How do you do and a fuck you, too.

Welcome to the new readers.  Thank you for taking the time to read what thoughts tumble out of my brain, through my fingers, and into words on here.  So, how do you do?  I'd like to add a thank you for stopping by.  I hope you don't mind that I put the further content of this post together since it was something I think I've been wanting to say, but hadn't quite figured out the verbosity of it.  You can quit reading now, if you want to.  I wouldn't be angrivated about that at all if you did.

I would like to mention I've done a bit of remodeling since I seem to have more traffic these days.  Comments have been enabled, although I reserve the right to moderate them because I'm an evil bitch like that and I like the fact that I can refuse someone's comments about how evil I am because I'm evil.  Just saying.

I've gone from visits from the continental US and Alaska to worldwide visits, which is pretty awesome sauce.  (If anyone was wondering I've been on the internet over twenty years now, and have been blogging off and on for thirteen years, as well as being a wife and mom, married for twenty-five years with three male monkeys raised, so I do have a variety of life experience which makes me more than qualified to do whatever the hell it is I want to do.  Right?  Right.  Just saying.)

All of that said, the fuck you too goes out to the fuckers who kicked me to the curb when I was diagnosed with HER2+ breast cancer for whatever reason and the ones who just don't fucking comprehend that there is no going back to the old normal self and those who think they "know" better than I do about me and my life.  Instead of telling me that like you have all the answers, which I know you don't and in my book, that makes you delusional in an amusing way, why couldn't you have asked me what you could do to help me?  Oh wait, it's because you know everything, which I find damn funny.

Since some people seem to think they know everything, then maybe they have answers about how to cope with a cancer diagnosis and a year of poisoning with shit made from some of the chemical components of Agent Orange, being consistently and intentionally lied to about anything and everything related to said diagnosis, having the entire upper third of their chest ripped off their body to leave nothing but skin over ribs and not being allowed to have physical therapy because the surgeon "didn't see a need for it."  (I still have fucking problems with fine motor skill and dexterity nearly three years out from being surgically mutilated.  Even hand writing a check is very difficult for me now.)

Tell me how you know you have all the answers about how aggressive scanning isn't something that's a big deal when said scans are bad for the human body, how any ache or pain needs to be explained and/or monitored to make certain that I don't have mets, be it from chemo, what's done to me to monitor me, or whatever.  Sure, you have all the answers about me being the age I am and trapped in a body that has an added twenty years to it because of what was done to me and I'm sure you can completely explain all about normality and functionality when it doesn't truly exist for me any longer, just like you know all about my bitchitude because I talk about this shit and not the fake, smarmy bullshit of pink ribbons and glitter.

Let me think about this for a moment.  Done.  (That lasted maybe half a millisecond, didn't it?)

Bitchitude and being brutally honest so that maybe it helps someone else versus fake, smarmy bullshit of pink ribbons and glitter and hope, because you know, people with cancer just "hope" it away.

Guess what the content here will be?  Yes, you guessed it.  

Bitchitude and plenty of it, so haters gonna hate on my bitchitude, Imma tell you go somewhere else and fuck yourself.  Or if not, you can always come back and read my future post about the cancer INDUSTRY and then you can tell me you don't believe me when I say it's an industry after I put the fucking numbers in front of your nose and then still keep your comments to yourself.

Still rocking the Foca laundry soap and vinegar for the laundry.  I have Castile soap which I'll be using to make body soap and shampoo, although I think tomorrow, I may do a molasses rinse on the hair.

From bad to worse? Medication can be a bad thing.

So now you all know I had an aneurysm in my neck repaired back in October.  The doctor put me on clopidogrel, a blood thinner, so my platelets wouldn't stick to the metal in my neck.

I wind up going to the PA guy and telling him that it was causing me to have nosebleeds.  He said that was normal.  He said the bruising is normal.  Okay, fine.

Nosebleeds hit.  Nosebleeds clear up.  They hit again, they go away again, same thing with the bruises from the fucking clopidogrel.  A friend of mine is on it and said she has bruises and nosebleeds.  She's my age.  (Yeah, seriously, I know, right?  I do have friends.  New friends.  Better friends.  Friends who don't have stupid and unrealistic expectations of me regarding my perspective of the shit storm cancer is/can be.)

Friday was the last straw.  I had four nosebleeds.  The first one was minor.  The second one was minor.  The third one was a little worse.  The fourth one almost landed me in the ER it was so fucking bad.

I'm not joking about this.  It was like someone turned on a faucet in my nose for two fucking hours.  I was seriously considering asking my husband to take me to the ER for it because it was massive.

I think it's time to have a little talk with the pharmacist and ask who do I call about this going on, the doctor who prescribed this shit or the regular health care guy, who will probably tell me to stay on it.  (The oncologist a few weeks ago told me that even if I told the original prescribing physician that it wouldn't matter because he'd still want me to stay on it.)  

I don't fucking have time to deal with two hour nosebleeds on a regular basis from this shit.  I'm willing to take half the dose.  I'm willing to switch to 325mg of aspirin every day.  I'm not willing to give up my normal daily activities (including but not limited to giving up going to the barn, assorted whatever school volunteering, errand running out and about with Streak, etc.) because I'm having to sit with a fucking trash can on my lap with tissues in one hand and paper towels in the other because my nose is bleeding like I got hit with a hockey puck in the face.  That just does not work for me.

So, say it with me, people.  Clopidogrel is not my friend.  (And I'm on the lower dose of it.  There's one dose that is way higher and I cannot imagine being on it.  Holy fuck!  I'd need a blood transfusion because of a paper cut!)

Moving on to more fun things, I'm going to tell you taking five minutes for yourself can be a good thing.  A can of coconut milk well shaken, opened, poured into ice cube trays and put in the freezer is amazing.  I figured up the ice cube space was about an ounce.  What I've done with a few frozen cubes of coconut milk has been ice my face with them, but making certain my hair is pulled back.  (Will get to the hair thing in a minute.)

Yes, frozen coconut milk on the face is just nothing short of spectacularly decadent.  My face was very happy.  The rest of me was, also, since I tossed a few more cubes of frozen coconut milk into the tub with hot water.  My skin was super happy with that.  I need another can to do this with, although it lasts for ages, it seems like.

On to why not to get coconut milk in the hair;  I'm on a hair group on fakebook.  It's for alternative methods of hair care.  Some people who need moisture in their hair will put some coconut milk in it.  

I decide I'm going to do something nice for my hair since I used to do that sort of thing for myself occasionally back in the day before I got sick.  I see people posting in a discussion about conditioning/moisturizing with coconut milk.  This is a good idea, I think to myself.  I'll treat my hair and make it happy.  Next time I was out and about, I purchased a can of coconut milk.

I shake it up and open it, headed to the tub and started pouring.  I rubbed it in my hair, I scrubbed it in my hair.  Then, I let it sit in my hair for a little while.  I started trying to rinse it out of my hair.  I rinsed, and rinsed, and rinsed some more.  My hair was not happy with me and by not happy, that is an understatement.  I think it took several days for it to settle back down.

Moral of this story?  If you're going to indulge in the decadence of coconut milk on your skin, make sure you put your hair back and don't dump an entire can IN your hair.  JS

My hair loves molasses as a conditioner.  Honey, not so much.  That said, a teaspoon of honey with an aspirin in it and a couple of drops of lemon or lime juice in it makes a fabulous face scrub.  Another great face scrub is honey that is in the process of crystallizing.  Yes, it's incredibly awesome on the face.

Football and other assorted oddities.

Excellent football movies to watch now that high school and college seasons are over, except for the college bowl games:  When the Game Stands Tall.  Out-fucking-standing movie.  The Blind Side.  The Waterboy.

Speaking of movies, watch Dallas Buyer's Club and insert the word cancer for the word AIDS.  Maybe then you'll better understand my Pinterest board, A Valid Option.

Moving on to the other assorted oddities part of this post, I give you...well, I'm not sure what to call it.

B and I were out and about last week and looking at furniture since we need a new sofa, couch, chesterfield, or davenport, whatever the fuck you want to call it.

We're at a particular furniture store where we'd been looking and discussing and discussing and looking.  Some other customers came in.  The sales lady excused herself to go speak with them and then eventually came back and mentioned to me that this particular couple was really funny and the wife owns a bra store and if I needed any bras, she suggested going to that woman's particular store.

I started laughing and I damn near broke a rib because I was laughing so hard.  I laughed myself silly and when I could finally breathe, I pulled my shirt front out and said "I had a bilateral mastectomy and have nothing but skin over ribs on the entire upper third of my chest, so bras are a non-essential for me, but thanks for the suggestion."

The look on her face was a combination of appalled, horrified, and unsure if she should laugh or not because I was laughing.  She said she hadn't noticed and never would have if I hadn't mentioned it to her.

We discussed breast cancer for a few minutes and then moved on to other topics.

True story, that.

Here's another one.

I used to have the most wonderful cat.  His name was Tigger.  No, I didn't name him that, he was already named that when we got him as a free to a good home ad in the newspaper.  He would like just a tiny drop of milk each morning, loved his Tigger Treats, and he never was much interested in catnip or canned cat food, but he did love drinking tree water each year in December.  He crossed the Rainbow Bridge a year ago in October.  I have his ashes on the speaker by the bedroom door.  In the new house, he will go on top of the mantle, right in the  center.  I still miss him.  He made the move with us from Mississippi to Florida to Alabama to Oklahoma.  He would ride on the console after making sure his humans were in the vehicle.

We acquired another cat from a shelter.  This cat didn't particularly know or care that he was a cat and exhibited minimal behavior of a cat.  Didn't know how to purr, didn't really groom himself, didn't know what treats were, didn't know what the hell milk was, didn't give a rat's ass about canned food and had no interest in treats.  He was litter trained, would eat and drink, and wanted to constantly pounce on anything that moved.  It turned out he was more like a teenager kitty and not an adult kitty.  Since we had drive three and a half hours one way to acquire him in another state, we figured we'd keep him and maybe get him another cat to play with.

Second cat we acquired was from a more local shelter and as an adult.  She has taught the boy cat how to groom himself, although she grooms him more than he grooms himself, and she loves treats.  He will eat one just because he sees her eating one, though.  She loves canned food and if a can is opened, no matter where she is in the house or what she's doing, she comes running to the kitchen and of course, he's learned that behavior, so they turn into floor buzzards when the can opener gets used.

Boy cat does purr on occasion now and does tolerate being held now, which is good.  He wants to be held on his back like a baby, though.  We have no idea what that's about.  He does love to chase girl cat and they are both drinking tree water for fun.

Girl cat is lactose intolerant.  I gave her a drop of milk.  She barfed.  A few days later, I tried again.  She barfed again.  I waited a month.  Tried once more with just a drop of milk, mind you.  Boy cat still doesn't gaf and girl cat barfed, so I have a lactose intolerant cat.  It's like dealing with an addict every time I fix coffee.  She begs for milk because I put milk in my coffee.  Actually, she damn near throws a fit for the milk, but I don't give it to her because she'll barf.

She also loves feet, my boots, and drools while purring.  I guess she never learned how to purr without drooling.  Boy cat doesn't seem to drool, though.

Cats are entertaining, that's for damn sure.

Solidea Medical is having a contest, located here, if anyone is paying attention to anything I post.  They haven't updated their winner list for the past few days, but they probably will tomorrow.  I won, so it's definitely a legit contest; if you're in the market for a out-fucking-standing compression garment and possibly even winning one, you might want to pop over to Solidea Medical and see what they are doing with their contest.

For love of the game.

Yes, that does exist and it's an amazing thing to see.

Football Monkey's high school football team won a state championship earlier this month.  
What's so awesome is that when I pick him up from football practice now, which is actually weight lifting and conditioning stuff, there are guys who are out on the football field playing touch football for nothing more than the love of the game.

They don't have to be out there.  No coaching is going on.  They just love football that much that they want to be out on that field, even if it's in an unstructured, free manner with no thought or planning of who has to be where and when to achieve a goal.  It's just purely fun and free playing because they love it so much.

The beautiful gold ball trophy is gleaming proudly, the celebratory accomplishment still new in the recent ultimate win, hard won and the will to win carried in the hearts and minds of the young men with blood, sweat, and tears.  The shine of that trophy is like a brilliant sunset for any and all to peruse and see the beauty of winning with the upcoming season of 2015 a distant goal of the future; the success still to be determined like the daybreak of tomorrow not quite ready to arrive, but yet it may again be won by these young men with more blood, sweat, and tears.  They love the game, though.

I think a lesson can be learned from this.

How many of us as adults have something structured in our lives, be it a schedule, work, or whatever, and yet find it possible to joyfully jump into that same activity for nothing more than a sheer, absolute and pure love of it?

Where is your passion?  Can you find it again and keep hold of it?

If a bunch of high school boys can unknowingly show me by doing nothing more than being out on that field pursuing their passion of the game of football, then perhaps there is hope for even me to find and pursue something.  I suppose it's possible, even if it's nothing more than doing stuff around the house.

Perhaps it's not even about being great at something as much as it is having a passion to pounce on something, seize it, and accomplish it to the best of what ability there is to at least try.

I'll pounce on and seize the five loads of clean laundry piled on the couch and deposit it in bedrooms.  So, like the young men out on the football field for love of the game, I will be tackling the laundry for the sake of tackling it; I may not be great at it or win a trophy, but I can accomplish it, although it will be tomorrow.

The good, the bad, the ugly.

The good.  

Progress on the house building.  

Youngest son's football team won the state championship game.  

The oncologist told me that since next month is three years from my bilateral mastectomy surgery date and I was scanned on Monday of this week, that he would say I am cancer free.  If I can make it another two years, he would say I am cured of the kind of breast cancer I had.  

Laundry update.

More of that awesome Foca laundry soap is making the laundry all fresh and clean.  Still using the vinegar as fabric softener and still having that work well.  

The bad. 

Mean Mom who I recently encountered, I made a simple comment in passing.  You were absolutely hostile to me for no reason when you replied to my comment.  I removed myself from the situation.  As I did so, I was thinking to myself, "I know the statistics, bitch.  You better hope you aren't eventually one of them, because you have no fucking clue about anything."

The skinny ditz who was wearing those atrocious tights/leggings thingies as pants.  I don't give a fuck how trendy you think it is and how skinny you actually are, your butt still jiggles when you walk and it looks ridiculous.  Why the hell do people think it's a good idea to wear those out of the house?

The woman who was at the store dressed as a cougar recently.  You looked like you were my age hunting for someone the ages of one of my sons.  I thought I left that shit in Florida.  Wtf?  

The ugly.  

I was talking to a friend who said an incredibly kind thing to me.  She said I shouldn't have to apologize for being myself.  If people don't understand or at least make the attempt to, that I should ditch them because they're not the kind of people I need in my life.

She is so fucking correct on that.

Just because I've known someone for whatever amount of time doesn't mean I consider them worthy of being involved in my life any longer.  I've learned who is worth being in my life and who isn't because they refuse to accept me for being me, be it the old normal, healthy me I once was, or the new surgically mutilated me who was poisoned for a year, who is still trying to learn to function.  If that means I have a bitchy attitude, or bitchitude, then there it is.

I've gone from I don't give a fuck because of a cancer diagnosis to mastering the zen art of giving zero fucks to removing people who refuse to accept me as me, regardless of where or how I am.  

People who were once welcome in my life are no longer welcome to be part of it, regardless of how involved they were and I will not fucking apologize for that.

And no, I don't give a fuck who it offends.