PICK YOUR POISON

 Because nothing says classy like designer high-heeled roller skates
that cost a mere $2600.

Oh boy! A new way to break my neck and lighten
my handbag at the same time! Now, that's what I call
one stop shopping!

-NOT-

LOOKING THROUGH SOMEONE ELSE'S EYES

Many of you are already familiar with Klahanie Blog, but for those of you who aren't, I'd like to share Gary's story titled Twenty Years Ago. His honesty left me truly breathless, tearful and humbled by the pain and the helplessness he has struggled to overcome. Suddenly, my pain seemed minuscule and insignificant in comparison. Gary's story was just the reality check and kick in the ass I needed to start these rusty, old wheels grinding again so I can contemplate a life outside the cave in which I live. Right now that thought scares me, but I hope in time I can look forward to anticipating tomorrow as today ends. Please take a few minutes to pay Gary a visit and cheer him on as he continues to evolve.

WHY MILDRED WENT TO POT

Plunder Woman

While I've been MIA (missing in action) lately, I've been working towards cleansing my system of all the gnarly narcotics that have held me prisoner for the past 15 years. Since 2003, I've taken the whole spectrum of painkillers and have to admit nothing works very well these days. Why continue taking something that doesn't give me any relief? Why continue taking something that harms my already compromised liver? Because I've chosen to make what I think is an informed decision, I'm in the process of weaning myself off morphine because cold turkey is a real bitch. Trust me, I've been down that road a time or two and I definitely don't want to visit that rocky path ever again.

Over the last 15 years I've taken every NSAID known to man, plus Tramadol, Lortab, Percocet, Oxycontin, Methadone, Fentanyl and Morphine. You name it and I've taken it. I've used TENS units and even had 2 internal neurostimulators implants that are wired directly into my spine. I've had two separate anterior discectomies with fusions to fuse 4 of my 7 cervical discs. I have to admit not being able to look up or turn my head has been a little challenging at times. And as for the surgeries, they've done little to alleviate my pain. My last neurosurgeon told me that there was nothing else that he could do to help me. He basically told me that I'd have to grin and bear it.

I've also tried exercise, heated pool therapy, regular physical therapy, massages, chiropractic adjustments, heat and ice with no substantial or long term relief from anything I tried. The only things I haven't tried at this point are steroid injections that are injected directly into the site that's causing the pain and acupuncture. As ordered by my endocrinologist, I can't ever do the steroid injections because steroids make my blood sugar skyrocket. And acupuncture?  To be honest, the thought of being a human pin cushion (even though they say no pain is involved) doesn’t exactly excite me, so I think this particular predicament is called being S.O.L. (shit out of luck)

Physically, I've gone from being Wonder Woman to being a lackluster cave-dwelling crone. Mentally, I've learned to suffer in silence. Isolation is a common tool used by many people with serious medical issues and by people who have simply given up and don't want to play the "happy" game any longer. It's easier to be isolated than it is to be around people. That overwhelming urge to put on a happy face has worn me out. It’s difficult to maintain that “everything is just peachy” act for very long and the older I get, the more that desire wanes. That's why I became a hermit. No, that's not entirely true. The combination of severe chronic pain and my lifelong inability to select a significant other who isn't a complete twisted freak-a-zoid asshole are the two major reasons for becoming a troglodyte. The wealthy call it being an eccentric recluse and the poor call it life after the fast lane. I call it how Mildred maintains some semblance of sanity.

Recently I decided to give medical marijuana a whirl. Both my primary care doctor and my pain management doctor gave me their blessing regarding my decision. Florida legalized marijuana for medicinal use in the 2016, but have always steered clear until now due to all the hoop jumping that's involved.  Once I finally made the decision, I carefully followed all the necessary steps dotting all i's and crossing all t's. Unfortunately, I know what a clusterfuck anything pertaining to the government can be. Anything they handle on a local, state or federal level involves too much red tape that only slows the process of forward movement and expands the room for errors to be made every step of the way.

First, I made an appointment to see Dr. Feelgood. Next, I had my medical records from my pain management doctor and my primary care doctor faxed to Dr. Feelgood. This was done to substantiate a medical diagnosis that is on the list of qualifying diseases and conditions. Previous medical records also help Dr. Feelgood to write a personalized prescription/care plan. Next, I kept my appointment (BTW, Dr. Feelgood really knew her stuff.) Once a person sees the doc and her recommendation is submitted along with your Patient ID number, the mandatory application for a Medical Marijuana card from the state with a $75 required fee (everyone has to get their piece of the pot pie) can be submitted online or by snail mail. About 2 weeks later, I received an email me with my card number. Until I receive my actual card, the email with the card number enables me to make purchases.  They say it takes about 4 to 6 weeks to receive the actual card. That's the speed of light for any government agency! I'll believe 4 to 6 weeks once I have my card in my hand in 4 to 6 weeks.

There's two dispensaries where I live and both do home deliveries. I'll most likely use that service in the future, but I wanted to check out the dispensary in person for my first purchase. I like to see how things work and if they run smoothly. It gives me an overall picture of whether or not I'm dealing with a bunch of imbeciles. It helps keep my expectations in the realm of reality. I have to admit, I was pleasantly surprised by the whole operation at Surterra Wellness right down to the ATM standing all shiny and new inside the dispensary. This feature made a lot of sense since the marijuana business is all cash and carry due to the current Federal laws and banking restrictions.They would have really impressed me if they had a blood plasma center on site so people could sell some blood to buy their weed. That's what I call one stop shopping!


The dispensary was a strange trip...nothing like copping a little weed back in the day from the friendly neighborhood pot dealer! Upon checking in for my first one stop shopping experience, I found out that my approved card number didn't show up in the Florida Stoners-R-Us database when the dispensary tried to access it. So I sat there and called the 800 number into the state registry. Ring! Ring! Ring! I first accessed their automated menu hoping I pushed all the right selections to talk to an actual human being. Of course, there were many callers ahead of me, but the automated recording assured me that the first available representative would help me and thanked me for waiting patiently. I wonder who I'd have to register a complaint with regarding the "on hold" music that played in my ear while I waited. I beg your pardon, but elevator music is not acceptable to listen to for more than 5 seconds and what stoner do you know who listens to that crap?


Fast forward about 45 minutes later and the state informed me that I indeed had been approved and the number emailed to me was correct. Duh! I knew the number was correct. The state knew the number was correct. I wanted to know why the dispensary couldn't access my correct account number. That issue was never answered. "I don't know" didn't seem like an acceptable answer, but I wasn't going to push the issue because I didn't want my correct account number to permanently float around lost in cyberspace. What I did was accept some things are meant to remain a mystery. So now, I'm back at square one. The dispensary needed to be able to access my account via my top secret correct account number. If the dispensary couldn't access my account with the prescription from my pot doc, then I wouldn't be able to make a purchase. Period! Why would I ever expect anything to ever go smoothly from start to finish and not be riddled with all sorts of Murphy's laws? I don't know how, but somehow magically, my card number appeared in the database after my phone call to Florida's Stoners-R-Us registry. Go figure! It must have been a miracle!

Stay tuned for part two of this saga...the purchase.

BITTEN BY AN EMOTIONAL VAMPIRE

I'm just not feeling "it" today, but that's when it's most crucial to have a little peek at all the nastiness lurking inside. I bet the technician who did my abdominal ultrasound very early this morning, saw a bunch of my nastiness lurking in my pancreas, my liver and my gallbladder. It really sucks when your organs don't behave themselves.  So for today, here are my thoughts...

In life we have two choices. We can either rise above the pain and sorrow or we can stay emotionally paralyzed by the demons of our past. Few of us had a perfect childhood and yes, too many of us bear the ugly scars of coming from a dysfunctional family. But remaining crippled by our past takes away our ability to give and to receive love. We lose the ability to forgive and move forward. We dwell in a gray area where our demons thrive. We are weakened by some unseen, unrelenting force that continually reminds us to never trust, to never have hope and to never have faith. That force is an emotional vampire wanting to drain us dry, but fear not because that vampire can be defeated. It's a choice and the choice is ours and ours alone to make.

Maybe tomorrow I'll feel a little more human and be ready to kick ass. For now, it's off to bed so the sugar plum fairies can work their magic on me.

PRESIDENT LINCOLN'S WORDS

How can 10 sentences be so powerful and long remembered, yet for a 10 year old be the beginning of what most people fear...public speaking? To me, there was nothing grand and glorious about it. In fact, The Gettysburg Address lives on in infinite anguish inside my head.

It was 5th grade at Vine Street Elementary School (1964) and I was assigned to memorize The Gettysburg Address with the purpose of standing in front of the whole school and saying it (from memory). I wasn't allowed to have a cheat sheet. Since I have no clear recollection of that day, I'm assuming it wasn't one of my most stellar moments in life, but rather one that festers for a long time and comes to a head in some quirky, twisted way. 

When I think back, I get flashes of standing there with my skinny legs shaking as I stood tall and scared shitless next to the America flag as I looked out at the whole student body staring at me. Damn you, President Lincoln! And Damn you, Mrs. Shitforbrains! Thank you for reinforcing all my negative feelings about being an awkward, unattractive beanpole who was mistaken much too often as being a boy. Oh yeah! Me and Abe have it going on, bitches! Eat your hearts out!

Did I vomit? No! Did I wet myself? No! I suppose I did what I was assigned to do, but as I type this post I have a painful knot in the pit of my gut making me feel uncomfortable and nauseous. With that thought, I leave you with the words of our beloved 16th president.

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. 

But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate—we can not consecrate—we can not hallow—this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

LOVING VINCENT

WACKO WEDNESDAY AND THE DENOUEMENT THIEF

Before I start today's gobbledygook, if you listen very carefully, in the far distance you can hear Morticia Addams seductively whisper, "Denouement." 

Gomez Addams, her husband responds, "Oh that's French!" as he slowly slides up Morticia's arm with passionate kisses.





The dog never ate my homework, but I think the Grinch stole my denouement a time or two. You may be wondering why he stole it, when he stole it and how he stole it. Let me begin by revealing that it always seems to happen when I'm writing what I think is the perfect post. 

The action builds as the climax grows near. My anecdote reaches a fever pitch and then ZAP...nothing! My thought process goes haywire and the next thing I know I'm left without any strings to tie my story together. It's a frustrating predicament to say the least. 

What I need to do to resolve the issue is to write a post and have several denouements. Surely, The Grinch couldn't steal all of them. When my children were young they always loved choose your own adventure books, so I thought it might be fun to have a choose your own denouement post. I'll start working on it just as soon as The Grinch returns with my brain.

Until then, let me share the why, when and how. First, why? That's simple! The Grinch loves to steal things...especially meaningful things like good endings. When? He cleverly sits back waiting for me to become momentarily distracted (toothache, phone call, text message, Facebook notification, bathroom break, sleep, etc.) How? The Grinch has this amazing superpower ability of being able to cause extended brain farts. Some call it writer's block, but in reality, it's The Grinch causing raucous short circuits everywhere. 

We all know no one slams The Grinch better than good old Dr. Seuss:

You're a mean one, Mr. Grinch
You really are a heel
You're as cuddly as a cactus
You're as charming as an eel, Mr. Grinch
You're a bad banana with a greasy black peel

You're a monster, Mr. Grinch
Your heart's an empty hole
Your brain is full of spiders
You've got garlic in your soul, Mr. Grinch
I wouldn't touch you with a thirty-nine-and-a-half foot pole

You're a foul one, Mr. Grinch
You have termites in your smile
You have all the tender sweetness
Of a seasick crocodile, Mr. Grinch
Given the choice between the two of you
I'd take the seasick crocodile

You're a rotter, Mr. Grinch
You're the king of sinful sots
Your heart's a dead tomato splotched
With moldy purple spots, Mr. Grinch
You're a three decker sauerkraut and toadstool sandwich with arsenic sauce

You nauseate me, Mr. Grinch
With a nauseous super 'naus'
You're a crooked dirty jockey
And you drive a crooked hoss, Mr. Grinch
Your soul is an appalling dump heap
Overflowing with the most disgraceful assortment of rubbish imaginable
Mangled up in tangled up knots


You're a foul one, Mr. Grinch
You're a nasty wasty skunk
Your heart is full of unwashed socks
Your soul is full of gunk, Mr. Grinch
The three words that best describe you are as follows, and I quote
'Stink, stank, stunk!'




Note to self: Find Grinch repellent and buy a case or two from Amazon and write Jnuts a thank you note.

A CRY FOR HELP

Each summer during my mother's vacation from work my family would go stay at my Aunt Leah's camp on Eddington Pond. My family wasn't fortunate enough to own a camp so we had to rely on her generosity. As I got older, my brothers stopped going to camp and opted to stay home so they could have legendary parties. While the cat's away the mice will play and play my brothers did!

I hadn't reached the "I don't want to go to camp" stage yet. The highlight of my days at camp as I got older were the boys who had a camp next door. As with any 13 almost 14 year old girl, I immediately developed a crush on one of the boys named Jimmy. I've always had a run of bad luck with guys with that name, but I finally learnt my lesson after marrying one.  This "ginger" Jimmy gave me my first real taste of what rejection felt like. How humiliating it is to feel like the ugly duckling and the odd man out. I hated feeling not good enough. I hated being me. Why couldn't I have been born a small, dainty beauty instead of a lanky-legged, awkward ugly duckling? 

I've always had self-destructive tendencies as far back as I can remember. Although I've only halfheartedly tried the big "S" a few times, I now wonder what was my actual goal when I downed a whole bottle of aspirin chased by a massive amount of straight whisky. Did I have any idea that it could have killed me? More importantly, was I disappointed when it didn't kill me? 

My mother brought a whole gallon of Canadian Club whisky to camp that summer and now I wonder why she did that. My mother wasn't a drinker. Did she have plans of entertaining after the children were tucked snugly into bed in the loft overlooking the pond? If so, I never saw any evidence of it. Were my actions a cry for help or was I just looking for the attention I obviously wasn't getting? So many questions in hindsight, but never any beforehand.

After going on a very animated teenage tirade that probably resembled the Tasmanian Devil going after Bugs Bunny and ingesting the only things available to me at the time...a bottle of aspirin and whisky, I remember continually vomiting until all I could do is dry heave and heave and heave. At that point the desire to die was more than just a fleeting impulse. I felt so bad, dying would have been a welcome relief. The next morning when asked about my "illness" I passed off what was wrong with me as being some type of intestinal ailment when in reality I probably should have been in the hospital. 

It always amazed me how strong my mother's sense of denial was. She was a nurse and never "saw" all the classic signs I exhibited of a teenager in crisis. All my stunts went unnoticed until I eventually overdosed on barbiturates at school less than two years later and was rushed to the ER. Since she worked at that hospital, it was out of the question for me to try to cover up that one. Oops! I got too high and forgot how many pills I had taken! Actually, that was the truth. In those days, I ate pills like candy. If 3 were good, 6 or more were spectacular. Who knew how many drugs I had in my system at any given time? Like an alcoholic, one could never be too high unless it resulted in being unconscious or comatose. Oh, what a wonderful gene pool from which I come!

My ears rang so loudly for the better part of a week that I could hardly hear anything, but the ringing. I felt like I had a severe case of the flu. I hurt all over and I couldn't keep anything in my stomach for several days. My best friend, Margie witnessed my descent into a dark, dangerous place. She had accompanied me to camp that summer and fretted over me. When I look back, I wonder how close she came to ratting me out. It must have been difficult for her to watch me be in so much pain and to self-destruct without saying a word. How frightened must she have been for my well-being and ultimate survival. (I'm sorry for doing that to you, Margie! I'm sorry for doing that to myself.) 

Now, I look back and wonder where my mother was during all my brouhahas and why she had left Margie and I unattended that evening out in the boondocks in a place without a phone. The unattended theme carried through the next summer as well. By that time, I had a boyfriend (BTW, his name was not Jimmy) and that boyfriend was allowed to come stay at camp with me. Oh, what a summer that was! Skinny-dipping, frolicking in the summer sun and lazy nights and early mornings spent listening to the loons echo their cry across the pond while wrapped in each other's arms. For awhile, I got the attention I needed and wanted and then poof! It was gone and so was I. I stayed "gone" for quite a long time until I eventually allowed myself to start healing, but to this day, just a faint aroma of whisky still makes me nauseous.

Toothache Thursday

ON THIS DAY IN HISTORY:
The day - May 3rd
The year - 1937
Margaret Mitchell wins Pulitzer Prize for "Gone With the Wind"

ON THIS DAY IN MILDRED'S LIFE:
The day - May 3rd
The year - 2018
Mildred threatens to pull the damn demon tooth herself like she has with all the others in the past. I bet you didn't know Mildred is such a hardcore masochist and is well on her way to becoming toothless too!


Note to self: Maybe a lobotomy will work better!

CHASED LOVE

I wish this meme had been tattooed/carved/stenciled on my body somewhere I could have seen it as a constant reminder when I was young and foolish. Oh the things I did (that we all do at times) in the name of love when it's not really love at all. I've been single for 20 years now and I'm far better by myself than I ever was with all the wrong people who I allowed to trample my heart and take up space in my life. As soon as I regained my self-respect and learned to love me, I no longer felt that constant craving to be loved occupied by someone else.  In my younger years, I truly felt like a puppy in search of a yummy.