Sometimes I don't get it. Part One.

Sometimes, I just don't get it.  Part One.

I participate in several online groups.  (And no, I dgaf who reads this and gets offended.)

Am I just that old to where I don't communicate well with my chemo addled brain?  

I had commented about something.  Person A leaves a comment that she thinks is amusing.  I genuinely and politely question said comment because I honestly didn't comprehend it.  Someone who I communicate with pointed out Privately and politely to me that it was intended to be humorous.  Okay, I can see that now, but before I can go actually say anything, Person B publicly tells us to go get medicated.  Perhaps she thought she was diffusing the situation.  Person A and I were communicating just fine, though, and were in the process of sorting things out.  I told Person B that I didn't appreciate her comment at all.

What in the ever loving fuck all comes into someone's mind as acceptable to insult two people by injecting herself into a fucking conversation that first off, didn't involve her, second, that she wasn't invited into or asked to clarify shit for anyone, and third, insult the both of us by insinuating that Person A and myself should be fucking medicated?  Since when the fuck is that considered acceptable social behavior?  I just do not understand this at all.  (Maybe it's because I've been on the internet over twenty years now and I'm old.)

Don't get me wrong, I do have a sense of humor.  That said, I don't find it amusing to myself or others to fucking insult someone unless they have opened themselves up for insulting.

And yet the Private communication person is so incredibly kind.  There's not one mean or selfish bone or even cell in her body.  If people had just ten cells of the kindness this particular lady possesses, or even that of RedHun, LAP, or Streak, the world would be just so much of a better place.

Barn time; chicken chasing.

No, not me chicken chasing, more like the chicken was chasing me and I don't even like eggs.  I don't eat them.  I don't even really eat chicken.

Tuesday, I was chased into Big T's stall by the chicken.  Trying to explain to him why I was putting the stall door between him and me and the chicken was definitely interesting, especially when the chicken just stood there for a really long time glaring at me.

Now you need to keep in mind, it's never the red chicken, it's always the skinny white one.  It's got really long claw talon-y thingies that I know it wants to use to claw me with.  But the red chicken never even looks at me.  It never glares at me.  It never chases me.  So while I'm not overly fond of chickens in general, at least the red one and I have a mutual avoidance thing going on.  The white chicken, well, that one is my nemesis over there.

Is there a such thing as chicken rabies?  I swear, that white chicken may have some kind of chicken rabies that makes it want to stalk me.  Maybe I should give the chickens names.  Thelma and Louise?  Wilma and Betty?  Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn?

Thursday, it happened again.  The chicken--the white chicken--yes, it chased me again.  This time, it chased me into D's stall.  Then the white chicken and the red chicken flew up several feet off the ground to the window and they both went outside and stayed out.  So yes, Streak is correct about chickens being able to fly short distances and birds are kind of scary, especially these two.

I was decisive about some things during barn time.  I decided who the equids would sound like if they had human voices.

Here goes in no certain order.

Big C:  Matthew McConaughey 
Little C:  Bobcat Goldthwait
Big T:  Owen Wilson
F:  Carolyn Hennesey
A:  Sandra Bullock
W:  Jimmy Stewart
J:  Sam Elliott
D:  Robert DeNiro

Am I creative or what?  If Streak's dog had a voice, he'd sound like Eeyore.  Have I mentioned that?  

If my cats had voices, they would sound like Eliza Doolittle from My Fair Lady, before her voice coaching--that would be The Fat One.  The Smooky One would sound like Prince if he had a voice.  (I think Tigger, my previous cat, would have sounded like Mr. Rogers or Bob Ross, the painter guy.)

The Cancer Bitches group has attracted the notice of quite a few ladies and there are more and more joining, so obviously, there was and is a need for a group like this.  We aren't afraid to discuss things on there and no topic is disallowed, be it surgery, chemo, or radiation related.

Did I mention the fridge for the new house is kosher?  Evidently, it has a Sabbath Mode Setting.  Since I didn't know what that was, I had to look it up.  There was much work accomplished on the interior of the new house this week, which is awesome.  

Pinterest stats will be updated soon.  There seems to be more interest in my activity on there than anywhere else, which I cannot explain.

We'll see what sort of trouble I can get into during the course of the weekend here, especially since grocery shopping needs to be done.

Barn time, or how the chicken chased me.

I went to the barn for barn time.  I was there at one this afternoon, which is the time I usually go and normally, I head over there twice a week.

I have a red shopping bag that has some grooming items in it, but I also utilize some grooming tools there at the barn.  What I bring is two different rags, a nice cat comb that happens to work better on equids than felines, my magic mixture of de-tangle stuff for manes and tales, and my little kid safety cut scissors to use for trimming bridle paths or neatening them up, if needed.

The items at the barn already there for me to use are the cute plastic glitter gel curry comb, the bristle brush, and hoof pick.  

This particular day, I went in and several of the stall heaters were still on, which make it rather toasty and warm, so I switched those off.  I groomed Little C and re-braided his tail and tried to braid his mane, but it just wouldn't cooperate.  I groomed Big C, whose mane and tail did cooperate.  That's when I heard it.

"Grrrr, grrrr, grrrr."

The damn chicken was in the aisle walking around.  I texted LAP and told her the chicken was growling at me.  I think she thought I was joking at first, but I wasn't.

"Grrrr, grrrr, grrr."

God damn it, I go over there to groom equids to de-stress, the four leggers love the extra attention, and the barn cat is super cute, even though she wasn't anywhere to be found on this particular day.

There I am, trapped in the stall with Big C.  I'd planned on going to the opposite side and working my way down horse by horse, individually.  I gather my grooming tools and the halter and lead rope and ease out of the stall.  The chicken looks at me and I go in the opposite direction toward the big palomino, Big T, and work my way toward the other end.  (Big C is fond of peeing in shavings and then rolling in them, so after I groom him, I always smell like dried horse pee.  D gives me kisses, J tries to untie the lead rope every time I have him tied, W has cow licks--I swear, a horse with cow licks is just wrong, but there you have it.  A is a sweet young mare who is always perfectly mannered and cooperative, F is a big mare who is very pretty, and Big T always looks like the other horses grew oppose-able thumbs and hurled mud pies at him, namely his mane and tail.) 

Keep in mind, I don't want to run through the barn and disturb the horses, but the damn chicken was glaring at me, slowly stalking me like I was human prey.  Then I realized that I'd accidentally left something back at the other end.  I piled stuff on the table across from the three stalls on one end and kind of edge my way back toward the back of the barn.  Not wanting to turn my back on the growling chicken, I forced myself to do it thinking that I wasn't certain of the next time I'd be fixing fried chicken, but maybe I should mention that to this chicken so it would leave me alone.

I turn around and the chicken had wandered off to who knows where and this particular barn visit was a success because I didn't need to try to hide behind a horse to avoid a chicken.  Seriously, some of these horses are so big, I can't really look over their backs because either they're that tall or I'm that short.  Tell me to get one of these rather large horses to pick up a hoof for me to clean it and I'm perfectly good with that, in spite of the horse weighing on the nearer to 2,000 pounds end of things.  Tell me to shoo the five pound chicken away and I'm afraid of it with it's giant chicken-y claws and growling and stalking me.

Horses are definitely the lesser of two evils.  I'd rather have to chase down the two sheep and the wee goat who usually ignore me than deal with the two scary chickens, but at least one was hiding during this visit.

Not all males are jack wagons.

In the event of some recent posts where one was quite un-amusing because she claimed to be "afraid" of her pre-teen son, which I could totally not relate to, and another who said males suck in general, I'm going to take the opportunity to utilize part of a reply I posted and toss it out here because it should be said.

Not all men and boys, males in general suck and in fact, some are decent men.

My husband and I have been married twenty five plus years.  When I was diagnosed with cancer a few years ago, he turned into the absolutely most perfect husband anyone could ever imagine. He completely stepped into the role of double parenting because one dose of chemo damn near killed me.

This man took me to doctor's appointments, I would be so sick that I was super dehydrated, or I'd have severe pain going on, he would get up in the middle of the night, take me to the ER for fluids and painkillers, and then take me home, put me to bed, go back to sleep for an hour, get the two boys who were still at home up and headed to school and he'd go to work, and not one time did he ever complain.  At the time, he was working sixty hours a week. Not one cross or ugly word crossed that man's mouth, not even when I was bald, not even when I dropped twenty pounds in a week, he never gave me shit about being adamant I didn't want reconstruction because I hated doctors and was tired of dealing with medical shit. He was incredibly kind and graceful about the mastectomy. Then he was let go from his job. Not one time did he ever blame me for that. 

The next six months of chemo, I was severely alllergic to it, and he not one time ever said anything unkind to me about the twenty five pounds of steroid weight I packed on (and still have that won't go anywhere) and just as I finished my last chemo, he flew to where we live now and interviewed for the job he currently has.  We relocated cross country 2 1/2 years ago, and here we are. As much as I loathe how I look, he has not ever one time told me I should reconsider and try to be reconstructed. He's never said anything remotely implying that he doesn't like how I look or that he loves me any less because of any of this. It drives me batshit because in my brain, my functionality is less than 100%, so my performance for normality and functioning is just not what it used to be and it never will be again and he doesn't care. He tells me he's glad I'm still here.

As for our monkeys, our oldest is in the military and married. The two younger ones are still at home. 

They were brought up to be kind and considerate, to do things for others, and be responsible. If they fucked up, they learned to own it and "man up" that they'd messed up and if so, it wasn't just about being punished for messing up here at home, but also about how to make it better, whatever it was they'd messed up with. They were taught not to start shit with other people, but if someone else started shit with them, they had every right to self-defend. They were also brought up to be compassionate and be mannerly. They were brought up to not objectify or abuse women.

The oldest was in probably ninth grade and liked a young lady. Her mom called me and told me how impressed she was with him because of his manners. She had needed to go by a co-worker's home and drop off some things because this person had just had a baby. Evidently my oldest was more than happy to sit and hold this baby so the mom could visit with his little girlfriend's mom. Most boys that age don't know which end is up on a baby.

The middle son was in probably tenth grade when he was at a friend's house and they were out walking around. They saw a guy hitting on his girlfriend, so he and his friend went over and confronted the guy and each punched him and told him he might get more than he bargained for if he hit his girlfriend again. (This was in The Deep South where beating on girlfriends was considered socially acceptable. My boys loathed that shit.) Probably not the smartest thing to go smack a guy around because he was smacking his girlfriend around, but you get the idea--my sons would stand up for someone who wasn't able to stand on even footing with someone picking on them.)

The youngest son was at a junior high school dance. There was a young lady who was in a wheelchair. She asked several young men to dance with her. None of them would because she was in a wheelchair. Know who asked her to dance with him? Yes, the youngest son. I told him he did something amazing because she would probably remember that kindness for the rest of her life.

So yes, while there are epic dicks out there in the world, not all guys are dicks. I hope you can believe that. No, the husband isn't perfect, nor are the monkeys, so please don't think they are and hate me for it, but they are decent men in a world that's fucked up.

Some women were taken out to dinner or given chocolate or flowers for the holiday.  My husband and I went to price appliances for the new house.  I wound up with a washer and dryer set that can do a load of laundry in thirty minutes.  Don't hate me.  I've waited over twenty five years for a washer and dryer to be nearly Rosie from the Jetsons.  Just saying. 

Now this means I need to hunt down a new recipe for laundry soap.  I also need to make some toothpaste again.

"I'll never be normal again."

X:  Nope, you won't be.  People like us don't go back to normal after this.

Me:  Nope, we don't.

X:  You're staring down the barrel with me, wondering if I'm going to dodge a bullet, and this is what we do.

And that, readers, is how conversations go between people like me who've been there, done that, and face the very real sucky reality of life when scan time is upon us.

Are we dodging a bullet that doesn't exist or are we dodging the bullet this time, or is it that we'll get lucky and there is no bullet to dodge, ever?

After a diagnosis like X and I (and others--always countless others) have had, there is no normal.

Because being an evil, opinionated bitch pays off.

Yet again, I had someone tell me my brutal honesty is awesome and I should continue doing what I'm doing here, so, yes, I'll keep doing it because being an opinionated and evil bitch pays off in being rewarded with awesome words.  Apparently, in this nice young lady's perspective, I'm bitchtastic!  <3 to her for such an awesome word!  

To those of you who don't like what I'm doing and saying here and want to disagree, do everyone a favor and click the back button.  

I finally found some food grade lavender blossoms for cookies.  Of course when I cracked that bottle open and sniffed, I remembered how much my awesome BFF, RedHun, loves my lavender cookies.  (RedHun and I met back in 1987 and have been friends ever since, so no, I must not be that "broken and fucked up" since she's stayed around for so long.)

There are some blueberries in the freezer.  Maybe I'll have to toss some in the white vanilla lavender cookies that I make and then look for a good vanilla drizzle with lemon zest to go on top.  I'm pretty sure I can get Streak to eat some since RedHun is several states away in the Deep South.

Then again, that might be interesting to try with strawberries because those vanilla cookies are amazing.

"JUST go GET reconstructed." (Like it's something similar to buying cat food. JUST go do it.)

If any of you have sat and thought at your end of the computer, "Why doesn't she shut the fuck up and go get reconstructed if she doesn't like how she looks?" I ask you to go check this link out. There's no actual blood/gore content so it's easy to watch, but I ask you to please watch it and then think real hard about if YOU would do any of this shit or not.

My pectoral muscles were not "spared" so there is nothing over my ribs but skin.  Reconstruction is very damaging to the body, as you'll see if you watch this, and it's a huge, long process, not just with the surgical part itself, but also with the recovery time, which also varies greatly from person to person, AND there are no guarantees if any of the methods will work for anyone.  So just think of the pain, recovery time, and expense potential in terms of possible infection/s, and having to swap out the implants every few years, only to find out the recon didn't "take" or "work" like it was supposed to.  It's good to know many other women out there are not opting for reconstruction.  It's bad to know that many doctors refuse to even discuss being flat as a cultural and socially acceptable option; then again, look at how much money is being missed out for them on by the flat option.

At least I finally found an oncologist who said he didn't care one way or the other if a patient was reconstructed, that it was her decision.  He scored some nice doctor points in my brain for that comment.

I just wanted to share that link with you people out there so maybe you'd get a better idea of why it's "just" not a thing to "just" go do easily like going to purchase cat food, which is just something one can go do.  It's "just" not that easy.

JS