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This Post Has Nothing To Do With Bolivia

Everything about today is frustrating. Irritating, annoying, anxiety-producing. I think it has something to do with the fact that I started my period today. Or else it’s because it’s Wednesday and I’ve already had it up to HERE with everything. Or it’s because I haven’t exercised in an entire week (if you don’t count the 45 minutes of yoga I squeezed in yesterday.) Of course it could have something to do with the fact that I feel like all I ever do is work work work work work work work work work and yet there is always more more more more more more more more more more work to do. And by work I don’t just mean paid work, I mean laundry and dishes and bills and dog walks and vacuuming and shaving my legs and everything. Life just feels so dreadfully exhausting sometimes.

Yes, I know, these are first world problems. I’m lucky. I have a job. I chose to have four pets. Blah blah. But for once I’d just like to have one. week. of nothing. One week where I could just … rest. Without feeling guilty. Without email. Without nagging phone calls. Without knowing that at the end of the week I’ll have to pay for my rest in the pile of emails/bills/laundry/dog hair. Is that really too much to ask? Apparently it is.

No, Bolivia didn’t count as a restful vacation. There was too much hiking and not enough eating. Literally. We were hungry most of the time. At least I was.

In other news, Valentine FINALLY got her bandage off on Monday afternoon. Remember when I said her injury was minor? I’ve changed my mind about that. When an injury requires FIVE doctor visits, two rounds of anti-biotics, and two rounds of pain medication, it is not minor. But, as of Monday, she’s been declared mostly well. No more bandage, no more meds. She has to wear the lampshade hat for another five days and she can’t have a bath for another week, which is horrible because she smells so awful even I can barely stand to be around her (and I usually really like her stink-doggy smell) but other than that, she’s doing very well.


She’s totally over the lampshade hat.

Michael has spent all this week crashing classes at our local junior college, trying with all his might to cobble together a full load for the semester. Did I ever tell you about the time he went to sign up for classes on his assigned registration day and he discovered that every. single. class at the school was already full? And the wait lists were full too? This is due to the fact that we’ve cut our budgets for school, so the schools don’t have any classes, even though there are hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of students needing classes. Welcome to education budget cuts! Cheers for the legislature and government and yadda yadda! So glad we’re not raising taxes. Budget cuts makes SO MUCH MORE SENSE. I mean, what the fuck is education anyway? Like that bullshit is important.


Mike texted me this photo of HALF of the line of people waiting to get added to Anatomy yesterday. The head of the department was there and told the waiting people, “Hey! This isn’t bad! There’s not so many of you.” That isn’t bad? No, no, I guess it isn’t bad. IT IS FUCKING APPALLING. Fortunately, by some sort of miracle, Mike’s name was one of the four names the teacher pulled from her purse (she didn’t have a hat, so she put everyone’s name IN HER PURSE) and so he will most likely be able to add. He’s also managed to get into Spanish II. That’s two classes for the semester. Out of six he has crashed. Which is good, you know I don’t want to complain or anything, even though at this rate it will take him four years to get through a two year program. But whatever. It’s not like there’s a job market anyway.

Do you see? I’ve had it up to HERE with EVERYTHING.

The good news (for me) is that I’ve actually stopped feeling all self-conscious about my Bolivia posts and have begun to really enjoy writing them. When I have time to write them. They take FOREVER. I am so long-winded, I know. I go on and on. But the fact that you read my ramblings at all means a lot to me. I swear, sometimes I feel like y’all are the best thing I have going for me. And of course, my husband. And my family. And these guys:

ridiculously cute

TAKE A PICTURE OF ME! says the wiener.

Yeah, all right, so life isn’t that bad. Whatever.

Crazy Pat

Me as the Bride, Blood Wedding, Cal Arts, 2003

Me as the Bride, Blood Wedding, Cal Arts, 2003
Also, how I felt this morning.

Last night I was kept awake for hours with a terrible headache. I don’t know if you’d call it a migraine, but I definitely felt like I was dying. This is a result of my impending period – yes, I’m going there. If periods make you queasy, feel free to skip to the next paragraph.  Anyhow, every fourth period or so, I get whopped upside the female-parts with gnarly aches, pains, hormonal outbursts, and cramps that are akin to having one’s uterus shoved through a meat grinder. Tomorrow my period is due, so last night there was a torturous headache designed to punish me for Eve’s original sin. Tonight the cramps will come, but don’t worry, I’m already hopped up on Midol.

So I lay awake for hours, miserable, facing death, and then, as dawn was breaking, the copious amounts of extra-strength tylenol finally kicked in and I passed out. Twenty minutes later my alarm went off. I dragged myself from bed and emailed my office manager – I was definitely not going into the office for a few more hours. I just needed a little bit of rest. Email sent, I crawled back to bed and curled around Mike’s sleeping frame. Relief! I could sleep for at least two more hours, delicious sleep I desperately needed. And just as my lids began to droop and my breath began to slow, “BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!!!! BEEEEEPPP BEEEEP BEEEEP!! BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP! BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEEEP!!! BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!!!”

There is a family that lives across the street, a perfectly nice family with a whole passel of children who play together beautifully in the evening, their voices ringing out over the neighborhood as the sun sets pink behind the palm trees. I love this family, love those children and the happy feeling that fills me when I hear their innocent laughter. But I do not love the person associated with the family who pulls in front of the house every morning, even on Saturdays, and leans on their car horn so as to wake the living dead. I do not love that person at all. And when it happened this morning, my brain still tender and my hormones run rampant, it was all I could do not to grab my brother’s replica G36 assault (airsoft) rifle, tear down the stairs, out the door, across the street, nightgown streaming, hair wild, to shove the barrel of the (airsoft) gun into that mother bleeper’s face and scream, “PARK YOUR %&$^##@* CAR, GET OUT, AND RING THE %$#&@(*&!#@ DOOR BELL LIKE A &^$#@&*%$% NORMAL PERSON, YOU SELFISH, STUPID,  &*%#@^% IDIOT!”

But I didn’t. Because not only would that be insane, and inappropriate, but also because that is not what airsoft rifles are for. And I don’t want to go to jail. And there are the children. And the horrible horn-blarer might have a real gun, one that doesn’t shoot plastic BBs. That, my friends, is called self-control.