Sucky Spring Break

So, basically this has been the worst Spring Break ever.

My car rolled to a grinding halt on the highway on Monday. Some kind of rod shot through the oil pan, resulting in all my oil pouring out all over the highway. Then a valve blew, and my car started smoking and me, of course, freaking out. I had to sit on the road in the cold for forty-five minutes waiting for a tow truck and my dad to come get me.

When we finally towed my car, she was declared dead. I was crushed.

Then on Tuesday, my grandpa took a turn for the worst. He was in really bad shape and had another clot in his arm. I had just visited with him on Saturday, and he seemed sickly, but not on death's door. He knew who I was, and even talked for a little while.

I went to visit him on Wednesday, and it was really bad. He seemed so sick and frail. He couldn't see anything, and was always looking past everyone when he did open his eyes. It was weird seeing how deteriorated he was. His eyes, which were normally brown, had turned almost all blue, and he was having little jerking spasms in his arms and legs. He couldn't talk at all, and mostly just moaned while he breathed.

I desperately wanted him to just snap out of it, but I knew he wouldn't. I finally broke down and cried. He was sort of looking at me though, so I turned my head into Sharon's shoulder. I wasn't sure if he couldn't or could tell that I was upset. I tried to smile every time he seemed like he was focusing, but it was so hard. I love him so much, and to see him like that was really rough. I felt like after twenty years of knowing him, I had somehow taken advantage of the little things, like his suspenders and the funny way his hair would just stick up. He was in a hospital gown and under blankets with his hair oiled onto his head because it was difficult to give him a bath. Hus face was even gaunt, and looking at him while he wheezed made me wish so hard for that roundness and his crooked smile.

When I finally went home, I was broken hearted. I couldn't stay because it was too hard, but I wanted to. I wanted to just stay and hold his hand like The Beatles song.

He died today at around 2:45 PM. I am so sad. Instead of being there, I was cleaning out my car at the mechanic's shop. Part of me was too chicken to go. I didn't want to see him take his last breath. I want to remember him as that sweet old man who would pay five dollars for a soda and eat a gallon of chocolate ice cream if he could. I want to remember him as my grandpa that taught me how to draw and took me to see Mulan and let me walk his dog that pulled like a huskie.

I love him, and hope that there is something more past just dying. Because he deserves to get a little slice of heaven.

Grandpa is in the Hospital

So, my grandpa is back in the hospital again. I don't want to be depressing, but it is really kind of hard not to, because I feel sad.

He takes heart medication that keeps his blood thin so he won't have a clot, and thus a stroke. But he started bleeding in his brain a few days ago. Since he was on the heart medication, he didn't have his normal clotting factors. Instead of the bleeding stopping like it normally would, the medication made him bleed and bleed and bleed.

So the doctors told us that the only thing to stop his brain from bleeding was to take him off the heart medication. He'll stop bleeding in his brain, but his heart if more likely to throw another clot that will lead back to his original problem: a stroke.

I am heart broken. Sharon said today, "He's damned if he does, he's damned if he doesn't." Basically my grandma and grandpa had to make a choice. Does he want to continue bleeding into his brain, or wait for a clot to form?

They decided to take him off the heart medication. It will give him more time, but honestly we are looking at anywhere between days to months. I hate to think about death. He is a very religious man, so I think maybe he isn't as afraid to die as I am afraid for him to die. I called my mom on my way to school to let her know what was going on, (since my mom and dad are divorced, she isn't really in the loop where my dad's parents are concerned) and I was making a huge effort to not cry. It's stupid to hold it back, but I feel like I need to be strong. He is my grandpa, but my dad is going to be losing his dad. It is going to be way harder on him, and I want to be there for my dad. I don't want to be a sobbing, snot-filled mess.

I am going to the hospital to see my grandpa. I don't want to write here that it is to say goodbye, because he could have months still, but the thought is there in my head. I hate that little voice, but I have to prepare for the worst, and hope that it is the very best.

But honestly, I don't want my grandpa to be in pain for even a second. I would rather he go quickly than have him hurting. So I don't know what the best is. Maybe it is getting to have months, or maybe the best would be for him to be gone in a week. I don't know at all. I only know that I love him so much. It makes me so sad to think of him as frail when I remember all of the times he has been so strong.

I just hate to think of him not being here one day. He is an old man, (89!), but there was still that childish hope that he would get to see my own kids.

Anyways, I didn't want to have a long period of no posts for no apparent reason. If I don't post for a while, this is the very valid reason. But I suspect that I will try to keep it updated here when I can. If anything, I will try to write a few post and have them scheduled so I won't leave everyone hanging.

How People are Finding Me

I am sort of laughing my ass off right now. Mostly because there are a few key words people are using to find my little blog:

"mild alcohol poisoning" "i split my pants" "pale nice ass" (thank you... I think.) "split up the side of pants"

While these are all terribly amusing, (and I somehow got a weird compliment from the internet gods) I think I need to find some better key words to have people find my blog. Now I feel like a klutz, and an alcoholic. (When I wasn't even the one with alcohol poisoning...).

Another thing that has me giggling is if you split your pants, (like I did) then why on earth are you googling what to about it? Just... get new pants. (Face palm.)

In other klutzy news, I slipped and fell and bashed the shit out of my knees at my dad's house in his basement. My knees are super bruised now, which makes me feel slightly cool, but also like a total spaz. Moral of the story: don't run around in Chucks when your dad is mopping. You will only injure yourself.

Got a New Job

I had an interview on Friday. I was ridiculously nervous. Mom had bought me a new outfit to wear, and I felt both very professional, but worried I also might look ridiculous.

The job is at a hospital, and I had the very worst time attempting to find the office I needed, which happened to be hidden in a maze of office-cubicles near some elevators and hallways and sliding glass doors and florescent lights. I was almost late to my interview.

I talked to the head of the department, and after fifteen minutes, I was basically hired. All he needed was a letter of recommendation, (which I procured) and I was going to be good to go.

So I am really excited. I get to start observation in about a week. My title is a QA tech. Basically I get to make sure the plans people make for radiation at cancer tumors works correctly before the radiation is shot into actual people with actual tumors.

I guess you could say I help cure cancer. <Pops collar.>

Or not.

More New/Awesome Things

Okay, I hope everyone has come to terms with the fact that I actually enjoy writing. While this blog is obviously for myself, and is basically a running explanation of my life all the time always, I have for a while been toying with the idea of adding on some of my actually "professional" writings.

Then I thought it might be confusing/a huge turn off to just randomly post a short story or a poem when, for about 80 posts, I have only ever written about what I am doing, all the embarrassing things that happen to me, what I am thinking, and how I feel about weird things that happen to me.

Quick tangent: my mom has always used WordPress, and since I started on Blogger/Blogspot, I thought it might be a good idea to check WordPress out.

Getting the think train back on track, I decided that I should utilize both blogging tools. In 2012 I made a separate blog for all of my creative work, but stationed myself on WordPress, and made the conscious  decision to keep my personal ramblings here on the website I know, and love.

With that all said, I will now make a link to my creative works site. And on top of having that link in this post, my mother has agreed to make me a stationary link-picture that will stay just on my home page. I will have to figure out where to put it, of course, so if you guys see things moving around or changing when you flash through some posts, don't be worried. It is really me, just tinkering away with ways to get everyone more excited about everything, ever.

I Split My Pants

So here is an embarrassing story.

Apparently, I am either bloated, or have gained weight, or my pants are actually getting smaller. (I like the very last option...) because I put on my very favorite pair of pants today. They are around seven years old, and the most beautiful, worn pair of jeans anyone has ever met. Not only are they split up the side from the hem, missing the back part of the trim, but they are also covered in tiny paint and pen splotches. They are obviously a well loved pair of jeans.

So loved, in fact, that the butt pockets have begun to tear apart at the seams. I am definitely not a seamstress, but I have done a damn fine job of holding these suckers together with a needle and thread. About once a month, the little butt pocket holes would start to come undone, and I would patiently sew everything back together.

Well, today will be the final resting day for my jeans.

Because I got into the car, and felt an abrupt cool wind on my ass.

Imagine my surprise when my jeans ripped from the top of my pocket to under my ass cheek.

And on top of that, I had to go with my parents to see the grandparents. I spent a good portion of my day shielding my ass with my purse.

Because I split my goddamned pants.

Below I will be posting a picture, but if anyone can't stomach my super pale ass-side and some thigh, don't scroll down any farther.

If you want to laugh your ass off at my exposed ass, please proceed.

And if you are wondering, that is my ass, no posing. I am not pushing my butt out to make it look bigger, it is really just a nice ass.

And those are also my wonderfully juvenile Joe Boxer underwear. 

Parking Assignments

March 8 was my puppy, Dash's eleventh birthday. To say the least, I was really excited about my old man getting more and more "refined." Dash is an incredibly grumpy boy, but I love him to death. He is just the best. I celebrated with him by eating popcorn and watching television.

Basically to him, it was like a normal day.

Still, I was really happy about him making it this far in life without actually looking all that old. Some dogs, like Cooper, really show their age. But my beautiful boy seems ageless. Unless you shine LED light on him. Then all his grey hair gets weirdly tinted and you can tell he is older that how he acts.

Such is a dog's life.

In other news, (and I may have harped on this before) but there was this bitchy ass lady who lived in the building ahead of my own. I am not just saying she was a bitch for lack of reason.

See, in my complex, there are some assigned parking spaces, as I can imagine there are in every complex. Everyone gets one assigned space, and if there are two cars, the second car must simply fend for itself.

My assigned parking space is up by the dumpster, so I don't use it. Adam's dad "contracts" it out to this guy with a creepy child molester van, so he makes a little money on the spot. It doesn't bother me. What does bother me, though, is this bitch lady.

See, I was parking in a spot that was not allocated to a specific condo/apartment. It had at one point been labeled as reserved parking, but had since been painted over, and the reserved parking space moved. It was no a big deal. Everyone used these other spots across from the reserved spots, randomly and without trouble. There was no official spot for anyone's car, it was just first come, first served.

And then Bitch moved in.

Like I pointed out, her "reserved" space had been moved. Up the hill. It was CLEARLY marked. No one used that spot. It was labeled as reserved. All of the other spots were CLEARLY not marked with "reserved" and were thus used by whoever needed them.

So I had parked my car in one of the painted over "reserved" spots, and for a while, it wasn't an issue.

Until one morning, I came out to head to work.

And Bitch was just standing there, looking at my little, slightly beat up Elantra. At first, I was worried that I had a flat tire or something. No one stares at other people's cars without reason.

But no, there was no flat tire. No damage, no nothing. Bitch just wanted to accuse me.

"You are in my spot."

"Morning," I replied, already annoyed.

"You are in my spot." I stopped. I looked down. I pointed with my finger.

"No. I am not. Your 'spot' is up there. Where is says 'reserved.'" She made a huge, disgusted face at me and huffed off. Her car was exactly one space over, on the other side of the diagonal yellow lines. She had to walk around her car to get to the stairs. Since that was obviously TOO much for her type 2 diabetes body, she took everything one step too far.

She had the real-estate company move the god-damned paint job.

So now I, and everyone else in the complex, was left with two unusable spots nearest to our homes.

Well, this has obviously made me incredibly angry.

But what makes me angrier is this: THE BITCH MOVED.

I am so pissed I could scream. Or go hunting, shoot a deer, hang it in a tree, clean the carcass, and make jerky to eat for next winter. 

The latter seems like a far better way to express my anger. 

Stalker: Still Around

So, my little phone stalker is still blowing up my phone. I don't know why. I haven't responded in four months to his weirdness. I don't know what is wrong with people. If you don't get a text from a girl after four fucking months, SHE IS NOT INTERESTED.

As a side note, if this girl sends you a text saying: I AM NOT INTERESTED IN YOU. It probably means she is not interested.

Here is a recap of yesterday and today's messages:

Hirsch: So funny! <link to yelling goats.>
(FYI, I have already seen the yelling goats, just like everyone else in the world.)

Hirsch: Crazy head. Where are you

No punctuation for the question.

Secondly, Why the fuck would I tell you where I am? I didn't even give him my last name.

God, people are weird.

And just in case I end up dead in a gutter, it is all here on the internet "who done it."

Escalators: Bad

When I was little, I was at a mall, (formerly The Mall pre-parental divorce) with my mom and my little brother. This was when he was actually very little. So little, in fact, that if Alex was the subject of one of those "Twenty Question" eggs, you would answer No when asked, "Is it bigger than a microwave?"

Just so it's understood, he was riding in a stroller.

The Mall had two floors, I suppose like most malls do, and thus had several escalators and elevators. There was an escalator near the pet shop. There was a set near the movie theatre. And then there was the one set near the coffee shop.

That was the escalator that did me in.

Picture cherubic little me, all of about four years old, with curling brown hair and giant brown puppy dog eyes, trusting in everything. I was probably wearing sneakers that day, with little pink flowers on the sides and one of my cousin's hand-me-down shirts and overalls. And all Mom wanted was a coffee...

So we headed to that central hub, where there was a pretty fountain, and beige colored tiling on the floor, where there was a coffee shop under the down escalator and I could practically taste the weird tubular cookies. There was even going to be a Claire's opening up near the up escalator in a few years.

But Mom was all by herself that day, so it was a juggle. Walk all the way to the elevator? It was practically all the way across the mall, so she had decided that it wasn't a good option. Instead, Mom made the decision to use the escalator, propping the stroller up and having little me grab onto the handle.

Except that I didn't hold onto the stroller, and the last time I was at the mall with Dad, he had told me if my shoes were untied when I rode an escalator, the laces would be sucked under, then my shoes, then my feet, and finally my whole body would be sucked under and I would come out the top looking like ground beef and bloddy guts. And lucky me, I just happened to look down and see one of my shoes was untied.

Here is a picture I made of what I ALWAYS fear will happen when I ride an escalator:

All of that red stuff is my blood and guts and muscles. Kind of like Sweeny Todd. If Sweeny Todd was an escalator with a taste for four year olds.

Almost needless to say, I didn't go down the escalator. Instead, I stood at the top, looking down as my mother left me, descending into the hexagonal space below the floor that was only reachable by the angry, hungry escalator that wanted to start with my shoe strings for an appetizer and end with little girl for dessert.

I cried. Mom yelled at me to stay put, don't go anywhere, don't talk to strangers, she would be right up!

Weirdly enough, no one tried to steal me. (In those days, it seemed like kids were being stolen left and right.) I just stood there and cried. No security guard tried to help my mom or me. No other mom tried to be of any use either.

And ever since then, I have had fears of escalators. I am not afraid of them since I ride them all the time, but honestly, I will take the stairs if they are an option. And I have a tendency to picture myself getting ground up like beef patties every time I approach the end of an escalator. Even if I am wearing flip-flops. 

Look at the Moustache!

So, this isn't really a very good post, content wise. But it is extremely, cutely, amazingly awesome. (Fuck you, English class; adverbs rock.)

This is baby Greyson. He will be six months old on March 17. He has already grown quite the moustache. I am sure my cousin Sabastian is proud.