Saturday, March 17, 2007
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Ok, I've just recovered from laughing myself silly. I wanted to know what an asshat is. Iv'e heard that name drip from the hubbys lips a few times recently, then a few minutes ago I read it on a blog I frequent. So, I Googled it damnit! That picture above is the second thing that came up, the first was the wiki version. Basically an asshat is a much nicer term than asshole and refers to someone who has their head up their ass. I Like it! Well, now I have a cool term to replace my last favorite, which was fuckwit. I've used it MANY times over the last few years, and still enjoy it every single time. It gives me little shivers to call some asshat a fuckwit. How's that?
I never thought I'd talk about this on the net, not in blog form, but I guess I'm going to have to now. I just finished an excruciating one about my own abuse as a child. I was reading a blog by a wonderful girl that was having a hard time because someone in her family was being attacked on her blog because of some physical as well as mental issues related to being raped when she was younger. This prompted me to have a read and see what was going on and I started thinking about it. This is yet another “adult issue” I have had to deal with myself.
At 19 I was raped. By someone I thought to be a friend. Granted he was much older (27 to my 19) and we’d gone out on 2 dates. For our 3rd date he asked if I would like to go see an air show a couple of hours away from where we lived. Sure I wanted to go, but would we be coming back late at night, or what? He said he’d get us separate hotel rooms, but when we got there to check in, he said that there wasn’t one available, so we’d have to share. He volunteered to sleep on the sofa. Ok sure, whatever. Heck, I just wanted to go have a little fun; I figured he’d always been a gentleman so why would I think anything different this time? We went to the show and had a good time. Afterwards we went out for dinner and then to a local bar for a couple of drinks. Yes I was a minor, and yes I had a fake ID, but I wasn’t planning to have many drinks…I had 2, he had many, I lost count after 5 or 6. He said he was ready to leave and go get some sleep since we had an early checkout.
Back at the hotel, I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth and change into my pajamas (a long t-shirt style nightgown that came about mid-calf…with Mickey Mouse on it – not exactly sexy, ya know?). When I came out of the bathroom, I didn’t know what hit me, but I was lying face down with my face smothered in a pillow and he was on top of me, screaming, hitting me, biting me, calling all kinds of foul names….and raping me, sodomising me. I remember trying to scream, flailing about as much as I could since I was pinned down. I fought, but I wasn’t strong enough to do anything. I weighed all of 112 pounds at the time, I had no chance.
The next thing I knew, it was over. He was lying on his back passed out. I was scared and angry and hadn’t a clue as to what to do. I remember going into the shower and God only knows how long I was in there, but then I came out and dressed and walked. I walked the streets of
I had no idea what to do. I was scared and alone, my family wouldn’t have anything to do with me since I’d moved away from home and quit going to their church. I had very little money and a shitty job waitressing. I talked to a friend who knew what had happened, she’s been raped, too, and knew what I was going through. Even though she was Catholic she sent me to talk to someone about an abortion, she understood that I couldn’t stay pregnant, I couldn’t give up a child, and I couldn’t raise a child born of rape. So I went to a local clinic and had it done. So much of what happened after that is lost to me and I don’t really care to remember too much anyway since I do know that when I did tell my parents about it, they blamed me, told me I mustn’t tell anyone because it would bring shame on all of us. They didn’t want their friends to know, they refused to help me see a therapist because they don’t believe in them. It took many years before I went to one; I dealt with it on my own the only way I knew…which, of course, wasn’t very healthy, but I survived.
I’ll finish the rest of this later; I just can’t go on with the memories right now.
I am ok now, I have seen a therapist and continue to do things to deal with the memories, but they are no longer daily intrusive thoughts, thank goodness. They only come now when I read about others going through the same thing.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
This afternoon I discovered that I could laugh again. Not a little chuckle, but a completely hysterical, worry my husband a bit kinda laugh. I received an email from an old friend in New Orleans a little while ago and I could barely get through reading it because I was laughing so hard that I could barely breathe, much less see the computer screen through my tears. Now before you read this, keep in mind that I do have an odd sense of humour, cuz hubs just read the email and said, "You laughed until you cried because of this? I could hear you laughing up the street, it sounded like you were in PAIN. I thought something was WRONG with you." Yeah ok, so maybe it's not all that funny, you be the judge.
This is even funnier when you realize it's real! Next time you have a
bad day at work think of this guy.
Rob is a commercial saturation diver for Global Divers in
He performs underwater repairs on offshore drilling rigs.
Below is an E-mail he sent to his sister. She then sent it to radio
station 103.2 on FM dial in
sponsoring a worst job experience contest. Needless to say, she won.
Just another note from your bottom-dwelling brother.
Last week I had a bad day at the office. I know you've been feeling
down lately at work, so I thought I would share my dilemma with you
to make you realize it's not so bad after all.
Before I can tell you what happened to me, I first must bore you
with a few technicalities of my job.
As you know, my office lies at the bottom of the sea. I wear a suit
to the office. It's a wet suit. This time of year the water is quite
cool. So what we do to keep warm is this: We have a diesel powered
industrial water heater. This $20,000 piece of equipment sucks the
water out of the sea. It heats it to a delightful temperature.
It then pumps it down to the diver through a garden hose, which is
taped to the air hose. Now this sounds like a darn good plan, and
I've used it several times with no complaints.
What I do, when I get to the bottom and start working, is take the
hose and stuff it down the back of my wet suit. This floods my whole
suit with warm water. It's like working in a Jacuzzi.
Everything was going well until all of a sudden, my butt started to
itch. So, of course, I scratched it. This only made things worse.
Within a few seconds my butt started to burn. I pulled the hose out
from my back, but the damage was done. In agony I realized what had
happened. The hot water machine had sucked up a jellyfish and pumped it into
my suit. Now, since I don't have any hair on my back, the jellyfish
couldn't stick to it however, the crack of my butt was not as
fortunate. When I scratched what I thought was an itch, I was actually grinding the jellyfish into the crack of my butt. I informed the dive supervisor of my dilemma over the communicator. His instructions were unclear due to the fact that he, along with five
other divers, were all laughing hysterically. Needless to say I aborted the dive. I was instructed to make three agonizing in-water decompression stops totaling thirty-five minutes before I could reach the surface to begin my chamber dry decompression.
When I arrived at the surface, I was wearing nothing but my brass
helmet. As I climbed out of the water, the medic, with tears of laughter
running down his face, handed me a tube of cream and told me to rub
it on my butt as soon as I got in the chamber. The cream put the fire out, but couldn't poop for two days because my butt was swollen shut.
So, next time you're having a bad day at work, think about how much
worse it would be if you had a jellyfish shoved up your butt.