northwestmagpie: (It's Not Hell But You Can See It From He)
[personal profile] northwestmagpie
Holy shit, brothers and sisters. It's not that bad outside - about 75 degrees right now - but it's hot as hell inside. I've got the window cracked for fresh, cool air, and I'm definitely buying a fan tomorrow. The house has no A/C, not even a swamp cooler; given my hatred for swamp coolers, though (noisy, moldy-smelling, ineffective POSes that they are), I would sooner have a lady's fan at hand. (In "things your electronics may be trying to tell you," my screensaver shows the pyramids at Giza. No, dammit, it is NOT that hot.)

Phoenix has been having cookie-sheet weather (temperatures last week were at a high of 119 degrees), and I've given thanks that I no longer live there. People can exclaim, "Oh, it's a dry heat!" all they want - yes, I know, I experienced that dry heat for 15 years. What's so fucking wonderful about dry heat? You want to know what else has dry heat? A kiln. A crematory. Wildfires. I'd sooner live where the temperatures drop by 10 - 20 degrees by nightfall and I can actually relax and get some sleep, than in a place that will roast me alive if I try to enjoy the daylight, and continue the job while I'm tossing on sweat-soaked sheets.

June is fired. June is not only fired, it is fired without references; I'm having security guards box up its things, and will probably press charges for drunk and disorderly conduct, destruction of property, and anything else that'll stick. I and several other people lost cats or had our beloved furballs stare death in the face. (I will one day have to draw a picture of a cat staring down Death, with a caption reading, "Go ahead. You've got eight more tries.") One friend, who has been in counseling with her husband to save their 20-year marriage, was informed by said husband that he wanted a divorce . . . and then found the duplicitous asshole had filed papers back when they first started counseling. One thing I'll say: finding out that unpleasant little fact had the effect of galvanizing said friend to set fire to the marriage and wish the asshole the best of luck living with himself. (He's the kind of passive-aggressive narcissist who whines about hurting her but insists this is the best of all possible solutions. In that, he's right - getting rid of him is going to be the best thing for her life, sanity, and overall health.) Another friend is having car issues. If I sat down and made a list of all the things that have gone wrong in June, I'd be tempted to just say the hell with all of it, and stay in bed throughout July.

And the hypercalcemia is taking a toll on me. One of the symptoms is fatigue; I am beat most of the day no matter how long I sleep, whether or not I take a nap in the evening. Writing this has drained me. I ache, and (sorry for the TMI) constipation is making me miserable. I don't take calcium supplements, and my doctor has said that it doesn't matter how much calcium I actually eat; cutting that out would be a drop in the bucket compared to what my spastic little parathyroid glands are shooting into my system daily. Thank God the surgery is on the 25th.

Now things promise to be a bit wacky. My friend Kel has insisted that she'll take me to the hospital and back. (Yeah, so not driving myself to surgery and back. The whole bit about being drugged to the gills before they slip the knife in made me reconsider that idea.) Annika, my housemate, has insisted she's coming along and staying with me. And Charles, our housemate, has also insisted he wants to come and visit. Meanwhile, my surgery is scheduled for 8 in the morning. They're going to all be there . . . my crazy little tribe of Goths and geeks.

I so owe you a post on my home life, because none of you currently have any idea why it is I'm terrified. ;)

And finally, to wrap this up, Stefan says that the salmon season up around False Pass has been fantastic - which heralds a boom season at Port Moller. This likely means he'll get his full set of hours this season, instead of cutbacks; he'll be tired and cranky as hell when he gets home in September, but he won't be scrambling to find part-time work to round out a rattling bank account this year either.

You know . . . I may be tired, but this was actually fun. I think I will tell you guys the story of the Black Rose Bar & Grill sooner rather than later.

Night, darlings. Love you guys.


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August 2017


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