Birds are A-Holes

*Warning for absolutely horrible language. The following account is completely true and maybe only slightly embellished due to hysteria. 

Nola, my pain in the ass cat.

Nola, my cat, escaped (again) last night when I forgot to latch the front door after letting Roxy out. It was raining and I didn't hear the door not close. Also, I was on the phone with my friend from Autism Art Project, so I was distracted. I hung up with her and was trying to get Morgan into bed... He kept getting up and wandering around.

That's when shit got real and my actions stopped making sense.

I heard Morgan yell, "CAT! Cat's out!" and he was freaking out, so I ran outside into the mothereffing storm. No jacket, no flashlight, and zero common sense.

Nola viewing her domain.

Ugh. I was yelling for this cat, shaking bushes and trees. She ran out to me and then back into a bush, just to be a jerk, so I followed her, trying to grab her. Did you know cats are really freakin' slick when they're wet? And dark cats are really hard to see in the dark without a flashlight?

I lost sight of her until I just barely heard a peeping sound over the booming thunder and howling wind. I saw the big bush next to my downstairs (directly underneath me) neighbor's patio moving wildly. Nola had climbed up into the damned thing. 

Apparently, she'd seen where the mockingbirds (whatever kind, they're asshole birds) had built a nest and stuck two of their babies. She snagged a baby before I could grab her scruff and ran into the hedges, which are mean ass holly bushes. Also, I'm convinced snakes are in there.

I then made it my goal to chase her away from the baby bird. In the rain. And thunder. And lightning. So, basically, I would chase Nola some and then stop and scream as lightning would streak across the sky, then run. I went across the damned parking lot and toward the "swamp," got soaking wet, busted my ass, and had nasty mud between my toes. I was visualizing snakes, rats, and God only knows what else in the dark.

I came back inside the apartment and Thomas gave me the third degree about our delinquent cat, why I didn't have her, and why I wasn't interested in nabbing her. I mean, the little shit tried to KILL a baby bird! How dare she? I was seriously indignant. He wasn't seeing things my way, so he went to look for her, but no dice. All I could think about was that poor baby bird, which doesn't make sense. I loathe birds. I have a serious phobia of birds. I will panic if a bird comes near me. And, hell, I could have been hit by lightning! Or bitten by a snake!

The storm eventually got worse and Nola came inside because I'm a tenderhearted asshole and stood outside getting wet while calling her.

This morning, I could hear the momma bird squawking her terrifying ass off, looking for her baby. Really, she was negligent for not watching her kids, right? Who leaves their children overnight? I came outside and looked over the balcony. It was a miracle! I saw the baby bird, still breathing, on the ground! It was in the mean ass holly bushes!

So, I faced my phobia, because I'm a good person, dammit, grabbed a clean washcloth, and went downstairs. Immediately,that momma bird started on the attack, trying to peck my eyes out. "Just effing stop!" I yelled. But she didn't. I was terrified.

I picked up that baby bird ever so gently and that's when the momma bird went ten shades of psycho. She was swooping and screaming, cawing like nothing I've ever heard in my entire life right next to my ear. I had to persist in my task of picking up her baby, though. It was like I was on a mission from God. Or something.

I had to drop the baby in the nest like it was a lump of hot coal because, dammit, my life was at stake. I could have died. That damn bird wasn't grateful to have her kid back! She was still dive bombing me and trying to peck my very brains out!

Unfit mother bird. 

She's been yelling at my door all damned day and tried to take my head off when I took Morgan to school. I mean, she got her kid back! I wasn't even the nest wrecker! She ought to be glad I don't call Avian CPS on her!

What a bitch of a bird. Gah. No wonder I have phobias.

Unless it's a box turtle, I'm never rescuing another animal ever again. Ever.

*My friend tried to convince me that the bird is my spirit animal and this fight with the momma bird is symbolic of me protecting my kids or some such crap. You know what? My spirit animal is a cheetah. Cheetahs eat birds and wake in the morning to piss excellence. 

An Uncommon Father's Day Tribute

Dear Dad,

Thanks for screwing up in a phenomenal way.

Your screw ups, and their lasting effects on me, have done me a world of favors. Truly. I used to loathe you for it, but now I only feel some mild apathy and pity because you've missed out on the nine best things to ever happen to your world- your children and grandchildren.

By your actions, you taught me that a promise is never real until it's proven.

You taught me that I could always pass the buck to someone else if I wanted nothing to do with the task at hand. However, what you neglected to say out loud is that you cannot gripe about the results because you've given up all responsibility.

You were the life professor who taught me to never settle for less than I would be willing to give. To never hang all of my hopes and dreams on a person who doesn't love himself enough to love me in return. To never show all of my cards because someone will take advantage of that, like you.

I learned that addictive personalities are genetic, but being an ignorant  jackass isn't.

You taught me what to look for in a father for my children. Someone who would care. Be there. Someone who would remember their child's birthday.. or a graduation.. or the birth of a grandchild or a wedding. Someone who would want to be there. Someone who understood that my parents being at an event for our children was a privilege, not a right. You lost the memo for the last one.

You taught me that I didn't want to marry someone like you in my formative years. Someone who would not be violent, someone I could trust, and someone with a real backbone, who wouldn't allow his childhood to rule his head for his entire adulthood. Without ever actually directing me that way, you sold me on the idea of gravitating toward a survivor like me who would understand that life's not always a pretty picture for everyone. We, at the time, were the best things to happen to each other. So, thank you.

As a frequent consumer of cheap booze and spewer of denial, you instilled in me the belief that I must take responsibility for my actions- while intoxicated or sober.  A whole world built upon lies must make your head a very frightening place. It's a place that no therapist, medication, or daughter can explore because you've closed off the in roads. That world must be lonely, but we on the outside will never know. I speak and live my truth to the best of my abilities. I poke fun at it, but I try to never deny it.

In the less than dozen times I saw you growing up, you taught me that I wanted more for myself. That I would never be comfortable with someone else raising my children, as you were, while I was raising someone else's, as you did.

I know that just because you're so terrified of being responsible for what you've created, doesn't mean that I'm the same way. I'm not like you.

I learned from you that I have strong roots in things which aren't great, but I am the person who chooses to cut those roots. I choose my future and what I will allow to affect me from my past.

You didn't do that. You chose the roots embedded in darkness and I chose to allow light in my life. I had to cut the roots that led to you and I am grateful every day that I did.

By both actions and inactions, you've taught me so much.

Thank you, Dad. Happy Father's Day.

Sincerely,

Jessi
*This is the proper way to spell my name, in case you're reading this and wondering.

Today

Today I was grateful.

We were by ourselves and no explanations, no funny looks, no "why does he make that sound?" happened.

We were alone at the pool and it was wonderful.

My boys played like only they can play, with their own language and movement.

They raced. They dove. They sang. They smiled.

They were children.

They didn't cry. They didn't notice the stares I notice. They didn't feel the scrutiny I feel and shrug off.

I didn't fight the urge to scream from the noises, to shove children away from my children for calling names or touching them, or sit on the pool steps coiled like a spring, ready to take action. Or look on with bated breath, afraid that my autistic son, in his efforts to make a friend in his community, will innocently do what is consider the wrong thing by his typical and rather boorish peers. Even though he's just doing what his clique at school taught him was okay.

I was able to breathe.

I enjoyed myself.

I smiled.

I sang with my kids and swam.

I didn't fear.

I didn't steam.

I didn't tell a parent to control their child, too.

I know I shouldn't let other people matter, but sometimes they do. Sometimes, I need to be by myself with my kids. I don't want the world to interfere because sometimes, the world's inhabitants can be awful.

Today, we were lucky.

Today was a great day.

My Life on Lupron

*If you're just joining me, or have come aboard in the last couple of months, I have severe endometriosis. I've already had a radical hysterectomy at the age of 27. Since last fall, I have been in a lot of pain because of a reemergence of my endometriosis that we've found to be inoperable because of the locations of the endometrials. Now, I'm on a six month course of Lupron - a drug that shuts off all estrogen production/targets estrogen cells - to kill these little clusters of hell. 



Lupron is the effing devil.

I'm going into week three or four of Lupron and this shit is making me insane. Certifiably. I think?

Apparently, it feels weirder if you've had a hysterectomy. You get to actually feel it attacking the endometrials. I think it's like the "pew-pew" battles seen in Star Wars. Imagine tiny ships shooting little lasers into the endos, okay? They just load that little estrogen cell filled thing up with medicine, it gets full to bursting, then BOOM! They knock the hell out of that thing, draining all of the estrogen out and save the day!

The pew-pew fight moves on to another endo and the battle resumes. Some of the endos fight back, and that's when the swelling occurs. Can you tell I've had time to think about this?

Lupron puts you in menopause, which I'd already be in, but I went off of my meds for that keep me out of it.

Menopause and I don't mix, okay?

I'm having hot flashes that make me wish the Polar Vortex was still hanging out. Meanwhile, everything outside is swampy feeling. I get that I live near a damn swamp, but does the air have to feel so freakin' offensive? It's not just hot, it's like I step into a wet towel fresh out of the sauna from hell.

My apartment's thermostat is set to 75 degrees to keep the other inhabitants comfortable. However, all ceiling fans are going full blast at all times. I'm guilty of sticking my head in the freezer, sticking the ice pack thingies under my knees or arms to cool down, and yelling to an empty apartment, "Just stop moving! I have to cool off!"

I want to move to Antarctica.

I'm saying stuff out loud without meaning to. You know, more than usual. That self editing thing I'm really bad at? Oh God, it's just gone, if it was ever there. I've asked the kids to breathe quietly, to stop smiling so loudly, and then apologized. I've told the dog she's too fat, the cat that she's an embarrassment to felines, and then cried. I've told my husband he can't touch me, then cried when he didn't hug me. I've cried over insurance commercials.

To add insult to injury, my stupid hair is falling out and coming in gray. I'm pretty sure this crap is getting chopped off. Not that this is an irrational decision (ahem, people who have said that).

You see, I'm a hot flashin' mess. Not literally a hot "flashing" mess, but a hot flashin' mess. Whatever.

And the food. Oh, wow... the food. I'm going to turn into a Lemon Creme cookie before this is over with. Or a container of Hagen Daaz Salted Caramel ice cream. I have very little willpower.

Just a snack

I'm so damned ragey. I have rage. I can't write about it, or much else, though, because my brain ditched me somewhere around the time that damn needle was put into my buttcheek.

I have these thoughts? And when I think them? They sound awesome. Then, when I write them down? I can't decipher (see what I did?) them sober or drunk. Not that I'm getting drunk, because that causes more friggin bloating and less operational thinking.

So, what do I do with this rage? I thank baby Jesus in swaddling clothes that I'm on Prozac every single day and I try to stay away from the general public. True story.

It's been easy to stay away from the public for the last couple of weeks because it's either been raining or I've been so swollen, I've needed to stay inside. I can't waddle to the pool. But, with sunnier weather on the way and these fluid pills finally working, that hermit plan is kind of over. I need to remember, "inside voice."

I also make really awful memes. You're not seeing them because they, well, suck.

See?

Let's just hope that that the remaining five months of this crap are quick, without incident, and my kids finally get to go swimming because they have to get out of the house and stop leaving Legos and trains everywhere. 

I also need to keep, "Jessi, inside voice," on loop in my brain, I suppose. 

Sometimes, this female crap sucks.