The struggle and love of living with RRT

Last night while driving home I found myself annoyed with the pickup truck in front of me. At this point I don’t even recall what he or she did that caused my annoyance but that isn’t important here. What came out of my mouth is where I found myself mystified. My RRT (Road Rage Turrets) has been something I’ve been aware of for years and the scenerio always goes something like this….

:: Enter vehicle and driver who does something to piss me off. :: (This could be braking for no reason, cutting me off, or any other thing that I find annoying at that moment in time.)

Me: (I scream in a fit of God knows what from the safe enviroment of my car, windows up and in no way hearable by anyone but myself (and perhaps the rare passenger) any random mashing of words that might come to mind). “Dick stroking poop noodle!”, “Ass Hammer!”, “Crotch Sock!!”, “Ball scratching shit nugget!”, “Tit sucking ligers ass!”… It can be anything really. Just some words that I place together in my moment of rage. Immediately after this lyrical moment of genious I start to laugh and pat myself on the back for being so clever and creative.

I find my RRT to be comical and perhaps a bit therapeutic. Although the name of the condition itself may seem a bit daunting I can assure you that is much healthier than those of you who suffer from the typical road rage. With RRT there is no tail-gating, chasing the offending car or even gesturing with your middle finger. No one is harmed and you are left feeling like you were just handed a Nobel Prize in Literature.

RRT for LIFE!!    

Ch-ch-changes…

A week and a half ago I had surgery on my ears. It was a fairly major surgery that required me to be off work for a week and a half and gave me some glorious pain pills to get through the first few days. I’ve had several ear surgeries in the past and on the day of surgery you can be guaranteed an anxiety attack courtesy of me. This last surgery was no exception; however, I was able to talk my self down from it almost immediately and without medication. (Yay me!)

What normally gets me going is just the idea of being put under. It scares the bejebus out of me. The thought of someone drugging me to a coma like state and trusting they can bring me back is terrifying. I am not a small girl. I am not even an average girl. I am an obese girl and as everyone knows this problem goes hand in hand with health problems. I am not exempt from this. So I laid there thinking about how my size complicates things even further when having surgery. There are many ways your size can affect a surgery. I’m not going to go into them but I will say I was pretty annoyed with myself for my current situation and for the added risks my poor choices were bringing to an already stressful situation. Sometime prior to my anesthesiologist knocking me out I decided that changes had to made and I was the only one who could make them. I realized I have no control over my hearing situation and most likely will undergo surgeries in the future, but I knew that I do have control over what I eat and how often I exercise.

Today I went and bought sneakers and tomorrow I am joining a gym. I’ve lost 10 pounds since my pre-op appointment and I’m happy about that but there is far more work to be done. I deserve to be happy within my own body. I don’t have a number on the scale that I want to be. I don’t have a size that I’m aiming for. What I do have is a desire to be healthier and feel better. I don’t want to go into surgery and fear that I am so large that the amount of medication it takes to put me under will keep them from being able to bring me back. So here I go making a choice to change the my health, my story, and my life.

My relationship with football

Lately I’ve been getting my share of guff because people see me as a “bandwagon” fan. As much as I’d like to say that I don’t care what people think, I do find it a bit annoying that people get this “i’m a better fan than you” attitude. Okay fine… you are the superior fan. Good for you but might I add that just because one might be a “latecomer” to support the team doesn’t make them any less of a fan. And yes, I did say latecomer. I didn’t jump on a bandwagon, I merely took my time making my way to giving a shit about football. So there!

When I was a kid my dad watched football. It wasn’t something that was encouraged to be a family thing. There was no snack foods to lure you in or putting on your team gear and getting amped up for the game. It was my dad taking over the living room and occasionally screaming so loudly and violently that the last place I wanted to be was next to him let alone in the room with him. That was what I grew up with as football. Fun, yeah? No.

Fast forward some years… Oh now we’re talkin’! I did enjoy some college football games, however how I really viewed these events were as “bleacher parties”. They were really just an excuse to drink. I had no idea what was going on in front of me. I never knew who had the ball. I’d scream when everyone else screamed and act a fool with the best of them but in all honesty I was there for the booze, my friends and the good times (which could include falling down the bleachers and/or getting thrown up on by others).

Let’s jump ahead a few more years… This is where shit got real and went terribly wrong. I married a Steelers fan. Unless you’ve lived with a Steelers fan then you really do NOT know the depths of the hell that comes with it. I’ve heard that the 49ers, Cowboys and Patriots fans can also be quite painful to be around but I have no firsthand knowledge of such things.

Back tracking just a little bit… Prior to marrying this Steelers fan I had adopted the New Orleans Saints as my team for a couple reasons. No, I didn’t really watch them or follow them with any real interest… I was just an admirer from afar kinda fan. I was from the south and someone very dear to me had passed away who was a huge Saints fan, so I took them on in her honor, not to mention I didn’t know of any other Saints fans so I figured they could not really afford to lose one.

So there I was. A Saints fan with no real knowledge of the game and zero ability to talk shit about football… and married (dun dun dun) to a Steelers fan. I don’t know how to explain the pain of this situation. What I can say is that I quickly learned to NEVER watch football with him because it was mental torture. He had no interest in teaching me about the game but he would scream and carry on about the injustices that were done to the Steelers and he rarely watched a game that they weren’t playing in. He was cocky and condescending, so I just supported my Saints quietly and half assed ’cause I really didn’t care to be like him… The Steelers fan. Who, by the way, is now my ex husband and no, it didn’t end over football… however, his love for the Steelers shoulda been my first red flag. Duly noted.

Now to current day! I’ve been living in the Puget Sound area for about 16 years (11 of them were with the Steelers fan) and have been a quiet supporter of the Saints the entire time. I’ve had nothing against the Seahawks I just didn’t have any interest in them either. ‘Cause you see I just had no interest in football at all…. until that magic moment…..

I started dating a man who is a Seahawks fan. A diehard Seahawks fan at that! He asked me if I’d like to watch a game with him… and I did! And guess what? I didn’t instantly dislike him. I didn’t want to leave. He didn’t yell. He didn’t throw things. He didn’t make me afraid to be there. And when he got excited about the game he wasn’t scary or a dickhead about it. He really ENJOYED the game. I’d never seen such a thing. I was floored… and oddly aroused… and I wanted to know more!! But I wasn’t out of the woods yet. I had (have) little education on the game and how things work. For example, why that yellow flag keeps showing up and why does 45 seconds on the clock take 10 minutes… but dare I ask a question during the game?

After chewing on my lip for a little bit I mustered up some courage and asked something. I don’t remember what it was I asked but it was most likely something dumb, like really dumb, like “who has the ball?” …. and as I waited for the onslaught of insults to start, my heart racing and hands shoved under my ass to keep them from shaking, I was surprised when he replied calmly and without judgment with something equivalent to, “we do.” And this, my friends, started my adventure and growing love of football and the Seahawks.

So am I on a bandwagon? I think no but if it makes you feel better to say I am, then have at it. All I know is that I’ll be over here enjoying the super bowl with my favorite Seahawk fan… The very best Seahawk fan in the world supporting the very best team in the world!!!

GO SEAHAWKS!!! (BTW, I still love you N.O. Saints!)

P.S. I also want to have Marshawn Lynch’s baby. Maybe I’ll talk about that later.

Posting … not for the faint of heart.

Okay, so I’ve already failed my goal to post weekly. Yay me! In my defense however my computer is acting like a used up whore on herion and only seems to be motivated by malware.

It’s Thursday and I was over this week on Monday. I’ll highlight a few of the great moments. 1) I learned that someone I answer to on my job is a liar (and a snatch) and not even a good one at that. 2) Aunt Flo is paying a visit and hell bent on creating as many crime scenes as she can. I fucking hate her. 3) I think I have aquired athletes foot and last but not least 4) i have a hangnail.

My general attitude this week seems to suck. I’m not talking your normal sucking hard enough create a hicky kinda sucking. It’s more like hard enough to suck the chrome off of a bumper sucking. Try as I might to give myself possitive affirmations and read quotes that most would find inspiring or my gentle reminders to myself to “just breathe”, I still feel the desire to punch something … very hard. I want to inflict pain. I’m normally a nice girl… kinda. I feel my anti-depressants are failing me. Those bitches are just taunting me I think. I swallow them and they just laugh and then… nothing.

So…yeah. This is post number 2. I’ll leave you with this…

 

And I’ll never be Asian…

Recently at work we were discussing Asian food. The topic moved quickly to fish sauce and was followed by some squished up faces, but oh no… not me. I’ve always loved American Chinese food but didn’t learn about other Asian foods, culture or beliefs until I moved to the Pacific NW.

Now I don’t claim to be an expert on Asians. I’ll leave that to the Asians but we do have a large Asian population here and I would have to thank my good friend, Yvette, for teaching me a lot of what I know. Most importantly how to use chopsticks and to be brave enough to try new things. The bottom line is I trust her enough that when she said, “try it. it’s good” that I did. I also have seen some of the most hospitable behavior and genuineness from her mother, who can cook like OMAG (oh my Asian goodness).

So anyway, I announced at work that I want to be Asian. I firmly believe there is an Asian somewhere inside me and I don’t say that because I am a large woman and most Asians are petite. I won’t even mention that I could probably house a couple of them in just my own being.  Part of me really does want to be Asian. I mean this. It’s sort of like when people with curly hair want straight hair and vice versa…. but different.

Anyhow, I wrote a song about it. I like to do that sometimes… write a song… or at least set my own lyrics to an already existing melody. Without further ado, please enjoy the masterpiece below. It is set to the tune of Lorde’s Royals. I call it… Asians.

I’ve never seen a balut in the flesh
I cut my teeth on sushi in the movies
And I’m not proud of my unslanted eyes, on my pale face
No western envy

But every song’s like gang star, saki, trippin’ at the noodle shop
William Hung, slippers, trashin’ the sentō
I don’t care, I’m binding my feet in my dreams
But everybody’s like America, blue jeans, tattoos on your lower back
Obamacare, traffic, Kardashians on TV
I don’t care, I’m not caught up in your American flare

And I’ll never be Asian
It don’t run in my blood
That kind of rice just ain’t for me
I crave a different kind of starch
Let me be your ruler, you can call me Wannabe
And baby I’ll rule (I’ll rule I’ll rule I’ll rule)
Let me live my life Asian-ly.

i'll never be Asian