Stephellany Update: The Good, the Bad, the Terrible, the Fucking Lame, and the Motherfucking Awesome (A Post of Random Catching-Up Pigshit)

Good Evening dearest Peopleaneous. Let me start with the most important point to be made in this post: Pigshit. Yes, that’s right. Pigshit. I’ve recently replaced “bullshit” with “pigshit.” I find it good and pleasing and shall henceforth deem bullshit pigshit. Until I replace it with doveshit (isn’t that like the ultimate dichotomy? OH MY GOSH THAT WOULD BE A PEACE OF SHIT! GET IT? GET IT?) or dungbeetleballs. Ooooo. DungBeetleBalls! New word! New word!

Okay dudes. This post is going to be the epitome of “stephellaneous,” a veritable smorgasbord (damn it’s been too long since I used that word) of random updates. I know I have been MIA for 14 years, 3 months, 2 days, 11 hours and 28 seconds. And I also know I have 18 billion comments to reply to. I haven’t forgotten y’all or this space. It’s just. Well. Let’s take this Stephanie Style, shall we? (No, that’s not a new sexual position. Although…aaaaand she’s off!)



Number 1: Ha. You think I’m gonna use a normal numbering system. That’s cute. Anyway. As I mentioned in some weird, typo-laden pone-post, I can no longer post from work. They’ve done some security update that renders WP’s security certificate obsolete. Whatever hardcore security they have does not apply to my laptop. But I do my writing at work, when I’m slow (which is often). By the time I get home after work and tutoring, I don’t have much time to write after food, chores, packing, applications, conversing, etc. Wait, ohmygosh, those were spoiler alerts. Fuck me, man. (Seriously.) So. Number 1 could be condensed as such: Because my work computers suck dungbeetleballs.

Numéro deux: Doesn’t the Bible say something about there not being another flood of biblical magnitude? That book lied. I got lucky, not even gonna pretend I didn’t. Most of the houses in my neighborhood flooded. Well, at least half. The water came within roughly an inch of coming into the house. But it didn’t, since my house is far enough off of the ground. The car flooded up well over the seats. But mold and stinkies pale in comparison to the people who were stranded for days. It pales in comparison to the lives lost. It pales in comparison to the hundreds of people now displaced and homeless. So. Yeah that’s kinda put a damper on trying to blog.

Idadi ya Tatu: My health is being a fucking dick. (As an aside, why is it okay for us to use “dick” as a curseword, but we balk at using “pussy” as such? At least I do. Whatever.) Seriously. Y’all know I broke my left foot last summer, and the cause of the pain (the two breaks) weren’t discovered until the MRI in January. I was only supposed to wear the frankenboot for three weeks. But that bitch still hurt like a motherfucker, so I kept wearing it. And wearing it. And wearing it. And then my right foot started hurting. I mean, big time. I did some digging, and it turns out I wore it far too long. Apparently, it’s common to sustain injuries on the opposite side if one wears frankenboot for too long. (I also think the damn thing was too big for me to begin with.) I can’t prove my right foot is broken yet. But I seem my rheumatologist Friday. Something tells me he’s going to order another MRI as the right foot is now bruised and swollen and incredibly painful. This in addition to daily headaches returning in spite of following some awesome advice (thanks Ms. Fever!). And my tiny little finger/toe bones hurting. And the massive chest pain that started as soon as my Lamictal was updosed. I see that bitch on April 2. I’m going to request that I be incremented down and then off of EVERYTHING except the drug that helps me sleep. And then I’m going to start the long hunt for someone who knows what they’re doing. (Trust me, this is the right move. She most recently tried to prescribe an anti-psychotic that was only just approved in fucking October. Also. PSYCHOSIS. WHAT? And she also diagnosed me as in the throes of a full-blown panic attack………….because my leg was bouncing and I was restless. Yeah. Can we say Quack Attack?) Enough of that bullshit. Next!

A bit angry – posting it for one reason: the line, “What the fuck is wrong with me?!”

Nommer Vier:Uhm. What’s next? Ah. Job hunting for the Greater Seattle Area. I started out on my own, but I felt incredibly overwhelmed (anxiety for the win!). So I reached out to multiple recruiters up there. The first one was an utter quack. Fo’ real yo. So I moved on. The next one to contact me was super eager, so I’ve been working with her. She’s covering the southern part of the Greater Seattle Area and has now put me in touch with another recruiter to cover the northern part. We were going to have a team of three, but she thinks we’ll be good. So far, we have about a dozen applications outstanding. All are still open and haven’t hit their deadlines yet. So between the three of us, hopefully I’ll at least start landing interviews soon. Been tweaking my resume, cover letters and prepping for interview questions in the meantime. Also. That woman has me applying to stuff at twice the salary range I thought I could land. She told me I was way underselling myself. So yay. But that’s yet another reason I’ve been busy and MIA.

Номер пять:I’ve had to put off listing the house. First, I’m having trouble with some repairs that need to be done. The ex was supposed to do them (as his name is still on the deed, even though I pay all bills). But he’s stalling. Big time. But with all the flooding, even the most basic repairmen are price gouging. I’m doing what I can on my own, but there are things I’m just not able to do. Also. Speaking of the flood yet again, the houses in my neighborhood that did flood still have all of the detritus of their lives lining the roads: furniture, walls, carpet, did I mention walls?, keepsakes, etc. So it would not behoove me to shove a for-sale sign in the front yard until the city takes care of the debris. But once it does, at least I’ll have the advantage of saying this house didn’t flood.

Numero kuusi: (That one sounds so sexual. Is it just me? It’s just me. My bad.) Met an online friend that I’ve known for a decade. He says six years. Whatever. It was our first time meeting up in person, so that was pretty fucking awesome. I’ve never done anything like that, so I can’t say enough how superfuckingawesome it was. (I know you’re reading this. So. I’ll just say: Hi!) Also, he’s gonna do a guest post for me soon. Kickass writer, so y’all will dig it. Trust.

Rhif Saith: I’ve been playing around with fiction, which doesn’t really come easily to me. I’ve been told it’s because I haven’t freed myself to do it. My self-perception hinders my progress. Or clouds my view of what I’m capable of or what I’ve already done. But I’ve been playing around. Even wrote something for a friend the other day at his prompting. Perhaps I’ll throw it up here after some tweaking. We shall see.

Númer Átta: I have a trip in April that I’ve been planning, slowly but surely. Mid-April, I’m heading up to Seattle for a visit. No interviews yet, just gonna have a look around. And a lot of you know the main reason I’m going for a visit. So that’s been overwhelming for me and has taken my head out of the blogging game for a bit. I already have tickets and hotel room booked. Got a little carry-on travel bag – that’s gonna be a serious challenge for a woman. Fuck worrying about stereotypes; it’s fucking true. How am I gonna pack three pairs of shoes, more clothes than I’ll wear in six days, a book or four, my 18,000 meds, ahhhhhh. Yeah, that’s gonna be a huge challenge. But I want that bitch to be a carry-on. Fuck paying to check a bag. Plus wheels get broken and shit. Fuck that noise.

Nummer neun: Perhaps the most important of all, I’ve been trying to figure out who the fuck I am. What makes me tick. What I want. Where I’m headed. How I matter. What my purpose is. Why I’m here. What my future looks like. City life is NOT what I want. I hope to live as cheaply as possible and bank mad savings so I can live a peripatetic life in the forests, woods, beaches, cultures of the world, and a cozy little shack to return to now and then to recharge my batteries. But the shit I wanna do takes money. The experiences I wanna have takes money. Fucking money. I fucking hate money. I hate the constructs of this false existence. I don’t want to exist. I want to live. I want reality. The real reality. And the bitch of it is, the fact that I see things for what they are is a huge source of my anxiety and depression. Cool how that works, huh?

This applies to my soul, my dreams, my desires, my all. Give me a peripatetic lifestyle and a soul-lover to share it with, and I’ll be content.
Số Mười: I’ve been in another depressive phase, basically since I wrote that post about having a major panic attack and spiraling downward. So I have zero faith in the current med cocktail I’m on. I’m not saying I’m averse to trying something else. But this shit is not working. Not kidding. I’m damn near back to where I was before I started this mental health journey. I wish I had the blinders on that so many others seem to. In the meantime, I’ll just keep trudging along. Treading water is surely better than drowning in it, yes? Most days that’s what I tell myself.
Disclaimer: I don’t have time to edit this right now. Forgive egregious errors. Meds kicked in, and I’m out. Also, the douchenozzle that is WordPress is fucking with my spacing between words and lines. Looks fine in my editor. Fucked to hell and back on the actual site. Fuck it. I’m out! Night my friends!

The One Where Stephanie Takes Flight

Rarely does a day go by when I don’t think about hopping in my car and driving “until the wheels fall off.” And then wherever I land, I can start all over again. Except not from my mother’s belly, because that would be gross. And who wants to go through puberty again. Ew and high school. Fuck high school.

My affinity for road trips (which I don’t think I’ve written about yet) is part of my larger affinity for travel. I’m peripatetic at heart, y’all. I really am. But road trips take a long time, at least they do when I’m doing them. Because I’m not talking about a road trip that takes four or five hours. That is not a road trip, y’all. And if you’re calling that a road trip, stop it right now. Because that’s lame and doesn’t count. (It sorta counts. I’m being snobby.)

Unfortunately, there’s only so much time in a day, and road trips aren’t always practical or even feasible for your purposes. Sometimes they’re downright impossible if you actually want to reach your destination.

Enter airplanes. But guess what? I had a fear of flying that I didn’t know I had until I was waiting to catch my very first flight. (Isn’t that funny? I wonder what other fears I have that I don’t know I have until someone puts cream cheese in front of my face and I bolt in terror and hide under the bed. Even if it is slathered on chicken. Who traumatizes chicken like that? Crazy people, that’s who.)

Stephanie Earns Her Wings (not the ones on pads – stop being nasty, y’all)

Flight one was a trip to New York. And I didn’t even have to pay for it. What? I sat in the holding pen with the rest of the cattle, and stared out the window at the enormous plane. And I could feel my stomach trying to take its own flight, straight outta me and to some rural farm somewhere, where everyone is called Bubba and only terrorists fly planes. My stomach would be nice and safe there. But since I had my stomach in solitary confinement, its fate was mine.

When I learned that the enormous jumbo plane I was looking at was only a lowly commuter plane, I was supposed to feel reassured. Until I was told those are the shaky motherfuckers that make you feel like you’ll plummet to the ground any minute. (Someone was rather enjoying my growing anxiety.)

The flight is called, and my intrepid little heart was doing somersaults in my chest. I told it we could work on our gymnastics later, but that insolent fucker wasn’t having it. We climb up into the plane, and oh my god. This claustrophobic capsule of doom was about the size of a sardine can. (Is there any such thing as sardine cans anymore? Don’t eat sardines, people. That’s nasty.)  They packed us in there like sardines. We may as well have been in each others’ laps. To make matters worse, the little light above my head was flickering. IT WAS FLICKERING. That was surely a sign that I was about to get Final Destinationed.

By the time the plane was lifting off, tears were silently pouring down my cheek. (Of course they were silent. Tears don’t speak. Do you, tears? No, we don’t speak. That’s what I thought.) I just tensely sat there, quietly crying and willing myself not to look out the window. The thoughts that raced through my head were morbid and terrifying. And then we were up. My hand was held, and I was reassured. Slowly my tears dried up, and I willed myself to stop thinking about all the bad things that could happen. Because I’m here now, right? I mean, it’s a little late to change my mind.

And then something peculiar and unexpected happened. At some point along the way, we flew into a mild storm. And I shook, rattled and rolled until I went unconscious, then woke up in a plane filled with water and I lived the next several years of my life stranded on a deserted island, looking at a picture of my fiance. Shit, sorry. That was Tom Hanks in Castaway. My bad. So we hit a patch of turbulence, right? And the plane was shaking and jolting around in the air. And…

I fucking loved it! I even giggled! The people that were with me were most displeased at this turn of events. The two fuckers who had delighted in my fear were now terrified. And I had the audacity to giggle! From that point on, I loved it. Even the tiny little packet of peanuts. I’d have framed it if I didn’t eat them. And then the stupid flight bitch stole my wrapper. That’s why I have pockets, people! Next time you get your in-flight peanuts, stuff the wrapper in your pocket so you can frame it later. Or scrapbook it if you’re one of those weirdos.

And then we landed, and I was even more ecstatic. Kinda leaning forward in my seat, feeling the shaking sardine can. And yay! This is an adventure! My flight companions were rather pissed off at this point, because their ears were popping. And I’m all bouncy and let’s go again! Let’s go again! Can we do it again!

No Longer A Virgin of the Skies (Wait. Not like that, y’all.), Stephanie the Skyslut Goes for Rounds Two, Three and Four

This time, the plane was much bigger. A Seven Forty-Bigger. But I felt unfazed. What did faze me was DFW. The Dallas airport was dirty and loud and crowded. And we had to rush, rush, rush, hurry, hurry, hurry, run, run, run to our gate. Only to sit on the floor for several hours because flights were delayed. I took my laptop out and tried to work on a paper that would be due after winter break. But who can concentrate in all the noise and hubbub and chaos? Not this girl.

Oh, wait, I messed that all up. We had to go from DFW to Atlanta. It was in Atlanta that we had the asshole delays because winter storms or some shit. Lamesauce. Anyway, the points are the same.

I wasn’t nervous. Not at all. Instead, I was anxious to get on the plane and get going. And once we did, I found the plane bigger and roomier. Even my window was bigger, which didn’t matter at this point because it was super dark out and I couldn’t see shit. Lame. Other than that, it was all good. And I was disappointed that the landing wasn’t rockier. I got some annoyed looks with that observation. Apparently only commuter planes feel like they’re falling apart on landing. Damn. I was looking forward to that part! (No sarcasm, folks.)

Oh, and before I move on? The Newark airport can suck my dick. Well, it could if I had one. Because fuck that nasty, filthy, rude, mean place. Coming and going, it was the same. And they made me check my snow globe on the way back, because I could use it as a weapon! Or maybe I had bomb juice in there! And I pointed out that it wasn’t on any restrictions list, and then I got threatened that I’d be strip-searched. So I relented. But I was fuming. I was gonna burn that motherfucker down if they broke my snow globe!

Oh. One thing I did love about the Newark Airport was it was the first time I’d seen so many different cultures milling about in the same place. That was amazing, and I found myself trying really hard not to stare at people. I was fascinated and wanted to know all about them and their lives.

Stephanie Says Fuck the Cutesy Headings and Goes for Rounds Five through Twelve, All for One Trip

Next up was Paris. And before you think I’m some globetrotter (I wish), this was on a college trip. I was already in my mid-twenties, but I went back to school late. Anyway. Paris. To get there, we had to do the commuter again (YAY!), then more Seven Forty-Biggers. From Louisiana to Dallas to Atlanta. And Atlanta can kiss my ass, too! At least on the return trip when they broke my borrowed suitcase!

And then holy shit the Seven Forty-Jumbofucker! And you know what I felt when I saw it? Sadness! I lamented the fact that I wouldn’t get to feel any turbulence. I was scared again, though. But only mildly. The fears this time were more of…oh my god, eight hours over nothing but open ocean. What if there’s a fuel leak? What if we need help? What if that baby that’s already crying never shuts the fuck up? (It did…for about half the flight.) But other than that, I felt okay. At this point, I was the mildly annoying one that couldn’t wait for takeoff and landing, my two favorite parts. Unless turbulence, then yay! I didn’t actually say much, really. But the one or two people nearest me got to hear about my love of a rattling plane.

Other than that, I started turning my attention to the differences in airports. And learning to dread them like actual seasoned travelers do. I’ve already mentioned my loathing for the Newark Airport and getting miffed at the Atlanta Airport. And the crowds. Oh my god, the crowds kept my stomach in knots.

This time, though, I experienced something completely different. Flying into Europe, for some reason, we skipped over France and landed in Frankfurt, Germany. And what a weird airport it was! There were these floor to ceiling glass booths. Maybe about eight-foot square. And it was crammed to the gills with smokers. It was so weird and cool and brilliant. Because smokers who aren’t allowed to go outside and smoke will kill you. At the time, I was a smoker. But I wouldn’t go into the booths, because they were so full of smoke that I knew it would wreck me, give me a royal headache and make me smell like one giant walking ashtray. No thanks. And I was never one of those to verbally attack other people when I hadn’t had my nic.

The Charles de Gaulle Airport was awesome. Crowded, as usual, but it looked so cool. Plus it was crawling with French people, and I caught snippets of conversations here and there that I somewhat understood. And I was in heaven.

Stephanie Anticipates Flight Thirteen (maybe this flight will change that to a lucky number)

It’s been years since I’ve flown. Despite all those flights, most were connections. So there have only been two trips that required airplane travel. I’ve done some road trips in the meantime, two pretty epic ones over the last two years. But I can’t do a road trip this time. There simply won’t be enough time.

I’m planning a trip during the President’s Day holiday. And since that’s only three days, a road trip that far is out of the question. There would be no time left for shenanigans! Y’all know I struggle with anxiety, so it’s a pretty big deal that I’ll be going to meet a fellow blogger. A really fucking cool one at that. We’ve had some epic conversations, and I feel perfectly at ease. I’m excited about it, and hey…I am a woman and all, so the good news is I have a whole month to pack for the three-day jaunt. Ha! Hm, maybe four. I could always take an extra day off work and an extra suitcase. (Kidding. I’m pretty simple. Mostly.)

Plus, I’ll get to experience a new airport. I suspect it will be hell, too. It didn’t take long for me to dread airports, and I do. But I am very much looking forward to the flight and the landing and the visiting. I drove through the area once, but I didn’t stop. And I certainly didn’t meet an awesome blogger. And I’m no longer afraid of flying. In fact, I’m very much looking forward to this trip.

So for now, that is all I’m gonna say about it. More to come! In the meantime, do you have any flight or airport stories?