Three, A Poem

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The Tiger Woods O!M!G! Scandal

Okay.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME??!! 

This "story" is on the "news." THE NEWS!! 

Tiger Woods was in a car accident. Was anybody hurt? No? Okay, move on!

Tiger Woods may have cheated on his wife and she may have beat the dung out of his Cadillac for it? Umm... do these people go around telling other people how to live their lives as if the Woods's have moral authority ? You know, do they protest against same-sex marriage or show up on talk shows to tell people what "family values" should mean? They don't? Oh.

Well, did Tiger Woods write a few best-sellers on how to achieve lifelong fidelity? No? He plays golf? GOLF?!

THEN HOW THE FUCK IS IT ANYONE'S BUSINESS WHAT IS GOING ON IN THEIR MARRIAGE???!!!!!!!

Hello?

Honestly. You people embarrass me.

Tiger Woods:

"Personal sins should not require press releases and problems within a family shouldn't have to mean public confessions."

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Have You Kicked Your Dentist in the Mansack Lately? Pt. 1

I'm always late to the dentist. Always. And every person in the area of his office knows when I am going to the dentist because I am more effective than a street sweeper when I come blowing down the road and into the parking lot, tires screeching and smoking, my teenagers' lil faces pressed against the passenger side glass -- both of them, because they are in the same seat by then. And they are so dramatic, too, my teens; climbing over each other to get out of the car, feigning desperation and yelling about child endangerment and how Jay always told them they better let B. teach them to drive.

But it involves such fantastic time management skills, the trip to the dentist. I have to time it perfectly. Perfectly. If I get there too late, they will make me reschedule and I will feel like a bad mom. But if I get there too early, I will have to wait, and that's not good for anybody (as I am about to explain.) If, however, I get there right on time, they will practically push us on through to the back to avoid screwing up their whole day and routine. Perfect.

Nobody wants me to wait in the waiting room of a dentist office. I hate the dentist office like not even people who despise going to the dentist office can imagine. I hate the smells; I hate the feel of the place; it may be worst of all, I hate the sounds. And I will sit there, smelling, and feeling, and hearing it all... the things happening to the people stretched out on the tables in the various next rooms. And don't let them fool you -- can you hit a button on any chair in your home and stretch out your guests to that level of vulnerability? No? Yeah. Fuck that. And so I will sit there, unable to tune it all out... that is a drill. A. DRILL.

Some long, long time ago, some sick fuck thought about that -- drilling holes in people's teeth. In their teeth! with a drill!!!!

Excuse me while I wait for the spasm in my spine to stop... oh. My. GAWD.

And I can't take it non-medicated, alright? I can't. I might start running into rooms and pulling tubes and screaming at sheeple to free themselves while they can, kind of like Elliot in E.T. So yeah, I time that one to the nanosecond.

It was a Thursday morning this last time, and I had woke up that morning feeling a little... well, a strange, tiny, little ache in a bottom left tooth. Just a little, little ache, which I mentioned to the receptionist, and she looked in her appointment book, said, "I can get you in Monday morning."

And that was fine. My tiny, little ache wasn't even worthy of a Tylenol.

Yeah. Part 2 to come.

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Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Cognitive Therapy, and The IDea That Freaked Me Out a Little

Apparently, the appropriate response to a sudden loud noise or rapidly approaching stranger does not involve exploiting one's primordial instinct to survive or any other personal natural resource which would both cause and allow one to become instantly violent -- or punch another in the neck.

Wups.

Apparently, an exaggerated startle reflex (among other things) gets one hit back with letters like PTSD (and F-U!)

Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) is a type of anxiety disorder that's triggered by a traumatic event. You can develop post-traumatic stress disorder when you experience or witness an event that causes intense fear, helplessness or horror.

Complex PTSD

The diagnosis of PTSD accurately describes the symptoms that result when a person experiences a short-lived trauma. For example, car accidents, natural disasters, and rape are considered traumatic events of time-limited duration. However, chronic traumas continue or repeat for months or years at a time. Clinicians and researchers have found that the current PTSD diagnosis often does not capture the severe psychological harm that occurs with such prolonged, repeated trauma. For example, ordinary, healthy people who experience chronic trauma can experience changes in their self-concept and the way they adapt to stressful events. Dr. Judith Herman of Harvard University suggests that a new diagnosis, called Complex PTSD, is needed to describe the symptoms of long-term trauma.

And so it was, Thursday, I began cognitive behavioral therapy -- well, I went to the place and met the people and wrote on a lot of paper. I was happy to engage until that day. As long as I hadn't gone yet, it still had the potential to be a good thing. Just the day before, someone had mentioned available programs run by local religious groups. "It's all about giving it over to God and all that," he said.

It is difficult for the religious or even the "spiritual" to understand how bad I was freaked out by that idea. Really.

Cognitive restructuring enables a person to identify negative, irrational beliefs having to do with a psychological trauma and to replace them with truthful, rational beliefs. (Emphasis mine)

So, I can't be on constant high alert believing myself to be in danger in a demonstrably unsafe world, but I can believe there is a god willing and able to focus on me out of billions and magically take away my fears and pains he wanted me to experience to make me stronger, but if he shows himself to me or speaks to me, I have to take the super drugs and a holiday in a locked hospital?

That is. not. right. Talk about the visually impaired being led by the blind. It is the short-circuited led by the fucking nuts and making shit up!!

My place is secular, thank ye reasonable humans. However, at the time of this writing, I have not found local or even semi-local support that does not involve an invisible moderator who somehow gets credit for me overcoming these issues but takes no blame or gets a pass for me having these issues in the first place.

Fuck, I think my brain is bleeding.

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Family Fail

I love my husband. I do. He makes me happy in my heart, in my head, and in my pants. But occasionally, he messes up the really important things, and it makes me want to jump on his face, not in a fun way, and throttle him in the manner only a grown woman with purpose can throttle the man she loves.

'kay?

Let us discuss the following, and let us to do so with the dignity the subject deserves.

The four of us -- B., Bug (now 14), Bird (now 13), and I -- went out to dinner to celebrate Bird's birthday. The restaurant we settled on had changed since we had last been there. The tables were more "diner" style now, so we could have, should we so desired, reached back and grabbed the asses of the strangers sitting behind us -- and without ever turning around to face them.

Imagine that.

Moving on.

I tell you honestly, it took me by surprise. I was not prepared; I did not think about it, and I certainly did not have any time to remove myself from the presence of these strangers or the jackasses to whom I am related.

I farted.

Worse, I heard myself fart.

So I did what any good, prideful human being would do. I shot a sideways and disgusted look toward the woman behind me. Now, look. We all know if that accusatory glance is given just right, then the recipient of The Look™ has NO hope of escaping the assumption of guilt, and when it comes to the public expulsion of what may be a particularly foul smelling gas, I have no mercy.

I did it, and the strategy was executed flawlessly. However, it was immediately apparent that I was the only one who heard my parting squeaker. The sigh of relief had not entirely escaped my lips, when I realized my flawlessly rendered look of accusation and disgust had not escaped my husband's notice. He was just. loud. enough.

"Did somebody fart?!
Are you serious?!"

That triggered a horrified response from Bug, who moved her chair an inch away from me and said, "Ew, that better not have been you!"

*head restaurant table*

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How To Be the Kind of People With Whom I Want to Hang

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Brand, Disclosure, Yada, Yada, Yada

You see, some times I have serious thought, deep thought, and a fairly neat ability to weave words together in such a way to create an adequately strong and aesthetically pleasing written tapestry.

Heh. Anyway. This isn't the platform. This is the place where I embrace my inappropriate humor, complete frustration, and all neuroses. This is the place where I write about STUPID DICKS. And I don't want people involved with my family to Google my name and read about themselves stupid dicks. So, I have a new place -- another place, mind you. Unapologetically Neurotic will continue to develop a nutty brand worthy of complex diagnoses, I am sure. But I don't want to leave you all out of my loop because I like you best. I do. And, at the time of this writing, I still haven't figured out how to continue to interact inside my Internet stomping ground using two different identities.

Two different identities: I am going to try to send you over there without bringing them over here, and to disclose to you that I am she but not that she is me. 0_o


Okay, Okay. To the name inspired by gBaby (note that I am still working on it), Click:

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