George Bailey Disease & Ungrateful Muthajumpers

“Why George, do you really think you can handle that? “

 

I got a disease. It’s a disease that when it flares up I never realize it until after its finished. After I’ve given my time, money, and energy to someone else. George Bailey disease.

Who here has seen “It’s a Wonderful Life”? In my family it’s a staple for Christmas day. It may just be playing in the background, but that old black and white movie will play through at least once on Christmas.

This year, I realized that the movie really started to piss me off.

George Bailey constantly goes through life giving and giving and giving to his family and friends, never getting a chance to realize his dreams. He comes to terms with that until his frackin alcoholic uncle loses the money for their savings and loan, on a day when the Inspector is coming to see how the do business, and the depression is in full swing. Bailey gets straight up suicidal, and honestly, after the life he’s had, who the frack wouldn’t. The rest of the movie goes to show George all the lives he saved and changed for the better, and how horrible it would be without him in the world. And at the end… the town of Bedford Falls gets together to raise money to save him and the Bailey Savings and Loan. The end.

Pffffffft.

I am George Bailey, and I think that’s why his character makes me mad. I’m not as bad as some, but a lot of decisions I’ve made in life has been for others rather than myself. I’ve given away cars for free to family members, paid off bills, bought furniture, loaned my home and time to people without getting anything back. And some will say, well dt5, that’s just being a good person. You’re supposed to do things without expecting things back.

But I get burned because of it constantly.

When I’m in a bind those same people disappear like smoke. Or after I’ve given everything they’ve ever asked for, I’m told to stay out of their business, I shouldn’t have an opinion. And of course there are those that just feel entitled, and once you give an inch freely, they take a mile and a half, the shoes off my feet and the shirt off my back.

I love to give. It makes me feel like my tummy is full of care bears and unicorn farts. Just happy bubbles. At the same time, spending year after year as the only one to not get anything for Christmas wears kind of thin. Or that I’m the first pick for extra military work because “oh she loves that stuff and is good at it.” It mentally hurts to turn someone down, but I am only one person! I’ve in the past been close to stress breakdowns from being the one doing everything.

Maybe it’s my fault for not saying no. But like George Bailey I can’t help helping. I was made this way, born to want to help others.

But sometimes. .. it pisses me the frack off.

It’s a wonderful life. But those that help make yours wonderful, just let them know your appreciation. .. and give back to them every once in a while.

And don’t wait until they’re jumping off into the ocean and meeting angels without wings and stuff.

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Plotting Ways To Get a Voodoo Doll To Use On Your Instructor

About one-quarter done of massage therapy school and I’m. .. LEARNING ALL THE THINGS!!! Seriously, I have a 4.0 and am proudly good at this ish. I’ve found (part of) my calling. And it brings me peace and relief to learn these new techniques to heal people.

But…

There is the added stress of work, and military physical training, and snow fracking days taking my night school from 4 days a week to 5.

Fridays? I miss you. I didn’t want to leave you. I’m being held captive by touch hippies! It’s ok, I’ll be back one day.

The problem that gives me the most heartburn though is 2 of the instructors I’ve had so far.

First up is our pathology instructor. Let’s call her something Holly because that sounds like a generic peach crayon retired cheerleader. Her real name is just as bad. Anyway “Heather” sounds like if Ben Stein made 5 clones of himself, went to a party, gangbanged a high valley girl with no goals in life, and then she somehow birthed a child with all their powers combined.

Her voice had me sitting on my hands because I had started to strangle MYSELF. How can you sound like a zombie cheerleader on roofies?! Every frackin sentence is a half death rattle. And the face? Nope, close the shades because no one is in that attic except cobwebs and tumbleweed. In fact, just sell the house.

On top of the voice… she reads. For 4 hours. As an instructor, the worst, absolute worst thing you could do to any class (especially a night class) is just read monotone from a dry book. I’m not a science minded person (unless it’s sci-fi), so I’m already struggling to keep attention. I seriously feel homicidal every time I walk into the classroom and see this chick. I picture squeezing her neck and her head popping off like a balloon. It’s a Looney Toons death in my head, maybe because she’s driving me to lunacy. That is not the way a massage therapist should feel. We’re supposed to be hippies and one with the earth and all that b.s. right?

Sadly, there’s another, and I’m not sure which one is worse. The other instructor that raises my hackles and brings out the kitty that’s had their tail stepped on? Our so-called professional development instructor. THIS dude. This dude is like an unfunny Tyler Perry without the crossdressing. Or the tallness. Or the money. Maybe he’s not like Tyler Perry at all.
But he IS a pompous douchebag of douchebaggery proportions. He is the level of irritation like a pimple on a butt.

The biggest problem I have is his “I got a bachelor’s degree in business and even though I’ve never ran my own business you can not possibly be smarter than me” attitude. As one that has actual experience in marketing and branding and strategic planning thanks to DOING IT IN THE REAL WORLD AND NOT OUT OF A FRACKIN BOOK, I guess I get a little offended. Well, especially when I answer a question, I’m told I’m wrong, and then someone else gives the same answer I did, and told they are right.

The second issue is his nails. Yes. His nails. He has coke nail pinkies. When I see them I imagine dark alleys and purple pimp suits. Maybe even some boots with a goldfish swimming in the heels. For fracks sake, what man walks around looking like a reject from the Cosby show with just super long pinky nails???

Just add coke pinky…

And how is that in any way being an example to the students you teach when day one we are told to keep our nails nubbin short. My tender little fingers still feel so raw and brand new like a baby just coming out of their mommyverse (momalaxy?) every time I cut them.

My new mental health lady (I’m going for stress, not because of my crazy. My crazy is my normal!) says I need to let go and just focus on things I can control. So while I keep my 4.0 in school, I will control my urges to possibly do violent things in class. That’s enough slack from me, they get to live!

Im Not a Jerkoff Artist, I’m a Massage Therapist; the Cesspool of Ignorant Internet Fools

Let me educate you on the differences between a “masseuse” and a massage therapist, m’kay?

I’ve recently had a super huge change in my life. Remember my recent post about Tornado dreams and how they always come up when something is about to change in my life? Well, the huge was that I started school again. And not just an ordinary school, no, not for the always random DT5. Instead of continuing to work on a degree I could care less about in communication, I’ve gone with something that makes me feel like I could make a difference in someone’s life. Massage therapy school.

Yes, I plan to go from rough and tough military chick to a massage therapist helping people with their stress and pain. It seems sorta left field for even the people who know me, but it has been something I wanted to do for a while. I was just making as many excuses as possible because of fear and stress. But I these excuses didn’t fly for my heart anymore (lost many feathers, been on the sauce). So I went to a local massage school with the intention of window shopping, and walked out with most of my paperwork filled out, paid for, and a start date.

A huge change. And a step in the right direction for my life. My family and the Dude have been super supportive, even though the Dude and Monster Teen know that it means I’ll be spending less time with them (well, Monster Teen was more concerned about home cooked meals. Like I sit around in the kitchen that much in the first place, pffft). But it’s okay with them because it makes me excited and happy.

And then I made a post on Facebook talking about my new exciting adventure. First thing I get? Some buttholepottomis saying:

“So you’re going to school to learn how to feel people up?” I try to take it as a joke and say that maybe he needs school for that but I don’t. And then let him know that since he’s confused as to what a massage therapist does, he will not be a client of mine. Some time goes by and then I get another “joker”.

“So you learn how to give happy endings? Sign me up!”

….
…….
…………

Are you frickin kidding me?! Let me clear that these two aholes are not close friends of mine, they are associates. And I don’t make sexual jokes with associates. I don’t look at their dream jobs and flat-out sh*t on them by basically insinuating that they are learning to be a prostitute. What in the flying frackadoodle. When I call the both of these dog aholes out, I’m told I’m being sensitive and that no one was insinuating anything of a sexual nature… and that I was possibly ashamed of my decision to attend a (accredited, licensed, legal) school to become a massage therapist.

Where’s the dumb broad truck, because apparently I missed the stop in my neighborhood.

Ahhh, there you are. Still about -5 brain cells in change to ride?

I deleted the whole post after that. I take certain things seriously, and my dreams (not owning a robot ninja monkey army but dreams of being a benefit to others with my work) are not something I take very kindly to. It’s like me crapping on anybody’s dream of a new profession. And I think part of it is a lot of stereotypes based in ignorance. So as a lesson for you all, here’s some facts and myths about massage therapy:

Myth: Masseuse and Massage therapists are the same thing. No, no, no. A masseuse is an unlicensed person with no degree or certification to practice. Pretty much they can be anyone off the street rubbing on you. A person calling themselves a masseuse probably wouldn’t mind giving you a “happy ending”. They’re prostitutes.

Myth: A massage therapist that wants to massage your butt is a little freak. False. Do you know how many muscles in your butt help you walk around each day? A real therapist will ask because they don’t want you freakin out, but it’s a bad therapist that DOES NOT massage your glutes. Unless you’re all punked out and scared. Fine then… have a knotty booty. Knotty, lumpy, booty.

Myth: Therapist and happy endings. Refer to myth 1. That’s a masseuse, and someone not professionally trained.

Myth: Speaking of training “All massage therapists do is how to rub your back. Anyone can do that.” WRONG AHOLEE-OH. Really? Guess what I’m wracking my brain trying to learn right now? Anatomy. To pass I’ve got to learn all bones and layers of muscles in the human body. And then learn the right stroke to go for each muscle and body part. Do I need to use my elbow or knuckles. On top of that we’re learning each and every massage you can think of, whether that’s swedish, sports, shiatzu, etc.

The ahole that for some reason thought I was ashamed of my new profession, I’m not. At all. In fact maybe I’m just way too proud that I’ve found something I enjoy to help others. And since I already have a mile long waiting list, those aholes are never going to be a customer of mind. Hope they go find a masseuse and get d*ck cancer from a herpes hand.

Ohhhh, you want a “mah-sah-gee?” Go right ahead you nasty buttmunch.

The Understanding of PDA: What Is This Thing Called Hugs?

*melting into goo*

Growing up, public displays of affection between my parents only happened when the father figure was drunk. Granted, there were hugs for the kids until they got a certain age. And even “I love you” … again until a certain age. It’s like once you weren’t a small child those things melted away.

I remember calling my mother on it not that long after their separation. I was battling not wanting to live with either parent, and staying with an aunt in the hood, a step down from our nice middle class fake happiness. I remember telling her “You never tell me you even love me!”

I said it again less than 10 years later when she fought custody against my best friend for my god-daughter, my birth daughter I decided to give away (http://dimensionthe5th.com/2013/03/18/the-girl-grows-and-asks-questions-the-child-i-gave-away/)

It took me until my 30’s to realize that it’s pretty hard for a woman to teach love if she’s never received it.

My mom with her siblings grew up in different welfare available projects. I know she grew up without toothpaste at times. Without any food but flour and water. Using sheets as menstruation pads because they weren’t affordable. If my grandmother had been a better person, maybe she would have shown more love to her 6 children, but the woman didn’t know love herself, probably because again her mother of 13 children probably could not adequately show it.

So it’s a cycle that my mother and I are slowly breaking, through trial and error with new relationships. In some ways I see my mother in her first relationship after 13 years and it frustrates me of her naivety. Luckily she’s not with a man who exploits it. He sees a woman who could easily be taken advantage of, and does not. He shows her instead what a relationship should be like, not full of verbal abuse and “love” only when drunk enough to show emotion.

We had a conversation while I visited for the holidays:

“Your Dude seems very affectionate. “
“Weird right? I’m not that good with PDA.”
“I know. It’s nice when someone openly shows that they care, and it’s not because they’re drunk.”

We’d slowly learned to show love to each other as mother and daughter over the years, but both hadn’t really learned until recently to let down our guard and be loved by a man. I think the shock of that just makes my emotions a mess. I hadn’t looked at it deeply. That I was learning for the first time possibly to truly put my hand in another’s just because. That I wasn’t looking at relationships around me and subconsciously wishing for something that was missing.

It’s something I never want to lose.

Nightmares and Dreamscapes: The Mind Is a Scary Place, My Mind Anyway

I’ve had many recurring dreams over the years but one element that never fails to shake me up.

Tornadoes.

I love storms, well, unless driving in them. But that’s mostly because of other drivers. But storms are a beauty to watch. They are forces of nature that just make you feel alive. I love to watch lightning strike down and the bass of thunder come afterwards. The wind whip trees into a dancing frenzy. I feel a little “sing with all the colors of the wind, Disney Pocahontas-ish” when watching storms.

Even tornadoes. So why do they haunt my sleep?

It never fails. Sometimes it’s one on the horizon, huge and full of destruction. Black and threatening. Maybe it’s so many that I can’t count coming slowly towards me. Sometimes I’m in the middle, surrounded by the winds around me. And the inside of the storm is calm. Just a large eyeball floating over the land. Staring at me unblinking.

It didn’t have a mouth thank heavens. Oh god, please don’t let it have a mouth next time!!!!

Yes. Remember, this is MY mind so you know it’s going to be extra fracked up.

The tornado or nadoes never reach me. There is just an unbelievably large crushing feeling of doom. Of hopelessness. Of fear.

It’s funny. I have family members and friends that seem to believe that I fear nothing. Like I had a child at 16, joined the military and deployed twice all while saying “whoo-hoo this is fun!!!!”

I fear. A lot.

Answering phones, crowds, people’s ability to possibly be telepathic and read my mind, clowns, birds, little people, people in mascot costumes, bees, roaches, looking in the mirror when the light is off, a sound in a quiet house, my computer camera secretly taping me, public speaking, my face melting off, saying something extremely odd that makes them realize just how coo-koo for cocoa puffs I am, getting blown up in a porta potty while deployed, being alone. Oh yes. I fear the world around me.

But I looked at myself in a mirror long ago (with the light on of course) and decided to face all fears. That I wasn’t going to let fear rule my life. I wasn’t going to go out of my way to do crazy nonsense things, but I was not going to let fear stop me. So I’d sweat and shake and hyperventilate my way through the world. Getting that deep satisfaction afterwards that I survived. Never wanting to do it again. Knowing I would have to in order to stand by my promise to myself.

So, I believe the tornado dreams are two things. One is that they seem to come when a huge change is about to happen in my life. And two, they are the manifestation of my fear I refuse to show to the world.

A couple of bad dreams in order for the world to see that I’m a bad*** chickidee?

I can live with it. As long as the eyeball doesn’t come back. *shudder*

Vanity, The Cult of Mary Kay, and You Are Trying My Frackin Limited Social Skills

I did something absolutely retarded the other day. Oh wait, retarded is offensive in this PC world. So, I did something “helmet and cape waiting for the short bus drooling” stupid the other day. And I will admit my vanity led me to it.

See, especially now that I’m back down to “I may drown myself in my own fat” weight, I feel really good about myself. Really confident. And you know, I DO get a lot of random comments about how pretty I am. I might not be model level or anything, but meh, I’m a solid good-looking chick. That’s how that heffa got me.

So I was at the mall after seeing a movie with friends… picking up dinner. And this lady and gentlemen are sitting behind me waiting for their order. She calls me over. They both look well dressed, and professional and we are in a public place so I’m not worried that I’m about to be kidnapped. Am worried that I may be propositioned for some hanky panky, but whatever.

“I’m a Mary Kay consultant, and my friend and I think you would be perfect for an event as a face model.”

Those that have been to Mary Kay events are probably laughing their butts off at me. I didn’t know! I don’t do these kind of things! I avoid Scentsy (or however it’s spelled), Tupperware, Passion Parties, 31 – whatever THAT is. Pretty much anything that is going to make me have to sit in someone’s home and be nice to people who I do not like and do not know, having inane conversations about their kids and husbands… anything like that either makes me run away or I break out into hives.

The day after this Mary Kay event I have severe jaw pain. I think I was clenching my teeth so hard that I damaged something.

So before I get to the event, this is what I was told in text after exchanging information with the consultant: “I would love for you to be my facial model at my Mary Kay Success Event. You’ll experience a Million Dollar Makeover with Mary Kay, which includes a facial deep cleansing, perfect foundation shade matching, and glamour makeover.” Sounds like I’m getting one of those TLC channel, wanna be Oprah generic makeovers right? HAHAHAAHHAAHA, frack all of you to hell and back.

I show up nicely dressed to this event. It’s a whole Mary Kay office, so it has to be professional right.

PAUSE.

I just like to say, I always knew Mary Kay was created by a little peach crayon lady from Texas. How that changed to all the super bourgeois brown crayon heffalumps that were in this building, I have no frackin clue. But hey, whatever. So I walk up the stairs and the consultant comes all energetic and hugs me and leads me to a room… with a long table…. With individual mini-mirrors and make-up kits on it. And I realize I’ve been had.

More women trickle in until we have about seven or eight around the table. Where then I have to deal with about 2 hours of this chick telling me how to do MY OWN facial and put my own make-up on, but with Mary Kay Products!

Seriously? I could have done this ish at home. In fact, all I did was remove my make-up and basically do it the EXACT SAME WAY.

Before that, during the facial, before I put anything on my skin I asked “Is any of this stuff for sensitive skin? I have seriously, SERIOUSLY sensitive skin.”

She says “Oh, this has been tested on humans, and everything is made to be able to deal with sensitive skin.”

I smirk and wait for my face to melt.

“All right, now rub this cleanser on your left side, and rub this one on your right. If you have dry skin you’ll feel nice and tight on the left and nothing on the right. If you have oily skin you’ll feel good on the right.” She asks each person what they feel, and then gets to me.

“I feel like my whole face is itchy and burning.”

“Oh. OH! Here’s a bowl of water and a wipe. Take all of that off!”

But the best part comes after we finish putting on makeup. We’re then led into the den of hungry consultants that we are paraded in front of… for doing our own daggone makeup. We get seats of honor up front as these chicks proceed to pat themselves on the back for an hour. While we sat there. And sat. And sat. I heard more than enough about muthatruckin pink Cadillac’s and making millions, and somehow helping women with self-esteem through makeup. About how I could retire with soooo much money. And win trips, and diamonds, and sisterhood! It’s like a sorority! The even have special coats!

And then, after hearing like 5 different life stories of this chick with the hair-line that starts halfway beyond the field goal of her forehead, or the lady that put on her wonderful Mary Kay in the dark while drunk and doing a yoga pose… finally we are pulled back up for the ending of the dog and pony show.

And down the row we are asked “Would you like to drink the koolaid?” Or that’s what I heard. And sadly I was asked first. Don’t you want to join Mary Kay?

“Uh, no. No thanks.”

Blank looks all around.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. See, I’m in the military, and that’s a 24/7 job. I’ll get a retirement with that. You’re offering Toyota Camry. I have a Toyota Avalon already. I do volunteer work. I’m busy. So, no. Thank you.”

“But that’s the kind of women we NEED!”

“Absolutely NO. I’m happy with my life thank you.” (Just IGNORE that just a couple of weeks ago I was complaining about the military. I am trying to make a DAGGONE POINT here.)

“Well, uh, was there ANYTHING you liked?”

“Well, the makeup was nice, but not the facial wash.”

I pissed so hard in their cheerios that the boss lady of this Mary Kay branch had to regroup. Fix face. I could have went on. I could’ve said “How the heck are you going to equate selling make-up to community service? Or the fact that you are helping women? By what, throwing product on their face so they can feel better about themselves???” Granted, I love my make-up, but that is not fixing anyone’s problems. You CANNOT save the world through makeup. Mary Kay is not a superhero. And what’s with this daggone dog and pony show where at the end you put women on the spot and try to go all Jim Jones drink the Koolaid on them? I have avoided all trappings of crazy churches, sororities, clubs, and craziness except the military. And I went in eyes open on that one. But these heffa’s are using underhanded tactics. I’d almost be in awe except I believe THEY believe all the pink vomit that comes out of their mouths.

And all in all, I’m just pissed I was frackin duped. They appealed to my vanity, and then had me putting on my own d*mn makeup like I JUST did that morning. WTF? Wasted 4 hours of my daggone time, and I DIDN’T EVEN GET FREE SAMPLES.

Frack you with Mary Kay consultants. Frack you with your non-sensitive skin facial wash and a super long and brittle foundation brush.

I refuse to buy their shitake. I’m sticking with Clinique.

Relationship Stupidity Disease… Do We Have a Drug For That?

 

I’ve been enjoying my new relationship. And being a completely disgusting loveydovey couple with the Luke Wilson look-a-like. But when moving forward, sometimes you have to look back at your past just a bit…

 

Relationship stupidity should be an actual disease. I mean, if we’ve gotten to the point in America to call obesity a disease, why can’t we do it for those that let themselves become verbally, mentally, and physically abused all for the sake of a relationship? I may be on the right track now with much soul-searching, self-improvement, and self-study, but I WAS an absolute mess… with no clue how to get out. Some call that growing up. I call it the Evil Ex fiance and the nightmare years.

 

The other day I was going through boxes of stuff in my guest bedroom… things I hadn’t opened in many years. I came across a letter about 10 years old. I remember that back then I liked to write things out before discussing them (you know, before you could write out and rewrite a text message before pressing SEND).

This is not my hand. For one it is not chocolatey. And… my fingernails and polish are so much more awesomer 😛

 

The conversation that I needed to have with the Evil Ex shows just how naive, mentally abused, and under his control I was.

 

Here in all it’s cringeworthy glory:

 

“Evil Ex,

I have no clue as to why you are upset with me. Why you decided that you couldn’t even sleep in the same bed with me. What did I do last night to piss you off? I was a little drunk, but I don’t remember saying or doing anything. All I was trying to do is what you wanted. You’ve kept saying that you wished I would drink because I’m more fun when I’m drunk. But still it seems I did something wrong. Every time I try to do what you want, I do it wrong by your standards, or you change your mind about what you wanted. I am constantly trying to live up to your expectations, your ideals, but I keep coming up short. And then you can’t talk to me, look at me, because I’ve hurt or pissed you off in some way. But when you hurt me, somehow I always end up comforting you because you feel bad. If I mess up, you close yourself off from me like I make you sick.

Is this how it’s going to be? Someone constantly telling me I’m not good enough… oh excuse me, not being the best YOU know I can be> Tell me this: do you ever comfort me when I’m hurt? Or do you just turn it around and say that you’re hurting more than me. You want control. To dominate someone. I just want to love and be loved. Can’t we see eye to eye on anything? Can’t you just love me?”

 

*gagging sounds*

 

There are days I want to go back and slap myself into an alternate reality. And other days all I can do is thank the heavens at how far I’ve come. But the mental/emotional abuse I received from the so-called man who would make me write such a childish crazy letter… well, this letter was just a drop in the bucket of crazy, and not my fun natural crazy. He preyed on my insecurities, my youth (Evil Ex was old enough to be my father), my introverted-ness, my want of a relationship, companionship. He used my secrets against me instead of holding them as a gift that I shared with him. He took my issues with women from a childhood molestation and tried to live out his fantasies and fetishes as a way for me to “let go of the past”. He took my beliefs, ideas, and personal studies on submissiveness and what it meant to me, and twisted it into having complete control over what I wore, who I talked to, the decisions I made, my life. And he took my ongoing depression and exploited me and my feelings and my sanity until my family didn’t recognize me.

 

Do I blame him for everything? No, I actively pursued him and ignored all the warning signs. I was still learning what a real relationship should be like and thought he would work because he wasn’t the “type” I had in the past. But those rose-tinted glasses of like/love/lust had me to the point of cutting myself to escape the pain of dealing with a twisted relationship. And I couldn’t figure out how to get out. I couldn’t just break up with him, he’d sit in my parking lot, constantly calling until I talked to him… and accepted him back. Somehow that behavior made me believe he truly loved me. Until the cycle of “you must do what I say to make me happy” began again.

 

So…. I ran. I had a job related offer/excuse and I took it and ran. I knew that if I stayed in the same vicinity I might let weakness and loneliness keep those rose-tinted glasses on my visage of what was really real.

 

Now, I use my experience to talk to friends/ acquaintances that may be headed for, or have experienced the same thing if I can. And I’ve been pretty good at running the other way from any men that give me the vibe of the Evil Ex. I dodged a bullet in more ways than one. No lasting damage really… except the scars to my soul. But hey, you haven’t really lived until you have battle scars to prove what you’ve survived.

 

I threw the letter away. I don’t need it to remember where I will never let myself go again.