Grievances - An Epic Complaint in Four Parts

Nah, I'm just shitting you. 

But I did have a weird little dream last night where my brain invented a new phrase that's going to take the world by storm.

I was watching a movie - one of your typical teenage high school whogivesashits.  In the lunchroom, some jackoff has just teased one of the unpopular girls who probably just needs to remove her glasses and discover lipgloss to be pretty.  One of the jocks witnessed this, and since he hates that stupid dude, saunters testosteronally over to unpopular girl's table and offers to beat him up for her - all she ever has to do is say the word. 

She mumbles something akin to "whatever." right before the camera pans over to the popular girl table, where an incredulous blonde - who's witnessed the entire scene - hisses to her cohorts, "Oh em gee!  I'm hot on the bus, and he doesn't even know I exist!"

My husband assures me that my unconscious brain's use of "hot on the bus" makes perfect sense, so you're all commanded to start using the phrase immediately, and often - until everyone you know starts giving you the "what the fuck?" eyebrow.

It's Possible I've Solved the Mystery

But probably not the one you were hoping.  Although I don't know much about your hopes and fears, so hey - maybe you have been up at night chewing your fingers to nubs over what the hell was going on with my damned rye bread.  If that's the case, you're in luck.

(As a quick side note, to the 2.5 of you who want a Sims 3 update, I'm working on it.  I'm just not willing to throw up any old crap for the sake of crapping.  I have standards, even if I only have 8 followers and two of them are the same person.  Also, more people should be reading my blog.  It's fucking funny and you know it.  Do you hear that, people who aren't reading my blog?  Do you?  Good.)

Meanwhile, back to my bread.  When I was explaining it the first time, I didn't give each and every (what I thought at the time) irrelevant detail.  Also, new information came to light.  New, and possibly terrifying information. 

So let's go into excrutiating, almost forensic detail with this: 

Before detecting the strange odor, I had a loaf of approximately 8-day-old rye bread, opened (but still in it's original wrapper) sitting inside yet another bag, which was a ziplock freezer bag.

The full loaf of bread spent about 5 days on top of my fridge (in a shallow basket which was part of the packaging of a gift my sister gave me as a wedding present) before it was transfered to the inside of my fridge.

Along with this loaf of bread were a few pieces of older rye bread, also in original packaging, waiting for me to either get a craving for stale bread & butter and coffee, or to stop feeling guilty enough to finally throw it away.  I kept it on top of the new bread, so I could be fully reminded of my wastefulness as I reached past it.

When I'd first opened the newly purchased loaf of rye bread, I put it inside the ziplock freezer bag which had been holding the stale, leftover pieces from the old loaf.  This made the bag almost full to the brim, and when I tried to zip the used freezer bag closed, its sides split open instead of closing, as expected.  Because I can not handle this sort of shit, I angrily threw the unzipped bag on top of the fridge to give it a chance to think about what it had done.  It took me about a day transfer all of the bread into a new freezer bag.

Here's where the horrifying possibility comes in:  About a month ago, we had maintenance come by to fix a few things, and while they were here, asked them to change the a/c vent in the kitchen ceiling - despite the fact the dude couldn't understand why we didn't want all the air conditioning blowing directly into the laundry alcove, cooling only the washer and dryer, instead of the kitchen.  We're ass over elbow crazy, okay?

So in the course of changing the vent, he gets vent dust sheetrock crumbles, popcorn ceiling crackles and god knows what else all over the kitchen floor.  He did a decent job of cleaning it up, but what I didn't find until much later is that this stuff was also all over the top of my fridge.  Where I keep my bread.  Where I'd angrily thrown an opened bag of rye bread and left it for at least a day. 

I don't know if any of that stuff really got into my bread.  Who can say for sure?
 
All I know is that my stomach wasn't right for three days, and even with all my various ailments, having a stomachache for three days in a row, which required me to repeatedly gag down those foamy-diet-strawberry-shake-tasting Gaviscons is not even close to normal for me.

And I still have my eyes on those kids of mine.   

Something's Rotten in Denmark?

Maybe if my kitchen's in Denmark.  I haven't seen any Vikings or Lutheran churches attempting to form ... it's a really small kitchen but I suppose just about anything is possible.

I'll explain.

Yesterday, I decided to have a cheese and pickle sandwich on rye bread for lunch.  I got a plate and everything I needed from the fridge, then set it all on the counter.  I opened the rye bread first, because that's logical and I really try to be logical when assembling sandwiches - to avoid pickle mishaps, mostly.  The rye bread was being stored in a big ziplock bag and had been in our kitchen for at most eight days, three of which had been inside the fridge. 

I pulled out two slices.  They didn't smell quite right.  But I don't trust my nose, for obvious reasons so I went ahead and made the sandwich.  Still ... the bread just smelled wrong.  I looked at the rest of the loaf.  It looked okay - not moldy or anything.  I've had rye bread sitting around for longer in my kitchen - at worst it gets too dried out to be palatable.  I sniffed again.  It wasn't even that typical breadly smell - kinda yeasty, like wine.  What the hell. 

Whatever.  I can't be sure something is really wrong until my husband comes home and I make him smell it, so I decided to go ahead and eat it.  I got to the second bite, and just ... couldn't.  The smell was way too strong, and too strange, even if it was a side effect of my medication.  I threw it away, and ate nachos and broccoli instead.  Not together - the broccoli legitimized melted cheddar on tortilla chips as a meal.

When my husband came home, he opened the bag and got smacked in the face by the smell.  It was open for mere seconds and I smelled it from four feet away.  The realization hit me that I had eaten two bites of that bread.  What also hit me is that the smell reminded me of that time a friend and I mixed every liquid we could find in her parents house into a dixie cup.  We were lucky we didn't choke on the fumes, it was pretty disgusting.

So I guess now all I have to do is figure out which one of my children is trying to poison me, and where they're hiding the dixie cup.  Why don't I think it's my husband?  If he was going to do it, he would have done it a long time ago.  The kids have long since sapped his energy to plot.

A Bunny Walker Dream

Neither of us had children, or boyfriends.  The dream just sort of started out of nowhere, with us sleeping in the same bed, as we did all through our teenage years during our many sleepovers. 

It was winter, and we appeared to be in some sort of small cabin.  The room was absolutely freezing, and Bunny was slowly - almost diabolically - pulling the covers over to her side of the bed.  I was begging her to stop, because she was coming close to removing my portion of the covers altogether.

"Bunny," I pleaded, "please - I won't have any covers at all soon!"

She grumbled to herself, basically ignored me and continued tugging the blankets toward herself.  To illustrate exactly how dire my situation really was becoming, I showed her some sort of equation, which calculated precisely how long it would be before I had no covers left at all - to no avail.

I tried a new strategy.  "Bunny.  If you promise to stop pulling the covers away from me, I'll get up and grab an extra blanket for us to share!"  How this made any sense at all, I have no fucking idea.  But I spent a great deal of time trying to convince Bunny that this was the answer to our problem of her pulling the blankets away from me.

It was all falling on deaf ears.  It was as if Bunny just didn't believe I was cold enough to warrant her sympathy.  I had to convince her, so I decided to touch her warm shoulder with my ridiculously icy fingers.

This definitely got her attention.  She flung the blankets into the air, jumped out of the bed and barked that she would get the extra fucking blanket so we could have some peace and fucking quiet, thank you very fucking much.

It was at this point that I realized she was completely naked ... and pink.  The kind of pink you look after sitting in a hot bath.  Healthy, warm pink.

She starts to storm around the corner but stops cold.  I stare at her.  Before I even have the chance to think, "uh, that's weird", in one fluid motion she's angled her body, bent her knees slightly and has both arms raised in front of her as though she's about to throw a punch.

Terrified, I jump out of bed and stand behind her.  In front of us is a man - short dreadlocks, green sweatshirt, not very tall, holding a knife.  He looks nervous.  I wake up.

Okay, maybe when I said, "I had a funny dream about you" I should have said "weird" instead.

Bunny, I had a weird dream about you.

I don't know how to tell you this...

...but I can't drink soda anymore ... at least not while I'm taking Topamax.  It's not that I drink a lot of soda - I usually just have one of those mini cans once a week on Fridays, when we eat our frozen rising crust (that tastes as good as delivery) pizza for dinner.  Sometimes, rarely, I'll have one of those mini cans during the week when I'm not eating pizza, but I don't make a habit out of it. 

What I'm laboring to say here is that soda is an occasional treat for me.  So by the time I'd had it again since I started Topamax, the medicine had a chance to really build up in my system.  

I was warned through my research that anything with carbonation just wouldn't agree with me - but did I heed said warning before I poured my adorable mini can of Coke into my glass with just the right amount of cherry juice & two ice cubes, and sat down with my perfectly baked pizza?

No.  I didn't.  And I paid a price, my friends.  When I sipped that soda it was as though a thousand tiny pennies pounced on my tongue and started biting.  Didn't agree with me?  That soda had a vendetta.  I'd call it a carbonation mafia, but I don't want to beat a dead horse.

...and before you suggest I let the soda go flat, allow me to suggest you go drink a warm, flat Old Milwaukee.

In other news, I've started taking the 2nd dose.  I'm not smelling cigarette smoke constantly, just on occasion.  Word finding hasn't been as impossible as it could be, but like I said - I've just started the new dose.  I have one more step up in a week, and that should be it. 

Other side effects that I've heard can happen, and almost want to happen because they could make my kinda boring life a little bit more interesting: deja vu (I know I've seen this shit before) and jamais vu (who moved my shit? ~or~ this isn't my shit!) 

Honestly, the potential for hilarity staggers. 

I play Sims (part8)

Things just aren't getting any easier for Rachel.

Rachel decides to go ahead and teach Suri to walk and talk, despite the embarrassing baldness.  You're a giver, Rachel, that's what you are.

There ya go - let's get the warping underway.  It's never too soon for a complex.

La Rachel's conversations with Suri are no less strange than the ones she's had with Stanley.*

Meanwhile, a visiting repair woman is completely unimpressed with Suri's musicianship.  We can't all be Mozart, lady.

Hey!  Another birthday!  Stanley turns from toddler to child!  (The bald one could not possibly care less.)

Make a wish, Stanley.  Choose well.

Now let's get to sparklin', kid.  Here's to rolling yourself a decent haircut.

What the hell.  Did your mother piss off a powerful witch?  ~sigh~ 
Happy Birthday, dude.  Please put some pants on.
  

That's better, I guess.  I mean, if you're going to still be playing with that dollhouse, at least be super intense about it.  In fact, let's just call it an actionfigurehouse.

What's with the stink-eye, Rachel?  Just go have a slice.

And uh, so no one thinks you're a body snatcher or anything, most people smile when they eat cake.  It's a birthday party, not a funeral - even the magical gnome on the counter is pulling off relaxed better than you.  Jeez.

*I'm sure Hammersmark will have some clever summation of this conversation, such as, "The military came with these tanks that shot out nachos SO spicy, the cops had to come so they could put the fire out with a rock.  Dragon!"

I Play Sims (part9)

.

I've done some more reading, and ...

What was I saying?  Right, anyway.  After further research into Topamax side effects, I've found a smattering of people online who describe things smelling strangely, or a burning smell.  So it's entirely likely I wasted the shit out of the county's resources because my temporal lobes are confused and knocking into ... uh, the uh - where you smell in your brain.  I have been smelling cigarette smoke all day again.  Guhmuggy.

Okay, so in my research, I've learned that Topamax works on temporal lobe dysfunction.  Basically, it slows down abnormal activity.  Or, all activity, if you've been watching me in action.  I've also learned that the temporal lobe (I keep typing "temporal love", ffs) is responsible for "comprehension, naming, verbal memory and other language functions".

The first could (I mean couple) of days of taking this medication, I was like "side effects, what side effects?"  But now, I'm swimming through ... a bunch of words that aren't the right ones.  It's 50% scary, 50% amusing.  I feel like my frontal lobe has a hot water bottle on it, there's a burning cigarette in front of my nose, and all I want to do is curl up under a blanket, stare at something mindless and pretend I'm not having trouble stringing thoughts together.  It's taking me a ridiculous amount of time to make sense - that is, if I actually am.

I want pizza.  No I don't.

All I gotta say is, this shit better work.  I will give it time to settle in - I'm not unrealistic, I realize this type of medication requires twiddling.  Or tweaking.  I better stop before it starts to sound sexual.  Oh my god I'm not funny.  Goodbye.