So yesterday the police came round and put some serious pressure on me to press charges (for over an hour). They were not supposed to do that. My sexual assault worker got to yell at them.
Later in the day a (ha!) trusted friend decided to tell me that by not pressing charges I would be responsible for any other rapes that fucker might commit. I hung up on her. Tonight she was justifying herself and what she said. I asked her not to contact me.
Fuck
fuck
fuck
It is bad enough what happened without that sort of “help”.
I stepped in dog poo this morning. Brand new fucking sandals, bought yesterday. I am digusted with myself, disgusted with dog owners, and digusted with dogs. Smelly pack of mongrels, and I refer to both the owners and the dogs! This was on my own fucking property! I don’t even own a goddamn dog and yet I have to watch out for landmines! What the fuck is wrong with people? How is it Ok to let your mongrel poop on other people’s yards and just walk away like a blithe motherfucker? GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
You haven’t lived until you have removed textured wallpaper that someone had painted over. But that was not the worst. The worst was the linoleum (!) that someone had used for shelf paper in the kitchen, and glued down with rubber cement. My husband got some solvent for me to use to remove this mess, and the combination of top of the ladder, head in cabinet and solvent made me drunker than I ever remember being.
I suppose that’s possible; from the rest of their driving “skills,” it seems more likely that they have never been trained at all. Judging from the banged up condition of their mini-van, they probably don’t understand why people keep hitting them.
Dumbshits. I cancelled my accounts with BoA last Friday and switched to a local credit union. I did online banking with them for years and never got spammed by them, I’ll give them that much. Yesterday I got an email advertising BoA’s online bill pay service! All I have to do is log into my account that no longer exists and sign up!
I “opted out” of their “future promotional emails,” checking their radio button for “promotional services are not relevant to me” as the reason, since “I no longer have an account with your service-fee-charging asses” wasn’t an option. We’ll see how long it takes before they send me another one.
Their being drunk is another possibility. That’s the first thought that would come into my mind if I saw someone doing this.
When we painted TheKid’s room we discovered that at some point it had been papered and painted over. We had never noticed it before, but now you can see the lovely vertical seams all over one wall. I told her to hang up some posters and call it a day.
My house is not terribly old - built in 1946 - but the previous owners had spurrious taste at best (at one point every surface appears to have been painted seafoam green, including the woodwork and at one point the kitchen was painted a violent pink with bright blue woodwork) and they sucked at fixing the walls. In one corner of my room it looks like they used cellotape, then painted over it. There are lumps of paint in another corner.
All I know is that this shit HAS to be finished fast, as my decrepit self cannot sleep on the living room floor again.
Not as minor as my last one:
I ended up washing a couple of pairs of underwear in the sink since the rest of them are at my parents’ place still and, despite being next to the laundry room, I don’t have detergent yet. (And I didn’t want to drive 45 minutes, load my car, and unload it again.) I hung them on a couple of door knobs to dry over night. They didn’t. So I’m at work in damp underwear.
But at least they’re clean!
Yeah. I had some helpful soul tell me when I was in my early twenties that because I never told anyone that I was raped at 12 made me responsible for ‘all the other girls he’s done this to since. You don’t really think you’re the only girl he’s raped, do you?’
I wish I knew enough then to tell them not to contact me anymore. Good for you.
A few months ago a deer ran into the side of my Honda Civic, shattering the rear side window and filling my car interior with bloodstained broken glass shards and floating deer hair. I never even found the deer— he made it at least as far as the edge of the road and disappeared into the woods. Judging from the gore on the edge of the broken window, I suspect he wasn’t feeling too good.
Since then I’ve seen at least eight dead deer on the side of the road within a couple of miles of that same spot. I’m afraid it’s only a matter of time until my number comes up again.
Can you ask the local govt. (city? county?) to put a “Deer X-ing” sign in that area?
Not a bad idea. Think they’ll use the crosswalks?
They were only going to one side, though, as though they were afraid to drive in the driving lane. Drunk is definitely a possibility, though.
On one season of “Canada’s Worst Driver” there was a legally licensed driver who always drove in the middle of the road if he could - not the middle of the lane, the middle of the road. They trained him out of that right quick. I wonder if it’s the same thing as that.
It might be, or just a new driver. My daughter is (finally) learning to drive and it’s like there’s a magnet drawing her towards the curb. I get that oncoming traffic is scary but she always ends up inches from the curb and on occasion closer! She has her professional instructor time this weekend and I hope to god he’s got better luck breaking her of it than I have so far.
That’s probably it - oncoming traffic is scary, if you’re so badly trained and incompetent that you don’t know how to drive around it. The driving instructor will probably have better luck - he can explain to her all the dangerous reasons that you just don’t do that.
It’s people like that that make you wish for a death ray.
Sadly when I asked for no contact. She went on the attack again. Gah. I can’t win. I am not even allowed to feel how I feel.
Today a dog almost destroyed my vagina.
I was walking to work when I saw the dog and its owner. The guy was talking to someone, and the dog was sniffing the ground. I gave them a wide birth–or at least I thought I did. When I got to the corner and stood beside them, the dog lunged at me. His chompers bit me about an inch from my crotch.
Praise be to the minor diety that protects vaginas! The dog’s teeth ripped into my pants, making a big hole, and my underwear got a little tear. But the flesh was left intact. Believe me, I practically pulled down my pants right there on the street to make sure, because there was some pain. But I think it was caused by the physical force of the lunge.
I am such a dummy. I was so shocked by the encounter that I just kept walking after it happened. The guy yelled his apology and asked if I was alright. I nodded before I had even checked myself. I was a good distance away from them before I finally assessed the damage. I’d like to think that if the dog really had gotten me, I wouldn’t have just waved them off like that. But I’m not sure.
I kept walking on to work, debating with myself whether to go home to change pants. Or just throw in the towel and have a mental health day. But I had a morning conference call to get to. Plus, I was afraid if I went home, the bad mood would just ferment into something self-destructive. So I went to work, explained the giant hole in my pants to everyone who looked like they would halfway care, treated myself to a good lunch, and made it through the day.
I know this is going to sound strange, but I’ve never really worried about my vagina before. I saw its uneventful life flash before my eyes today. It now has a bucket list. It wants to see the Grand Canyon.
I think you mean your vulva. 
(I don’t believe I’ve ever typed that sentence before.) What it is with the freaking dogs these days? I don’t go a day without seeing an off-leash, out-of-control dog here. I never go walking without my dog repellent spray now. The people at the other end of the hotline to call for dog problems are getting to know me by first name.
Of course you are. Fuck people who tell you otherwise.
Look, people (and this includes you and me) are always trying to make sense of the world. That’s why we have labels, and classifications, and categories and shit. They’re pidgeon-holes we like to stick shit in (including other people) so that we can fool ourselves into comfort over the idea that “we know what that is”.
People (and again, this includes you and me) get uncomfortable when people and things step out of the places we’ve put them in. And as you will hear me say endlessly, powerlessness leads to fear, fear leads to anger, anger is merely an attempt to regain power.
So when people get angry at you for stepping out of the box they’ve put you in, remember that they’re angry because they’re uncomfortable and confused. They’re trying to blunt force you back into the order they want to see and make their world make sense again. To return to their comfortable illusion of order and control. It really has little to do with you other than as an object in their vision of order.
See their anger as just that, and if you can, laugh at it (just not necessarily in their face). Let them worry about sorting out their own order and working out what new box they should be putting you in. It isn’t your worry. You have enough to do with your own order and set of boxes.