Yesterday was interesting

Oh gods. I babysat yesterday, but surprisingly that was one of the better parts of my day.

Where to begin?

Oh, yes, the beginning is always good.

Waked up from a terrible nightmare -- an anger-inducing, not fear-inducing one, so when my eyes shot open I was lying rigid, hands balled into fists, heart beating a mile a minute, hardly able to breathe, and ready to kill something. Now, I am never in a good mood when I wake up and Travis isn't beside me, but this was particularly bad.

So, whatever. I get over the anger, go through my morning routine, am relatively calm when I go to let the dog out....

and stand in wonder, staring at my driveway.

Someone told me garbage got picked up on Tuesday mornings on my street.

That someone was wrong.

Because, before my bleary, sleep-gummed eyes, are the two bags of garbage I'd put out at 3am, only strewn across the universe by some furred mammal or another. I'm guessing it's the same seven-foot raccoon that's been terrorizing my trash for a while now.

I say fuck it and go back inside.

Eventually I get showered and dressed and go to send email to Travis (a part of our daily D/s routine), as it needs to go out by a certain time, and I won't be able to do it while babysitting. Before any of this happens sirens go by, and Major sings along with them. For twenty minutes. I love his voice, but there's a damn limit.

Whatever. First I clean up the garbage, and put the two now thrice-bagged bags into my trunk, where they remain still, waiting to go to the dump. Finally I've got all my stuff into the car, dog check, books check, camera check, etc check, and manage to leave.

I get to my mom's place to do email, etc. It's almost time for me to pick up A___ from school, so I need to be quick. I load the attachments to the email, browsing my forums while I wait for it to send.

And wait for it to send.

And wait for it to send.

......and.......wait.........for.......it........to.................s...e....n.....d........... *expires*

Eventually I can see I can't wait for it if I want my life back, so I have to call Travis and tell him he won't be getting his email till later because Gmail is a dirty, filthy whore.

Ok, so I go and pick up A____ no problem, go do my bank errand, and get her home.

I go to tie up Major in the yard.

There is a cat at the place where I babysit A___, a normally pretty sweet feline named Circles. A____ sees Circles in the yard, scared of Major, and asks me to go get the cat and bring her inside, so she won't have to deal w/ the dog. Not that Major would do anything to her except maybe cuddle her for hours, but hey -- I do not argue w/ 8-year-olds.

So I go and get the cat. Major is tied up already. I'm holding the cat, trying to get past the dog, who is just so damn excited that mistress has brought him his very own cat omg. I'm walking slowly and talking in soothing tones so as not to upset the cat --

-- which doesn't really matter as she freaks and tears my fucking face off.

Literally. The cat attempted to give me sinus surgery. Somehow her paw got inside my nose and ripped up in there, as well as outside the nose, all over my head, chest, and arms. There are two huge holes in my shirt. I don't even know how she did it, except I pity any ladders that have held her, being one myself.

Look! Photos!



Fuzzy picture, but the only one in which I am attractive. The rest will burn your eyes out.
Which is why I'm going to show them! :D



Taken hours ago, when the swelling wasn't so bad.



Here you can start to see the current lopsidedness of my nose. This was taken just now, but at a bad angle.



Ah, here we go. Full-on lopsidedness. That is a swollen-ass nose. It hurts constantly.



And here you can see to some extent the scratches on my chest, as well as one of the holes in my shirt.

I didn't even get into the wounds on my forehead and ears.


So. I fall to the ground, writhing in agony (and throughout all of this I say not one swearword in front of my young charge, for which I deserve a fucking medal), hands covering nose, wondering if I'll be able to breathe at the end of the day.*

We get me inside, and go to get cleaned up and there is blood everywhere. Everywhere. Head wounds gush. I should know; I've had experience with them before, and not just yesterday. I spurted enough blood to make the Red Cross cry at the waste of donatable Type O. Well, not so sterile once it had hit the bathroom sink and perhaps even my face, but still. Lots. of. blood. zomg.

Weel, all this would not be so bad -- the bleeding stopped, after all, and the cat missed my eyes and any vitals (I think) -- were I not allergic to cats.

Oh yes. Not by much, mind you. But enough to still be in considerable discomfort.

I feel like I have a stuffy nose, except instead of mucous leaking at the back of my throat it's a blood-mucous composite. My entire nose is sore and swollen, tender to the touch, and when I sneezed about 15 minutes ago my uterus tried to escape my body in my effort to hold back said expulsion of dander from my olfactory glands.

I used to like cats...now, I'm not so sure.

Anyway, I ended up having a good time with A____, who's a very sweet and intelligent girl, and then later on last evening I went to the Art Jam at Loco's - where I had pleasant food and company. Talked to a tattoo-artist/painter friend about my next tattoo, and I think we'll be able to work something out. So that's good.

But no, I have not slept, because I have not been terribly tired, and now there's no point until I finish my errands, so.... Besides, I have no Benadryl, and I really wish I did, because it would make me feel better. Or at least force me to sleep. Oh, Benadryl comas, how I miss thee.

Anyway, here's a Youtube vid that will probably sum up a lesser version of what happened to me today (after all, this fucker is wearing jeans -- can't wear denim on your FACE).

---

*Yes, but barely.

Faint

A while ago I was estranged from my grandparents because of a [rather big] fuck up on my part. We didn't speak to each other for a few weeks.

Today I spoke to my grandmother.

For what was probably the last time.

I won't know until I know, I guess. But they (mom and oma) are talking about assisted suicide -- she's in pain, and says she'd rather go today than tomorrow. As for me and mom, well, we'll miss her just as much whether she goes today or tomorrow.

It's kind of...I don't know. Shocking, I guess. I mean, I've known this was coming for a while. I just didn't really believe it. I sort of blithely believed she'd keep on trucking into her 100s.

She's 90. In September of this year she'd turn 91. We were amazed she made it to 90, and then to her 12-year anniversary with Opa, and then to Christmas, and then to their 12.5 anniversary, in May. She's been saying it's time since before her birthday last year; so when she made it past May 19th I just kind of assumed she'd keep on going, forever.

I just kind of assumed that she'd see me go back to school. Graduate. Have a kid. Get a book published. Make a film -- a big one.

I just kind of assumed that she'd write her memoirs. Tell me all the stories I don't remember her telling me in my childhood. Come up and visit us in Powell River.

Be there for one last Christmas.

Granted, we made last Christmas "the last Christmas", because of her surety of demise. But it didn't happen, and well....

I fooled myself good.


So I told her I loved her and that she was the best Oma in the world, that I could never ask for a better Oma, ever, and that she was an awesome fiery feisty woman and that I tell everyone how awesome she is, and they agree.

It's all true.

And even though it hasn't happened yet, I know it's going to, and I can't seem to stop crying. I know it will happen soon. If not tonight, tomorrow. There was Death in her voice. And acceptance of that. I've heard it before.

And what hurts the most...is I didn't go down to Vancouver with mom this time, because I had to hold the fort for her up here. Get things done. You know. The usual. Take care of Major. Someone has to stay.

Someone has to stay and it may as well be me, because I can't give Oma and Opa the care and attention Mom can. No one can. Mom's the Perfect Daughter. I hope someday I'm like her.

I also hope she doesn't go through this slow death, this terrible old age that we've watched Oma suffer through. I hope my mom remains spry and young into her 90s, and drops dead suddenly of a heart attack when hiking in the woods with a wolfdog, so Silva can welcome her HOME, to the True Woods. That is what she wants, and what I want for her -- because it's the best ending she could ask for. And I don't want my future children watching their Oma go through what I watched mine go through.


Tine Laffra-van Loon-Haagsma was born September 10, 1917, in Holland. She was a nurse during World War II while her fiance was part of the resistance. He ended up spending four years in a Nazi prison, while she waited patiently for him. After the war they got married and had my mom on June 29th, 1948, in Eindhoven, Holland. When my mom was 3 they moved to Alberta, Canada, and Oma got pregnant again, with my Aunt Ariel.

Ariel had Lupus and Jake (my grandfather) was a smoker with a heart condition. He died in 1985, the year before I was born -- his death prompted my mom to get pregnant (at 38 years of age) because it waked her up to the fact that people eventually got old and died. Ariel had a string of failed marriages and relationships and finally killed herself in my early childhood, to end not only the pain of a broken heart but the day to day physical pain of living with Lupus.

When Oma was 75, we bought her a red sportscar, because she was that kind of lady. She drove it until she could no longer do so.

My parents' marriage fell apart in due time. Oma worked as an accountant at my parents' law firm, and she kept on going there everyday though my dad yelled at her, for years, until he finally fired her.

Throughout our financial hardships, Oma helped my mom and myself immensely. If not for her we would have been on the street long ago.

In her 80s Oma went back to school and took a Writing for Children course, so she could pen stories she'd told me in my childhood about the Cat of Nine Lives.

In 1995, when she was 78, Oma remarried a man named Gerry Laffra. They met through a personals ad in the Dutch paper. They have remained happily in love for the past 12.5 years.

I think it's a great way to end one's life, to be in love till the very end.

I'm just sad that she has to be in so much pain, and has been for so long. She's endured enough pain in her life. She certainly doesn't deserve any more.

So I am glad that she will be at peace, finally.

But it won't make me miss her any less.

Lawnmowers

Got my ass handed to me by one.

True. freaking. statement.

Also, a bakery. And a lingerie shop.

BUT STILL I REMAIN A CAMWHORE. And try to be all punk, with my spiky 'do. (*whispers* It's to hide the unevenness of the cut. Like, shaved bald in places.)


Hey, kids -- when your parents tell you it's a really bad idea to give yourself a haircut with the kitchen scissors over the bathroom sink...listen to what they're saying. (Your parents, not the voices.) As you can see, I didn't, and now look like a lawnmower heard me talking about its mother. I look like a bakery and lingerie shop joined in on the beating because I'm fat and naked in the pictures, for reasons only I can fathom.

Augh. Off to complete my errands.

Archives

I'm putting in archives of my old blogs from blogdrive into this blog, because...I want it to look like I have something to say? I don't know.

So suddenly there will be an influx of entries from 2004 onwards. Ignore it. You can't comment on them; they're not tagged; they're only there so that my past does not get deleted.

This is also part of my reasoning behind tattoos. I wish to be a living breathing history of myself.

Ding dong!

The bitch is gone!

And the locks are changed!

And I'm doing my laundry!

Yay!

Also I learned a new word for lesbianism: tribadism. It refers to lesbians who simulate hetero sex, especially -- ie, penetration. But I'm using it in my novel with a wider application -- that's the beauty of fantasy novels. You can make words fit to your will.

And it's wow and booze time now!

WTFWTFWTFWTF

Arg. Today is the day from hell.

Our tenant upstairs from me is a right bitch. She hasn't paid her rent for a month+ now or half of her damage deposit -- she owes us a total of $1300. And she's slowly moving out -- but I have no keys to upstairs and she's been taking her sweet ass time getting her shit out of there. So today I tell her I need her keys, forwarding address and all her shit gone by the end of the day.

"I'll be out by the 15th, like I told your mom."

You told the police you'd be out by the 15th of May, but whatever. "You haven't paid the rent, [name omitted]."

"I gave your mom $200 dollars."

So....? "That's not the rent."

"Yeah, well, she knew I wasn't going to pay it and she's known it for way longer than you've been in the picture." *storms off*

I neglected to remind her that I've been in the picture for 22 years and will be for a while yet. Furthermore, I'm the director of the company that owns the property, so I'm equal parts landlady with my mom. ARG.

Anyway, we'll be calling a locksmith soon, and I'm moving her shit out for her. Into the car-port. I would put it out into the rain, but I don't feel like dealing with her if it gets damaged. And then I can clean the place and rent it out, or maybe sell the fucking house.

AND I HAVE NO ACCESS TO A WASHER AND DRYER WHILE THIS IS GOING ON. I SWEAR TO GODS, THE CONSTANT SAGA OF MY LIFE IS NEVER HAVING CLEAN CLOTHING BECAUSE SOME ASSHOLE IS FUCKING WITH MY RIGHT TO A WASHER AND GODDAMN DRYER.

I would use the laundrette, but that takes money, which is something I don't have. (Literally. I don't have change for the laundrette.) And I would use my mom's washer and dryer, except the washer is waiting for a part and a fix-up and so won't in commission for a week. The dryer works, but handwashing...? Like, a week's worth. If I spent all my time doing it. ALL my time. I literally have two and a half full hampers of dirty laundry, I'm down to two pairs of underwear, and re-wearing bras till I really shouldn't even anymore. I'm out of outfits. I have clothes, but nothing nice, nothing to look good in, except my winter clothes, which it's too hot for. The only washer and dryer that work that I can use are upstairs, in the front porch area of the upstairs suite, and which she has not given me keys for.

You know what happened when she first moved in there? She thought the clothing I was washing belonged to the former tenant and so she trashed it. I got there in time to rescue my work clothing, but some of my favorite outfits never recovered.

I'm ready to kill the bitch. No jury would convict me.



SO. I go to get my shit done, i.e. distributing Immanence to Lund, which is a good 20-30 klicks north of town. Quite a trip. I get there. Half the places have the June Issue already, WHICH OF COURSE NO ONE TOLD ME BECAUSE WHY WOULD I NEED TO KNOW THAT? But the other half don't have the issue, which makes me wonder WHO THE FUCK did such a poor-ass job. I mean, jesusfuck, if you're going out to fucking LUND you may as well hit up EVERYTHING out there. Make the trip worthwhile. So I distribute to the places that don't have it and now I'm out of magazines and sitting down writing this blog entry, because if I don't rant somewhere I'll kill something. Or someone. Or EVERYONE IN THE WORLD.

It's called going postal. And as Moist von Lipwig can tell you, there's a reason for that title.