if you can’t laugh with me….

(2 pm. – promoted by ek hornbeck)

(Disclaimer:  This is a hilarious story, but eating while reading it is not suggested.  Strongly suggested. Heh 🙂

… feel free to laugh at me.  I do.  All the time.

So far? 2012 hasn’t been sterling or anything. I mean, I did discover I had a heart again for a moment which is a good thing.  Then I discovered shortly thereafter it could be broken.  I had forgotten that part too. Even Goddesses have to relearn caution, humans can be mean things, even stalking things. EWWW! Enough about that.

So, today I turned 49.  Didn’t see my shadow or anything; the reflection in the mirror of the morning face was quite enough. Yeah, I could crawl back in bed for 6 more weeks, but that would require a store of batteries I can’t quite afford. LOL.

But I didn’t come here to talk about that.  I came to talk about my Birthday Eve, the closing moments of my life as a 48 year old.

Its a funny story.  Click through, you need the laugh, you know you do.

For those of you who don’t know I slipped my disc when I was 24ish and was told I would never walk again.  Was only paralyzed for a few months before I again joined the erectus side of the homosapiens. Still, every now and then I do something stupid, work like I’m 20 and hard bodied instead of ancient and broken, and end up in pain.  So it was in this state I worked yesterday, because I needed the money to pay for the Chiro, and came home.  My neighbor came over to play yahtzee with me, and brought over some medical herb to help with the spasms.  It worked pretty well, I must say. So did the accompanying beers.  

My kid had gone out on a “date” with his 23 year old adopted big sister.  Off to buy Mom a present, catch a movie and give me and Linda a little girlie time.  Linda brings her 2 mutantly large Golden Retrievers when she comes over, to entertain my 2 dogs, thing one – the auxillary dog, Soldier, and thing two – the emergency back up puppy Cinder. What we didn’t anticipate is that Jodi was going to trade watching my one child for her 3 dogs.  The oldest, a pit mix in HEAT who was humping everything.  The middle dog, a pit bull that wrestles with my Cinder like a banshee.  And their newest puppy, a beagle/rottweiler mix who is fairly anti-social.  They had saved it from near-death and being put to sleep.

So?  Things got ROWDY here. I had to let the dogs in and out, while keeping the bitch in heat in.  She rewarded me by peeing on my kitchen floor.  Ok, pee happens. No big deal.

So, Linda and I were sitting at the kitchen table, visibly stoned when we heard the dogs “Drinking” at the end of the table. Head tilt moment.  There’s no water bucket there.  We both get up, and here are 4 or 5 dogs trying to drink up an ocean of dog vomit.  Only its not really drinkable, because it has the consistency of a weak jellyfish, and is stringing up from their mouths to the floor like it doesn’t want to separate from the mothership of puke.  This is NOT your ordinary dogfood oatmeal kind of puke, it has congealed viscosity.  Then the SMELL hit us, as we were trying to shoo the dogs outside and away from it.  Spoiled pork is the best I can compare it to, with as yet indiscernible chunks.

Out.  Of.  Paper.  Towels!  Gah, I run for a fistful of napkins and grab one of the ever-present plastic shopping bags from the recycle bin.  I looked at Linda (Jodi’s step-Mom btw) and said, “PLEEEAAAASE?  My back is killing me and they are your grandkids!”  She fell for it.  It quickly became apparent the napkins weren’t doing it.  Looking around, I grabbed the old towel turned brass-polishing cloth I had just washed.  Soft in the way only ancient towels can be, and absorbent as hell.  The mass adhered to the towel in a way that made Linda, Linda who has made a life out of cleaning look at me in wide-eyed horror.  “Throw it out.  Fuck that towel.”  There was no way to split the now bonded mass from cloth, and with the heightened senses only a good sativa can give, the stench was now like some demon death from hell sure to burn our nasal passages out permanently.  “Make it go awaaaaaaay!”

We let the dogs back in, crisis averted, and to keep the neighbors at bay from the barking.  We resume our yahtzee game, washing the stench back with another beer.  Linda decides it is time to make her escape.  “Better you than me,” she grinned evilly at me as she bolted, her two dogs in tow. I returned to the table from restraining the dogs, and there it was again, the SMELL.  Oh yes, my loves the new pool was under her chair, and she had backed her chair through it unknowingly.  This one took an entire BATH towel to clean.  Strange pieces, chunks, and what was that?  A bunch of perfectly intact grapes. I gagged, choked, but made my way through it, sacrificing towel two to the landfill, not to mention the two washcloths I had to wet and scrub the spots with. I almost made it.  I swear I did.  That last warm wet cloth scrubbing just wafted rot into my face so bad, I only made it to the kitchen sink to retch. Oh, gahd.  I had been sitting there, trying to avoid getting up to go to the bathroom, something born more of back pain from movement more than actual laziness, and that good hard spasm of emptying recycled beer into the sink left a tell-tale damp spot down below.  Why yes, nothing says, had a baby and old bitch like a little pee in the panties.  Fuck.  Now off to wash up me and change. LOVELY.

If my back wasn’t bad enough from having to hobble my way onto the floor and drag myself back up?  The puking now had nice little daggers of numbness down my sciatic nerve through the bones of my legs.  Ok.  Pee.  Crack a replacement beer for the ones I just eliminated. Text Linda, Jodi, anyone to get hold of her boyfriend Steve to come get the fucking dogs.

By process of elimination, I determined it was the youngest of their dogs, the calf high but enormously long black and tan, Primo. I looked at the dog.  I looked at the garbage bag.  The volume of said explosive excretions now surpassed mass of said dog.  There are some things physics cannot define.  Vomit to dog ratio is one of them.  I’m considering applying for a grant on this; but will have to factor Depends into the budget.

So, things settle down.  I decide to have a nice chat with my lovelies from Great Britain via Skype.  I’m retelling the tale, when I hear what amounts to the sound of a five gallon bucket of water being poured out in the living room.  I KNOW they have not knocked over the water bucket on a visceral level.  I hang up.

Standard door walls are HOW wide?  The metal skirting plate has now served as a puke-trough and is inches deep in vomit, with a 2 foot arc out onto the carpet and entry mat by the door.  This is by far the hugest ocean in the seas of puke I have had to deal with.  This is now getting to the levels of a puke tsunami or a congressional session.

Its time to sacrifice a BEACH towel.  Now, mind you, I can and have sewn up gaping wounds, on my horse, and MYSELF.  I have NO, none, nadda problem with gore.

SMELLS HOWEVER?

When one has to clean up an Olympic Pool sized coagulation of snotty dog vomit with whole-grape garnishes, one discovers it matters not how empty one’s stomach is.  You will run to the bathroom and dry heave.  It matters not how empty one’s ancient bladder is or how many keegle exercises one had done either.  It matters not how numb your legs are from semi-paralysis.  You will feel that warm tell-tale tiny trickle down your legs that says, “Why yes, I am ancient and should be investing in diapers.”

Second whores bath, second change of clothes.  Can’t get in the shower, waiting for Jodi, Steve, my kid, anyone to save me from dog and pre-birthday hell.  Thinking, well, this would be a helluva way to finally kick the back out enough to go back to paralyzed. Meh, its not like I am not prepared to be a bitch on wheels, anyway.  I’ve been walking on borrowed time for years now.  But over dogpuke?

Yet another towel was then needed to wash said area.  It was far too vast for a wash-cloth this time.  Finally, finally clean again, although the tracks of the sliding door will have to be addressed with a toothbrush and probably a toothpick to get REALLY clean again, before it sets into some sort of cement.  I think I may have to break in and use Jodi or Steve’s toothbrush for that.

By now?  From text panic attack Steve shows up like a knight in tarnished armor, a day late, a dollar short and AFTER all the cleaning, puking and peeing is done.  “Sorry about that.  Wanna smoke a bowl?”  The man knows his way into an ancient woman’s heart. He did take out the trash, now 2 kitchen towels, two bath towels, one beach towel and assorted wash clothes and the absorbed ocean ode to dogpuke.  Three of the one small dog that emitted this mess could fit in the one garbage can-full his mess made.  I tell you, the physics don’t work.

Jodi and Jake show up a few minutes after Steve and the dogs leave, pushing a dozen roses to my nose, and running for the Febreeze. LOL.  Nice pre-emptive tactical manuever on their part. They still live, presumably because I am a mark for flowers and candles.  Oh, yes, they insisted on having me open my present, a lovely oil-candle with stained glassed holder Jake bought for me right then.  Cheer Mommy up now, before she pukes, cries or pees again.  LOL.  I raised em right.

So 48 went out with a splash so to speak.

And 49 is coming in God knows how.  

Wait!

I do know how.

With a laugh.

Because laughing is how you don’t cry and makes everything more wonderful.

I’d like to have a pony.  Or a man that actually loves me.  Or white-girl hair. (i’m getting my permanently straightened soon) Or a job. I think I’ll just have to settle for not-babysitting dogs, and emergency back-up adult diapers for life’s little pukefests. I bet you read about this kind of thing every day. Uhhh-huuuuhhhh.

Right now, I’ll settle for you laughing with or at me.  My life is hilarious.

Thanks for all the love, friends.

You make my Birthday worth smiling over.

xoxo,

d