5/16/00
It has been decided that little Martha is not suited for walking on a leash. It just isn't working. Even with the evil dog torture contraption, she is capable of pulling and being a general pain in the ass. And it's virtually impossible to keep her under control. Last night I smacked her for charging a very large (and mean) dog and, even though the other people around looked at me like I just ripped off her head and took a bite out of it, it didn't even phase her. So if you ever see me beating the hell out of a little beagle-weiner, here's a word of advice--SHE DOESN'T EVEN NOTICE. SHE IS NOT ABUSED. I DO NOT BEAT HER INTO SUBMISSION and that should be obvious by her behavior. Of course, it doesn't help that George cowers behind my legs when I smack Martha because he WAS BEATEN by someone else, so it really looks like I hit them routinely... So Martha is no longer allowed to go for walks. I will take her to the field and let her run, but she isn't fit for a leash. Hey, some dogs just aren't.
You will never GUESS what I did this morning--I actually hauled my ass out of bed at 5:40 A.M., got dressed, and went for a 2-mile walk. GET OUT! Yes, it's really true! And as I was winding up my walk, and feeling the blister forming on my right heel (because Noodle at the heel off my shoe several months ago) and feeling the pains shooting down both knees into my shins, and feeling the sinus pain and pressure caused by the great outdoors, I thought to myself...I DON'T FEEL ANY DAMN BETTER THAN I WOULD HAVE HAD I STAYED IN BED. I did get awful damn happy once I quit walking, though, so maybe that's the whole "mood lifting" concept behind exercise--it feels really damn great when you stop doing it. If the fucking health freaks would just SAY that...
I finished up my paper this morning. It's not great, but I have to say, it's better than what Megan did, bless her little heart. I know I rip on social workers a lot, so let me say this--I wouldn't do your damn jobs for all the tea in China. The two things I hate most in the world are stupid people and dirty people, so I'd last as a social worker for oh, about 30 seconds. I admire anyone who can explain (800 times) the legal system to a filthy idiot who dropped out of junior high to become a professional breeder without smacking them upside the head and screaming "think, moron, think!" All the same, it takes a special person to be a social worker, and it shows in the way you all handle your lives OUTSIDE of work. I've observed Megan and her social work friends try to decide where to hang out on Friday night. By the time they make a decision that everyone is "comfortable" with, it's Sunday. It has taken her and another social work friend a whole three weeks just to decide on a time and place for lunch--and not because of busy schedules, either, but because they couldn't decide on where to meet. She continuously pays her bills late because "I'm just not good at keeping track of things." (If she can't relate to it on an "emotive level," she just plain can't relate.) I challenge anyone to introduce me to a well-organized, logic-minded, well kempt social worker. I don't think it's environmentally possible.
Now that I've likely pissed off a large number of people, I should point out that Mary Dugger, sainted author of The History of Lesbian Hair, has suggested that this inability to focus is not a social work problem, but rather a lesbian problem often mistaken for a social work problem because historically, nearly all social workers are lesbians. I think she may be on to something.
Now that I've pissed off even more people, I will move on...
My cell phone has not worked since Friday afternoon. I called the wireless service yesterday and they insist it's a problem with the phone. I called the store where I bought the phone and they insist it's a problem with the service. I have a feeling this is going to be one of those long, drawn-out situations that ends up raising my blood pressure.
My friend C is hosting dinner tonight. He's making his famous meatloaf, mash-ta-patoes and gravy, sweet corn and probably some lovely dessert. God love him. I don't even like meatloaf, but his culinary talents have yet to disappoint me, so I'm willing to give it a shot.
I am sooooo glad school is over for a while. Hell, I'm just glad this semester's over, and I managed to make it through relatively scratch-free. I am so exhausted...I need a vacation so fucking bad. June 30 can't get here quickly enough.
"...from now on, nothing but the best--Cognac and Patsy Cline while drinkin' in my Sunday dress..."
That prick from the collection agency called yesterday and was being all six degrees of nosey and asking questions that he legally cannot ask, such as "are you representing her in a bankruptcy proceeding?" That, for the record, is none of his fucking business. If you're ever in a situation such as this, I would highly suggest keeping your mouth shut and hiring a lawyer. And make sure they'll work on contingent.
The morning is almost over. It feels a lot later than it really is (11:00), probably because I've been up since the ass crack of dawn. I'll be drooling on my keyboard by 2:00.
CRUUUUNNNCH--that's the sound of me eating yet another damn rice cake. My web page is now officially interactive! Whoopee! In case I haven't pointed it out already, I'm not "dieting" because of any concern over what I look like. I may bitch about not having a waist anymore, but I really don't give a shit, and I don't think anyone else should, either. It's just that I seriously can't wear many of my clothes anymore because the damn things cut off circulation. And I can't afford a new wardrobe right now. So I resort to rice cakery. Fuck, I want to be 18 again...
I'm listening to a tape my ex-husband made me when we were still friends. All kinds of songs evoking all kinds of moods...I'm so damned melodramatic.
"And she's wound up, shooting off, burning out, tearing up the midnight heart..."
Oh, fucking shit--I just erased a tape that I hadn't typed yet. FUCK! I do that all the goddamn time. I think it's all part of my subconscious desire to get fired and live the life of the slacker I've always aspired to be. Shit on toast.
I feel like my dogs must feel when they've been shut up in their kennels all day. I think I'm about to explode. My brain has been through way too much lately, and now I totally can't focus on any one thing. Wasn't this my original problem? In a way, but not the same...this is more like complete exhaustion, like it's been a real interesting year, and now I need a couple of weeks to go sit on a beach somewhere and mentally digest it all. Know what I mean, Vern?
Half the time even I'M not sure what the fuck I mean. I really hope that changes.
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