A Whiney Placeholder Updated and Expanded

Whoa, I did a hit and run on you this morning.  I thought about taking this post down, but that seems wrong since a few of you were kind enough to leave comments.  Thank you.  Instead I'm going to expand it because (1) There's more I wish to whine about and (2) There is no number two.  It's all about the whining and making you glad you're you and not me.  You sitting there all employed and paid up and thin. 

Oh, and it's about the titles.  I added titles because some website about how to blog better said to have subtitles to break up all the whacko text.



We Have Buckets and Bathtubs, We Can Make Do
It's true, I did wake at 3a.m. to worry about how were were going to pay the extra large water bill this month.  blah, blah, blah. I fretted it about that for a while and then I fell back to sleep and had a dream that ties to the next thing on my list.

Dreams of Mirena
(old) My weight has plateaued meanwhile I crave chocolate ice cream and broccoli. (begin upate)  As I mentioned to a friend the other day, I always spell broccoli wrong the first time I write or type it.  Brocolli.  Sounds more exotic.  It still needs butter.

So here's the dream sequence.  I dreamt that this weight and the strange cravings were a result of a pregnancy of which I'd gone unaware.  I swear to you, I am not pregnant in real life.  I would have felt the kid struggling by now.  So, please, don't worry.  Perhaps this whole pregnancy thing is symbolic of the nearly like giving birth experience of writing this manuscript. 

But here's the thing.  In my dream, I was pregnant, but didn't know it.  I went to the guy who looks up my vagina every five years, announces in a loud voice that I have a tilted uterus and then inserts my IUD while making jokes about the size of MathMan's penis in the form of offering to "cut the string on it (the IUD, not MM's cock)" if it's a problem.  Then I joke that he's making great leaps of assumptions about the fact that I'm even bothering to have sex with anyone these days.  We both chortle then we make a date for five years from then.

So I'm on the table, feet in stirrups, listening to some elevator version of a Nirvana song, and counting the dots on the drop ceiling when suddenly the doctor tells me to push and out pops this red, wrinkled, really pissed off little person.  And what do you know?  There's my fucking IUD planted right in that poor baby's forehead.  No wonder he's all annoyed and screaming.

That's when I woke up.  Well, actually, right before that, I said to the doctor "I thought that IUD felt funny when you put it in."

Then I woke up and groaned to MathMan about my back.  I was so ready to get busy bitching, I neglected to tell him about my dream.  Besides, I read somewhere that morning is when most people have heart attacks and why risk it?  I like MathMan.

Paging Doctor Freud (Pronounced the way Bill and Ted pronounced it during their Excellent Adventure)
This part still stands, but I'm rather miffed at the inelegant way I wrote here.  Alcoholism is no laughing matter, yo. I do think my drinking problem is getting worse and it concerns me that wine may or may not be considered an essential as we cut back our spending even further.  And wine is fucking impossible to find at the food pantry.  Plus there's no Trader Joes nearby so I can't even get two buck chuck.  I do like Alecto's suggestion of wine in a box.  At least that way, I won't feel so much like my departed mother-in-law.  Seriously, get me a some jugs of Gallo, cigarettes, a job in a library, and a penchant for computer solitaire and MathMan has married his mother.

Maybe I should have titled that section Winey.

Where I'm Going Is Nowhere Fast
Then:  Now I have to go.  I'm going to visit the Employment Office again.  Cough cough.
Now:  Okay, so I did this.  It was crowded.  Our community just recently lost 250 more jobs so the competition for the twenty-three jobs listed under our county have even more competition. Great.  Just great.  Eight of those jobs come under the agricultural heading and they want you to be able to climb a ladder.  Hell, I might be pregnant and not know it and I'm terrified of heights so those jobs are probably a long shot.

But at least now I know I have one week of benefits left.  One week for Congress to get its act together.  I don't care who is standing in whose way.  Just pull your shit together, folks, and get those checks into the hands of those people who aren't turning down jobs.  They can't fucking find the jobs.  I swear to Bristol Palin's engagement ring, I'm going to start posting the job postings here and let you guys see how much fun it is to try to find a job right now.

I came home and applied for three more jobs, including the one I got laid off from.  Just for laughs*.  Next on my agenda is the selling of books and other stuff, perhaps some plasma, and shaking down Chloe for more of her tip money.  Truth is - she's been contributing already while saving enough to pay her school fees.  It's the other two we should put to work in the fields.  They're not afraid of heights.  It's not like it's cool to sell them on ebay anymore.  Some dope ruined that for the rest of us a few years ago.  But hey - the cats. Surely, there's someone who wants to buy five cats slightly used.

I'm kidding about some of this, of course, so don't freak.  It's venting and amusing myself, hopefully you.  It's okay to laugh, you know.  If we don't find the humor in this, we may as well just quit now.  As for us, we're not considering a mass exodus yet.  Oh, there was one point yesterday when I thought you guys might be referring to The Goldens in the past tense, but that had more to do with the fact the some people around here are really, really loud and I was trying to work on my manuscript.  We all got over it.  They were banished and I started drinking earlier than usual.

Finally.

Cheer me up, people!  (You're still welcome to do this.)
And hey you, that guy who keeps emailing me about his sex life.  Stop it.  Didn't I tell you once that your situation reminded me way too much of a time when I was ready to tie my whole life to the railroad tracks and stand back to watch the splatter?  Why do you think it's clever to continue to send me your "stories?"  How on earth do you think that might cheer me up?  And yes, I'm being wildly passive aggressive by calling you out here, but sometimes it takes a sledgehammer.

(stet) Love,

Lisa

*Lie