stool over to Mom and mimicked my reply, “I don’t care!”  Then I pointed at Mom and said, “See? See?”  Our doctor said abdominal surgery is very high risk for blood clots, doesn’t matter who the hell ya are.  So she suggested Mom do the knee surgery first.

Unfortunately this means Mother has to cancel her surgery once again.  She’s purty bummed and feels like she’ll be fat forever.

The other day at my therapist’s office we were tryin to figure out whether it was safe enough for me to sit down on her chaise.  It’s wicker, so I was worried.  So she says, “Well I’m about 240 pounds,” and commences to bounce on it.  Right away the chaise starts to show strain.  

ME: Well that’s not a good sign.

THERAPIST: Well to be fair, the only weight this can support is a very small ten year old.

ME: So what if I break it?        

THERAPIST: Pffft!  I was gonna get rid of it anyway.

So now that I’ve found a more supportive area of this chaise lounge I ask her, “So you’re my therapist, you of all people should know this; Am I evil?”

“Of all the people I’ve met in this lifetime I must say you’re least evil person I’ve ever known.”

Even before I asked this next question I knew the answer.  “Yeah but how many people have ya met?”

“A lot.  Believe me dear, a lot.”

After all, this gal traveled the world when she was a kid and was a nurse in the Vietnam War.  So yeah, it’s safe to say she’s met her fair share of folks and possibly has a good definition of what evil is.  It was nice to hear that I wasn’t one of ‘em.

Every morning I wake up, I have to stuff the brain cells that leaked out through my ears the night before back in.

Mother’s knee problems are a bit more complicated than previously thought.  The specialist believes the plastic in the replacement device is destroyed – this is a theory as he’s yet to do a thorough X-Ray.  If this is the case then he might be able to replace the plastic without replacing the whole device, however if the device is compromised beyond repair then he will have to do a redo -- which would mean at least 8 more weeks of stayin off her feet.  We have an appointment on either the 13th or 15th, I hope someone besides me is keeping track of these things.  

She has a surgery date for the 23rd of February.  Everyone is in agreement that we got to get the weight off as soon as possible, but something occurred to me last night: Because of the high risk of blood clots you can’t dangle your legs down for more than 30 minutes and, as they say, you have to walk, walk, walk!  Now how the hell are we gonna manage this if she has to stay off her feet?

She’s also really startin to get agitated and antsy.  She feels as though she’s useless and so she tries to get up and do stuff which agitates me and you can guess the rest.  This morning she started walkin out the door announcing that she was off to Taco Bell, and I don’t feel comfortable letting her go off alone so I ran after in my lil blue robe and pink fake Ugg boots.  

14 years ago when she was disabled it was different.  The other day when we went to the grocery store I found myself asking, “How did we manage this before?”  Well back then she wasn’t this heavy and had upper body strength, she can’t even wheel herself around now.

When we went to the Vet’s Monday afternoon to pickup Allie, I was ready to put him down.  The nurse had told me prior that his enzymes had only improved slightly, for being onna IV all weekend it didn’t sound very hopeful, but later the Vet reassured me that he could function with this limited kidney ability.  Ok so here’s what we do: We give him 100ml of IV solution every day, a pill, glucosamine for his arthritis, a potassium supplement twice daily and Mylanta twice daily.  

On the way to the drugstore my Father was brow beating me over the credit cards and how the loan we took out was going to be spent.  Somewhere in the middle I broke into tears and just begged him to stop, I’m about to break as it is.  Bless his heart, if Russ has one fault it’s that he obsesses about money, but he felt bad and once we got home he was runnin around offering to do everything for me.  I heart Russ.

At the drugstore I walk by a display of scarves and ask the passers-by if they thought one of these could hold my weight while trying to hang myself – they hurried on by.   I stood in the upset stomach aisle looking at Maalox and Mylanta and trying to remember which one I was supposed to get.  For a few minutes I considered Metamucil then remembered that was for poo.  Then I started to giggle maniacally wondering whether Allie would prefer mint or cherry flavored.  In the end I took the original formula.

He hates the potassium supplement.  I can pop the top in another room and he’ll literally gag.  Hopefully Dr. Foster’s can compound a palatable formula.

My Grandma was always considered the Florence Nightingale of the family, cept maybe a lil meaner.  She was always the caretaker when someone fell ill, had surgery or was on their death bed.  I always get likened to Grandma as having her strength and being able to take care of folks, but I’m not sure if I agree with them anymore.  I told Mother, “I never once saw Grandma crack or look as though she’s splittin from seam to seam.”  Mother says, “Yeah but Grandma hides things wells.”  And this true.

Because of this mass chaos I chose to let go of my lawyer guy.  Among all the obvious problems I also added: “The problem lies in the fact that I won't be able to trust anyone for awhile, and I would most likely be cranky onna date with you only for the sheer fact that you're attached to a penis.  It wouldn't be much fun and certainly wouldn't be fair to you.  I'm saying this because I understand you're a very busy man and I don't wanna waste your time.”  I thanked him for accepting me as I was and that I enjoyed his emails.

Of course in the deep recesses of my soul, where the doe-eyed and fairy tale inspired lil gurl still lies, I wished for him to come soaring back claiming he’d be a fool to let such a wonderful woman get away from him and wouldn’t let some lil piddlin situation like a medical catastrophe stop him from pursuing me.

Stupid gurl, no wonder I make her stay down there.

---

So I get another person flaming against me.  Mother asks, “Why do this people dare confront you when they know you’ll destroy and leave them in a quivering heap?”  “I dunno, I think they’re just stupid, or possibly masochists.”

We were previously watching a show about Auschwitz and she accused me of being like Hitler and Stalin.  I concurred but at least they had a good time about it.  People like me can only become Sinners or Saints, or Aints.

ME: I was raised this way

MOTHER: Wait a minute, do you think I?

ME: No no, I didn’t mean that.  Ok, of all the crap that happened in my life I either could’ve became a whimpering lil coward or the bitchslappin person I am today.  I may be covered with pointy lil spikes all over my body that will pierce and annihilate you if you get too close, but that’s just the way I am.

MOTHER: When you first go out into the world I’m going to have to follow you, otherwise you’ll end up….

ME: Assassinated!  That’s how I’d like to go out or take a lil cyanide pill.

MOTHER: You’re an anarchist!

ME *beating at my monitor with glee*: Yes!

MOTHER: How did a pacifist like me end up raising an anarchist?

ME: That’s how it always happens.  My children will probably be wimps and I’ll despise them for it:  “How could you have come from my loins?!”

MOTHER: That’s when I’ll say, “Well just come over to Grandma’s and we’ll draw unicorns together.”

MOTHER: I’ve got to find you a creative outlet otherwise you’ll end up a political prisoner.

ME: Well maybe they’ll send ya a lil video before they lop my head off.

MOTHER (referring to the Soap): I sure hate when the bad guys win.

ME: Am a bad guy?

MOTHER: No, you’re just an anarchist who’s my kid.

ME: If I wasn’t your kid would you think I was the bad guy?

MOTHER: Wwwweeeeeellllll……

ME: I’m an electric fence; people only make the mistake of running into me once.  

MOTHER: That’s a good analogy.

ME: And electric fences are good cuz they help cows and stuff.

MOTHER: They also can keep the people ya want out.

ME: Well there are always sacrifices in life.

MOTHER: Ya know, cows are notoriously stupid.

ME: That’s what I’m here for.