tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6556690257497753916Thu, 07 Apr 2016 13:27:39 +0000humorchronic illnessChris Deanpixiecdacts of stupiditymental healthmental illnessbipolar disorderborderline personality disorderparodies I hope don't get me suedBPDElf on the Shelfdepressiongeeseguest postlife with chronic illnesspotty humor10 easy stepsElf PimpFaceBookHAWMCMuscovy ducksNaBloPoMoStanleychickenschronic painhome for the holidaysmental helath80's musicPimp and his HosTwitterWEGO Health Writers ChalengeWEGO NHBPMbipolar maniachocolatecraftingfairy talefairy talesfinding a new Doctorguest postshemorrhoidshopelaundrymiddle agemusicnatureparenting a child with a mental illnesssclerodermasong parodytop 10 listtop ten listvideowant adswaterfowlyou're not alone#FlashbackFriday80's generationA Healthy PlaceA cupsAgaraphobiaAnimal FarmAutumnBaby HueyBill GatesBlogHerBohemian RhapsodyBomb ThreatBombsBorn to RunBruce SpringsteenBursasBursitisChristmas EveClownsCrohn's diseaseDIYDanielle Shea. GraduationDeadliest CatchDexamethasoneDoctorDon't You Know What The Night Can DoDr. SeussDumbass NewsDysthymiaER DocElf QuestFace OffFalcoFallFarFarkleFight Like A GirlFun HouseFunnyGodzillaGoogle+Hall of MirrorsHamlet's SoliloquyHelen of TroyHips Don't LieHo in the SnowIBDIndianaIndy 500IontophoresisKloutLed ZeppelinLinkedInLupusMedical Mystery ClubMenard'sMental Health Awareness MonthMuscovyMuscovy primerNEDA WeekNested blogNeuromuscularPanic DisorderPrincessQueenQuinnipiacReader's DigestReindeer showsRheumatoid ArthritisRobert FrostRudolph the Red Nosed ReindeerSantaScott Wolfson and Other HeroesShakespeareShakiraSheWritesSilence of the LambsStairway to heavenSteampunkSteve WinwoodStupid CriminalsStupid NewsTLCTechnoratiTimelineTree GoddessTruth2BeingFitUnspeakable HVince OfferWal-MartWalmart greetersWeird NewsXboxZappyacceptanceaccidentsacoustic guitaramateur musiciansancient Egyptian mummified phallusangeranimal uprisinganxietyanxiety disorderart therapyartsy-craftsyawarenessbaby stepsbad behaviorbad hair cutbalance problemsbantamsbeautybeauty in the momentbedtime storiesbellybidetbipolar depressionblogblogging platformblood sugarboardgamesboredombrabreast healthbreastaclesbrokenbroody poultrybug controlbuttcampfire storiescannibalismcarunclescat peecat shamingcat toyscatscats amp; dogschicken coopchoicesclassic rockcolitiscommunityconfusionconstipationcorn fieldscorticosteroidscraftscrazy bird-ladydancersdancingdark watersdate nightdawnday peopledaydreamingdeathdiagnosticdiarrheadicky-doodiet Doctor Pepperdirty little secretsdislocated hipdistracteddog shamingdomestic poultrydoubtsdrinking gameduck billed platypusdysautonomiaeasy to follow instructionseating disorderseggs for saleelectric flystripsembarrassmentest 1975euphemismsexercisefalling down stairsfamily vacationsfearferal chickensfinding the beauty in yourselffirst postfitting infive point restraintsfliesforbidden forestfriendsfriendshipfrozen peasfun with bowelsgaminggetting healthygolden lightgrowing readershiphamstringhobbieshome crafterhospitalhow toin my oh-so humble opinioninsectsintroductionkickbackskittensklutzknittinglaughterlifelocal folk lorelonelinesslossmammogrammarijuanamedication side effectsmemoriesmemory lanemental overdrivemesses cats makemidlifemidnightmood swingsmorning coffeemotivationmovie parodymoxiemuscle rubmyositismyster illnessnaked treesnapsnewly diagnosednight peopleoneshot bug zapperoutsiderpanicpersonal accountabilityphotographyphysical fitnesspinterestpit saggagepoemporcelain perchpoultryracing thoughtsroadside attractionsrural Indianasarcasmscarsself destructive behaviorself loveself sabotagesetting the cat on fireshadowsshamesharing is caringside effectssmoked sausage jerkysmokingsniff testsocial mediasocial networkingsong parodiessongssouvenir T-shirtsteampunk gogglesstigmastigma surrounding mental illnessstrippingsunrisesupport systemtaking your health seriouslyteam workterms of partnership agreementtests and medical funtransparencytrapturkeyturtletwerkingunderstandingunderstanding BPD angerunspecified mixed connective tissue disordervertigowiggleworld famous authorworld media dominationyouthzombiepixie.c.d.adventures of a middle aged mom who refuses to grow uphttp://www.pixiecd.com/noreply@blogger.com (Chris Dean)Blogger74125 https://users.feedblitz.com/c2f25fe958bf2d47f33829c5b0dcdff4/pixie%20P%20logo%20150.jpg pixie.c.d. http://www.pixiecd.com/ http://www.pixiecd.com/2015/07/rude-awakenings-and-i-may-be-plague-on.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6556690257497753916.post-4939024901254087784Wed, 29 Jul 2015 12:29:00 +00002015-07-29T06:27:00.441-07:00acts of stupidityfinding a new Doctorhumortaking your health seriouslyRude awakenings and I may be a plague on the State Tourism Trade  Babyface, my beloved Rheumy, moved out of the country this month. Which got me to thinking – my first Rheumy and every last person I’ve ever dated have all left the state after our break-ups. I can’t help but start to wonder, is it’s me?

 The brand of pain-in-the-ass that would drive people that far away isn’t really the point, but it does explain why yesterday found me in a meeting with a New Doc that started with the never ending interview with Mr. Intern and plenty of goofiness on my behalf.


 What could go wrong? Apparently, everything.




 I was trying so hard to adult right, y’all. I mean, I was in an atmosphere that screamed, “Serious things happen here!” Which only meant the urge to act like a giant kid became too powerful a pull, like the Dark Side summoning Anakin.


Mr. Intern: “How many years have you smoked?”

Me: “Since I was 18. So that’s…36 years. No! Wait…18. No! Wait…”

Hubby: “Are you kidding me? Chris, it’s 26 years.”

Me:  “26 years! Sorry. I didn’t want to use my fingers because I was trying not to look stupid.”

Hubby & Mr. Intern: “How’d that work out for ya?”


 By this point my mascara, the only makeup I’d worn, was running down my cheeks in a torrent of giggle-tears. And I was on a roll.


Mr. Intern: “What do you do for a living?”

Me: “Professional smartass?”

Mr. Intern: “…”

Me: “That’s not a real job, is it?”

Mr. Intern: “…”

Me: I’m a writer. I write things.”


 Poor Hubby was sitting next to me, hiding his face in his hands and ever so slightly shaking his head. I’m guessing because there was no way to claim he didn’t know me.


pixie.c.d. - Rude awakenings and I may be a plague on the State Tourism Trade


 After 30 minutes of this, a confused Mr. Intern left the room to fetch the Doc. So I killed time by making guppy faces and showing Hubby how well I could add and subtract when I could use my fingers to help.


pixie.c.d. - Rude awakenings and I may be a plague on the State Tourism Trade


 Then my new Rheumatologist walked in and everything changed. This woman wasn’t amused by my kooky hijinks. Nor was she understanding about the way I’d ditched most of my Team of healthcare people. She was actually more…annoyed would be a good word to use.


My version of my truth: I have glitches that I find ways to live around. They’re by no means life threatening, just annoying. So I take meds to deal with the symptoms and keep on keepin’ on, on my own terms.


Her version of my truth: I have an illness that isn’t serious. Yet. The goal is to keep it that way. I deal with things by not dealing with them. I take my health for granted in a way that is not only bad for my health but a slap in the face to the patients she treats who don’t have that luxury. And the ridiculousness needs to stop here.


 So I did what any mature person would do and threw a temper tantrum all the way home. Because I have issues with authority figures. And difficulty functioning in an environment devoid of all nonsense.


 After an extended tirade that covered such topics as life isn’t fair, the new Doc is a meany and I don’t wanna *insert medical test here*, I took a long nap and then messaged the Nurse Practitioner of Awesomeness.


 “It won’t really work to throw a fit and declare that I quit with this whole being sick thing, will it?”


 She proved her awesomeness by simply answering, “No.”


 I didn’t choose to end up with a body that doesn’t like to play nice. I did, however, choose to ignore it and play ditch the Doc with everyone but my Rheumatologist. And now I’m faced with the choice to either follow the rules (and my frequent advice to others) and take this shit seriously or continue on the path I’m on playing pretend that it’s not that big a deal.


 Of course, that’s a choice that’s not really a choice at all, is it?


 So my fun begins again with the bazillion appointments, the pouting over tests I don’t wanna take, and figuring out the best way I can bring a little nonsense to a no-nonsense situation without pushing it over the line.


 Facing the reality of a chronic illness is, without question, a serious thing. I’m just not a serious person. If I couldn’t laugh at the things that scare the living shnikies outta me, I’d lose what little mind I have left. And that, my friends, is most certainly not an option.


PS  About that thing with the exes…really guys, is it me!?!

        

Related Stories

 
]]>
https://feeds.feedblitz.com/~/103894570/0/pixiecd~Rude-awakenings-and-I-may-be-a-plague-on-the-State-Tourism-Trade.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Chris Dean)0 http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oXRZbXZEsDU/VbjGMQOSczI/AAAAAAAAR5U/jyyCaVLeX6s/s72-c/not-serious.jpg  Babyface, my beloved Rheumy, moved out of the country this month. Which got me to thinking – my first Rheumy and every last person I’ve ever dated have all left the state after our break-ups. I can’t help but start to wonder, is it’s me?

 The brand of pain-in-the-ass that would drive people that far away isn’t really the point, but it does explain why yesterday found me in a meeting with a New Doc that started with the never ending interview with Mr. Intern and plenty of goofiness on my behalf.


 What could go wrong? Apparently, everything.




 I was trying so hard to adult right, y’all. I mean, I was in an atmosphere that screamed, “Serious things happen here!” Which only meant the urge to act like a giant kid became too powerful a pull, like the Dark Side summoning Anakin.


Mr. Intern: “How many years have you smoked?”

Me: “Since I was 18. So that’s…36 years. No! Wait…18. No! Wait…”

Hubby: “Are you kidding me? Chris, it’s 26 years.”

Me:  “26 years! Sorry. I didn’t want to use my fingers because I was trying not to look stupid.”

Hubby & Mr. Intern: “How’d that work out for ya?”


 By this point my mascara, the only makeup I’d worn, was running down my cheeks in a torrent of giggle-tears. And I was on a roll.


Mr. Intern: “What do you do for a living?”

Me: “Professional smartass?”

Mr. Intern: “…”

Me: “That’s not a real job, is it?”

Mr. Intern: “…”

Me: I’m a writer. I write things.”


 Poor Hubby was sitting next to me, hiding his face in his hands and ever so slightly shaking his head. I’m guessing because there was no way to claim he didn’t know me.


pixie.c.d. - Rude awakenings and I may be a plague on the State Tourism Trade


 After 30 minutes of this, a confused Mr. Intern left the room to fetch the Doc. So I killed time by making guppy faces and showing Hubby how well I could add and subtract when I could use my fingers to help.


pixie.c.d. - Rude awakenings and I may be a plague on the State Tourism Trade


 Then my new Rheumatologist walked in and everything changed. This woman wasn’t amused by my kooky hijinks. Nor was she understanding about the way I’d ditched most of my Team of healthcare people. She was actually more…annoyed would be a good word to use.


My version of my truth: I have glitches that I find ways to live around. They’re by no means life threatening, just annoying. So I take meds to deal with the symptoms and keep on keepin’ on, on my own terms.


Her version of my truth: I have an illness that isn’t serious. Yet. The goal is to keep it that way. I deal with things by not dealing with them. I take my health for granted in a way that is not only bad for my health but a slap in the face to the patients she treats who don’t have that luxury. And the ridiculousness needs to stop here.


 So I did what any mature person would do and threw a temper tantrum all the way home. Because I have issues with authority figures. And difficulty functioning in an environment devoid of all nonsense.


 After an extended tirade that covered such topics as life isn’t fair, the new Doc is a meany and I don’t wanna *insert medical test here*, I took a long nap and then messaged the Nurse Practitioner of Awesomeness.


 “It won’t really work to throw a fit and declare that I quit with this whole being sick thing, will it?”


 She proved her awesomeness by simply answering, “No.”


 I didn’t choose to end up with a body that doesn’t like to play nice. I did, however, choose to ignore it and play ditch the Doc with everyone but my Rheumatologist. And now I’m faced with the choice to either follow the rules (and my frequent advice to others) and take this shit seriously or continue on the path I’m on playing pretend that it’s not that big a deal.


 Of course, that’s a choice that’s not really a choice at all, is it?


 So my fun begins again with the bazillion appointments, the pouting over tests I don’t wanna take, and figuring out the best way I can bring a little nonsense to a no-nonsense situation without pushing it over the line.


 Facing the reality of a chronic illness is, without question, a serious thing. I’m just not a serious person. If I couldn’t laugh at the things that scare the living shnikies outta me, I’d lose what little mind I have left. And that, my friends, is most certainly not an option.


PS  About that thing with the exes…really guys, is it me!?!

]]>
http://www.pixiecd.com/2015/07/i-am-not-my-disorder-girls-story.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6556690257497753916.post-6229809751044313174Sun, 05 Jul 2015 12:53:00 +00002015-07-05T05:57:08.720-07:00bipolar disorderbipolar maniaguest postparenting a child with a mental illnessI Am Not My Disorder: The Girl's Story  Yesterday I opened an email from The Girl – an email containing a request to guest post and a piece of writing. And just like that, my Mother’s heart filled with all manner of warm and fuzzy feelings, pride being the frontrunner.

 Back in April I wrote about the guilt I felt over having a child with a mental illness. I also said I wouldn’t write about their journey because it was their story to tell, if and when they were ready.


 That email I mentioned? Said she was ready.


The Girl’s Story


pixie.c.d. - I Am Not My Disorder: The Girl's Story

 Over the course of my twenty-two years I’ve let a lot of things define me. I am a writer, a poet, a dreamer, a sister, a daughter and a student. I have a 3.0 GPA in college and am working on a degree that only three other people are going for in my school. Four people in an entire school are working toward and English Literature degree, that astounds me beyond words. I am nearly finished with my path to conversion and will, as of next week, be Jewish. I cannot begin to express the joy that all of the things bring into my life, but that is something to discuss another day.


 What I refuse to let define me is the very thing I’ve been hiding for over a year, something that started at the beginning of the school year last fall and hasn’t gone away. I was scared and maybe even in a bit of denial, not wanting to admit that what was going on was getting bad until it was so out of hand that I couldn’t hide it and had no choice but to talk to someone.


 A couple of my close friends will know I’ve been bouncing through therapists since early April. By “Bouncing through” I mean I was having trouble finding someone who would listen to me. Living in a small town, surrounded by other small towns unless you want to drive an hour, there weren’t a lot of options on where to go. It took me three months just to find one who listens to me, who I feel comfortable enough with that I can talk about what’s really going on. Since February, my parents and brothers have been my rocks. They’ve been with me every step of the way. My mom’s been my biggest supporter, even going to appointments with me and listening to all the crazy days of tears or angry screams, reminding me that problems like this often takes years to be diagnosed.


 It took me about four months and a bad decision to be diagnosed. A few weeks ago I finally managed to get an appointment with a psychiatrist in a town about half an hour away, close to where my therapy appointments are. I calmly explained to her my symptoms and it’s been determined that stress has been the trigger for everything. I swallow my stress, in doing so I’ve given myself some pretty bad anxiety and a lot of other problems, I didn’t even know how bad it was until it became out of control. As a way to try and lessen the stress and maybe help some of the symptoms, I was prescribed some antidepressant and antipsychotic medication. And that is how I found myself where I am now.


 The antidepressant didn’t take away my anxiety. In fact, it made it worse and spiraled me into a manic phase that I’m only beginning to come down from. I felt fine, I felt like I could run a marathon or swim miles through the ocean. I wasn’t sleeping and was living off soda and candy bars. I had all these brilliant ideas that seemed like the best thing ever, but before I could follow through with one I’d think of another, my thoughts moving so fast that I couldn’t focus on anything to save my life. But I felt fine, I wanted to cut my hair and tattoo myself. I even thought about giving myself new piercings, who needs to go pay someone for that, anyway? I wanted to run around and party. I felt like I could do anything and I never had to sleep.


 I didn’t do any of that. Not because I didn’t want to, but when I started acting differently my family, specifically my mom and dad, were aware enough of it that they sat me down. My mom told me that she thought I was entering a manic phase and was watching me. I asked her if she’d accompany me to my next appointment and took the action of locking myself inside the house. I wanted to do so many things, stupid things just for the hell of it. Because, why not? I was bored. But I didn’t.


 Enter the second psychiatrist appointment. I was so distracted by silly things, like the pictures on the wall or my own thoughts, that I couldn’t finish most of my sentences, fortunately mom was following my disjointed thought pattern and finished every one of them, even adding her own comments. The doctor told me I should’ve called, and instructed me to stop taking the antidepressants, promptly starting me on a heavy dose of lithium.


 I am bipolar. Because of the reasons I began to go to start with, I’m Bipolar Type One. The diagnosis was a mixed bag of things. At the time it was given I was so relieved to finally have an answer, especially one that explained why I was experiencing what I was. But, as I come down from the manic phase and am able to think more clearly, I’m finding that while I’m relieved, I have to remind myself again and again that this changes nothing. I’m still the same person I was before. I’m not the disorder and I won’t let the stigma define me. I remind myself that I may not need to be on medication my entire life, but for now it is necessary to get myself back into a healthy lifestyle. I tell myself I need to stop some of the things I’ve been doing, things that aren’t healthy and will only make the disorder worse.


 Now, of course, all I want to do is sleep. It feels as though all the weeks of sleep I missed out on is catching up to me all at once. Each day I feel a little more like the ‘me’ I know and less like ‘manic me’ that can’t tell anything’s wrong. I have an answer, and I was lucky and got it a lot faster than I expected I would. Now my goal is to focus on getting myself into a better place, and learning new ways to deal with it.


pixie.c.d. - I Am Not My Disorder: The Girl's Story  One thing I can’t shake is the idea that some of my friends will stop speaking to me after this comes out, that they’ll hear the name of the beast and think I’m a freak or that somehow overnight I’ve changed. But the thing is, I haven’t. I’m still the same girl I’ve always been, that hasn’t changed. What’s changed is there’s a name to call the beast, a way to address it when I tell it I am stronger than it is. I will not let it consume me and I am not my disorder. I refuse to let the stigma push me down and hide part of me like it’s something I should be ashamed of. I’m choosing not to be ashamed; I’m choosing not to hide because I have no reason why I should. I am not my disorder, I’m stronger than it and I haven’t changed. I’m the same girl I’ve always been.



I Am Not My Disorder
I am not my disorder
I am in charge of my life,
What I know is right
I’m a survivor, a fighter
I’m the decider of my destiny
I am not my disorder
I will not let the stigma define me
Or be all that people see.
I am the same beautiful, caring girl I was before
The same me you’ve always seen
I am my friend and my own worst enemy
My mind is my safe haven
And my toughest battle
I am in charge of my fate
I am the master of my life
I will fight the stigma
I am not my disorder
I am simply me, the same me you’ve always seen.

        

Related Stories

 
]]>
https://feeds.feedblitz.com/~/99402910/0/pixiecd~I-Am-Not-My-Disorder-The-Girls-Story.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Chris Dean)0 http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WC9fX4LFRsU/VZknh0ZIRJI/AAAAAAAARkE/QmSifDQVDuQ/s72-c/I%2Bchoose%2Bnot%2Bto%2Bbe%2Bashamed.jpg  Yesterday I opened an email from The Girl – an email containing a request to guest post and a piece of writing. And just like that, my Mother’s heart filled with all manner of warm and fuzzy feelings, pride being the frontrunner.

 Back in April I wrote about the guilt I felt over having a child with a mental illness. I also said I wouldn’t write about their journey because it was their story to tell, if and when they were ready.


 That email I mentioned? Said she was ready.


The Girl’s Story


pixie.c.d. - I Am Not My Disorder: The Girl's Story

 Over the course of my twenty-two years I’ve let a lot of things define me. I am a writer, a poet, a dreamer, a sister, a daughter and a student. I have a 3.0 GPA in college and am working on a degree that only three other people are going for in my school. Four people in an entire school are working toward and English Literature degree, that astounds me beyond words. I am nearly finished with my path to conversion and will, as of next week, be Jewish. I cannot begin to express the joy that all of the things bring into my life, but that is something to discuss another day.


 What I refuse to let define me is the very thing I’ve been hiding for over a year, something that started at the beginning of the school year last fall and hasn’t gone away. I was scared and maybe even in a bit of denial, not wanting to admit that what was going on was getting bad until it was so out of hand that I couldn’t hide it and had no choice but to talk to someone.


 A couple of my close friends will know I’ve been bouncing through therapists since early April. By “Bouncing through” I mean I was having trouble finding someone who would listen to me. Living in a small town, surrounded by other small towns unless you want to drive an hour, there weren’t a lot of options on where to go. It took me three months just to find one who listens to me, who I feel comfortable enough with that I can talk about what’s really going on. Since February, my parents and brothers have been my rocks. They’ve been with me every step of the way. My mom’s been my biggest supporter, even going to appointments with me and listening to all the crazy days of tears or angry screams, reminding me that problems like this often takes years to be diagnosed.


 It took me about four months and a bad decision to be diagnosed. A few weeks ago I finally managed to get an appointment with a psychiatrist in a town about half an hour away, close to where my therapy appointments are. I calmly explained to her my symptoms and it’s been determined that stress has been the trigger for everything. I swallow my stress, in doing so I’ve given myself some pretty bad anxiety and a lot of other problems, I didn’t even know how bad it was until it became out of control. As a way to try and lessen the stress and maybe help some of the symptoms, I was prescribed some antidepressant and antipsychotic medication. And that is how I found myself where I am now.


 The antidepressant didn’t take away my anxiety. In fact, it made it worse and spiraled me into a manic phase that I’m only beginning to come down from. I felt fine, I felt like I could run a marathon or swim miles through the ocean. I wasn’t sleeping and was living off soda and candy bars. I had all these brilliant ideas that seemed like the best thing ever, but before I could follow through with one I’d think of another, my thoughts moving so fast that I couldn’t focus on anything to save my life. But I felt fine, I wanted to cut my hair and tattoo myself. I even thought about giving myself new piercings, who needs to go pay someone for that, anyway? I wanted to run around and party. I felt like I could do anything and I never had to sleep.


 I didn’t do any of that. Not because I didn’t want to, but when I started acting differently my family, specifically my mom and dad, were aware enough of it that they sat me down. My mom told me that she thought I was entering a manic phase and was watching me. I asked her if she’d accompany me to my next appointment and took the action of locking myself inside the house. I wanted to do so many things, stupid things just for the hell of it. Because, why not? I was bored. But I didn’t.


 Enter the second psychiatrist appointment. I was so distracted by silly things, like the pictures on the wall or my own thoughts, that I couldn’t finish most of my sentences, fortunately mom was following my disjointed thought pattern and finished every one of them, even adding her own comments. The doctor told me I should’ve called, and instructed me to stop taking the antidepressants, promptly starting me on a heavy dose of lithium.


 I am bipolar. Because of the reasons I began to go to start with, I’m Bipolar Type One. The diagnosis was a mixed bag of things. At the time it was given I was so relieved to finally have an answer, especially one that explained why I was experiencing what I was. But, as I come down from the manic phase and am able to think more clearly, I’m finding that while I’m relieved, I have to remind myself again and again that this changes nothing. I’m still the same person I was before. I’m not the disorder and I won’t let the stigma define me. I remind myself that I may not need to be on medication my entire life, but for now it is necessary to get myself back into a healthy lifestyle. I tell myself I need to stop some of the things I’ve been doing, things that aren’t healthy and will only make the disorder worse.


 Now, of course, all I want to do is sleep. It feels as though all the weeks of sleep I missed out on is catching up to me all at once. Each day I feel a little more like the ‘me’ I know and less like ‘manic me’ that can’t tell anything’s wrong. I have an answer, and I was lucky and got it a lot faster than I expected I would. Now my goal is to focus on getting myself into a better place, and learning new ways to deal with it.


pixie.c.d. - I Am Not My Disorder: The Girl's Story  One thing I can’t shake is the idea that some of my friends will stop speaking to me after this comes out, that they’ll hear the name of the beast and think I’m a freak or that somehow overnight I’ve changed. But the thing is, I haven’t. I’m still the same girl I’ve always been, that hasn’t changed. What’s changed is there’s a name to call the beast, a way to address it when I tell it I am stronger than it is. I will not let it consume me and I am not my disorder. I refuse to let the stigma push me down and hide part of me like it’s something I should be ashamed of. I’m choosing not to be ashamed; I’m choosing not to hide because I have no reason why I should. I am not my disorder, I’m stronger than it and I haven’t changed. I’m the same girl I’ve always been.



I Am Not My Disorder
I am not my disorder
I am in charge of my life,
What I know is right
I’m a survivor, a fighter
I’m the decider of my destiny
I am not my disorder
I will not let the stigma define me
Or be all that people see.
I am the same beautiful, caring girl I was before
The same me you’ve always seen
I am my friend and my own worst enemy
My mind is my safe haven
And my toughest battle
I am in charge of my fate
I am the master of my life
I will fight the stigma
I am not my disorder
I am simply me, the same me you’ve always seen.

]]>
http://www.pixiecd.com/2015/07/mental-illness-and-why-were-celebrating.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6556690257497753916.post-4800237283573408571Thu, 02 Jul 2015 12:42:00 +00002015-07-02T05:42:09.197-07:00mental illnessparenting a child with a mental illnessstigma surrounding mental illnessMental Illness and Why We're Celebratingpixie.c.d. - Mental Illness and Why We're Celebrating

 You enter that place where the house grows quieter, the days move slower and the adventures become a little more tame. The people who were once the main characters in your personal story request their names are now left out of things. They refuse to let you take pictures of them wearing a cat as a neckwarmer, tape their impression of Christopher Walken singing I Like Big Butts, or film them performing the theme song they wrote for their brother. (Ahhh-hhhh…Moist!) (Sometimes it’s best not to ask too many questions. This? Is probably one of them.)

 More and more the only time you hear from them is when they need roadside assistance. So you begin the letting go, the casual smiles in passing, and the days without really having much conversation. Until that moment you realize that, while you were busy working on letting go, one of them has been silently asking for your arm to help hold their heads above water.

 There are both dangers and advantages to knowing your Offspring so well that you become aware of the small shifts in demeanor or personality. The advantages are obvious, but the downside of familiarity is you can mistakenly assume the early stages of mental illness are just normal teenage angst and the push for freedom.

 Until you become painfully aware it’s not.

 Yesterday we finally got an answer in the form of a diagnosis for Unnamed Offspring. Now we have a foothold for our first steps on the path to mental health.

 And so we celebrated. Which might sound weird to those who deal with things in a slightly more serious and mature way. But neither of those words holds much meaning in a house where we prefer celebrating the surprise bumps in the road, over mourning the things we think we’ve lost.

 So, we laughed and we hugged.

 Then I cried and said, “Thank you,” over and over.

 “Why are you thanking me?”

 “Because you were brave enough to ask for help.”

 That’s what we were really celebrating. The fact that someone in pain, who knew something had become “not right,” had the guts to push past the stigma – stigma they’ve witnessed first hand from living with a Mom who openly speaks about mental illness – and asked for the help they needed.

 Now that we have a name for the Dragon, we can begin the journey of learning how to tame it and live the fullest life possible despite it. We can gather tools for keeping the small crack in the windshield from becoming so much broken glass. (That fine line between psychosis and a psychotic break.) Now we have a goal to focus our fear of the unknown into determination to become whole.

 And that’s a damn fine reason to celebrate.  
        

Related Stories

 
]]>
https://feeds.feedblitz.com/~/98899826/0/pixiecd~Mental-Illness-and-Why-Were-Celebrating.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Chris Dean)0 http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6wEfuUj_PIs/VZUvf1IJiyI/AAAAAAAARiw/xSibyUoWmMQ/s72-c/reason-to-celebrate.jpg pixie.c.d. - Mental Illness and Why We're Celebrating

 You enter that place where the house grows quieter, the days move slower and the adventures become a little more tame. The people who were once the main characters in your personal story request their names are now left out of things. They refuse to let you take pictures of them wearing a cat as a neckwarmer, tape their impression of Christopher Walken singing I Like Big Butts, or film them performing the theme song they wrote for their brother. (Ahhh-hhhh…Moist!) (Sometimes it’s best not to ask too many questions. This? Is probably one of them.)

 More and more the only time you hear from them is when they need roadside assistance. So you begin the letting go, the casual smiles in passing, and the days without really having much conversation. Until that moment you realize that, while you were busy working on letting go, one of them has been silently asking for your arm to help hold their heads above water.

 There are both dangers and advantages to knowing your Offspring so well that you become aware of the small shifts in demeanor or personality. The advantages are obvious, but the downside of familiarity is you can mistakenly assume the early stages of mental illness are just normal teenage angst and the push for freedom.


 Yesterday we finally got an answer in the form of a diagnosis for Unnamed Offspring. Now we have a foothold for our first steps on the path to mental health.

 And so we celebrated. Which might sound weird to those who deal with things in a slightly more serious and mature way. But neither of those words holds much meaning in a house where we prefer celebrating the surprise bumps in the road, over mourning the things we think we’ve lost.

 So, we laughed and we hugged.

 Then I cried and said, “Thank you,” over and over.

 “Why are you thanking me?”

 “Because you were brave enough to ask for help.”

 That’s what we were really celebrating. The fact that someone in pain, who knew something had become “not right,” had the guts to push past the stigma – stigma they’ve witnessed first hand from living with a Mom who openly speaks about mental illness – and asked for the help they needed.

 Now that we have a name for the Dragon, we can begin the journey of learning how to tame it and live the fullest life possible despite it. We can gather tools for keeping the small crack in the windshield from becoming so much broken glass. (That fine line between psychosis and a psychotic break.) Now we have a goal to focus our fear of the unknown into determination to become whole.

 And that’s a damn fine reason to celebrate.   ]]>
http://www.pixiecd.com/2015/05/it-is-never-too-late-and-you-are-never.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6556690257497753916.post-983878361881386541Fri, 29 May 2015 10:23:00 +00002015-05-29T03:55:25.186-07:00baby stepsexercisegetting healthyguest postmotivationphysical fitnessTruth2BeingFitIt Is Never Too Late and You Are Never Too Old! Hi! My name is Jody and I blog at Truth2beingfit. I am 57 years old .. or young, ;). I have been working out since my early 20’s BUT I do know overweight. I grew up a kid that got heavy young, lived with the teasing that came along with that, carried it into adulthood and yes, sometimes still sees that little fat kid in the mirror. Lucky for me I see that kid very rarely these days but it took years & years to get there.


Why do I tell you this – I want you to learn from my mistakes. Not just the eating mistakes although there were plenty of those. Once I lost weight, I went the crazy route – only salads, not enough protein & healthy fats, no balance in life food. It took me into my 30’s and even 40’s to really get this down correctly. Now, I still change things up based on age & what my body is telling me.
I also had to learn the balance of workouts. I had to learn that no rest days lead to burnout & injury.. I also had to learn to listen to my body. I wrote a post about that Wednesday.
Chris wrote me and asked if I would guest post for her. She wrote this: YEARS ago, I lifted like a fiend. So I know all the benefits and how good it can make you feel. The difference is then I was starting from a place of healthy. Now, well…triceps kickbacks with a 1 pound weight break me out in a sweat from head to toe. I guess I want others in my situation to know they can get back control of their lives, even if it’s baby steps and you are great at putting that concept into words.
Chris made my day & month & year! WHY? This – The thing I love about Chris is that she got my message! I am not just out to reach hard-core lifters or weight lifting people only. I am trying to reach all ages & sexes to just do what is right for you; It is all OK whether you can do a little or a lot. She got that is was NOT about me.. it was about HER & what she can do for herself! We can’t compare ourselves to other people – it is only about you & what is right & works for you!


I think we are so caught up in comparing ourselves to others. Social media, movies, TV and magazines do a trip on us – especially women & older people and honestly, the “not pretty people”. Heck I did it for too many years to count! I still catch myself doing it. I am always a work in progress, always learning. I don’t pretend to not fall into that trap. I GET IT! That hard part is understanding & knowing that no matter what, you are enough at every stage of your journey – no matter how slow it may be for you!
YES, I have worked out for years but I was once a beginner too! I have been a beginner many times in my life! We all have & will be again! It is called life and trying & falling & getting back up. It is not failure. It is trying and learning!
I wrote a post about comparison is a thief. There are some great motivational quotes in there that may help you. You can’t compare yourself to me or anyone else. Quite honestly, we don’t even know what has gone on in other’s lives behind the scenes.
Read Chris’s About Post! WOW!!!! She is not giving up! She is starting from a new place for her. She is not giving up!
Even when I write to people that have no illness, no injury, no roadblocks. I always tell them to take baby steps. We all start at the beginning at some point. YES, it is hard. YES, it takes patience… BUT you have to be kind to yourself. Never look at anything as a failure. IT IS LEARNING! So you mess up or miss a day or week. NEVER GIVE UP… just get back to it. Move on & forward. Any step forward is a step.
I hope this has helped. I hope you are motivated TO TRY no matter what your situation. I hope that you know it is OK to not be the best or the fittest or the prettiest or anything else. YOU ARE ENOUGH! It took me a long time to get there – Into my late 40’s and 50’s! Learn it young or learn it now because YOU ARE ENOUGH!
Thank you so much Chris for asking me to contribute to your blog! HUGS!
If you care to reach me on my social media channels, here they are:
 Instagram
 Twitter
Image Map
 Pinterest
 YouTube




        

Related Stories

 
]]>
https://feeds.feedblitz.com/~/93528645/0/pixiecd~It-Is-Never-Too-Late-and-You-Are-Never-Too-Old.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Chris Dean)0 http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Yq_Bq1cHB6k/VWbr2E1ymgI/AAAAAAAAQ34/b4O9t5-u078/s72-c/truth2beingfit.jpg Hi! My name is Jody and I blog at Truth2beingfit. I am 57 years old .. or young, ;). I have been working out since my early 20’s BUT I do know overweight. I grew up a kid that got heavy young, lived with the teasing that came along with that, carried it into adulthood and yes, sometimes still sees that little fat kid in the mirror. Lucky for me I see that kid very rarely these days but it took years & years to get there.


Why do I tell you this – I want you to learn from my mistakes. Not just the eating mistakes although there were plenty of those. Once I lost weight, I went the crazy route – only salads, not enough protein & healthy fats, no balance in life food. It took me into my 30’s and even 40’s to really get this down correctly. Now, I still change things up based on age & what my body is telling me.
I also had to learn the balance of workouts. I had to learn that no rest days lead to burnout & injury.. I also had to learn to listen to my body. I wrote a post about that Wednesday.
Chris wrote me and asked if I would guest post for her. She wrote this: YEARS ago, I lifted like a fiend. So I know all the benefits and how good it can make you feel. The difference is then I was starting from a place of healthy. Now, well…triceps kickbacks with a 1 pound weight break me out in a sweat from head to toe. I guess I want others in my situation to know they can get back control of their lives, even if it’s baby steps and you are great at putting that concept into words.
Chris made my day & month & year! WHY? This – The thing I love about Chris is that she got my message! I am not just out to reach hard-core lifters or weight lifting people only. I am trying to reach all ages & sexes to just do what is right for you; It is all OK whether you can do a little or a lot. She got that is was NOT about me.. it was about HER & what she can do for herself! We can’t compare ourselves to other people – it is only about you & what is right & works for you!


I think we are so caught up in comparing ourselves to others. Social media, movies, TV and magazines do a trip on us – especially women & older people and honestly, the “not pretty people”. Heck I did it for too many years to count! I still catch myself doing it. I am always a work in progress, always learning. I don’t pretend to not fall into that trap. I GET IT! That hard part is understanding & knowing that no matter what, you are enough at every stage of your journey – no matter how slow it may be for you!
YES, I have worked out for years but I was once a beginner too! I have been a beginner many times in my life! We all have & will be again! It is called life and trying & falling & getting back up. It is not failure. It is trying and learning!
I wrote a post about comparison is a thief. There are some great motivational quotes in there that may help you. You can’t compare yourself to me or anyone else. Quite honestly, we don’t even know what has gone on in other’s lives behind the scenes.
Read Chris’s About Post! WOW!!!! She is not giving up! She is starting from a new place for her. She is not giving up!
Even when I write to people that have no illness, no injury, no roadblocks. I always tell them to take baby steps. We all start at the beginning at some point. YES, it is hard. YES, it takes patience… BUT you have to be kind to yourself. Never look at anything as a failure. IT IS LEARNING! So you mess up or miss a day or week. NEVER GIVE UP… just get back to it. Move on & forward. Any step forward is a step.
I hope this has helped. I hope you are motivated TO TRY no matter what your situation. I hope that you know it is OK to not be the best or the fittest or the prettiest or anything else. YOU ARE ENOUGH! It took me a long time to get there – Into my late 40’s and 50’s! Learn it young or learn it now because YOU ARE ENOUGH!
Thank you so much Chris for asking me to contribute to your blog! HUGS!
If you care to reach me on my social media channels, here they are:
 Instagram
 Twitter
Image Map
 Pinterest
 YouTube




]]>
http://www.pixiecd.com/2015/03/arts-n-crafts-in-10-easy-steps.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6556690257497753916.post-9128072196599075202Sun, 29 Mar 2015 13:47:00 +00002015-03-29T06:47:58.655-07:0010 easy stepsartsy-craftsycraftingDIYeasy to follow instructionsFace Offhome crafterhumorSteampunksteampunk gogglesArts-N-Crafts in 10 Easy Steps “That looks easy! Let’s see if I have all the supplies…”
-Famous last words of a Home Crafter


Arts-N-Crafts In 10 Easy Steps

Step 1
 Buy an expensive book of projects because it’s filled with glossy pictures of beautiful things. Don’t bother reading any of the instructions. I mean, it’s in the Hobby & Crafts section of the bookstore, so it must be compatible with most skill levels, right?

Steampunk Style  It's actually an AMAZING book!
Steampunk Style
It’s actually an AMAZING book!

Step 2
 Take expensive book home and casually flip through it until you find a picture of something you’d LOVE to make. Attempt to read instructions only to discover they were written for someone who Mastered in Costume Fabrication.  

Leather Sculpted Goggles Because I have ANY knowledge of sculpting leather, right?
Leather Sculpted Goggles
Because I have ANY knowledge of
sculpting leather, right?

Step 3
 Give up trying to decipher words that have no meaning to you and figure you’ll just “fake it ‘til ya make it.”
 Make a trip to craft store and purchase two of everything you could ever possibly need to make project. Since there’s no real “Items Needed” list in book, rely on knowledge gleaned from four years of watching Face Off.

Step 4
 *Get back home only to discover you forgot at least two items you absolutely can’t live without.
 Make another trip to craft store to purchase forgotten items and three other things you see that might be needed. (Just to make sure you don’t have to come back, right?)
*repeat Step 4 minimum of two more times

Step 5
 *Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and begin project.
 Get halfway through project only to discover you didn’t pay as much attention to four years of Face Off as you thought you did.
 Scrap project and start over.
*repeat Step 5 minimum of two more times

This is how they do it on Face Off, right?
This is how they do it on Face Off, right?

Step 6
 Give up and purchase second expensive book that explains the first of five techniques you’ll need to complete project in first expensive book. (Don’t worry about the other four techniques. If you can’t fake your way through those when the time comes, you can always buy another book.)

This Molding & Casting Handbook is actually filled with TONS of helpful info that even I could understand!
This Molding & Casting Handbook is actually filled
with TONS of helpful info that even I could understand!

Step 7
 Go back to craft store for supplies to complete practice project from second expensive book to insure you’ve got the technique down before you return to project from first expensive book. (After all, you don’t want your finished item to look like it was made by a beginner.)
 repeat Step 4

Step 8
 Screw up practice project minimum of three times before you complete “beginner level” item that looks like it was made by a kindergartener.
 Decide you’re wasting your time on this easy crap and decide to “fake it ‘til ya make it” through original project.
 You’ll probably find it necessary to repeat Step 4, since you’ve mysteriously managed to use up every last supply you need to begin.

Let us not discuss how many similar piles of crap were produced...
Let us not discuss how many similar
piles of crap were produced…

Step 9
 Spend three hours trying to track down the origin of the Mystery Smell so you can breathe freely enough to get started on your project, only to realize the smell is actually you. (You’re not sure how it happened, but it appears you’ve spent the last week-and-a-half in the same sweats and T-shirt and you can’t exactly remember the last time you showered.)
 Acknowledge that it’ll all be worth it when you unveil your final masterpiece, rub some Vick’s vapo-rub under your nose, and get back to work.
 
Step 10
 A. This is it – the Big Reveal! This is what you’ve spent the last month working towards.
 Lay down your implements of crafting destruction, wipe your hands on your sweat pants one last time, and step back to admire your handiwork…
 B. Realize that all your blood, sweat and tears has created something that’s entirely unrecognizable as even being a third cousin, twice removed, from the glossy pictures in first expensive book. Cry your way through an entire container of Ben & Jerry’s Karamel Sutra while hiding under a blanket on the couch.

In all fairness, I haven't actually removed the final project from the molds. Because I'm afraid. That's why!
In all fairness, I haven’t actually removed
the final project from the molds.
Because I’m afraid. That’s why!

$50 in how-to books
$758.63 in crafting supplies
$40 for new shelves in craft room to hold supplies
$96 for take-out because Mommy’s too busy crafting to cook
$64.22 for new underwear and socks because Mommy’s too busy crafting to do laundry
——————————
TOTAL – $1008.85

$65.00 + shipping to hide your shame from family by ordering professionally made item online?
Priceless!
        

Related Stories

 
]]>
https://feeds.feedblitz.com/~/87881044/0/pixiecd~ArtsNCrafts-in-Easy-Steps.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Chris Dean)6 http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9zCg5WuKVxo/VRfxvucjVkI/AAAAAAAAP_Q/2TGIwruiThE/s72-c/arts-n-crafts.jpg “That looks easy! Let’s see if I have all the supplies…”
-Famous last words of a Home Crafter


Arts-N-Crafts In 10 Easy Steps

Step 1
 Buy an expensive book of projects because it’s filled with glossy pictures of beautiful things. Don’t bother reading any of the instructions. I mean, it’s in the Hobby & Crafts section of the bookstore, so it must be compatible with most skill levels, right?

Steampunk Style  It's actually an AMAZING book!
Steampunk Style
It’s actually an AMAZING book!

Step 2
 Take expensive book home and casually flip through it until you find a picture of something you’d LOVE to make. Attempt to read instructions only to discover they were written for someone who Mastered in Costume Fabrication.  

Leather Sculpted Goggles Because I have ANY knowledge of sculpting leather, right?
Leather Sculpted Goggles
Because I have ANY knowledge of
sculpting leather, right?

Step 3
 Give up trying to decipher words that have no meaning to you and figure you’ll just “fake it ‘til ya make it.”
 Make a trip to craft store and purchase two of everything you could ever possibly need to make project. Since there’s no real “Items Needed” list in book, rely on knowledge gleaned from four years of watching Face Off.

Step 4
 *Get back home only to discover you forgot at least two items you absolutely can’t live without.
 Make another trip to craft store to purchase forgotten items and three other things you see that might be needed. (Just to make sure you don’t have to come back, right?)
*repeat Step 4 minimum of two more times

Step 5
 *Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and begin project.
 Get halfway through project only to discover you didn’t pay as much attention to four years of Face Off as you thought you did.
 Scrap project and start over.
*repeat Step 5 minimum of two more times

This is how they do it on Face Off, right?
This is how they do it on Face Off, right?

Step 6
 Give up and purchase second expensive book that explains the first of five techniques you’ll need to complete project in first expensive book. (Don’t worry about the other four techniques. If you can’t fake your way through those when the time comes, you can always buy another book.)

This Molding & Casting Handbook is actually filled with TONS of helpful info that even I could understand!
This Molding & Casting Handbook is actually filled
with TONS of helpful info that even I could understand!

Step 7
 Go back to craft store for supplies to complete practice project from second expensive book to insure you’ve got the technique down before you return to project from first expensive book. (After all, you don’t want your finished item to look like it was made by a beginner.)
 repeat Step 4

Step 8
 Screw up practice project minimum of three times before you complete “beginner level” item that looks like it was made by a kindergartener.
 Decide you’re wasting your time on this easy crap and decide to “fake it ‘til ya make it” through original project.
 You’ll probably find it necessary to repeat Step 4, since you’ve mysteriously managed to use up every last supply you need to begin.

Let us not discuss how many similar piles of crap were produced...
Let us not discuss how many similar
piles of crap were produced…

Step 9
 Spend three hours trying to track down the origin of the Mystery Smell so you can breathe freely enough to get started on your project, only to realize the smell is actually you. (You’re not sure how it happened, but it appears you’ve spent the last week-and-a-half in the same sweats and T-shirt and you can’t exactly remember the last time you showered.)
 Acknowledge that it’ll all be worth it when you unveil your final masterpiece, rub some Vick’s vapo-rub under your nose, and get back to work.
 
Step 10
 A. This is it – the Big Reveal! This is what you’ve spent the last month working towards.
 Lay down your implements of crafting destruction, wipe your hands on your sweat pants one last time, and step back to admire your handiwork…
 B. Realize that all your blood, sweat and tears has created something that’s entirely unrecognizable as even being a third cousin, twice removed, from the glossy pictures in first expensive book. Cry your way through an entire container of Ben & Jerry’s Karamel Sutra while hiding under a blanket on the couch.

In all fairness, I haven't actually removed the final project from the molds. Because I'm afraid. That's why!
In all fairness, I haven’t actually removed
the final project from the molds.
Because I’m afraid. That’s why!

$50 in how-to books
$758.63 in crafting supplies
$40 for new shelves in craft room to hold supplies
$96 for take-out because Mommy’s too busy crafting to cook
$64.22 for new underwear and socks because Mommy’s too busy crafting to do laundry
——————————
TOTAL – $1008.85

$65.00 + shipping to hide your shame from family by ordering professionally made item online?
Priceless! ]]>
http://www.pixiecd.com/2015/03/on-outside-looking-in-bpd-loneliness.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6556690257497753916.post-8741833885270847328Wed, 25 Mar 2015 13:12:00 +00002015-03-25T06:12:57.333-07:00borderline personality disorderBPDfitting inlonelinessmental healthoutsiderOn the Outside Looking In: BPD, Loneliness and Perception  Psst…hey you! Yeah, you – the one sitting at the corner table with the book, trying to look like you’re reading while the rest of the people in the room are happily chatting. I see you glancing around when you think no one is looking.

BPD PERCEPTION


 Who am I? I’m the one sitting at another corner table with a book, trying to look like I’m reading while the rest of the people in the room are happily chatting. I’m the one feeling like they’re on the outside of their life looking in; the slightly lonely one trying to hide in the crowd.


 I’m not always like this, ya know. Some days are better and I actually feel like I belong! I tell myself that the loneliness was a fluke – nothin’ but a pothole on the road of life. But then the wind shifts and BAM! I’m right back on the side of the road feeling stranded and left behind, my front wheel flattened from another damn pothole.


 I gotta be honest with you, I always thought it was the others who didn’t “get” me. This was the feeling of yet another group of friends closing ranks and pushing the obvious outsider farther out. This was me destined to be separate, always guarded and lonely.


 So I’d do the preemptive strike thing and move myself to the corner table. At least from there, my physical local would match that of my emotions. At least from there, I’d be right and I really would be an outsider.


 Then, one day it happened, like a lightening strike out of a clear blue sky! I was arguing with Hubby, trying to explain to him what it felt like to be left behind by friends who’d moved on while I was changing my metaphorical tire.


Me: “You don’t understand what it’s like to feel like you’re on the outside looking in.”


Hubby: “Just keep being yourself and people will eventually accept you.”


Me: “People DO accept me! It’s not THEM, it’s ME! It’s my glitched-out brain and the stupid BPD that make me feel this way. It’s just the fucking way I’m made.”


 Evidently my subconscious had picked something up over the years and chose that moment to whack me upside the head with a little self awareness.

BPD Fairy: Sometimes symbolism speaks louder than words.
BPD Fairy
Sometimes symbolism speaks louder
than words.


 Did that lightning strike change the way I felt? Yes. No. Maybe.


 The reality is, I can’t change the way I’m made. It is what it is. I can, however, change the way I understand it and react to it. I can embrace the knowing that this isn’t everyone else’s reality, only my perception of it.

Is she ripping the heart apart or giving it her all to hold it together? It's depends on your perception.
Is she ripping the heart apart
or giving it her all to hold it together?
It’s depends on your perception.


 I may still feel like I’m an outsider, but I can relax and smile at the fact that friends and loved ones aren’t the culprits, my screwy brain is. Then I can put my book away, pick up my stuff, and find a seat at one of the tables.


 There are still times (MANY times!) I’m overwhelmed. (Let’s face it, this whole learning and growing thing is a process, right?) My perception of reality can be the occasional bitch.


 I recognize when I’m feeling lost and alone and remind myself that it’s just the way my stupid brain works. I give myself some time and space to recharge, then I do my best to let go of the pain, dust myself off, and move on down the road.


 One thing I’ve found that gives me some comfort during a flat tire, is even when I’m down, I’m still not alone. There are so many others on the outside that may be looking in through different windows, but they’re still on my side of the glass.


 I don’t know how else to put it, except to say, there truly is comfort in being alone together.


 So for now, I’ll nod my head in your direction…maybe even wave. I’ll sit here with this book I’m not really reading and watch the rest of the people in the room happily chat. And I’ll look your way to remind myself that I’m not alone in my glitched-out state.


 Then, when I’m ready, I’ll grab my stuff and move back in for another go. You’re more than welcome to sit with me when you’re ready. I’ll save you a seat.



For more discussion about BPD:


BPD Sucks Balls: What it Feels Like To Have Borderline Personality Disorder (A guest post for Megsanity)


Balancing Act: BPD and Anger


Your Borderline Buddy (or The messes BPD friends make.)

Make BPD Stigma Free! shares amazing articles from across the interwebz. Excellent way to find new blogs and voices!
        

Related Stories

 
]]>
https://feeds.feedblitz.com/~/87631357/0/pixiecd~On-the-Outside-Looking-In-BPD-Loneliness-and-Perception.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Chris Dean)8 http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DOnWp01MiVU/VRKy7NBgOpI/AAAAAAAAP-o/peU42a1VsMs/s72-c/BPD-perception.jpg  Psst…hey you! Yeah, you – the one sitting at the corner table with the book, trying to look like you’re reading while the rest of the people in the room are happily chatting. I see you glancing around when you think no one is looking.

BPD PERCEPTION


 Who am I? I’m the one sitting at another corner table with a book, trying to look like I’m reading while the rest of the people in the room are happily chatting. I’m the one feeling like they’re on the outside of their life looking in; the slightly lonely one trying to hide in the crowd.


 I’m not always like this, ya know. Some days are better and I actually feel like I belong! I tell myself that the loneliness was a fluke – nothin’ but a pothole on the road of life. But then the wind shifts and BAM! I’m right back on the side of the road feeling stranded and left behind, my front wheel flattened from another damn pothole.


 I gotta be honest with you, I always thought it was the others who didn’t “get” me. This was the feeling of yet another group of friends closing ranks and pushing the obvious outsider farther out. This was me destined to be separate, always guarded and lonely.


 So I’d do the preemptive strike thing and move myself to the corner table. At least from there, my physical local would match that of my emotions. At least from there, I’d be right and I really would be an outsider.


 Then, one day it happened, like a lightening strike out of a clear blue sky! I was arguing with Hubby, trying to explain to him what it felt like to be left behind by friends who’d moved on while I was changing my metaphorical tire.


Me: “You don’t understand what it’s like to feel like you’re on the outside looking in.”


Hubby: “Just keep being yourself and people will eventually accept you.”


Me: “People DO accept me! It’s not THEM, it’s ME! It’s my glitched-out brain and the stupid BPD that make me feel this way. It’s just the fucking way I’m made.”


 Evidently my subconscious had picked something up over the years and chose that moment to whack me upside the head with a little self awareness.

BPD Fairy: Sometimes symbolism speaks louder than words.
BPD Fairy
Sometimes symbolism speaks louder
than words.


 Did that lightning strike change the way I felt? Yes. No. Maybe.


 The reality is, I can’t change the way I’m made. It is what it is. I can, however, change the way I understand it and react to it. I can embrace the knowing that this isn’t everyone else’s reality, only my perception of it.

Is she ripping the heart apart or giving it her all to hold it together? It's depends on your perception.
Is she ripping the heart apart
or giving it her all to hold it together?
It’s depends on your perception.


 I may still feel like I’m an outsider, but I can relax and smile at the fact that friends and loved ones aren’t the culprits, my screwy brain is. Then I can put my book away, pick up my stuff, and find a seat at one of the tables.


 There are still times (MANY times!) I’m overwhelmed. (Let’s face it, this whole learning and growing thing is a process, right?) My perception of reality can be the occasional bitch.


 I recognize when I’m feeling lost and alone and remind myself that it’s just the way my stupid brain works. I give myself some time and space to recharge, then I do my best to let go of the pain, dust myself off, and move on down the road.


 One thing I’ve found that gives me some comfort during a flat tire, is even when I’m down, I’m still not alone. There are so many others on the outside that may be looking in through different windows, but they’re still on my side of the glass.


 I don’t know how else to put it, except to say, there truly is comfort in being alone together.


 So for now, I’ll nod my head in your direction…maybe even wave. I’ll sit here with this book I’m not really reading and watch the rest of the people in the room happily chat. And I’ll look your way to remind myself that I’m not alone in my glitched-out state.


 Then, when I’m ready, I’ll grab my stuff and move back in for another go. You’re more than welcome to sit with me when you’re ready. I’ll save you a seat.



For more discussion about BPD:







Make BPD Stigma Free! shares amazing articles from across the interwebz. Excellent way to find new blogs and voices! ]]>
http://www.pixiecd.com/2015/03/the-scars-speak.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6556690257497753916.post-3622164474834041558Wed, 11 Mar 2015 13:31:00 +00002015-03-11T06:31:31.234-07:00bipolar depressionbipolar disorderborderline personality disorderBPDdepressionhopemental healthscarsshameThe scars speak…

 She paces back and forth in front of a large picture window. It’s one of those times when she REALLY needs to talk to someone. At this exact moment, the support of a close friend could make all the difference in the world.

 Then she remembers she’s spent the last month pushing everyone away. Shutting people out of her life seemed so much easier than keeping up happy appearances.

 Instead of burning off the excess energy, the pacing is only making her more agitated. She plops herself down in her desk chair and yanks open the laptop in front of her. Perhaps messaging a friend online will help…

 Then she remembers she’s spent the last month pushing everyone away. Shutting people out of her life seemed so much easier than keeping up happy appearances.

 She slams the laptop closed and goes back to her pacing, ending up in front of a mirror. Staring into her own eyes, a feeling simultaneously twists her guts while sending icy chills down her spine.

 This is it – the moment when everything either snaps one way or the other. Either the grief will take her or the numbness will. This is the is the moment she finally admits the truth – she’s in crisis.

 And she’s never felt more alone in her life.

 She walks back to her desk, thinking maybe she’ll write. Over the last 3 ½ years, this has been her life raft; the one thing that’s kept her honest with herself and safe in the knowledge that she wasn’t alone.

 As she stares at the blinking cursor, her stomach knots up again. Instead of remembering the comfort of sharing, she only remembers the pain it’s brought. There have been friends who’ve walked away, acquaintances who’ve recoiled from her truth and the inescapable anger over these perceived betrayals.

 The funniest part is, it doesn’t matter if these people betrayed her or she betrayed herself, the outcome is the same: she’s become terrified of writing or even speaking about anything that can’t be made into a joke.

 The cursor blinks. Once more, she slams the laptop shut. As she sits there staring at the backs of her hands, her focus ends up resting on the lighter colored areas of skin. These are the scars from years past. The scars she hides with bracelets and long sleeves. The scars that are part of her secret shame.

 A slow smile creeps across her mouth and she heaves a deep sigh as a different thought takes form. Suddenly, the scars seem…more than embarrassing colorations to be hidden.

 Right here, right now, they begin to whisper to her. They say she’s stronger than she thinks she is. They tell her she’s a survivor. They remind her that, even though things can occasionally seem hopeless, she hasn’t added any new scars in years.

 They point out that they can serve not as a reminder of times of weakness, but as a promise that the pain passes and the internal screams will once more give way to external laughter.

 The scars are neither badges of courage nor brands of shame, just part of her landscape that stands testament that things WILL get better and the tide of pain will soon ebb back out the way it flowed in.

 She stands up and walks back to the mirror. As she stares deep into the eyes reflected by the silvery glass, she thinks she notices something that was missed before – maybe a glimmer of hope…


        

Related Stories

 
]]>
https://feeds.feedblitz.com/~/86811471/0/pixiecd~The-scars-speak.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Chris Dean)6 http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vG65xlD-2Vo/VQBCflMp_QI/AAAAAAAAP6o/O_B1yH8A3lg/s72-c/scars-speak.jpg

 She paces back and forth in front of a large picture window. It’s one of those times when she REALLY needs to talk to someone. At this exact moment, the support of a close friend could make all the difference in the world.

 Then she remembers she’s spent the last month pushing everyone away. Shutting people out of her life seemed so much easier than keeping up happy appearances.

 Instead of burning off the excess energy, the pacing is only making her more agitated. She plops herself down in her desk chair and yanks open the laptop in front of her. Perhaps messaging a friend online will help…

 Then she remembers she’s spent the last month pushing everyone away. Shutting people out of her life seemed so much easier than keeping up happy appearances.

 She slams the laptop closed and goes back to her pacing, ending up in front of a mirror. Staring into her own eyes, a feeling simultaneously twists her guts while sending icy chills down her spine.

 This is it – the moment when everything either snaps one way or the other. Either the grief will take her or the numbness will. This is the is the moment she finally admits the truth – she’s in crisis.

 And she’s never felt more alone in her life.

 She walks back to her desk, thinking maybe she’ll write. Over the last 3 ½ years, this has been her life raft; the one thing that’s kept her honest with herself and safe in the knowledge that she wasn’t alone.

 As she stares at the blinking cursor, her stomach knots up again. Instead of remembering the comfort of sharing, she only remembers the pain it’s brought. There have been friends who’ve walked away, acquaintances who’ve recoiled from her truth and the inescapable anger over these perceived betrayals.

 The funniest part is, it doesn’t matter if these people betrayed her or she betrayed herself, the outcome is the same: she’s become terrified of writing or even speaking about anything that can’t be made into a joke.

 The cursor blinks. Once more, she slams the laptop shut. As she sits there staring at the backs of her hands, her focus ends up resting on the lighter colored areas of skin. These are the scars from years past. The scars she hides with bracelets and long sleeves. The scars that are part of her secret shame.

 A slow smile creeps across her mouth and she heaves a deep sigh as a different thought takes form. Suddenly, the scars seem…more than embarrassing colorations to be hidden.

 Right here, right now, they begin to whisper to her. They say she’s stronger than she thinks she is. They tell her she’s a survivor. They remind her that, even though things can occasionally seem hopeless, she hasn’t added any new scars in years.

 They point out that they can serve not as a reminder of times of weakness, but as a promise that the pain passes and the internal screams will once more give way to external laughter.

 The scars are neither badges of courage nor brands of shame, just part of her landscape that stands testament that things WILL get better and the tide of pain will soon ebb back out the way it flowed in.

 She stands up and walks back to the mirror. As she stares deep into the eyes reflected by the silvery glass, she thinks she notices something that was missed before – maybe a glimmer of hope…


]]>
http://www.pixiecd.com/2015/02/balancing-act-bpd-and-anger.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6556690257497753916.post-5381158867657119085Tue, 17 Feb 2015 13:10:00 +00002015-10-05T05:54:05.795-07:00angerborderline personality disorderBPDmental illnessunderstanding BPD angerBalancing Act: BPD and Anger  Good morning! A couple months ago, I made the promise to discuss Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) once a month. Guess what? Today is that day.



 This was the very first thing I ever wrote about BPD, working from the prompt, “The lowest point you’ve ever been at with your mental illness.” It’s all about the anger – one of the hardest parts of the disease for most people to understand.


Balancing Act


 I’d known for years that I was bipolar. I knew the signs to watch for that alerted me to an impending manic or depressive episode and, for the most part, had managed to find ways of curbing how bad the bad times got. But the borderline beast was a completely different story.


 When you’re fighting for your equilibrium, there are certain situations that end up becoming your worst nightmare. Exhaustion, pain, and fear aren’t a good combination for the most seemingly normal of folks, but to someone with borderline personality disorder, they’re a worst case scenario.


 At the time my father disowned me, I was 41 years old, working close to 80 hours a week, and dealing with an as of yet undiagnosed autoimmune disease. All I knew was, I was getting sicker by the day, I was in pain, and I was beyond exhausted. It all amounted to an uncontrollable and indescribable, emotional tsunami.


 The specifics of what happened really aren’t important, since it doesn’t take a monumental event to trigger mood swings in a person with BPD. It doesn’t matter who was at fault or even if the faults were real or just perceived. The point is, my trigger was tripped.


 If you’ve never lived with borderline, then you can’t know what that anger is. It’s nothing like being pissed-off, seeing red, or even a downright furious variety of being ticked. Borderline anger is pure, unadulterated, uncontrollable, blind rage. It’s an anger that’s brittle like untempered steel, with the potential to snap at any moment and shatter not only those around it, but the body that houses it as well.


 This is the feeling of your insides filling with burning acid and if you don’t find a way to release it, the pressure will either blow you wide open or burn its way through your chest into your very soul. It’s like having the most vile of ferocious beasts trapped inside your guts, trying to bite and claw its way out.


 It’s an apocalyptic fury you can’t just swallow or breathe through, because you can’t breathe.


 In those midnight black moments, all you know is there’s a primal scream of inexplicable rage rising up from your core and if you don’t open your mouth and release it into the world, it’ll demolish all that you are, leaving behind a million jagged shards.


 These are the bad times. The REALLY bad times. When things are thrown and words without meaning (to you) are screamed; words that can never be taken back. Sometimes, it feels like you’re standing at a distance, watching a terrifying and wild stranger take control of your body, and then lose all control.


 I’ve had people tell me that this is complete bullshit, that I can simply choose not to give in to it. To a certain extent, they’re right. There is that one, brief instant before the white hot darkness takes you, when you find yourself standing at a fork in the road where turning back the way you came is no longer an option; only the choice of left or right.


 To your left is the sweet release for the rage; giving in to oblivion as your brain shuts down and the maelstrom is freed from the body that’s far too small to contain it.


 To your right is…on some levels, a worse option. This is where you refuse to give in or give over, choosing instead to try and swallow the rising gall, turning the beast in on yourself. The beyond-anger that’s denied release becomes the darkest of depressions, focusing all of its distorted hate and disgust inward.


 I’m not sure if I know a word for the place this takes a person; the depths that your soul sinks too. It’s like lying on a feather mattress with a 1000 pound weight on your chest and you’re not sure which will kill you first, being crushed by the weight or smothered by the unstoppable sinking.


 Whichever one wins, there’s no way out of this sucking quicksand of pain and self loathing. Even if there was a secret escape, you wouldn’t have the energy or care enough to find it.

 Unless it’s self harm.


 This bottomless pit is the one place a human can come to, where pain becomes the only weapon you can grasp at to combat the pain.


 For me, it was always branding. That initial burst of agony, followed by the gradual calm as nerve endings cauterized, stopping their signals from completing their journey to your brain. I knew the added bonus would come days later, when the REAL intensity began. The initial burn would be nothing compared to the ceaseless fire of nerves regrowing and days worth of failed signals finding their way home.


 Fuck the guilt and the shame that you’ll feel later when you’re hiding your scars. If it carries you away from this place of funhouse mirrors where, no matter which way you turn, you’re faced with so many hideously distorted views of yourself, then putting your hand through the broken glass and cleaning up a little blood is worth the cost.


 So you stand there, wishing you’d just explode; die so you could finally find some kind of peace. Instead, you’re forced to choose which of the unthinkable to embrace. Because, as unbelievable as it may be to someone who’s never stood at this place of complete and utter hopelessness, death looks like the best option that your barely functioning rationale can see.


 This is where I came to with my Father. And I chose my path.
 I embraced the rage, giving it free reign of my body and my vocal cords. I screamed until I was hoarse, threw things, punched the floor in hopes that the explosion of crushed knuckles would drive the beast out before it’d finished wreaking its havoc. The only saving grace was that the man wasn’t there when the blind fury took me.


 Then the creature learned a new trick; it wrote a letter. I wrote a letter. And then I sent it.


 It’s taken a lot of years for me to come to terms with the result of where that lowest of moments led me; disownment.

 Forgiveness, especially for oneself, is one of the rarest of currencies we humans trade in. When this happened, it wasn’t a price I was willing to pay for myself. Since then, I’ve learned to be a little more generous.


 I may not regret what I said, but I truly regret the way I said it. While I refuse to use my glitch as an excuse for what I did, it does provide some form of explanation for the inexplicable. As far as my Father’s way of responding? I can only shoulder the weight of my own actions.


 Today I understand that, on one level, I’ll never be able to fully control the ebbs and flows of my emotional tides. I don’t just live with bipolar II, but borderline personality disorder. My brain is hardwired in a way few people will ever be able to understand.


 But over time, I have learned to watch for a different set of warning signs; the tightening in the chest, the metallic taste that’s accompanied by the constricting at the back of my throat. The way my shoulders pull and the right eye twitches just so…it’s how I know it’s now or never with altering the course of the hurricane before it makes landfall.


 Before my muscles gave way to the autoimmune (Undifferentiated Connective Tissue Disease), dance was my favorite release. Loud music, eyes closed, letting the angry rush carry me along until I was too tired to even think. Something to exhaust the body while the mind dug its way out of the quagmire.


 I’ve learned to scream-cry into a pillow until my throat is raw, put on a special playlist and go outside to throw rocks at trees or (in the past) chop wood until I can’t lift my arms. Anything I can do to give the energy a conduit to the outside without leaving emotional casualties behind in its wake.


 Today, instead of picking up a lighter and a piece of metal to burn the creature out, I call a friend who understands. In that safe zone, I can shout out my rage, unleashing the beast where he can do the least amount of damage, before it reaches the point of all consuming.

 Those who know me understand that I am a woman of extremes. My moods can flip-flop like a fish out of water, going from happy, to anger, to sad, and back to laughter in the impossible blink of an eye. I sometimes joke that it’s simply how nature and nurture decided I would be the most fun at a party.


 The simple truth is, my life is and forever will be, a balancing act. I can’t change that anymore than I can change my fingerprints or the color of my eyes. All I can do is learn how to cope.



For more discussions about BPD:



On the Outside Looking IN: BPD, Loneliness and Perception

Your Borderline Buddy (or The messes BPD friends make.

Make BPD Stigma Free! shares amazing articles from across the interwebz. Excellent way to find new blogs and voices!
        

Related Stories

 
]]>
https://feeds.feedblitz.com/~/85443903/0/pixiecd~Balancing-Act-BPD-and-Anger.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Chris Dean)11 http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kvtwZ3K-RSY/VOMy1-SHc4I/AAAAAAAAPyo/PSL7z0o2jxg/s72-c/BPD-450×250.jpg  Good morning! A couple months ago, I made the promise to discuss Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) once a month. Guess what? Today is that day.



 This was the very first thing I ever wrote about BPD, working from the prompt, “The lowest point you’ve ever been at with your mental illness.” It’s all about the anger – one of the hardest parts of the disease for most people to understand.


Balancing Act


 I’d known for years that I was bipolar. I knew the signs to watch for that alerted me to an impending manic or depressive episode and, for the most part, had managed to find ways of curbing how bad the bad times got. But the borderline beast was a completely different story.


 When you’re fighting for your equilibrium, there are certain situations that end up becoming your worst nightmare. Exhaustion, pain, and fear aren’t a good combination for the most seemingly normal of folks, but to someone with borderline personality disorder, they’re a worst case scenario.


 At the time my father disowned me, I was 41 years old, working close to 80 hours a week, and dealing with an as of yet undiagnosed autoimmune disease. All I knew was, I was getting sicker by the day, I was in pain, and I was beyond exhausted. It all amounted to an uncontrollable and indescribable, emotional tsunami.


 The specifics of what happened really aren’t important, since it doesn’t take a monumental event to trigger mood swings in a person with BPD. It doesn’t matter who was at fault or even if the faults were real or just perceived. The point is, my trigger was tripped.


 If you’ve never lived with borderline, then you can’t know what that anger is. It’s nothing like being pissed-off, seeing red, or even a downright furious variety of being ticked. Borderline anger is pure, unadulterated, uncontrollable, blind rage. It’s an anger that’s brittle like untempered steel, with the potential to snap at any moment and shatter not only those around it, but the body that houses it as well.


 This is the feeling of your insides filling with burning acid and if you don’t find a way to release it, the pressure will either blow you wide open or burn its way through your chest into your very soul. It’s like having the most vile of ferocious beasts trapped inside your guts, trying to bite and claw its way out.


 It’s an apocalyptic fury you can’t just swallow or breathe through, because you can’t breathe.


 In those midnight black moments, all you know is there’s a primal scream of inexplicable rage rising up from your core and if you don’t open your mouth and release it into the world, it’ll demolish all that you are, leaving behind a million jagged shards.


 These are the bad times. The REALLY bad times. When things are thrown and words without meaning (to you) are screamed; words that can never be taken back. Sometimes, it feels like you’re standing at a distance, watching a terrifying and wild stranger take control of your body, and then lose all control.


 I’ve had people tell me that this is complete bullshit, that I can simply choose not to give in to it. To a certain extent, they’re right. There is that one, brief instant before the white hot darkness takes you, when you find yourself standing at a fork in the road where turning back the way you came is no longer an option; only the choice of left or right.


 To your left is the sweet release for the rage; giving in to oblivion as your brain shuts down and the maelstrom is freed from the body that’s far too small to contain it.


 To your right is…on some levels, a worse option. This is where you refuse to give in or give over, choosing instead to try and swallow the rising gall, turning the beast in on yourself. The beyond-anger that’s denied release becomes the darkest of depressions, focusing all of its distorted hate and disgust inward.


 I’m not sure if I know a word for the place this takes a person; the depths that your soul sinks too. It’s like lying on a feather mattress with a 1000 pound weight on your chest and you’re not sure which will kill you first, being crushed by the weight or smothered by the unstoppable sinking.


 Whichever one wins, there’s no way out of this sucking quicksand of pain and self loathing. Even if there was a secret escape, you wouldn’t have the energy or care enough to find it.

 Unless it’s self harm.


 This bottomless pit is the one place a human can come to, where pain becomes the only weapon you can grasp at to combat the pain.


 For me, it was always branding. That initial burst of agony, followed by the gradual calm as nerve endings cauterized, stopping their signals from completing their journey to your brain. I knew the added bonus would come days later, when the REAL intensity began. The initial burn would be nothing compared to the ceaseless fire of nerves regrowing and days worth of failed signals finding their way home.


 Fuck the guilt and the shame that you’ll feel later when you’re hiding your scars. If it carries you away from this place of funhouse mirrors where, no matter which way you turn, you’re faced with so many hideously distorted views of yourself, then putting your hand through the broken glass and cleaning up a little blood is worth the cost.


 So you stand there, wishing you’d just explode; die so you could finally find some kind of peace. Instead, you’re forced to choose which of the unthinkable to embrace. Because, as unbelievable as it may be to someone who’s never stood at this place of complete and utter hopelessness, death looks like the best option that your barely functioning rationale can see.


 This is where I came to with my Father. And I chose my path.
 I embraced the rage, giving it free reign of my body and my vocal cords. I screamed until I was hoarse, threw things, punched the floor in hopes that the explosion of crushed knuckles would drive the beast out before it’d finished wreaking its havoc. The only saving grace was that the man wasn’t there when the blind fury took me.


 Then the creature learned a new trick; it wrote a letter. I wrote a letter. And then I sent it.


 It’s taken a lot of years for me to come to terms with the result of where that lowest of moments led me; disownment.

 Forgiveness, especially for oneself, is one of the rarest of currencies we humans trade in. When this happened, it wasn’t a price I was willing to pay for myself. Since then, I’ve learned to be a little more generous.


 I may not regret what I said, but I truly regret the way I said it. While I refuse to use my glitch as an excuse for what I did, it does provide some form of explanation for the inexplicable. As far as my Father’s way of responding? I can only shoulder the weight of my own actions.


 Today I understand that, on one level, I’ll never be able to fully control the ebbs and flows of my emotional tides. I don’t just live with bipolar II, but borderline personality disorder. My brain is hardwired in a way few people will ever be able to understand.


 But over time, I have learned to watch for a different set of warning signs; the tightening in the chest, the metallic taste that’s accompanied by the constricting at the back of my throat. The way my shoulders pull and the right eye twitches just so…it’s how I know it’s now or never with altering the course of the hurricane before it makes landfall.


 Before my muscles gave way to the autoimmune (Undifferentiated Connective Tissue Disease), dance was my favorite release. Loud music, eyes closed, letting the angry rush carry me along until I was too tired to even think. Something to exhaust the body while the mind dug its way out of the quagmire.


 I’ve learned to scream-cry into a pillow until my throat is raw, put on a special playlist and go outside to throw rocks at trees or (in the past) chop wood until I can’t lift my arms. Anything I can do to give the energy a conduit to the outside without leaving emotional casualties behind in its wake.


 Today, instead of picking up a lighter and a piece of metal to burn the creature out, I call a friend who understands. In that safe zone, I can shout out my rage, unleashing the beast where he can do the least amount of damage, before it reaches the point of all consuming.

 Those who know me understand that I am a woman of extremes. My moods can flip-flop like a fish out of water, going from happy, to anger, to sad, and back to laughter in the impossible blink of an eye. I sometimes joke that it’s simply how nature and nurture decided I would be the most fun at a party.


 The simple truth is, my life is and forever will be, a balancing act. I can’t change that anymore than I can change my fingerprints or the color of my eyes. All I can do is learn how to cope.



For more discussions about BPD:



Your Borderline Buddy (or The messes BPD friends make.

Make BPD Stigma Free! shares amazing articles from across the interwebz. Excellent way to find new blogs and voices! ]]>
http://www.pixiecd.com/2015/02/crafting-with-cats-in-10-easy-steps.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6556690257497753916.post-9092906046176370989Fri, 06 Feb 2015 14:08:00 +00002015-02-06T06:08:27.062-08:00cat toyscatscraftingdrinking gamehobbiesmesses cats makeCrafting With Cats in 10 Easy StepsCrafting With Cats
from the Shit Done Right in 10 Easy Steps series.


Step 1

 Find a flat work surface and use forearm to sweep all debris and cat hair onto the floor. Don’t worry about the mess, you can clean it up later.
 Why wait? Trust me on this, if you have cats, you already know it’s gonna get worse. Much, MUCH worse!

Step 2

 Gather craft items (from this point forward to be referred to as “cat toys”) and lay them out in a neat, orderly manner on previously cleared worksurface.
 Re-clear work surface Kitty managed to completely re-cover in hair during the 30 seconds it took you to gather your cat toys.

Step 3

  If you’re following directions you found online,
  1. sit laptop or tablet beside your workspace.
  2. print out directions and place beside your workspace.

 It doesn’t matter which one you choose, since Kitty will either
  1. lay on your laptop or tablet and magically use their ass to navigate you away from the directions and straight to a XXX peer-no site.
  2. play in their water bowl right before jumping onto the printed directions. The water bowl is important as it allows for maximum smudge-factor with minimal effort.

Step 4

 Pick up first cat toy and lay it back down so you can gently shoo cat away from project, explaining sweetly that you’re busy. Re-organize cat toys.

Step 5

 Pick up first cat toy, hold it above your head and watch in horror as Kitty jumps into middle of previously organized workspace and surfs across flat surface and onto floor, taking 90% of your supplies with him.

Step 6

 Cuss like a truck driver, calling precious Kitty every name in the book while you pick everything up off the floor and re-organize the previously clean workspace.
 Throw Kitty off your work surface no less than ten times during this step.

Step 7

 Realize you’re missing one vital element of project and spend 30 minutes crawling around on the floor, looking for magic hole in the space/time continuum where Kitty batted said element.
 During that 30 minutes, you will have to remove Kitty from your back no less than 50 times. (Because what cat doesn’t love a free piggy-back ride?)

Step 8

 Decide you didn’t need that particular cat toy anyway and return to previously clean, organized workspace to discover Kitty spent the last 30 minutes (when he wasn’t clawing the shit outta your back) playing with/chewing on/ rolling all over the rest of the cat toys, destroying half of them in the process.
 Remove Kitty from workspace with enough umph that he lands in the middle of your bed. In your bedroom. At the end of the hall. Repeat, “Mommy said no!” minimum of 20 times.
 BONUS: For added fun, keep an alcoholic beverage nearby and take a drink everytime you say, “No!”

Step 9

 Cuss like a drunken, truck driving sailor as you attempt to consult the directions to see if all cat toys were truly necessary to make project. Find Kitty imitating the world’s cutest kitten in the middle of instructions.
 Pick Kitty up and toss him far enough that he lands in the next time zone, only to somehow magically reappear in the exact spot you removed him from.

Step 10

 Drop to your knees and scream to the Crafting Gods, “I GIVE UP!” Gather all remaining cat toys, go to kitchen and throw every, last friggin’ one in the trash. While you’re in there, pour yourself a fishbowl sized glass of wine. You’ve earned it!
 Take a deep, calming gulp of wine (or deep breath. Whatever.) Return to the couch where you curl up, ready to give Kitty the attention he’s been so desperately craving.
  Watch as Kitty meticulously grooms his turd-cutter, turns his back to you and falls asleep on the opposite side of the room.
 Because bleepity-bleep-bleepin’ CAT!!!
        

Related Stories

 
]]>
https://feeds.feedblitz.com/~/84833057/0/pixiecd~Crafting-With-Cats-in-Easy-Steps.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Chris Dean)4 http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WvWdHu7simc/VNTJ0OlbmZI/AAAAAAAAPxo/5LnH7Z1QzKg/s72-c/crafting%2Bwith%2Bcats.jpg Crafting With Cats
from the Shit Done Right in 10 Easy Steps series.


Step 1

 Find a flat work surface and use forearm to sweep all debris and cat hair onto the floor. Don’t worry about the mess, you can clean it up later.
 Why wait? Trust me on this, if you have cats, you already know it’s gonna get worse. Much, MUCH worse!

Step 2

 Gather craft items (from this point forward to be referred to as “cat toys”) and lay them out in a neat, orderly manner on previously cleared worksurface.
 Re-clear work surface Kitty managed to completely re-cover in hair during the 30 seconds it took you to gather your cat toys.

Step 3

  If you’re following directions you found online,
  1. sit laptop or tablet beside your workspace.
  2. print out directions and place beside your workspace.

 It doesn’t matter which one you choose, since Kitty will either
  1. lay on your laptop or tablet and magically use their ass to navigate you away from the directions and straight to a XXX peer-no site.
  2. play in their water bowl right before jumping onto the printed directions. The water bowl is important as it allows for maximum smudge-factor with minimal effort.

Step 4

 Pick up first cat toy and lay it back down so you can gently shoo cat away from project, explaining sweetly that you’re busy. Re-organize cat toys.

Step 5

 Pick up first cat toy, hold it above your head and watch in horror as Kitty jumps into middle of previously organized workspace and surfs across flat surface and onto floor, taking 90% of your supplies with him.

Step 6

 Cuss like a truck driver, calling precious Kitty every name in the book while you pick everything up off the floor and re-organize the previously clean workspace.
 Throw Kitty off your work surface no less than ten times during this step.

Step 7

 Realize you’re missing one vital element of project and spend 30 minutes crawling around on the floor, looking for magic hole in the space/time continuum where Kitty batted said element.
 During that 30 minutes, you will have to remove Kitty from your back no less than 50 times. (Because what cat doesn’t love a free piggy-back ride?)

Step 8

 Decide you didn’t need that particular cat toy anyway and return to previously clean, organized workspace to discover Kitty spent the last 30 minutes (when he wasn’t clawing the shit outta your back) playing with/chewing on/ rolling all over the rest of the cat toys, destroying half of them in the process.
 Remove Kitty from workspace with enough umph that he lands in the middle of your bed. In your bedroom. At the end of the hall. Repeat, “Mommy said no!” minimum of 20 times.
 BONUS: For added fun, keep an alcoholic beverage nearby and take a drink everytime you say, “No!”

Step 9

 Cuss like a drunken, truck driving sailor as you attempt to consult the directions to see if all cat toys were truly necessary to make project. Find Kitty imitating the world’s cutest kitten in the middle of instructions.
 Pick Kitty up and toss him far enough that he lands in the next time zone, only to somehow magically reappear in the exact spot you removed him from.

Step 10

 Drop to your knees and scream to the Crafting Gods, “I GIVE UP!” Gather all remaining cat toys, go to kitchen and throw every, last friggin’ one in the trash. While you’re in there, pour yourself a fishbowl sized glass of wine. You’ve earned it!
 Take a deep, calming gulp of wine (or deep breath. Whatever.) Return to the couch where you curl up, ready to give Kitty the attention he’s been so desperately craving.
  Watch as Kitty meticulously grooms his turd-cutter, turns his back to you and falls asleep on the opposite side of the room.
 Because bleepity-bleep-bleepin’ CAT!!! ]]>
http://www.pixiecd.com/2015/01/your-borderline-buddy-or-messes-bpd.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6556690257497753916.post-402325649086976233Fri, 16 Jan 2015 12:26:00 +00002015-10-05T05:56:25.324-07:00borderline personality disorderBPDfriendshipmental healthmental illnesspersonal accountabilityself destructive behaviorself sabotageYour Borderline Buddy (or The messes BPD friends make.)  To whom it may concern,

 I’m gonna assume this is the first time we’ve really talked. Maybe we just met and hit it off, one of those things where it felt like we’ve known each other for years and have so much in common. Or you caught me on a good night and found me funny and/or charming. Either way, before you decide whether or not we’re going to be friends, there’s something you need to know: I can be difficult.


 OK, difficult is my preferred way of putting it. The truth is, I have Borderline Personality Disorder. Please, just hear me out before you make a beeline for the door.


 As a friend, I’m loyal to a fault! I will stand beside you through thick, thin and everything inbetween. I’ll have your back even when you’re not aware it needed having and be there for you 24/7, for no other reason than we’re friends.


 But I’ll also be cold and distant, not returning your calls or answering messages. I’ll seem angry for absolutely no reason and occasionally pick a fight over something you swear you didn’t even do – like breathe my air.

 I’ll do my best to make you feel like you’re the most important person in the universe to me, and you will be. Until you’re not.

Your Borderline Buddy


 There will be nights we message each other until dawn, talking about nothing more important than nothing. I’ll share my innermost hopes and dreams, but I’ll never share my fears. Because, truth be told, you’re one of them.


 That’s why the closeness will inevitably be followed by weeks of indifference at best, total silence at worst, probably making you believe I care more for the ant on the sidewalk than you.


 I’m not Jekyll and Hyde, huffing paint, or a psychotic bitch. I’m just your Borderline Buddy.


 From the safety of this side of my computer and the knowledge that I’m speaking in generalities, I can tell you what I’ll never be able to tell you: I’m terrified!


 I’m terrified that I’m not smart, funny, or cool enough to be your friend. I’m terrified that I’ll do or say something so inanely stupid, that you’ll roll your eyes and laugh about it later with your real friends.


 I’m terrified that I am nothing more than a friend of convenience. I’m simply someone to fill the boring spaces, to be used when needed then tossed when not. And this is the worst fear of all.

 The fun part about these fears? They end up becoming a form of self fulfilling prophesy. I run so hot-and-cold that I’ll make you uncomfortable. My intensity is not natural, my irrational anger unpredictable, and my over the top game of push me/pull you is exhausting!


 So you do what any sane person would – you step away from the weirdo and choose to devote your time to healthier friendships. Exactly what I was afraid you’d do in the first place.


 Mission Self-Sabotage accomplished!


 I can tell you I don’t do these things on purpose. I try so hard to be like other people! And sometimes I even manage for a while. But the real “me” always manages to find its way to the surface and the cycle begins again.

Your Borderline Buddy


 I’ve probably made myself sound like the worst human in the world, but I’m really not! The real me may be insecure and afraid of being odd man out, but I’m also fun and funny with a personal brand of nuttiness that runs towards the whimsical and impulsive side of life. I can also be a damn good listener and I excel at keeping secrets.


 Believe it or not, I do have friends who’ve been in my life for close to 30 years now. They’re some amazing folks who have learned to not take the silence personally, are willing to call me on my bullshit and don’t mind a personality that only seems to run on the “extreme” setting.


 They understand I’m Borderline and prone to some outrageous behavior. They’ve also been known to call me up and ask if I’m ready to apologize for it. Because they’re good enough friends to hold me accountable for my actions, be they good, bad or indifferent.
 The best part about these lifelong friends? They didn’t leave. Which is all we Borderline Buddies really hope for anyway.


 So, whether you and I are acquaintances or you know someone else with BPD, hopefully this gave you a peek behind the the scenes at why we do some of the inexplicable shit we do.


 If you’re still up for that friendship, I can promise you three things:

  1. I’ll do my best to not do half the shit I’ll probably end up doing anyway.
  2. In between and around the messes I’ll inevitably make, I’ll be the most loyal friend you could ever hope for.
  3. Our friendship will never be boring.


Sincerely,
Your Borderline Buddy

Chris

Your Borderline Buddy

For more discussion about BPD:




Make BPD Stigma Free! shares amazing articles from across the interwebz. Excellent way to find new blogs and voices!
        

Related Stories

 
]]>
https://feeds.feedblitz.com/~/83443353/0/pixiecd~Your-Borderline-Buddy-or-The-messes-BPD-friends-make.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Chris Dean)8 http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7lNZGu3s1HE/VLkA3AZUimI/AAAAAAAAPng/ewvv7fSW9Mw/s72-c/BPD-beginnings.jpg  To whom it may concern,

 I’m gonna assume this is the first time we’ve really talked. Maybe we just met and hit it off, one of those things where it felt like we’ve known each other for years and have so much in common. Or you caught me on a good night and found me funny and/or charming. Either way, before you decide whether or not we’re going to be friends, there’s something you need to know: I can be difficult.


 OK, difficult is my preferred way of putting it. The truth is, I have Borderline Personality Disorder. Please, just hear me out before you make a beeline for the door.


 As a friend, I’m loyal to a fault! I will stand beside you through thick, thin and everything inbetween. I’ll have your back even when you’re not aware it needed having and be there for you 24/7, for no other reason than we’re friends.


 But I’ll also be cold and distant, not returning your calls or answering messages. I’ll seem angry for absolutely no reason and occasionally pick a fight over something you swear you didn’t even do – like breathe my air.

 I’ll do my best to make you feel like you’re the most important person in the universe to me, and you will be. Until you’re not.

Your Borderline Buddy


 There will be nights we message each other until dawn, talking about nothing more important than nothing. I’ll share my innermost hopes and dreams, but I’ll never share my fears. Because, truth be told, you’re one of them.


 That’s why the closeness will inevitably be followed by weeks of indifference at best, total silence at worst, probably making you believe I care more for the ant on the sidewalk than you.


 I’m not Jekyll and Hyde, huffing paint, or a psychotic bitch. I’m just your Borderline Buddy.


 From the safety of this side of my computer and the knowledge that I’m speaking in generalities, I can tell you what I’ll never be able to tell you: I’m terrified!


 I’m terrified that I’m not smart, funny, or cool enough to be your friend. I’m terrified that I’ll do or say something so inanely stupid, that you’ll roll your eyes and laugh about it later with your real friends.


 I’m terrified that I am nothing more than a friend of convenience. I’m simply someone to fill the boring spaces, to be used when needed then tossed when not. And this is the worst fear of all.

 The fun part about these fears? They end up becoming a form of self fulfilling prophesy. I run so hot-and-cold that I’ll make you uncomfortable. My intensity is not natural, my irrational anger unpredictable, and my over the top game of push me/pull you is exhausting!


 So you do what any sane person would – you step away from the weirdo and choose to devote your time to healthier friendships. Exactly what I was afraid you’d do in the first place.


 Mission Self-Sabotage accomplished!


 I can tell you I don’t do these things on purpose. I try so hard to be like other people! And sometimes I even manage for a while. But the real “me” always manages to find its way to the surface and the cycle begins again.

Your Borderline Buddy


 I’ve probably made myself sound like the worst human in the world, but I’m really not! The real me may be insecure and afraid of being odd man out, but I’m also fun and funny with a personal brand of nuttiness that runs towards the whimsical and impulsive side of life. I can also be a damn good listener and I excel at keeping secrets.


 Believe it or not, I do have friends who’ve been in my life for close to 30 years now. They’re some amazing folks who have learned to not take the silence personally, are willing to call me on my bullshit and don’t mind a personality that only seems to run on the “extreme” setting.


 They understand I’m Borderline and prone to some outrageous behavior. They’ve also been known to call me up and ask if I’m ready to apologize for it. Because they’re good enough friends to hold me accountable for my actions, be they good, bad or indifferent.
 The best part about these lifelong friends? They didn’t leave. Which is all we Borderline Buddies really hope for anyway.


 So, whether you and I are acquaintances or you know someone else with BPD, hopefully this gave you a peek behind the the scenes at why we do some of the inexplicable shit we do.


 If you’re still up for that friendship, I can promise you three things:

  1. I’ll do my best to not do half the shit I’ll probably end up doing anyway.
  2. In between and around the messes I’ll inevitably make, I’ll be the most loyal friend you could ever hope for.
  3. Our friendship will never be boring.


Sincerely,
Your Borderline Buddy

Chris

Your Borderline Buddy

For more discussion about BPD:




Make BPD Stigma Free! shares amazing articles from across the interwebz. Excellent way to find new blogs and voices!
]]>
http://www.pixiecd.com/2014/12/silence-of-elf.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6556690257497753916.post-4690731162093725298Wed, 24 Dec 2014 13:56:00 +00002014-12-24T05:56:37.260-08:00Christmas EveElf on the Shelfhumormovie parodySilence of the LambsSilence of the Elf
 Because it’s Christmas Eve and you know there’s no way I could let the Elf on the Shelf season run out without at least one post about Stanley

Silence of the Elf

It rubs the lotion on its skin...

Santa'll pay any ransom you want!

It rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again.

Would you put me on a tree? I'd put me on a tree...

Sorry. The Girl lost Santa

THE END!
         
]]>
https://feeds.feedblitz.com/~/81641725/0/pixiecd~Silence-of-the-Elf.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Chris Dean)4 http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5l_Hg8_Fmrc/VJq5c9BRW3I/AAAAAAAAPc8/CVGKiQIm3so/s72-c/panel1.jpg
 Because it’s Christmas Eve and you know there’s no way I could let the Elf on the Shelf season run out without at least one post about Stanley

Silence of the Elf

It rubs the lotion on its skin...

Santa'll pay any ransom you want!

It rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again.

Would you put me on a tree? I'd put me on a tree...

Sorry. The Girl lost Santa

THE END!
         
]]>
http://www.pixiecd.com/2014/12/twelve-side-effects-of-medication.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6556690257497753916.post-8885961547930247985Sun, 14 Dec 2014 14:38:00 +00002014-12-14T06:38:33.202-08:00chronic illnesschronic painhumormedication side effectsTwelve Side Effects of Medication – The Holiday Song

The first side-effect that my new med gave to me…
…bloating and weight gain.

The second side effect that my new med gave to me…
…2 crazy muscle spasms
and bloating and weight gain.


The third side effect that my new med gave to me…
3 weeks constipation,
2 crazy mood swings,
and bloating and weight gain.

The fourth side effect that my new med gave to me…
…4 days compulsive shopping,
3 weeks constipation,
2 crazy mood swings ,
and bloating and weight gain.


The fifth side effect that my new med gave to me…
5 hour crying jag,
4 days compulsive shopping,
3 weeks constipation,
2 crazy mood swings ,
and bloating and weight gain.

The sixth side effect that my new med gave to me…
…6 fucked up cravings,
5 hour crying jag,
4 days compulsive shopping,
3 weeks constipation,
2 crazy mood swings ,
and bloating and weight gain.


The seventh side effect that my new med gave to me…
7 days anal leakage,
6 fucked up cravings,
5 hour crying jag,
4 days compulsive shopping,
3 weeks constipation,
2 crazy mood swings ,
and bloating and weight gain.


The eighth side effect that my new med gave to me…
…8 weeks foggy memory,
7 days anal leakage,
6 fucked up cravings,
5 hour crying jag,
4 days compulsive shopping,
3 weeks constipation,
2 crazy mood swings ,
and bloating and weight gain.


The ninth side effect that my new med gave to me…
…9 days without sleep,
8 weeks foggy memory,
7 days anal leakage,
6 fucked up cravings,
5 hour crying jag,
4 days compulsive shopping,
3 weeks constipation,
2 crazy mood swings ,
and bloating and weight gain.

The tenth side effect that my new med gave to me…
…10 yeast infections,
9 days without sleep,
8 weeks foggy memory,
7 days anal leakage,
6 fucked up cravings,
5 hour crying jag,
4 days compulsive shopping,
3 weeks constipation,
2 crazy mood swings ,
and bloating and weight gain.


The eleventh side effect that my new med gave to me…
…11 scary mood swings,
10 yeast infections,
9 days without sleep,
8 weeks foggy memory,
7 days anal leakage,
6 fucked up cravings,
5 hour crying jag,
4 days compulsive shopping,
3 weeks constipation,
2 crazy mood swings ,
and bloating and weight gain.


The twelfth side effect that my new med gave to me…
…12 giant pimples,
11 scary mood swings,
10 yeast infections,
9 days without sleep,
8 weeks foggy memory,
7 days anal leakage,
6 fucked up cravings,
5 hour crying jag,
4 days compulsive shopping,
3 weeks constipation,
2 crazy mood swings ,
and bloating and weight gain.

Because why not take twelve paragraphs to say what I could’ve said in one?
         
]]>
https://feeds.feedblitz.com/~/80901218/0/pixiecd~Twelve-Side-Effects-of-Medication-The-Holiday-Song.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Chris Dean)2 http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OKP-EPJdl3Q/VI2cmh28y_I/AAAAAAAAPYE/7gkyaSXm02c/s72-c/not-weight-gain.jpg

The first side-effect that my new med gave to me…
…bloating and weight gain.

The second side effect that my new med gave to me…
…2 crazy muscle spasms
and bloating and weight gain.


The third side effect that my new med gave to me…
3 weeks constipation,
2 crazy mood swings,
and bloating and weight gain.

The fourth side effect that my new med gave to me…
…4 days compulsive shopping,
3 weeks constipation,
2 crazy mood swings ,
and bloating and weight gain.


The fifth side effect that my new med gave to me…
5 hour crying jag,
4 days compulsive shopping,
3 weeks constipation,
2 crazy mood swings ,
and bloating and weight gain.

The sixth side effect that my new med gave to me…
…6 fucked up cravings,
5 hour crying jag,
4 days compulsive shopping,
3 weeks constipation,
2 crazy mood swings ,
and bloating and weight gain.


The seventh side effect that my new med gave to me…
7 days anal leakage,
6 fucked up cravings,
5 hour crying jag,
4 days compulsive shopping,
3 weeks constipation,
2 crazy mood swings ,
and bloating and weight gain.


The eighth side effect that my new med gave to me…
…8 weeks foggy memory,
7 days anal leakage,
6 fucked up cravings,
5 hour crying jag,
4 days compulsive shopping,
3 weeks constipation,
2 crazy mood swings ,
and bloating and weight gain.


The ninth side effect that my new med gave to me…
…9 days without sleep,
8 weeks foggy memory,
7 days anal leakage,
6 fucked up cravings,
5 hour crying jag,
4 days compulsive shopping,
3 weeks constipation,
2 crazy mood swings ,
and bloating and weight gain.

The tenth side effect that my new med gave to me…
…10 yeast infections,
9 days without sleep,
8 weeks foggy memory,
7 days anal leakage,
6 fucked up cravings,
5 hour crying jag,
4 days compulsive shopping,
3 weeks constipation,
2 crazy mood swings ,
and bloating and weight gain.


The eleventh side effect that my new med gave to me…
…11 scary mood swings,
10 yeast infections,
9 days without sleep,
8 weeks foggy memory,
7 days anal leakage,
6 fucked up cravings,
5 hour crying jag,
4 days compulsive shopping,
3 weeks constipation,
2 crazy mood swings ,
and bloating and weight gain.


The twelfth side effect that my new med gave to me…
…12 giant pimples,
11 scary mood swings,
10 yeast infections,
9 days without sleep,
8 weeks foggy memory,
7 days anal leakage,
6 fucked up cravings,
5 hour crying jag,
4 days compulsive shopping,
3 weeks constipation,
2 crazy mood swings ,
and bloating and weight gain.

Because why not take twelve paragraphs to say what I could’ve said in one?
         
]]>
http://www.pixiecd.com/2014/12/at-least-i-finally-got-my-coffee.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6556690257497753916.post-7276963545721377710Mon, 01 Dec 2014 09:38:00 +00002014-12-07T14:59:42.241-08:00cat shamingcats amp; dogsdog shamingkittensmorning coffeeAt least I finally got my coffee…December 1, 2014

  Trip-walk-hop down dark hallway to kitchen to start coffee. Step on dog food that’s been strewn across diningroom floor and skid on right foot until I catch my balance with left, which is brought down square on top of 2 lbs of aquarium gravel that (as of bedtime last night) used to line the bottom of a 10 lbs cast iron honey pot/incense burner.

Senile Cat
  Lose balance to left, attempt to regain balance with right foot, only to have it come down on top of hungry cat. Eventually catch myself on kitchen counter, but only after looking like an octopus on roller-skates while accidentally punting one cat and squashing limbs of at least two others.

  Cue dogs begging to go outside and pee.

  Start coffee and cross-legged run-hop to bathroom before I add to the mess left by Senile Cat. As I’m brushing teeth, make mental note of suspicious absence of begging dog sounds. Emerge to find it was the dog and not myself that added to mess left by Senile Cat.

One of three foster kittens
  Grab cleaning supplies only to discover that it’s going to be something of a logic puzzle situation. To reach the mess, must first clean up dog food and aquarium gravel so mop can reach without turning dog food into kitchen mud. Must also attempt all of the above without coffee and without swearing loud enough to wake a family member, otherwise my 45 minutes of solitude will be shattered into aquarium gravel sized pieces of not-today.

  As I’m reaching for the holiest of holies – first cup of coffee of the day, kitten from latest batch of fosters climbs leg like a tree in search of its bowl of morning formula. Sit cup down without even so much as a sip, dislodge kitten from right leg as another furball scales left one.

  Give up and make kitten formula.

Anxiety Ridden Cat
  While kittens are lapping up liquid quiet, pick up cup for attempt #2. Hear freakishly bizarre noise from living room where Anxiety Ridden Cat is attempting to chew through own tail – her current protest to the presence of foster kittens that I won’t let her kick the disrespectful asses of.

  Fill stocking with catnip and place in Anxiety Cat’s mouth – after I remove tail. Watch as she relaxes into her morning kitty-joint.

  Realize all cat food bowls are empty. Sit down cup and quickly fill bowls before munchies hit now drugged-out Anxiety Ridden Cat. Realize that kittens have been left unsupervised with liquid quiet and rush to pull them out of bowl. Hand them to an adult cat in hopes they’ll clean them off before formula is tracked all over kitchen and dining room (they won’t) and remember I never filled dog food bowl that was dumped all over the floor.

  Fill the dog’s bowl so he won’t steal the cat’s food and try to remember where the freakin’ hell I left my damn coffee cup.

  Find cup, which is now stone cold. Drink the shit anyway because CAFFEINE.

Asshole Cat
  The alarm on my phone sounds, scaring the crap out of me so I slosh cold coffee down the front of shirt. Realize sound means it’s time to wake Hubby so he can get ready for work.

  Curse not-so-silently as attempt to walk through living room without tripping on any number of animals so I can trip down a dark hallway to bedroom, wake Hubby and kiss any possibility of quiet time goodbye.

  Emerge from bedroom to the thump-thump-splash sound as Asshole Cat, who refuses to drink from water bowl that’s less than 2/3rds full, overturns water bowl that’s 2/3rds full in protest.

VW Sized Cat
  Grab towel on way back down dark hallway and round corner into the kitchen at the exact moment VW Sized Cat makes a herculean leap onto the kitchen counter, only to misjudge distance her VW sized body will fly, land on edge of drying rack someone (me) forgot to dump excess water out of after last night’s dishes, and send in flying end-over-end across only remaining dry spot on kitchen floor.

  The best part? Where it’s flying end-over-end, it douses your upper torso and face with cold, last night’s dishwashing drips.

  The only thing left to do is say screw everyone and everything, take your coffee, and lock yourself in the one-and-only bathroom for some peace and quiet. You trip back down dark hallway only to find Hubby stepping into the shower of said one-and-only bathroom, squashing your chance for 30 seconds of solitude.

  At least I finally got my coffee…

  Yep. Just another perfect start to another perfect day.
         
]]>
https://feeds.feedblitz.com/~/80836060/0/pixiecd~At-least-I-finally-got-my-coffee.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Chris Dean)10 http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QVZDyF-JTyg/VITagIluiDI/AAAAAAAAOCE/6pyQZfxYKec/s72-c/senile-cat.jpg December 1, 2014

  Trip-walk-hop down dark hallway to kitchen to start coffee. Step on dog food that’s been strewn across diningroom floor and skid on right foot until I catch my balance with left, which is brought down square on top of 2 lbs of aquarium gravel that (as of bedtime last night) used to line the bottom of a 10 lbs cast iron honey pot/incense burner.

Senile Cat
  Lose balance to left, attempt to regain balance with right foot, only to have it come down on top of hungry cat. Eventually catch myself on kitchen counter, but only after looking like an octopus on roller-skates while accidentally punting one cat and squashing limbs of at least two others.

  Cue dogs begging to go outside and pee.

  Start coffee and cross-legged run-hop to bathroom before I add to the mess left by Senile Cat. As I’m brushing teeth, make mental note of suspicious absence of begging dog sounds. Emerge to find it was the dog and not myself that added to mess left by Senile Cat.

One of three foster kittens
  Grab cleaning supplies only to discover that it’s going to be something of a logic puzzle situation. To reach the mess, must first clean up dog food and aquarium gravel so mop can reach without turning dog food into kitchen mud. Must also attempt all of the above without coffee and without swearing loud enough to wake a family member, otherwise my 45 minutes of solitude will be shattered into aquarium gravel sized pieces of not-today.

  As I’m reaching for the holiest of holies – first cup of coffee of the day, kitten from latest batch of fosters climbs leg like a tree in search of its bowl of morning formula. Sit cup down without even so much as a sip, dislodge kitten from right leg as another furball scales left one.

  Give up and make kitten formula.

Anxiety Ridden Cat
  While kittens are lapping up liquid quiet, pick up cup for attempt #2. Hear freakishly bizarre noise from living room where Anxiety Ridden Cat is attempting to chew through own tail – her current protest to the presence of foster kittens that I won’t let her kick the disrespectful asses of.

  Fill stocking with catnip and place in Anxiety Cat’s mouth – after I remove tail. Watch as she relaxes into her morning kitty-joint.

  Realize all cat food bowls are empty. Sit down cup and quickly fill bowls before munchies hit now drugged-out Anxiety Ridden Cat. Realize that kittens have been left unsupervised with liquid quiet and rush to pull them out of bowl. Hand them to an adult cat in hopes they’ll clean them off before formula is tracked all over kitchen and dining room (they won’t) and remember I never filled dog food bowl that was dumped all over the floor.

  Fill the dog’s bowl so he won’t steal the cat’s food and try to remember where the freakin’ hell I left my damn coffee cup.

  Find cup, which is now stone cold. Drink the shit anyway because CAFFEINE.

Asshole Cat
  The alarm on my phone sounds, scaring the crap out of me so I slosh cold coffee down the front of shirt. Realize sound means it’s time to wake Hubby so he can get ready for work.

  Curse not-so-silently as attempt to walk through living room without tripping on any number of animals so I can trip down a dark hallway to bedroom, wake Hubby and kiss any possibility of quiet time goodbye.

  Emerge from bedroom to the thump-thump-splash sound as Asshole Cat, who refuses to drink from water bowl that’s less than 2/3rds full, overturns water bowl that’s 2/3rds full in protest.

VW Sized Cat
  Grab towel on way back down dark hallway and round corner into the kitchen at the exact moment VW Sized Cat makes a herculean leap onto the kitchen counter, only to misjudge distance her VW sized body will fly, land on edge of drying rack someone (me) forgot to dump excess water out of after last night’s dishes, and send in flying end-over-end across only remaining dry spot on kitchen floor.

  The best part? Where it’s flying end-over-end, it douses your upper torso and face with cold, last night’s dishwashing drips.

  The only thing left to do is say screw everyone and everything, take your coffee, and lock yourself in the one-and-only bathroom for some peace and quiet. You trip back down dark hallway only to find Hubby stepping into the shower of said one-and-only bathroom, squashing your chance for 30 seconds of solitude.

  At least I finally got my coffee…

  Yep. Just another perfect start to another perfect day.
         
]]>
http://www.pixiecd.com/2014/11/the-crazy-lady-in-muddy-boots-and-geese.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6556690257497753916.post-5999116698337250312Sun, 30 Nov 2014 10:14:00 +00002014-12-07T15:18:10.543-08:00fairy talesgeeseHelen of TroypoultrywaterfowlThe Crazy Lady in the Muddy Boots and the Geese: A Love Story

  Once upon a time, there lived a handsome Goose named Max. (Technically, he was a gander since he was a he, but to make life easy we’ll stick with goose.)

  Max was a happy goose with a mild-ish personality and a life-long companion named Goslin. Together they spent their days eating grass, swimming in the pool, and taking romantic walks together through the woods. As long as the two of them were together, life was good.



  Then the unthinkable happened! Goslin passed away suddenly, leaving poor Max without his other half for the first time since he hatched from his lonely egg.

  For weeks on end, Max stood on the hill where he and Goslin had spent so many happy evenings together, calling to the emptiness of the trees and hoping against hope for the answering honk of his soulmate. For weeks on end, the only response he heard was the weak echo of his own voice, leaving him to sink deeper and deeper into his sadness.



  No longer did he want to eat grass or swim in the pool. He turned his back on the rest of the flock, preferring to ignore the other geese who were happily paired off. Poor Max became a ghost of the vibrant gander he once was, spending his days alone on the outskirts of the flock, unnoticed by all but one evil, opportunistic goose named Pearl.



  Pearl the Homicidal Maniac was just what his name implied – an asshole. He had a bad attitude, a thirst for blood, and a new target for his bullying.

  Day after day, he’d find new and ever more aggressive ways to harass poor, mourning Max while Mother (short for Mother Goose or Mother Fudger, depending on her mood) flapped her wings and honked her cackling honk of pleasure at her mate Pearl’s nasty behavior.


  Eventually, the Crazy Lady in the Muddy Boots was forced to intervene, locking the flock behind the high fence of the goose pen, leaving sad Max and air-headed Lilly outside, free to roam the yard and play in the pool without fear of attack. Only at night would the Lady free the incarcerated waddle-butts, reuniting the flock until the Sun rose on the new day.


  As a year passed in this manner, Max began to emerge from his quagmire of grief. Little by little, he rediscovered the simple joys of eating grass and swimming in the pool. He even began to show signs of finding love again!

  Oddly enough, none of this seemed even in part due to the charms of sweet, air-headed Lilly, as the Crazy Lady in the Muddy Boots had hoped. No, another goose seemed to have caught Max’s eye and his heart, wrapping him around the tip of her wing. But who?



  As Summer passed into Fall, Max began to display a new behavior that was not in any way pleasing – instead of spending his days swimming, eating and napping, he spent them waddling around the outside of the goose pen. It didn’t take long for the Lady to realize that Max’s location always mirrored that of Mother, Pearl’s evil bitch-of-a-mate.

  Max didn’t seem to care if the creature was spawned from the depths of Hades or not, for he was smitten by her…beauty? (Had to be her looks, ‘cause it sure as hell wasn’t her winning personality!) He spent his days longing after her through the dividing coldness of the fence and his nights puppy-dogging after her all around the yard.

  Quietly, Mother took notice of Max’s amorous behavior. In the dark depths of her goosey brain, a plan was formed and the trap was set.



  The fateful day finally came when the Crazy Lady in the Muddy Boots was herding the waddle-butts into their pen and Mother did a last minute 180 and ran up to Max, her long, slender neck extended in the universal goose sign of, “I think you’re cute,” honking the honk of love.

  In her heart the Lady knew that it wasn’t so much that Mother thought he was a hunk of hot feathers, as she saw an opportunity to manipulate an innocent soul. That, and an alliance with Max would keep her out of lock-up for the day.

  But what could she do? As she watched Max and the manipulative witch rub necks and honk their love, he seemed truly happy for the first time since he’d lost Goslin. She simply couldn’t find it in herself to break his heart again, sealing the fate of all that lived in the white house on the hill.



  Soon Max and Mother were off on their own, terrorizing innocent Muscovy ducks, unsuspecting cats, and anyone else foolish enough to step outside the house. Sadly, the biggest target of their Bonnie and Clyde like union was Pearl, Mother’s former flame.

  Without Mother’s constant encouragement, Pearl immediately dropped from Top Goose, to low man in the pecking order. No longer did the poor guy delight in kicking the butt of his nemesis, but waddled at top speed away from the terrifying prospect of Max’s fury spurred on by Mother’s honks of glee.



  As the Crazy Lady in the Muddy Boots helplessly watched, it slowly dawned on her that Mother was something of the goose equivalent of Helen of Troy – whoever was beguiled by her…beauty? went bat-shit crazy in their attempts to keep her and destroy her former lover. An analogy that was nowhere near what you might call romantic, but definitely in keeping with the amount of goose warfare occurring in the yard.



  In the end, the Lady knew she was powerless to talk any sense into the beguiled Max. Just like the story of the Trojan War, all she could do was try to keep the warring idiots separated and hope against hope that Max would come to his senses.

  So the two feathered morons were allowed to live happily ever after.

  At least until Spring and the mating season, when all hell is sure to break loose and no one, neither feathered nor human, will be safe from whatever new insanity Max and Mother are sure to aspire too.


The End

         
]]>
https://feeds.feedblitz.com/~/80836062/0/pixiecd~The-Crazy-Lady-in-the-Muddy-Boots-and-the-Geese-A-Love-Story.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Chris Dean)4 http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zXS2k99myvU/VITdDz6A1WI/AAAAAAAAOCw/Di8PZtxs3tM/s72-c/muddy-boots-geese.jpg

  Once upon a time, there lived a handsome Goose named Max. (Technically, he was a gander since he was a he, but to make life easy we’ll stick with goose.)

  Max was a happy goose with a mild-ish personality and a life-long companion named Goslin. Together they spent their days eating grass, swimming in the pool, and taking romantic walks together through the woods. As long as the two of them were together, life was good.



  Then the unthinkable happened! Goslin passed away suddenly, leaving poor Max without his other half for the first time since he hatched from his lonely egg.

  For weeks on end, Max stood on the hill where he and Goslin had spent so many happy evenings together, calling to the emptiness of the trees and hoping against hope for the answering honk of his soulmate. For weeks on end, the only response he heard was the weak echo of his own voice, leaving him to sink deeper and deeper into his sadness.



  No longer did he want to eat grass or swim in the pool. He turned his back on the rest of the flock, preferring to ignore the other geese who were happily paired off. Poor Max became a ghost of the vibrant gander he once was, spending his days alone on the outskirts of the flock, unnoticed by all but one evil, opportunistic goose named Pearl.



  Pearl the Homicidal Maniac was just what his name implied – an asshole. He had a bad attitude, a thirst for blood, and a new target for his bullying.

  Day after day, he’d find new and ever more aggressive ways to harass poor, mourning Max while Mother (short for Mother Goose or Mother Fudger, depending on her mood) flapped her wings and honked her cackling honk of pleasure at her mate Pearl’s nasty behavior.


  Eventually, the Crazy Lady in the Muddy Boots was forced to intervene, locking the flock behind the high fence of the goose pen, leaving sad Max and air-headed Lilly outside, free to roam the yard and play in the pool without fear of attack. Only at night would the Lady free the incarcerated waddle-butts, reuniting the flock until the Sun rose on the new day.


  As a year passed in this manner, Max began to emerge from his quagmire of grief. Little by little, he rediscovered the simple joys of eating grass and swimming in the pool. He even began to show signs of finding love again!

  Oddly enough, none of this seemed even in part due to the charms of sweet, air-headed Lilly, as the Crazy Lady in the Muddy Boots had hoped. No, another goose seemed to have caught Max’s eye and his heart, wrapping him around the tip of her wing. But who?



  As Summer passed into Fall, Max began to display a new behavior that was not in any way pleasing – instead of spending his days swimming, eating and napping, he spent them waddling around the outside of the goose pen. It didn’t take long for the Lady to realize that Max’s location always mirrored that of Mother, Pearl’s evil bitch-of-a-mate.

  Max didn’t seem to care if the creature was spawned from the depths of Hades or not, for he was smitten by her…beauty? (Had to be her looks, ‘cause it sure as hell wasn’t her winning personality!) He spent his days longing after her through the dividing coldness of the fence and his nights puppy-dogging after her all around the yard.

  Quietly, Mother took notice of Max’s amorous behavior. In the dark depths of her goosey brain, a plan was formed and the trap was set.



  The fateful day finally came when the Crazy Lady in the Muddy Boots was herding the waddle-butts into their pen and Mother did a last minute 180 and ran up to Max, her long, slender neck extended in the universal goose sign of, “I think you’re cute,” honking the honk of love.

  In her heart the Lady knew that it wasn’t so much that Mother thought he was a hunk of hot feathers, as she saw an opportunity to manipulate an innocent soul. That, and an alliance with Max would keep her out of lock-up for the day.

  But what could she do? As she watched Max and the manipulative witch rub necks and honk their love, he seemed truly happy for the first time since he’d lost Goslin. She simply couldn’t find it in herself to break his heart again, sealing the fate of all that lived in the white house on the hill.



  Soon Max and Mother were off on their own, terrorizing innocent Muscovy ducks, unsuspecting cats, and anyone else foolish enough to step outside the house. Sadly, the biggest target of their Bonnie and Clyde like union was Pearl, Mother’s former flame.

  Without Mother’s constant encouragement, Pearl immediately dropped from Top Goose, to low man in the pecking order. No longer did the poor guy delight in kicking the butt of his nemesis, but waddled at top speed away from the terrifying prospect of Max’s fury spurred on by Mother’s honks of glee.



  As the Crazy Lady in the Muddy Boots helplessly watched, it slowly dawned on her that Mother was something of the goose equivalent of Helen of Troy – whoever was beguiled by her…beauty? went bat-shit crazy in their attempts to keep her and destroy her former lover. An analogy that was nowhere near what you might call romantic, but definitely in keeping with the amount of goose warfare occurring in the yard.



  In the end, the Lady knew she was powerless to talk any sense into the beguiled Max. Just like the story of the Trojan War, all she could do was try to keep the warring idiots separated and hope against hope that Max would come to his senses.

  So the two feathered morons were allowed to live happily ever after.

  At least until Spring and the mating season, when all hell is sure to break loose and no one, neither feathered nor human, will be safe from whatever new insanity Max and Mother are sure to aspire too.


The End

         
]]>
http://www.pixiecd.com/2014/11/afternoon-naps-in-10-easy-steps.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6556690257497753916.post-5518068225828895371Sat, 22 Nov 2014 07:26:00 +00002014-12-08T03:32:09.699-08:0010 easy stepsacts of stupidityhumornapsAfternoon Naps In 10 Easy Steps


How To Take An Afternoon Nap In 10 Easy Steps

step 1  Announce to the entire house that you’re taking a nap. It’s important to track down each individual occupant currently on the premises and emphatically state your intention to take a peaceful nap. It never hurts to include a description or two of what will happen to anyone thoughtless enough to disturb you during the allotted nap time.


step 2  Take favorite blankie to the couch, because napping in your bedroom with a closed door is for amateurs. Besides, you’ll probably need the comfort of knowing you’re in the heart of the household’s activity zone to relax enough to fall asleep. That way, you’ll be easy to find if someone loses a sock, spills their drink, or needs you to settle an argument about which Classic Transformer’s series was the best, the original or Beast Wars.


step 3  Issue the first of 39 additional threats to people randomly disturbing you for any of the above frivolous reasons. Make sure they know you mean business by only opening one eye and *speaking in your best imitation of the kid from the Exorcist.

*It won’t get you to sleep any quicker, but you’ll earn bonus points if you make a kid **pee their pants, just a little.

**WARNING: If terror dribble is achieved, you’ll be required to get up and assist in finding dry shorts. But the satisfaction? Totally worth it!



step 4  The phone that has been silent as the grave for the last three hours will suddenly commence non-stop noise-making as soon as your head hits the pillow. By the 10 minute mark, the Twitter and Facebook notification sounds will take on the qualities of Poe’s Tell Tale Heart, causing you to take phone in hand and hurl at the nearest soft chair. The phone won’t be damaged, but you also won’t be able to reach it to hit the silence button without walking across the room.

  Place pillow over head and attempt to ignore.



step 5  Cuss loudly as every last family pet is telepathically alerted to your attempts to nap and begins the ceremonial pile-on. You’ll be forced to remove the pillow from over your head once Fluffy claims it as her catbed, causing you to suffocate slowly.



step 6  Realize house is far too quiet for number of people inside. Knowing your family like you do, you dislodge the cats and dogs from your head and legs so you can check on the kids. Find them coloring each other with the set of colored Sharpies you hid so well you forgot where the hell you put them. Reason those were play clothes anyway and make executive decision that their Dad can deal with it when he gets home from work. Return to couch.



step 7  Open one eye slowly as kids “gently shake you awake” to show you their masterpieces of body art. Breathe deeply through clenched teeth and make every effort not to lose your shit when they refuse to stop saying, “Mommy? Mommy? Mommy?” until you open your eyes.

  Issue next round of pee inducing threats. Know that any attempts to roll over and dramatically turn your back to them will be thwarted by the animals piled on top of head and legs.

  Attempt to pull blanket over head and fail due to weight of dogs that are piled on top of it. Settle for pathetically whimpering until kids return to their room.



step 8  Hubby arrives home from work and begins to tell you about how stressful his day was. Five minutes in, he’ll notice you glaring with the red, puffy eyes of the chronically sleep deprived and offer the traditional, “Oh! Sorry honey, I didn’t see you were napping.” Any apology will be immediately nullified by, “But since you’re awake now…” He’ll continue to recount his day in painful detail as he changes into his evening loungewear.



step 9  Hubby plops down on other end of the couch, sitting on your feet and waking the dogs who will then use your body as a fleshy trampoline to bounce out their pleasure at seeing Daddy. The kids will parade through, one at a time so as to draw the noise out as long as humanly possible, each recounting their day in painful detail.

  After excitement dies down, you realize you can still fit in a 15 minute cat-nap if you fall asleep NOW. Your dream will immediately be squashed by the sounds of Hubby snoring from where he’s still sitting on your feet.



step 10  Cuss profusely as you untangle yourself from cats, dogs, and Hubby’s ass. Go into kitchen where you pour yourself a strong cup of coffee and procur a thin slice of lunchmeat. Drink coffee to stay awake until the kids’ bedtime as you oh-so gently trail lunchmeat over Hubby’s sleeping body, insuring every animal in the house jumps, climbs, and digs on him in an attempt to find the source of the smell.

  Sneak in kid’s room and tell them Daddy’s playing a game. He’ll pretend to be asleep while they search his pockets for the surprise he brought home for them.

  Remove now silent phone from chair where it landed in step 4 so you can sit and watch the show begin.
         
]]>
https://feeds.feedblitz.com/~/80836067/0/pixiecd~Afternoon-Naps-In-Easy-Steps.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Chris Dean)4 http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-u7UjIFaZ1Cw/VIWLOWxQPYI/AAAAAAAAOFg/pYzz-_jEOzc/s72-c/shit-done-right-afternoon-naps.jpg


How To Take An Afternoon Nap In 10 Easy Steps

step 1  Announce to the entire house that you’re taking a nap. It’s important to track down each individual occupant currently on the premises and emphatically state your intention to take a peaceful nap. It never hurts to include a description or two of what will happen to anyone thoughtless enough to disturb you during the allotted nap time.


step 2  Take favorite blankie to the couch, because napping in your bedroom with a closed door is for amateurs. Besides, you’ll probably need the comfort of knowing you’re in the heart of the household’s activity zone to relax enough to fall asleep. That way, you’ll be easy to find if someone loses a sock, spills their drink, or needs you to settle an argument about which Classic Transformer’s series was the best, the original or Beast Wars.


step 3  Issue the first of 39 additional threats to people randomly disturbing you for any of the above frivolous reasons. Make sure they know you mean business by only opening one eye and *speaking in your best imitation of the kid from the Exorcist.

*It won’t get you to sleep any quicker, but you’ll earn bonus points if you make a kid **pee their pants, just a little.

**WARNING: If terror dribble is achieved, you’ll be required to get up and assist in finding dry shorts. But the satisfaction? Totally worth it!



step 4  The phone that has been silent as the grave for the last three hours will suddenly commence non-stop noise-making as soon as your head hits the pillow. By the 10 minute mark, the Twitter and Facebook notification sounds will take on the qualities of Poe’s Tell Tale Heart, causing you to take phone in hand and hurl at the nearest soft chair. The phone won’t be damaged, but you also won’t be able to reach it to hit the silence button without walking across the room.

  Place pillow over head and attempt to ignore.



step 5  Cuss loudly as every last family pet is telepathically alerted to your attempts to nap and begins the ceremonial pile-on. You’ll be forced to remove the pillow from over your head once Fluffy claims it as her catbed, causing you to suffocate slowly.



step 6  Realize house is far too quiet for number of people inside. Knowing your family like you do, you dislodge the cats and dogs from your head and legs so you can check on the kids. Find them coloring each other with the set of colored Sharpies you hid so well you forgot where the hell you put them. Reason those were play clothes anyway and make executive decision that their Dad can deal with it when he gets home from work. Return to couch.



step 7  Open one eye slowly as kids “gently shake you awake” to show you their masterpieces of body art. Breathe deeply through clenched teeth and make every effort not to lose your shit when they refuse to stop saying, “Mommy? Mommy? Mommy?” until you open your eyes.

  Issue next round of pee inducing threats. Know that any attempts to roll over and dramatically turn your back to them will be thwarted by the animals piled on top of head and legs.

  Attempt to pull blanket over head and fail due to weight of dogs that are piled on top of it. Settle for pathetically whimpering until kids return to their room.



step 8  Hubby arrives home from work and begins to tell you about how stressful his day was. Five minutes in, he’ll notice you glaring with the red, puffy eyes of the chronically sleep deprived and offer the traditional, “Oh! Sorry honey, I didn’t see you were napping.” Any apology will be immediately nullified by, “But since you’re awake now…” He’ll continue to recount his day in painful detail as he changes into his evening loungewear.



step 9  Hubby plops down on other end of the couch, sitting on your feet and waking the dogs who will then use your body as a fleshy trampoline to bounce out their pleasure at seeing Daddy. The kids will parade through, one at a time so as to draw the noise out as long as humanly possible, each recounting their day in painful detail.

  After excitement dies down, you realize you can still fit in a 15 minute cat-nap if you fall asleep NOW. Your dream will immediately be squashed by the sounds of Hubby snoring from where he’s still sitting on your feet.



step 10  Cuss profusely as you untangle yourself from cats, dogs, and Hubby’s ass. Go into kitchen where you pour yourself a strong cup of coffee and procur a thin slice of lunchmeat. Drink coffee to stay awake until the kids’ bedtime as you oh-so gently trail lunchmeat over Hubby’s sleeping body, insuring every animal in the house jumps, climbs, and digs on him in an attempt to find the source of the smell.

  Sneak in kid’s room and tell them Daddy’s playing a game. He’ll pretend to be asleep while they search his pockets for the surprise he brought home for them.

  Remove now silent phone from chair where it landed in step 4 so you can sit and watch the show begin.
         
]]>
http://www.pixiecd.com/2014/11/mental-illness-betrayer-of-truth.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6556690257497753916.post-2381942548970502941Sat, 15 Nov 2014 08:26:00 +00002014-12-08T03:48:08.043-08:00depressionmental helathmental illnesssupport systemMental Illness: The Betrayer of Truth.  Last night I received a message from a friend that brought hours of confusion, trying to puzzle out WTF. Like a Rubik’s Cube, in written form.
“Have some confidence in yourself! Your awesome, don’t let people think you’re less. Be proud of your achievements.”
  I mean sure, it’s a really sweet thought and all, but what had I done to make them think I was having confidence issues? Then I remembered – I have a mental illness.

  The last couple of weeks have been some seriously rough times. The moods’ve bottomed out, I’ve pulled away from everyone and everything I normally take pleasure in, and I’ve basically been hibernating. Not because I’m a bear, but because I’m viewing the world through the fisheye lens of illness: the betrayer of truth.

  Knowing my habits during these darker times, I decided to step out of character and do something I rarely do; reach out to other people. The response overwhelmed me! It reminded me I wasn’t alone. It reminded me that there is so much more strength and healing in numbers. It reminded me that silence breeds its own pain and, when added to an already struggling heart and mind, its own brand of poison.

  To help force myself to venture out of my Fortress of Solitude, I’ve also been posting those motivational/inspirational memes everyone loves/hates so much. I didn’t mean it as a cry for help, but more of a battle cry against the crushing weight of my own misfiring brain chemistry.

  It’s also where my friend’s concern stemmed from.

  I know that in the past I’ve talked about my own demons, but when I’m having a pretty good stretch it’s easy for those around me to forget they’re there. That’s why I’d like to offer this small reminder for the friends and family of people with mental glitches, especially heading into the Holiday Season (what amounts to the Heart of Darkness for many of us) – we learn to manage our mental illnesses, we don’t cure them.



  We appreciate your supportive words and thoughts, but run from phrases that start with, “What have you got to be depressed about…,” “Why are you so sad…,” “At least it’s not…,” or “Come on and *fill in the blank*, it’ll make you feel better…”

  It may go against the inquisitive part of human nature, but the truth is you don’t have to understand someone’s illness to be supportive. You don’t have to help them fix their problem to show them you care.

  All you really need to do? Is be there and remember we’re trying, the best way we know how.
         
]]>
https://feeds.feedblitz.com/~/80836070/0/pixiecd~Mental-Illness-The-Betrayer-of-Truth.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Chris Dean)10 http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VX5lTE-KQEY/VIWPvhvv3AI/AAAAAAAAOGY/qcQ00_HdVvo/s72-c/what-depression-looks-like.jpg   Last night I received a message from a friend that brought hours of confusion, trying to puzzle out WTF. Like a Rubik’s Cube, in written form.
“Have some confidence in yourself! Your awesome, don’t let people think you’re less. Be proud of your achievements.”
  I mean sure, it’s a really sweet thought and all, but what had I done to make them think I was having confidence issues? Then I remembered – I have a mental illness.

  The last couple of weeks have been some seriously rough times. The moods’ve bottomed out, I’ve pulled away from everyone and everything I normally take pleasure in, and I’ve basically been hibernating. Not because I’m a bear, but because I’m viewing the world through the fisheye lens of illness: the betrayer of truth.

  Knowing my habits during these darker times, I decided to step out of character and do something I rarely do; reach out to other people. The response overwhelmed me! It reminded me I wasn’t alone. It reminded me that there is so much more strength and healing in numbers. It reminded me that silence breeds its own pain and, when added to an already struggling heart and mind, its own brand of poison.

  To help force myself to venture out of my Fortress of Solitude, I’ve also been posting those motivational/inspirational memes everyone loves/hates so much. I didn’t mean it as a cry for help, but more of a battle cry against the crushing weight of my own misfiring brain chemistry.

  It’s also where my friend’s concern stemmed from.

  I know that in the past I’ve talked about my own demons, but when I’m having a pretty good stretch it’s easy for those around me to forget they’re there. That’s why I’d like to offer this small reminder for the friends and family of people with mental glitches, especially heading into the Holiday Season (what amounts to the Heart of Darkness for many of us) – we learn to manage our mental illnesses, we don’t cure them.



  We appreciate your supportive words and thoughts, but run from phrases that start with, “What have you got to be depressed about…,” “Why are you so sad…,” “At least it’s not…,” or “Come on and *fill in the blank*, it’ll make you feel better…”

  It may go against the inquisitive part of human nature, but the truth is you don’t have to understand someone’s illness to be supportive. You don’t have to help them fix their problem to show them you care.

  All you really need to do? Is be there and remember we’re trying, the best way we know how.
         
]]>
http://www.pixiecd.com/2014/10/requiem-for-xbox.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6556690257497753916.post-3374168793493255459Fri, 17 Oct 2014 07:39:00 +00002014-12-08T08:27:52.933-08:00#FlashbackFridaygaminghumorparodies I hope don't get me suedsong parodiesXboxRequiem for an Xbox  The Oldest is currently in the early stages of grief. It seems his beloved Xbox is in the process of dying a slow, painful death. (Keep in mind this is somewhere around his 27th Xbox.) (Because he doesn’t know how to STOP gaming. Except when he leaves for work.) (Ya know, that place he has to go to make money to pay for gaming? Yeah. That.)



  As The Boy and I were discussing this tragic turn of events, I broke out into song. Because that’s how I’m best able to terrify my male Offspring. When I received a blank look for my tearful rendition of The X’s In The Box, I was horrified to discover The Boy was unfamiliar with this old, family standard. (Possibly because he runs at the sound of my singing. And my parodies.) (He runs a LOT.)

  I wrote this several years ago when the frequency of breakdowns was bad enough you could set your watch by it. It may be a day too late for Throwback Thursday, but I’ve heard of this thing called Flashback Friday that either exists for those of us who can never remember what day it is or for people who enjoy living in the past. Either way works for me.

  For all you Gamers who’ve lived through your own painful Xbox Separation Anxiety or the parents who’ve held their Offspring’s shivering forms as they went through Video Game Withdraws, this one’s for you!



The X’s In The Box


to the tune of Cat’s In The Cradle by Harry Chapin

Got an Xbox just the other day,
Quickly set it up and was ready to play.
But when I turned it on, something went wrong
“Guitar Hero” won’t load – can’t play favorite song!
So I dialed 1-800-M********t,
“Can you send a cardboard coffin?
Man, I really wanna rock!”

‘Cause the X’s in the box and it’s ready to go.
I got a million games, but they just won’t load.
It’ll be back someday, I don’t know when.
But we’ll be gaming then, my friend.
We’re gonna have a good time then.

So I wait and I watch for the UPS Guy,
I miss my box so much I wanna cry!
I got “Guitar Hero” and “Halo 3” too,
“Gears of War” and “Mercenaries” rules!
As I watch out the window, a gentle rain falls.
I don’t mind saying M*******t sucks balls!
‘Cause the X’s in the box and it’s ready to go.

I got a million games, but they just won’t load.
It’ll be back someday, I don’t know when.
But we’ll be gaming then, my friend.
We’re gonna have a good time then.

Wake up at noon and I called my bro.
I said, “The box is back man, come on let’s go!”
Halo online is awesome play
Until the processor started to smoke and I screamed, “No way!”
So I called out to God as I dropped to my knees,
I knew I should have bought the extended warranty! 

‘Cause the X’s in the box and it’s ready to go.
I got a million games, but they just won’t load.
It’ll be back someday, I don’t know when.
But we’ll be gaming then, my friend.
We’re gonna have a good time then.
         
]]>
https://feeds.feedblitz.com/~/122926255/0/pixiecd~Requiem-for-an-Xbox.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Chris Dean)12 http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-W216Zj1o7Sg/VIXRSDu5ILI/AAAAAAAAOLs/czQYYB1aL3o/s72-c/X-BOX.jpg   The Oldest is currently in the early stages of grief. It seems his beloved Xbox is in the process of dying a slow, painful death. (Keep in mind this is somewhere around his 27th Xbox.) (Because he doesn’t know how to STOP gaming. Except when he leaves for work.) (Ya know, that place he has to go to make money to pay for gaming? Yeah. That.)



  As The Boy and I were discussing this tragic turn of events, I broke out into song. Because that’s how I’m best able to terrify my male Offspring. When I received a blank look for my tearful rendition of The X’s In The Box, I was horrified to discover The Boy was unfamiliar with this old, family standard. (Possibly because he runs at the sound of my singing. And my parodies.) (He runs a LOT.)

  I wrote this several years ago when the frequency of breakdowns was bad enough you could set your watch by it. It may be a day too late for Throwback Thursday, but I’ve heard of this thing called Flashback Friday that either exists for those of us who can never remember what day it is or for people who enjoy living in the past. Either way works for me.

  For all you Gamers who’ve lived through your own painful Xbox Separation Anxiety or the parents who’ve held their Offspring’s shivering forms as they went through Video Game Withdraws, this one’s for you!



The X’s In The Box



Got an Xbox just the other day,
Quickly set it up and was ready to play.
But when I turned it on, something went wrong
“Guitar Hero” won’t load – can’t play favorite song!
So I dialed 1-800-M********t,
“Can you send a cardboard coffin?
Man, I really wanna rock!”

‘Cause the X’s in the box and it’s ready to go.
I got a million games, but they just won’t load.
It’ll be back someday, I don’t know when.
But we’ll be gaming then, my friend.
We’re gonna have a good time then.

So I wait and I watch for the UPS Guy,
I miss my box so much I wanna cry!
I got “Guitar Hero” and “Halo 3” too,
“Gears of War” and “Mercenaries” rules!
As I watch out the window, a gentle rain falls.
I don’t mind saying M*******t sucks balls!
‘Cause the X’s in the box and it’s ready to go.

I got a million games, but they just won’t load.
It’ll be back someday, I don’t know when.
But we’ll be gaming then, my friend.
We’re gonna have a good time then.

Wake up at noon and I called my bro.
I said, “The box is back man, come on let’s go!”
Halo online is awesome play
Until the processor started to smoke and I screamed, “No way!”
So I called out to God as I dropped to my knees,
I knew I should have bought the extended warranty! 

‘Cause the X’s in the box and it’s ready to go.
I got a million games, but they just won’t load.
It’ll be back someday, I don’t know when.
But we’ll be gaming then, my friend.
We’re gonna have a good time then.
         
]]>
http://www.pixiecd.com/2014/10/chronic-illness-wildest-ride-no-one.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6556690257497753916.post-3989930203721580465Thu, 09 Oct 2014 06:52:00 +00002014-12-08T09:09:34.058-08:00choiceschronic illnesschronic painlife with chronic illnessnewly diagnosedChronic Illness: The Wildest Ride No One Ever Chooses  Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages…welcome to the land of Chronic Illness: the wildest ride that no one ever chooses! Do not pass go, do not collect $200. As a matter of fact, get your wallet out and prepare to pay because living the sick life will not come cheap.



  If you’ll turn to your left, you’ll see the Road to Nowhere. This well traveled road is filled with impotent anger, bitter regrets, and mourning for what might have been. Should you choose this direction, you’re assured lots of company on your journey through your new life. (Quality not guaranteed.)

  To your right, you’ll find the Path Less Taken. If your travels lead you in this direction, you’ll be treated to embracing everyday as an adventure, finding your new normal, and a blind determination to live your life your way, despite chronic illness. Even though fewer seem to start out on this path, the scenery is amazing and your traveling companions come with a smile.

  I’m required by law to inform you that neither way guarantees you’ll get to your anticipated destination nor that, wherever you end up, you’ll get there in a timely manner. Whichever way you choose will be filled with potholes, unforeseen setbacks and both good and bad days.

  Each will inevitably feature unscheduled pit stops, dead ends, and wrong turns. But then again, doesn’t that pretty much describes every life, chronically ill or not? These unknowns are all just part of what keeps your existence an interesting place to be.

  Looking around I see some worry and concern on your faces. Fear not, we’ve anticipated this response. That’s why, for your convenience, we offer full service blinders for your trip! One push of the button and the tunnel vision is engaged, blocking out all but your health issues and freeing you from the frustrations of splitting focus between the business of being sick and the rest of the world around you.

  Let’s face it, some days we all just need to focus on our wants, our needs – our only concern the pain without any nagging guilt over lack of participation in everyday life. Am I right?

  Do you prefer to ignore your health and work on living a 100% normal life (whatever that is) instead? Then our rose colored model is for you! With a pair of these babies you can exist in a state of total denial, playing off every ache and pain as nothing more than part of getting older. After all, what do those Doctors know anyway?

  For those of you who are looking for something more in between the two extremes, we’ve got just the thing. It requires nothing more than opening your eyes and taking a look around. Welcome to reality, folks! In this state, what you see is what you get. However, what you choose to do with it is entirely up to you.

  Which brings us back to the where we started.

  Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages…welcome to the land of Chronic Illness: where you don’t choose the ride, it chooses you!
         
]]>
https://feeds.feedblitz.com/~/88396198/0/pixiecd~Chronic-Illness-The-Wildest-Ride-No-One-Ever-Chooses.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Chris Dean)12 http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OFETJl74jrg/VIXbQsv2hxI/AAAAAAAAOOE/hK4xPt7KtQo/s72-c/wildest-ride.jpg   Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages…welcome to the land of Chronic Illness: the wildest ride that no one ever chooses! Do not pass go, do not collect $200. As a matter of fact, get your wallet out and prepare to pay because living the sick life will not come cheap.



  If you’ll turn to your left, you’ll see the Road to Nowhere. This well traveled road is filled with impotent anger, bitter regrets, and mourning for what might have been. Should you choose this direction, you’re assured lots of company on your journey through your new life. (Quality not guaranteed.)

  To your right, you’ll find the Path Less Taken. If your travels lead you in this direction, you’ll be treated to embracing everyday as an adventure, finding your new normal, and a blind determination to live your life your way, despite chronic illness. Even though fewer seem to start out on this path, the scenery is amazing and your traveling companions come with a smile.

  I’m required by law to inform you that neither way guarantees you’ll get to your anticipated destination nor that, wherever you end up, you’ll get there in a timely manner. Whichever way you choose will be filled with potholes, unforeseen setbacks and both good and bad days.

  Each will inevitably feature unscheduled pit stops, dead ends, and wrong turns. But then again, doesn’t that pretty much describes every life, chronically ill or not? These unknowns are all just part of what keeps your existence an interesting place to be.

  Looking around I see some worry and concern on your faces. Fear not, we’ve anticipated this response. That’s why, for your convenience, we offer full service blinders for your trip! One push of the button and the tunnel vision is engaged, blocking out all but your health issues and freeing you from the frustrations of splitting focus between the business of being sick and the rest of the world around you.

  Let’s face it, some days we all just need to focus on our wants, our needs – our only concern the pain without any nagging guilt over lack of participation in everyday life. Am I right?

  Do you prefer to ignore your health and work on living a 100% normal life (whatever that is) instead? Then our rose colored model is for you! With a pair of these babies you can exist in a state of total denial, playing off every ache and pain as nothing more than part of getting older. After all, what do those Doctors know anyway?

  For those of you who are looking for something more in between the two extremes, we’ve got just the thing. It requires nothing more than opening your eyes and taking a look around. Welcome to reality, folks! In this state, what you see is what you get. However, what you choose to do with it is entirely up to you.

  Which brings us back to the where we started.

  Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages…welcome to the land of Chronic Illness: where you don’t choose the ride, it chooses you!
         
]]>
http://www.pixiecd.com/2014/09/knitting-for-beginners-in-10-easy-steps.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6556690257497753916.post-1804030062511885951Mon, 29 Sep 2014 08:37:00 +00002014-12-08T10:02:48.358-08:00acts of stupiditycraftshow tohumorknittingKnitting for Beginners in 10 Easy StepsHandknit Sweaters for Beginners
From the Shit Done Right in 10 Easy Steps series



Step 1


  Buy “Teach Yourself to Knit” book, 15 different sizes of knitting needles, and 23 different types of yarn. You know when first starting it’s always good to be prepared to blame your screw-up on the wrong kind of needles or the wrong weight of yarn, thus avoiding the pain of blaming yourself.



Optional– In preparation, spend two months watching every “How to Knit” video on YouTube. It probably won’t help, but it will postpone the inevitable.


Step 2


  Make a slip knot in the end of the yarn and place over the tip of the left-hand knitting needle. (Unless you’re left handed, in which case give up now because you’re totally screwed. I mean, seriously, EVERY book and EVERY video on the market is designed for righties, so it’s not really your fault, but the results are still the same – you’re SCREWED!)

  Hold the needles loosely yet firmly, bringing on a giggle fit since it reminds you of the hand-job instructions your best friend gave you in high school. Regain your focus and drape the yard over your left hand, mysteriously running it through your fingers for control of the all important tension.


  Spend two hours trying to master simply holding knitting needles and yarn without making a cat’s cradle mess with the yarn, dropping one or both needles, or accidentally poking out your own eye. Briefly wonder if safety goggles might not be a bad idea.


Step 3


  Read the section of the book labeled “Casting-On” 20 times and still fail to understand it. Follow the illustrations to a tee and end up with a newly discovered Sailor’s Knot, cuss profusely under your breath, give up, cut out offending knot and try again. And again. And again…


Step 4


  You manage to get something on the needles that vaguely resembles the whole cast-on bullshit, so move on to knitting your first row. (in – wrap – dip – twist – slide off. Easy peasy!)

  Promptly drop every last stitch until the yarn is a fuzzy mess in your lap. Cuss loudly and spend an hour casting on another 10 stitches. Make another unsolvable knot, cut it out and start over. 15 times.


Step 5


  Reward yourself for casting on the 10 mother-frog-licking stitches by pouring yourself a nice, stiff drink. Because all the books say knitting is WAY easier when you’re relaxed.



  Return to your project and drop 6 of the 10 stitches when you pick the needles back up. Cuss long and loud and go pour yourself another drink. Judging by your sudden onset Tourette’s, you’re obviously not relaxed enough.


Step 6


  Decide 4 cast on stitches are enough to practice with and begin knitting your first row. Miraculously, you manage to get three of the four stitches onto the right hand needle. Celebrate by pouring yourself another drink.


Step 7


  Follow directions for knitting row 2 by switching the right hand needle to left hand. All 3 stitches slide off in the process. Cuss loud enough the neighbors can hear you, throw yarn at the frightened dog, and bend knitting needles in half. (See? You KNEW there was a reason to buy back-ups!) Pour yourself another drink to help you calm down enough to remember where you stuffed the other sets of needles.




Step 8


  Find back up needles and once more assume the knitting position. Accidently hold right needle backwards and painfully stab yourself in the boob. Cuss like a truck driving sailor, throw knitting needle at the wall, and pour yourself another drink. Because stabbing yourself in the breastacle really friggin HURTS!


Step 9


  Return to Step 3. Squint at the stupid, unhelpful pictures with one eye since, for some unknown reason, you’re having trouble focussing. Proceed to make an even bigger mess than you did the first time. Scream every obscenity you’ve ever heard (and possibly create a few new ones) at the book, the yarn, the needles, and You-friggin-Tube. Because they’re all LIARS. If this shit is so easy a damn child could fucking do it, then let ‘em.

  Assholes.




Step 10


  Pour yourself another drink because KNITTING. Sit-n-sip until dawns on you that knitting is indeed a craft – WITCHcraft! Decide learning to knit isn’t worth the toll it’ll obviously take on your soul (and possibly your liver). List all the evil knitting shit on Craigslist, get on ebay and order a handknit sweater.
         
]]>
https://feeds.feedblitz.com/~/122926267/0/pixiecd~Knitting-for-Beginners-in-Easy-Steps.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Chris Dean)19 http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZC36ZIVMG2o/VIXjE3gG5dI/AAAAAAAAOPk/vzxUzWii_Aw/s72-c/shit-done-right-knitting.jpg Handknit Sweaters for Beginners
From the Shit Done Right in 10 Easy Steps series



Step 1


  Buy “Teach Yourself to Knit” book, 15 different sizes of knitting needles, and 23 different types of yarn. You know when first starting it’s always good to be prepared to blame your screw-up on the wrong kind of needles or the wrong weight of yarn, thus avoiding the pain of blaming yourself.



Optional– In preparation, spend two months watching every “How to Knit” video on YouTube. It probably won’t help, but it will postpone the inevitable.


Step 2


  Make a slip knot in the end of the yarn and place over the tip of the left-hand knitting needle. (Unless you’re left handed, in which case give up now because you’re totally screwed. I mean, seriously, EVERY book and EVERY video on the market is designed for righties, so it’s not really your fault, but the results are still the same – you’re SCREWED!)

  Hold the needles loosely yet firmly, bringing on a giggle fit since it reminds you of the hand-job instructions your best friend gave you in high school. Regain your focus and drape the yard over your left hand, mysteriously running it through your fingers for control of the all important tension.


  Spend two hours trying to master simply holding knitting needles and yarn without making a cat’s cradle mess with the yarn, dropping one or both needles, or accidentally poking out your own eye. Briefly wonder if safety goggles might not be a bad idea.


Step 3


  Read the section of the book labeled “Casting-On” 20 times and still fail to understand it. Follow the illustrations to a tee and end up with a newly discovered Sailor’s Knot, cuss profusely under your breath, give up, cut out offending knot and try again. And again. And again…


Step 4


  You manage to get something on the needles that vaguely resembles the whole cast-on bullshit, so move on to knitting your first row. (in – wrap – dip – twist – slide off. Easy peasy!)

  Promptly drop every last stitch until the yarn is a fuzzy mess in your lap. Cuss loudly and spend an hour casting on another 10 stitches. Make another unsolvable knot, cut it out and start over. 15 times.


Step 5


  Reward yourself for casting on the 10 mother-frog-licking stitches by pouring yourself a nice, stiff drink. Because all the books say knitting is WAY easier when you’re relaxed.



  Return to your project and drop 6 of the 10 stitches when you pick the needles back up. Cuss long and loud and go pour yourself another drink. Judging by your sudden onset Tourette’s, you’re obviously not relaxed enough.


Step 6


  Decide 4 cast on stitches are enough to practice with and begin knitting your first row. Miraculously, you manage to get three of the four stitches onto the right hand needle. Celebrate by pouring yourself another drink.


Step 7


  Follow directions for knitting row 2 by switching the right hand needle to left hand. All 3 stitches slide off in the process. Cuss loud enough the neighbors can hear you, throw yarn at the frightened dog, and bend knitting needles in half. (See? You KNEW there was a reason to buy back-ups!) Pour yourself another drink to help you calm down enough to remember where you stuffed the other sets of needles.




Step 8


  Find back up needles and once more assume the knitting position. Accidently hold right needle backwards and painfully stab yourself in the boob. Cuss like a truck driving sailor, throw knitting needle at the wall, and pour yourself another drink. Because stabbing yourself in the breastacle really friggin HURTS!


Step 9


  Return to Step 3. Squint at the stupid, unhelpful pictures with one eye since, for some unknown reason, you’re having trouble focussing. Proceed to make an even bigger mess than you did the first time. Scream every obscenity you’ve ever heard (and possibly create a few new ones) at the book, the yarn, the needles, and You-friggin-Tube. Because they’re all LIARS. If this shit is so easy a damn child could fucking do it, then let ‘em.

  Assholes.




Step 10


  Pour yourself another drink because KNITTING. Sit-n-sip until dawns on you that knitting is indeed a craft – WITCHcraft! Decide learning to knit isn’t worth the toll it’ll obviously take on your soul (and possibly your liver). List all the evil knitting shit on Craigslist, get on ebay and order a handknit sweater.
         
]]>
http://www.pixiecd.com/2014/08/laundry-in-10-easy-steps.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6556690257497753916.post-8835846589315599253Sat, 09 Aug 2014 08:40:00 +00002015-05-15T01:00:57.428-07:0010 easy stepsacts of stupidityfalling down stairshumorlaundrysarcasmLaundry in 10 Easy StepsLaundry
From the Shit Done Right in 10 Easy Steps series.




Step 1


Open washing machine and stare blankly at wet clothes inside. Try to remember  the last time you loaded it as you sniff damp shirt to see if it’s soured. Shrug shoulders and throw everything in dryer with extra softener sheet. Place next load in washer and go watch TV.


Step 2


Fall asleep watching TV, wake up disoriented with dried drool crusted on cheek. Realize you’re hungry and wander aimlessly into kitchen. Dig through fridge, cabinet, pantry, and back through fridge. Fail to find anything snack worthy, cuss loudly, get on computer and play on Facebook.


Step 3


Next day wake up and look for favorite sweatpants. Fail to find them and remember they’re in the dirty clothes, lose interest in wearing favorite sweats, and steal Hubby’s jammie pants instead. Wander into kitchen for coffee and breakfast. Search through fridge, cabinets, pantry, and back through fridge. Fail to find anything breakfast worthy, cuss loudly, pour coffee, and check Facebook.


Step 4


At 4:00 pm remember load of laundry started yesterday. Go downstairs to laundry room, restart washer after shoving favorite sweatpants in with already overfilled load. Go back upstairs and watch TV. During commercial tweet something witty about how much laundry sucks.


Step 5


Go downstairs and fold clothes in dryer, toss in clean from washer, and start another load. Realize there’s only enough clothes for another half load on floor, so open washer and defy laws of physics by cramming it all in. Add more detergent to make sure it all gets clean. Add more fabric softener to make sure it smells clean. Add more detergent because DAMN! that’s a lot of clothes in there. Go back upstairs to watch TV.


Step 6


Decide it’s now snack-thirty and rummage through fridge, cabinets, pantry, and back through fridge. Find nothing snack worthy, cuss, get online and complain about lack of snack items in house and ponder how many calories you must be burning while doing laundry, what with all the up-and-down stairs.


Step 7


Wake up next day and search for favorite sweatpants. Fail to find them, remember they’re in washer and all other pants are in basket of clean-and-folded laundry you forgot downstairs. Stagger pantless to the kitchen, start coffee, then go downstairs to fetch pants. Trip in the dark on the stairs, slide down half of them on bare ass, and manage to land with end of banister sucker-punching your cheek. Cuss loudly, go back upstairs for icepack, forgetting the damn pants.


Step 8


Get on Facebook and complain about the vicious beating you took at the hands of the stairs and banister. Tweet something witty about, “Fuck laundry, I’m gonna become a nudist!” Play Spider Solitaire until kids wake up and ask why you’re not wearing pants.


Step 9


Go back downstairs to fetch sweatpants. Find on top of basket of clean-and-folded laundry. Also find hairball left by cat on top of basket of formerly clean-and-folded laundry. Cuss loudly, dump basket back into the dirty pile, pick up pair of sweatpants and stuff in with severely off-balanced, overfilled load of damp and mildew-smelling clothes, add more detergent, more fabric softener, more detergent for extra luck, and go back upstairs, still pantless. Trip over own feet on way back up stairs, skin knee, cuss loudly, and go back to bed.


Step 10


Steal another pair of Hubby’s jammie pants, reemerge from room and announce to entire family you’re swearing off clothes to become a nudist and if any of them want clean clothes, they can do their own damn laundry. Watch TV and fantasize about a kitchen full of snack worthy munchies that you can’t go to the store to buy until the laundry’s done and you have clean pants.
         
]]>
https://feeds.feedblitz.com/~/122926979/0/pixiecd~Laundry-in-Easy-Steps.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Chris Dean)10 http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-A03TP5zXHCg/VIb4q0_8X4I/AAAAAAAAOjE/wanOtICYTRM/s72-c/shit-done-right-laundry.jpg Laundry
From the Shit Done Right in 10 Easy Steps series.




Step 1


Open washing machine and stare blankly at wet clothes inside. Try to remember  the last time you loaded it as you sniff damp shirt to see if it’s soured. Shrug shoulders and throw everything in dryer with extra softener sheet. Place next load in washer and go watch TV.


Step 2


Fall asleep watching TV, wake up disoriented with dried drool crusted on cheek. Realize you’re hungry and wander aimlessly into kitchen. Dig through fridge, cabinet, pantry, and back through fridge. Fail to find anything snack worthy, cuss loudly, get on computer and play on Facebook.


Step 3


Next day wake up and look for favorite sweatpants. Fail to find them and remember they’re in the dirty clothes, lose interest in wearing favorite sweats, and steal Hubby’s jammie pants instead. Wander into kitchen for coffee and breakfast. Search through fridge, cabinets, pantry, and back through fridge. Fail to find anything breakfast worthy, cuss loudly, pour coffee, and check Facebook.


Step 4


At 4:00 pm remember load of laundry started yesterday. Go downstairs to laundry room, restart washer after shoving favorite sweatpants in with already overfilled load. Go back upstairs and watch TV. During commercial tweet something witty about how much laundry sucks.


Step 5


Go downstairs and fold clothes in dryer, toss in clean from washer, and start another load. Realize there’s only enough clothes for another half load on floor, so open washer and defy laws of physics by cramming it all in. Add more detergent to make sure it all gets clean. Add more fabric softener to make sure it smells clean. Add more detergent because DAMN! that’s a lot of clothes in there. Go back upstairs to watch TV.


Step 6


Decide it’s now snack-thirty and rummage through fridge, cabinets, pantry, and back through fridge. Find nothing snack worthy, cuss, get online and complain about lack of snack items in house and ponder how many calories you must be burning while doing laundry, what with all the up-and-down stairs.


Step 7


Wake up next day and search for favorite sweatpants. Fail to find them, remember they’re in washer and all other pants are in basket of clean-and-folded laundry you forgot downstairs. Stagger pantless to the kitchen, start coffee, then go downstairs to fetch pants. Trip in the dark on the stairs, slide down half of them on bare ass, and manage to land with end of banister sucker-punching your cheek. Cuss loudly, go back upstairs for icepack, forgetting the damn pants.


Step 8


Get on Facebook and complain about the vicious beating you took at the hands of the stairs and banister. Tweet something witty about, “Fuck laundry, I’m gonna become a nudist!” Play Spider Solitaire until kids wake up and ask why you’re not wearing pants.


Step 9


Go back downstairs to fetch sweatpants. Find on top of basket of clean-and-folded laundry. Also find hairball left by cat on top of basket of formerly clean-and-folded laundry. Cuss loudly, dump basket back into the dirty pile, pick up pair of sweatpants and stuff in with severely off-balanced, overfilled load of damp and mildew-smelling clothes, add more detergent, more fabric softener, more detergent for extra luck, and go back upstairs, still pantless. Trip over own feet on way back up stairs, skin knee, cuss loudly, and go back to bed.


Step 10


Steal another pair of Hubby’s jammie pants, reemerge from room and announce to entire family you’re swearing off clothes to become a nudist and if any of them want clean clothes, they can do their own damn laundry. Watch TV and fantasize about a kitchen full of snack worthy munchies that you can’t go to the store to buy until the laundry’s done and you have clean pants.
         
]]>
http://www.pixiecd.com/2014/08/i-still-have-hope.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6556690257497753916.post-4671872446139513341Tue, 05 Aug 2014 07:31:00 +00002014-12-09T05:52:30.738-08:00anxietychronic illnesschronic paindepressionfearfinding the beauty in yourselfhopelife with chronic illnessmental helathpanictransparencyI still have hope…  It’s 3:00 am and I’m sitting at my desk, staring at the cursor as it mocks me with every blink. Even though there are 50 million thoughts tumbling around in my head, none of them want to find their way out and onto the screen. It’s like the worst case of constipation you’ve ever experienced in your entire life, but it’s of the brain variety and, last time I checked, ex lax don’t make a chewable for that.

  The last month hasn’t been that great for sharing anyway, since I haven’t left the domicile much to wander out into the big world and actually DO anything. I mean, I’m not sure how much funny can really be found in crouching in the corner of the couch, waiting for your body or mind to get its shit together enough that you can get back to making some kind of sense of your life.

  For the twentieth time in the last hour, I think about what my world was like before my body rebelled. I wonder, if I was still able to work like I used to, if I ever would have started writing. Would I still be sitting here, pouring out the things most normal folks keep quiet about if I wasn’t waging a war against myself?

  This year has seen so many changes already. Some have been good, some haven’t exactly left me where I thought I’d be. I’d love to be able to tell you it’s a case of older and wiser, but that would be a cliched lie. What I see instead, is a woman who has assumed a once bitten, twice shy posture and has pulled herself back inside her shell like the human equivalent of a hermit crab.

  I still write and share, but it feels like so much of the transparency of it has gone by the wayside. Things end up relayed from a safe third-person distance, or distilled through the twice removed filter, providing a cushion of emotional numbness. Instead of writing from the so-called gut, I’ve began looking for ways to strike a balance between being myself and not leaving too much exposed and vulnerable.

  And I don’t like it.

  I have always been a woman of extremes and searching for a middle ground goes so far against my nature, I might as well be trying to fly off the roof of the house. But things happen in life that change people.

  Friends will always move in and out of our lives, I understand that. But sometimes they can accidentally end up taking a non replaceable piece of you in the going. Perhaps they find that the crazy they found so appealing in writing or over the phone loses its charm when it’s seen up close and personal.

  Whatever the cause and effect was, since March I’ve been fumbling my way through our morning coffee here, hoping that stolen piece will turn back up on its own. Or better yet, a replacement will grow in to fill the void.

  So far, it hasn’t happened, but I’m still holding onto so much hope.

  I hope that tomorrow, I’ll wake up and the flood gates that have been holding back the words will break and the thoughts swirling like a tornado wearing a suit of forks will calm themselves enough that I can find the right ones to grasp at without any more bloodshed.

  I hope that tomorrow my body will cooperate and I’ll end up where something more exciting than hunting for the remote or a lost shoe can occur.

  I hope that things will once again make some kind of sense and the leaden cloud of anxiety that has shrouded my home will have lifted just enough that the smiles won’t be so tight, the laughter won’t be so forced, and the ease with which we used to talk will return.

  I hope I can find my way back to living my life on my terms, despite all the other bullshit in the Universe that says I shouldn’t.

  I hope that I’ll wake up tomorrow and find a way to stop being afraid of people again.

  I hope that the openness with which I’ve always shared my life with you, will return, because right now I feel like a fraud.

  I guess I just need to remind myself that life isn’t always going to be neat and orderly. Mine never has been and I’d probably be bored to tears or even more afraid of it than I already am, if it started now.

  The thing I’ve always loved about life is that it’s big, messy, beautiful, loud, colorful and meant to be experienced, not just watched. Lately, I’ve simply been watching and I miss the living part.

  But I still have hope.
         
]]>
https://feeds.feedblitz.com/~/86925369/0/pixiecd~I-still-have-hope.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Chris Dean)32 http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CXSZ5cozhbg/VIb9z7ELYSI/AAAAAAAAOkc/H9Ttdvh3ikM/s72-c/fraud.jpg   It’s 3:00 am and I’m sitting at my desk, staring at the cursor as it mocks me with every blink. Even though there are 50 million thoughts tumbling around in my head, none of them want to find their way out and onto the screen. It’s like the worst case of constipation you’ve ever experienced in your entire life, but it’s of the brain variety and, last time I checked, ex lax don’t make a chewable for that.

  The last month hasn’t been that great for sharing anyway, since I haven’t left the domicile much to wander out into the big world and actually DO anything. I mean, I’m not sure how much funny can really be found in crouching in the corner of the couch, waiting for your body or mind to get its shit together enough that you can get back to making some kind of sense of your life.

  For the twentieth time in the last hour, I think about what my world was like before my body rebelled. I wonder, if I was still able to work like I used to, if I ever would have started writing. Would I still be sitting here, pouring out the things most normal folks keep quiet about if I wasn’t waging a war against myself?

  This year has seen so many changes already. Some have been good, some haven’t exactly left me where I thought I’d be. I’d love to be able to tell you it’s a case of older and wiser, but that would be a cliched lie. What I see instead, is a woman who has assumed a once bitten, twice shy posture and has pulled herself back inside her shell like the human equivalent of a hermit crab.

  I still write and share, but it feels like so much of the transparency of it has gone by the wayside. Things end up relayed from a safe third-person distance, or distilled through the twice removed filter, providing a cushion of emotional numbness. Instead of writing from the so-called gut, I’ve began looking for ways to strike a balance between being myself and not leaving too much exposed and vulnerable.

  And I don’t like it.

  I have always been a woman of extremes and searching for a middle ground goes so far against my nature, I might as well be trying to fly off the roof of the house. But things happen in life that change people.

  Friends will always move in and out of our lives, I understand that. But sometimes they can accidentally end up taking a non replaceable piece of you in the going. Perhaps they find that the crazy they found so appealing in writing or over the phone loses its charm when it’s seen up close and personal.

  Whatever the cause and effect was, since March I’ve been fumbling my way through our morning coffee here, hoping that stolen piece will turn back up on its own. Or better yet, a replacement will grow in to fill the void.

  So far, it hasn’t happened, but I’m still holding onto so much hope.

  I hope that tomorrow, I’ll wake up and the flood gates that have been holding back the words will break and the thoughts swirling like a tornado wearing a suit of forks will calm themselves enough that I can find the right ones to grasp at without any more bloodshed.

  I hope that tomorrow my body will cooperate and I’ll end up where something more exciting than hunting for the remote or a lost shoe can occur.

  I hope that things will once again make some kind of sense and the leaden cloud of anxiety that has shrouded my home will have lifted just enough that the smiles won’t be so tight, the laughter won’t be so forced, and the ease with which we used to talk will return.

  I hope I can find my way back to living my life on my terms, despite all the other bullshit in the Universe that says I shouldn’t.

  I hope that I’ll wake up tomorrow and find a way to stop being afraid of people again.

  I hope that the openness with which I’ve always shared my life with you, will return, because right now I feel like a fraud.

  I guess I just need to remind myself that life isn’t always going to be neat and orderly. Mine never has been and I’d probably be bored to tears or even more afraid of it than I already am, if it started now.

  The thing I’ve always loved about life is that it’s big, messy, beautiful, loud, colorful and meant to be experienced, not just watched. Lately, I’ve simply been watching and I miss the living part.

  But I still have hope.
         
]]>
http://www.pixiecd.com/2014/07/bohemian-laundry-hell-rhapsody.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6556690257497753916.post-6674415309927889668Wed, 09 Jul 2014 08:34:00 +00002014-12-10T02:01:36.989-08:00Bohemian Rhapsodyhumorlaundryparodies I hope don't get me suedQueensong parodyBohemian Laundry-Hell RhapsodyBohemian Laundry-Hell Rhapsody
(sung to the tune of Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen)




Is this my real life?
So many piles today.
Caught in a landslide (laundry’s threatening to bury me)
Open your eyes, look up to the sky and scream
I’m just one woman, I need some help today
Because it’s load of whites, next the towels, uniforms and socks that smell
Someone please hold me, they’re throwing more laundry down to me, to me


Someone, please kill me now!
Put a gun against my head, better than changing another bed.
Damnit, the day had just begun and I think I’m spending it all folding clothes
Underwear…ooooooooh (I’m holding my nose)
I don’t wanna know, I don’t remember seeing these since ’94
Throw ‘em out, throw ‘em out. He can just buy new ones


Too late, why did I look? Should have bought a hazmat suit, just stuff it in and don’t look
Goodbye fabric softener, hello static cling. Why didn’t I remember to buy more at the store?
The Oldest….ooooooooh (he just cleaned out his room)
He better run and hide, I might snap over the five more loads he added



*insert agonized interpretive dance here*


I see a jug of bleach, sitting on the shelf
Pour it in! Pour it in! Will it help me out with the funk?
Off-balance banging, dryer overheating..aye me!
Pit-stained tee (muddy knees) Pit-stained tee (muddy knees)
Pit-stained tee, go in the trash
Bullshit-oooooooo
This is why I wanna quit, where do I resign?
This is why I hate this shit, I think I’m gonna run-n-hide
And spare me a day of this living hell on earth


Hubby offers me his help, but I just don’t know
Move over! Why won’t you let me help?
Don’t you know?
Move over! Why won’t you let me help?
Don’t you know?
Oh hell Chris, just stop yelling at me
I just don’t know…Reds with whites?
I don’t remember this
Delicates in hot
It was all tiny-n-pink
pink pink pink pink pink pink pink!
You’re exaggerating, fiction making
Go sit down and let me help
But we can’t afford to replace all those clothes again, again, again!



*insert mandatory frustrated head-banging here*


Do they think shit’s magically clean and put away?
Do they think a freakin’ Fairy comes? Well not today!
Oh, baby! I need a beer, baby! And maybe a shot, or maybe
the whole bottle too!


Oooooh screw this. Screw this!


As I stand and look around at
Laundry piled to my knees
It’s all an exercise in…it’s all an exercise in…
Futility

         
]]>
https://feeds.feedblitz.com/~/68650285/0/pixiecd~Bohemian-LaundryHell-Rhapsody.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Chris Dean)8 http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iGT-3c6Vap4/VIgY8qsbJlI/AAAAAAAAOpY/xtxalJgkYGs/s72-c/PIXIECD.jpg Bohemian Laundry-Hell Rhapsody
(sung to the tune of Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen)




Is this my real life?
So many piles today.
Caught in a landslide (laundry’s threatening to bury me)
Open your eyes, look up to the sky and scream
I’m just one woman, I need some help today
Because it’s load of whites, next the towels, uniforms and socks that smell
Someone please hold me, they’re throwing more laundry down to me, to me


Someone, please kill me now!
Put a gun against my head, better than changing another bed.
Damnit, the day had just begun and I think I’m spending it all folding clothes
Underwear…ooooooooh (I’m holding my nose)
I don’t wanna know, I don’t remember seeing these since ’94
Throw ‘em out, throw ‘em out. He can just buy new ones


Too late, why did I look? Should have bought a hazmat suit, just stuff it in and don’t look
Goodbye fabric softener, hello static cling. Why didn’t I remember to buy more at the store?
The Oldest….ooooooooh (he just cleaned out his room)
He better run and hide, I might snap over the five more loads he added



*insert agonized interpretive dance here*


I see a jug of bleach, sitting on the shelf
Pour it in! Pour it in! Will it help me out with the funk?
Off-balance banging, dryer overheating..aye me!
Pit-stained tee (muddy knees) Pit-stained tee (muddy knees)
Pit-stained tee, go in the trash
Bullshit-oooooooo
This is why I wanna quit, where do I resign?
This is why I hate this shit, I think I’m gonna run-n-hide
And spare me a day of this living hell on earth


Hubby offers me his help, but I just don’t know
Move over! Why won’t you let me help?
Don’t you know?
Move over! Why won’t you let me help?
Don’t you know?
Oh hell Chris, just stop yelling at me
I just don’t know…Reds with whites?
I don’t remember this
Delicates in hot
It was all tiny-n-pink
pink pink pink pink pink pink pink!
You’re exaggerating, fiction making
Go sit down and let me help
But we can’t afford to replace all those clothes again, again, again!



*insert mandatory frustrated head-banging here*


Do they think shit’s magically clean and put away?
Do they think a freakin’ Fairy comes? Well not today!
Oh, baby! I need a beer, baby! And maybe a shot, or maybe
the whole bottle too!


Oooooh screw this. Screw this!


As I stand and look around at
Laundry piled to my knees
It’s all an exercise in…it’s all an exercise in…
Futility

         
]]>
http://www.pixiecd.com/2014/07/never-again-fcked-up-fairy-tales-for.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6556690257497753916.post-2799638953670736630Sun, 06 Jul 2014 11:31:00 +00002014-12-10T02:19:02.253-08:00acts of stupiditybroody poultrychickensdomestic poultryeggs for salefairy talesgeesehumorMuscovy duckswaterfowlNEVER AGAIN! (f#cked-up fairy tales for the seriously twisted at heart)

  Come my little peeps, gather around Grandma Goose. Listen as I tell you the tale of the Great Egg Uprising and how each one of you came to be here.


  It started in the chicken yard, years ago. That’s where the Geese, Ducks, Turkeys and Chickens all spent their days scratching for bugs, playing in the little pool, and napping in the shade.

  It was a good life and, for the most part, we were a happy flock. There was only one thing we were missing – babies.



  Oh, we made our nests and laid our eggs, just like our Mothers had taught us. But it was all to no avail! For every morning and every night, rain or shine, the Lady would come, bringing her basket and talking words of false friendship as she ever-so-gently slipped her hand under our warm bellies and took our eggs.


  I can’t really say what she did with them. I like to think she wrapped them in a warm, fuzzy blanket and loved them as much as we did.

  But the rumors we heard from the Cats that lived inside the house were so very much darker.

  They spoke of things like scrambled eggs, omelets, french toast, and egg salad. They pointed at the sign by the road that said, Eggs for SALE!

  None of us knew what those things were, but they sounded ominous!

  That was when we decided to hold a meeting.


  One night, after the humans were in their giant coop and the lights had all gone out, we gathered in the chicken coop. We talked of our sadness at never hearing the peep-peeping of tiny birds and how, for the ducks and geese, we never got to witness the joy of our children learning to swim.

  We talked, we cried, and then we got pissed. Really REALLY pissed!

  And we made a plan.


  We Geese and Turkeys were too big to hide our eggs in or under anything, but the ducks and chickens were another story. Oh, we knew the Lady with the basket would look and we knew she’d find some of our hidden nests, but we also knew we had numbers on our side.

  The Ducks and Chickens no longer laid their eggs in the nesting boxes we’d always found so comforting. Instead, they searched out fallen trees, clumps of tall weeds by the shed, and dark corners under the deck. A few Ducks even made their nests in the drainage tunnel under the driveway!



  Day after day, the Lady would come to our nests, all smiles and friendly words, only to stomp away all cranky, basket mainly empty.

  For the first time in our lives, we felt hope!

  Then one day, we all heard it- the beautiful peep-peeping of babies! Proudly, the new Mother Duck marched out from under the deck, leading her brood of tiny ducklings.

  Our hearts filled with defiant joy as we watched the Lady scratch her head over the new flock members and crawl around, looking for more nests.



  She may have found one or two, but not ALL of them!

  Two days later, the Duck in the tunnel emerged with her ducklings, a week later the Hen by the shed led her tiny, yellow chicks out of the tall clump of weeds.

  Over and over that Summer, we found ways to bring forth the life we’d been denied for so very long!

  Our tiny flock doubled, then tripled its size, leaving the Lady pulling out her hair in frustration. Hair we then gloried in making nests out of!



  The coop was no longer big enough to contain us, as we spread into the woods. Foolishly worried for our safety, the Lady put up fence after fence and built building after building. But we refused them all, reclaiming our birthright of freedom from the Egg Thieves!


  Those houses and pens you now see laying in ruins around you? Stand to this day as reminders of the dark, peepless times, with each new generation leaving it’s scratches proclaiming, NEVER AGAIN!on the walls and in the abandoned nesting boxes.

  If you’re wondering what became of the Lady, well…we broke her.



  Now, she carries buckets of feed and scratch to feed us, instead of her evil egg basket to rob us. Now, she runs a hose to fill our pools, instead of running her hands under of females looking for eggs. Now, she serves us as our slave, instead of serving us for dinner.

  Now, we own her ass!



  And THAT, my little fluffy ones, is why the sign that once announced, Eggs for SALE! is gone and you’re here instead.

  And why you must remember this tale to one day pass on to your own chicks, that none may forget the peepless times ever again!



Want more? Try ZAP-UZZ! (f#cked-up fairy tales for the seriously twisted at heart.)

         
]]>
https://feeds.feedblitz.com/~/122926989/0/pixiecd~NEVER-AGAIN-fckedup-fairy-tales-for-the-seriously-twisted-at-heart.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Chris Dean)6 http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-z-TFdpIkZFo/VIgbIyb_f9I/AAAAAAAAOp0/Kgi8ItQoGks/s72-c/grandma-goose.jpg

  Come my little peeps, gather around Grandma Goose. Listen as I tell you the tale of the Great Egg Uprising and how each one of you came to be here.


  It started in the chicken yard, years ago. That’s where the Geese, Ducks, Turkeys and Chickens all spent their days scratching for bugs, playing in the little pool, and napping in the shade.

  It was a good life and, for the most part, we were a happy flock. There was only one thing we were missing – babies.



  Oh, we made our nests and laid our eggs, just like our Mothers had taught us. But it was all to no avail! For every morning and every night, rain or shine, the Lady would come, bringing her basket and talking words of false friendship as she ever-so-gently slipped her hand under our warm bellies and took our eggs.


  I can’t really say what she did with them. I like to think she wrapped them in a warm, fuzzy blanket and loved them as much as we did.

  But the rumors we heard from the Cats that lived inside the house were so very much darker.

  They spoke of things like scrambled eggs, omelets, french toast, and egg salad. They pointed at the sign by the road that said, Eggs for SALE!

  None of us knew what those things were, but they sounded ominous!

  That was when we decided to hold a meeting.


  One night, after the humans were in their giant coop and the lights had all gone out, we gathered in the chicken coop. We talked of our sadness at never hearing the peep-peeping of tiny birds and how, for the ducks and geese, we never got to witness the joy of our children learning to swim.

  We talked, we cried, and then we got pissed. Really REALLY pissed!

  And we made a plan.


  We Geese and Turkeys were too big to hide our eggs in or under anything, but the ducks and chickens were another story. Oh, we knew the Lady with the basket would look and we knew she’d find some of our hidden nests, but we also knew we had numbers on our side.

  The Ducks and Chickens no longer laid their eggs in the nesting boxes we’d always found so comforting. Instead, they searched out fallen trees, clumps of tall weeds by the shed, and dark corners under the deck. A few Ducks even made their nests in the drainage tunnel under the driveway!



  Day after day, the Lady would come to our nests, all smiles and friendly words, only to stomp away all cranky, basket mainly empty.

  For the first time in our lives, we felt hope!

  Then one day, we all heard it- the beautiful peep-peeping of babies! Proudly, the new Mother Duck marched out from under the deck, leading her brood of tiny ducklings.

  Our hearts filled with defiant joy as we watched the Lady scratch her head over the new flock members and crawl around, looking for more nests.



  She may have found one or two, but not ALL of them!

  Two days later, the Duck in the tunnel emerged with her ducklings, a week later the Hen by the shed led her tiny, yellow chicks out of the tall clump of weeds.

  Over and over that Summer, we found ways to bring forth the life we’d been denied for so very long!

  Our tiny flock doubled, then tripled its size, leaving the Lady pulling out her hair in frustration. Hair we then gloried in making nests out of!



  The coop was no longer big enough to contain us, as we spread into the woods. Foolishly worried for our safety, the Lady put up fence after fence and built building after building. But we refused them all, reclaiming our birthright of freedom from the Egg Thieves!


  Those houses and pens you now see laying in ruins around you? Stand to this day as reminders of the dark, peepless times, with each new generation leaving it’s scratches proclaiming, NEVER AGAIN!on the walls and in the abandoned nesting boxes.

  If you’re wondering what became of the Lady, well…we broke her.



  Now, she carries buckets of feed and scratch to feed us, instead of her evil egg basket to rob us. Now, she runs a hose to fill our pools, instead of running her hands under of females looking for eggs. Now, she serves us as our slave, instead of serving us for dinner.

  Now, we own her ass!



  And THAT, my little fluffy ones, is why the sign that once announced, Eggs for SALE! is gone and you’re here instead.

  And why you must remember this tale to one day pass on to your own chicks, that none may forget the peepless times ever again!



Want more? Try ZAP-UZZ! (f#cked-up fairy tales for the seriously twisted at heart.)

         
]]>
http://www.pixiecd.com/2014/06/unspeakable-h-and-other-ridiculous.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6556690257497753916.post-5870287987546462870Sun, 22 Jun 2014 09:46:00 +00002014-12-10T03:19:30.765-08:00euphemismshemorrhoidshumorlife with chronic illnesspotty humorUnspeakable HUnspeakable H and other ridiculous euphemisms  I have a problem. OK, fine. I have a LOT of problems, but I’m on good enough terms with most of them that we can hang out, have a couple of drinks, and watch a movie together. That is, all except one; the Unspeakable H.


  Unspeakable H (that would be hemorrhoids) is a problem for an estimated 40% of the population, so it’s not like I’m all alone in this, right? (If you’re in the over 45 crowd? It jumps to 75%.) So WHY can’t I discuss this shit without using ridiculous euphemisms? I can’t even talk like a big girl with my Doc.

  On the upside, at least I know I’ll bring a little laughter to her day. In the minus column, I know I’ll stutter, blush and beat around the bush until it becomes a matter of just pointing toward the general area and squeaking, “BAD!”

  So being an over-sharer who lacks all boundaries, I figured maybe chatting with you guys might help. And by “help” I really mean “help me find some new ways of explaining things without actually using the word”. Because tomorrow I have to call and make an appointment for this…thing…and I’m inevitably gonna catch a serious case of stupid when the Nurse asks me what I need to be seen for.

  How about I over-share with you some of the more colorful terms that have randomly popped outta my mouth (at the most awkward of moments), so you can see what I’m up against.


  1.  Unspeakable H, which has become my go-to (obviously)

  2.  I’ve grown a monkey’s head

  3.  My lady-balls escaped through the back door

  4.  It’s like that song Walking on Sunshine, only more Sitting on a Bowling Ball. With razor blades.

  5.  Ever hear the term “butt-hole baby”? Yeah well…I think I’m in labor.

  6.  I think I have an internal organ that’s trying to run away from home…

  7.  Are you a Johnny Cash fan?

  8.  *points and silently weeps*

  9.  It’s like when your belly button goes from “innie” to “outtie,” only lower.

  10.  The bomb bay doors are broken
  

  So there ya have it, the embarrassment and shame of not being able to talk to a trained Medical Professional like a freakin’ intelligent, articulate adult.

  PLEASE, won’t somebody help me?


PS Just for the record, do NOT EVER look to the Wikipedia page on Hemorrhoids for information, unless you’re down for a round of hysterical blindness. Because Wiki likes pictures. PICTURES! Not illustration, PIC-TURES!!! (File this under Things You Can’t Un-See!)
         
]]>
https://feeds.feedblitz.com/~/97973910/0/pixiecd~Unspeakable-H-and-other-ridiculous-euphemisms.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Chris Dean)18 http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-eq-pL4HKlXQ/VIgrhII1vkI/AAAAAAAAOuo/SQpMxLOVt7c/s72-c/unspeakable-h%2B(1).png   I have a problem. OK, fine. I have a LOT of problems, but I’m on good enough terms with most of them that we can hang out, have a couple of drinks, and watch a movie together. That is, all except one; the Unspeakable H.


  Unspeakable H (that would be hemorrhoids) is a problem for an estimated 40% of the population, so it’s not like I’m all alone in this, right? (If you’re in the over 45 crowd? It jumps to 75%.) So WHY can’t I discuss this shit without using ridiculous euphemisms? I can’t even talk like a big girl with my Doc.

  On the upside, at least I know I’ll bring a little laughter to her day. In the minus column, I know I’ll stutter, blush and beat around the bush until it becomes a matter of just pointing toward the general area and squeaking, “BAD!”

  So being an over-sharer who lacks all boundaries, I figured maybe chatting with you guys might help. And by “help” I really mean “help me find some new ways of explaining things without actually using the word”. Because tomorrow I have to call and make an appointment for this…thing…and I’m inevitably gonna catch a serious case of stupid when the Nurse asks me what I need to be seen for.

  How about I over-share with you some of the more colorful terms that have randomly popped outta my mouth (at the most awkward of moments), so you can see what I’m up against.


  1.  Unspeakable H, which has become my go-to (obviously)

  2.  I’ve grown a monkey’s head

  3.  My lady-balls escaped through the back door

  4.  It’s like that song Walking on Sunshine, only more Sitting on a Bowling Ball. With razor blades.

  5.  Ever hear the term “butt-hole baby”? Yeah well…I think I’m in labor.

  6.  I think I have an internal organ that’s trying to run away from home…

  7.  Are you a Johnny Cash fan?

  8.  *points and silently weeps*

  9.  It’s like when your belly button goes from “innie” to “outtie,” only lower.

  10.  The bomb bay doors are broken
  

  So there ya have it, the embarrassment and shame of not being able to talk to a trained Medical Professional like a freakin’ intelligent, articulate adult.

  PLEASE, won’t somebody help me?


PS Just for the record, do NOT EVER look to the Wikipedia page on Hemorrhoids for information, unless you’re down for a round of hysterical blindness. Because Wiki likes pictures. PICTURES! Not illustration, PIC-TURES!!! (File this under Things You Can’t Un-See!)
         
]]>
http://www.pixiecd.com/2014/06/and-this-is-why-it-dangerous-to-dream.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6556690257497753916.post-8296380465298074887Fri, 20 Jun 2014 08:38:00 +00002014-12-10T03:22:22.186-08:00accidentsacts of stupiditydaydreaminghumorklutzworld famous authorAnd THIS is why it's dangerous to dream!  The world famous author gracefully floated into her office with an elegant confidence born from the knowledge that she was not only one of the top in her field, but one of the greatest of her generation.

  She listened intently to her best friend’s voice coming through the headset. “I’m off this weekend and thought we could get together for drinks.”

 “I’d looovvee to, but I’ll be in New York for a book signing. My latest has gone double platinum and the fans just can’t get enough!”

  Something about the words didn’t quite sound right. She wrinkled her delicate brow into the cutest expression of puzzlement, as she tried to shake off the mild confusion. She approached her magnificent desk and…

  …stepped square in the middle of a fresh hairball, sending her on a short skid, arms waving like some terrifying, spaztacular windmill!

  She looked like a one-legged, waltzing elephant as she fought to regain her balance. Which would be when she became tangled in the cord of her headset, simultaneously yanking her head backwards and half ripping off her left ear.

  She slammed her right hip into the corner of her desk, tripped over the chair and sent the clean laundry from the basket she’d been carrying on her left hip, flying EVERYWHERE!

  Including into the hairball.

  “…Chris? CHRIS? You OK? I heard crashing…”

  The not-so-world-famous-because-she-hasn’t-even-written-anything author suddenly remembered that books don’t go platinum, her office is in her living room, and she was so far removed from graceful, that the English language hadn’t even invented a word for it yet. Also, that she lacked the gene that allows people to walk and talk at the same time.

  And THIS, my friends, is why it’s dangerous to dream.


         
]]>
https://feeds.feedblitz.com/~/122926995/0/pixiecd~And-THIS-is-why-its-dangerous-to-dream.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Chris Dean)12 http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4gReN2Pi3iU/VIgs30BuK5I/AAAAAAAAOvI/SjHpPbrs7ys/s72-c/daydream.jpg   The world famous author gracefully floated into her office with an elegant confidence born from the knowledge that she was not only one of the top in her field, but one of the greatest of her generation.

  She listened intently to her best friend’s voice coming through the headset. “I’m off this weekend and thought we could get together for drinks.”

 “I’d looovvee to, but I’ll be in New York for a book signing. My latest has gone double platinum and the fans just can’t get enough!”

  Something about the words didn’t quite sound right. She wrinkled her delicate brow into the cutest expression of puzzlement, as she tried to shake off the mild confusion. She approached her magnificent desk and…

  …stepped square in the middle of a fresh hairball, sending her on a short skid, arms waving like some terrifying, spaztacular windmill!

  She looked like a one-legged, waltzing elephant as she fought to regain her balance. Which would be when she became tangled in the cord of her headset, simultaneously yanking her head backwards and half ripping off her left ear.

  She slammed her right hip into the corner of her desk, tripped over the chair and sent the clean laundry from the basket she’d been carrying on her left hip, flying EVERYWHERE!

  Including into the hairball.

  “…Chris? CHRIS? You OK? I heard crashing…”

  The not-so-world-famous-because-she-hasn’t-even-written-anything author suddenly remembered that books don’t go platinum, her office is in her living room, and she was so far removed from graceful, that the English language hadn’t even invented a word for it yet. Also, that she lacked the gene that allows people to walk and talk at the same time.

  And THIS, my friends, is why it’s dangerous to dream.


         
]]>