Weekend Warriors

Some of you may have noticed that I've been tweaking with my blog template a bit here and there. Ness(a)lee inspired the drop-down lists, and I've added a new one. Here's the scoop, in case you wondered:

• Who is Sam?: posts about me, my peeps and other such stuff
• Piping Hot: a collection of my favorite posts
• Dirty Underwear: recent posts
• Holy Underwear: archives
• Mental Masturbation: my favorite reads
• Frequent Fliers: NEW!

The frequent fliers are those people that come, comment and give me support/love/adoration and generally make me smile. Because I suck, I don't read their blogs on a regular basis. The "frequent flier" list is so I can easily visit them and begin to give them the attention they are due. Hopefully, other readers will visit them also! If I missed you, please comment/email/stalk me until I add you. Unless you don't care. Most likely I will be sorting the blogs on a regular basis, putting them in new and exciting categories. Like "Best Tits" and "Hung like Ron Jeremy". As far as lurkers go, anyone that posts "I'm a lurker" will get into my Peeping Tom list. You only have to delurk one (1) time to make it into this list, although I reserve the right to ask for updates every now and then.

Growing Up

Chicken is getting so big. Not as in "next candidate for the Biggest Loser" but as in maturing in many ways. Our communication has changed over the last couple of years. I go through phases where I call him "numbnuts", as in "okay numbnuts, get in the car" or "hey numbnuts, are you going to do your homework?" Think of it as my own twisted pet name for him. His usual response to this endearment?

Chicken: (with mock outrage) My nuts aren't numb!

Yesterday, it all changed in a Hallmark moment. His witty reply to "numbnuts"?

Chicken: Okay, numbvagina.

It doesn't roll off the tongue like numbnuts, but he has a point. Speaking of numb vaginas, have any of you (women) every had your lip(s) fall asleep? I mean THOSE lips. You sit in a peculiar way, and the next thing you know, numblips. At least they don't get that horrible tingly feeling when they wake up.

And just because I was up wondering where the term "numbnuts" came from, I looked it up. According to answers.com, numbnuts is Marine lingo, "meaning ignorant or untrainable. Used often by drill instructors to describe recruits." I think I'm using it in the untrainable way, although I'm strugging valiantly to train him. His future partner will thank me. I hope.

War And Peace (It's That Long)

Instead of posting a super sexy HNT today, I have decided that a super sexy facial shot is in order:
These two fine steeds were my buddies when I visited my Dad in Utah. Their fence and my Dad's backyard connected, so hanging out with them only required walking out the back door. The one on the right is the mommy, and she never let her son get too much attention from me. Jealous bitch! She would put her nostril right up in my face and attempt to suck the flesh off my face and then blow me away with horse-scented nose air. It was like horsey CPR. I'm going to miss her.

According to the "Five Stages of Grief" I'm experiencing steps 1 (half of it), 2 and 4 all at the same time right now. Because I'm an over-achieving multi-tasker. Those steps are:

1. Denial and Isolation
2. Anger
3. Bargaining
4. Depression
5. Acceptance

I'm not in denial, but I'm really good at the isolation part whenever I'm sad/overwhelmed/anxious. I think I excel in isolation. Last night I decided that I should get an Olympic gold medal for that one. My best friends understand that when shit goes bad wrong in my life, they won't hear from me. I'm not the friend that calls you up crying in the night. Because everyone knows that bottling shit up is much healthier than dealing with it, right?

Speaking of last night, I have been pissed off lately. Here is the finest recipe for anger:

10 cups Sam PMS
15 cups dead Dad
8 cups fibro (read pain, tired and tired of pain)

Mix well and broil. Pray for period to start.

Where was I? Stages of grief, thank you. We have isolation, anger and depression. H3.2 finally pinned me down (not in a sexy way) and made me talk again last night. In the end, when I opened up to him, I felt much better. We were in bed, cuddling and Dude (the cat for you newbs) was curled up on me also. H3.2 called me a douche bag for not letting him in, and not letting him be there for me.

H3.2: Douche bag
Sam: Dude would never call me a douche bag.
H3.2: That's because he can't talk.
Sam: Asshole.

I felt much better when I woke up this morning. Not well enough to get nekkid, but well enough to post. Then something horrible occurred, that for some of you will fill the very deepest, darkest parts of your bunghole with terror and dismay. I was poisoned.

Some of you may know/remember that I can't eat gluten. For the Reader's Digest version, I can't eat wheat/rye/barley/oats. It has been almost three years since I have ingested bread, crackers, crabcakes, regular soy sauce, FUCKING EVERYTHING because so many American foods contain hidden forms of gluten. Occasionally I eat something that I shouldn't, not on purpose but because I'm eating out and I don't realize that XYZ has been somehow contaminated. This is usually just a matter of frying french fries in the same oil as chicken nuggets at a fast food joint, and not a major incident.

This morning I arrive at Baby Z's house at 6:15am. Although I HATE mornings and I am lobbying for their cancellation, I have become more accepting of getting up at the buttcrack of dawn. I am greeted by Momma Z and the delicious smell of a bean stew cooking. Momma Z is the best when it comes to serving me gluten-free food. She made two stews: Sam Safe and regular. The regular contained a seasoning packet that I couldn't eat. I was such a fucking happy camper that I proceeded to eat the bean stew RIGHT THEN. Not a full serving, but enough to make my tummy happy. She left, I settled into the couch and went back to sleep until Baby Z woke up.

Several hours later I stirred the regular bean soup. I noticed little noodle thingies and inspected my soup more closely. I saw a suspicious item in my Sam Safe stew. It looked a lot like barley. (The picture is off the web, for those of you not familiar with the evil look of barley) I didn't eat any more, and left a voicemail for Momma Z.

I played with Baby Z, blah blah and for some reason I wasn't hungry for my usual breakfast. My tummy started to feel bloated and nauseous and yucky. Momma Z called back and HOLY FUCK I ate barley. She was so sorry, and I'm sure she'll never forget that barley is a no-no for me. However, this leaves me with some really fun things to look forward to:

• Bloated stomach and pukey feeling (today)
• Really stiff, sore muscles (tomorrow morning because it makes the fibro flare up)
• Constipation/diarrhea (over the next week)
• Acne (next week)

Not to mention the possible internal damage that I can't see. Fuck me. Sure took my mind off of my sorrows, though.

To all of you that continue to read, comment and support me: Thank you. I need it. I can talk to you when I can't seem to open up to anyone else.

Sidenote: Four people have died in 3 separate car-related accidents in the past 24ish hours in San Diego. WTF?

Ah Fuck

Update:
I was so wrapped up in the previous post that I forgot to mention something vital to the story. After my dad "left" to his heavenly reward or wherever (a strip club in the sky?) the overwhelming urge to smoke vanished. Like a... puff of smoke. I know, the imagery is stunning. I'm still on the patch, but ONE a day, not one every 12 hours. And when I'm due to buy patches again, I'm going to either get the 7mg (1/2 the amount) or nicotine gum to chew in case I'm about to kill someone. I waited to get off the patch because I knew (somehow) that I would have trouble when my dad died and did NOT want to start smoking again. I hope Chicken never has to go through the pain of watching me slowly suffocate to death over several years, just like my dad watched his mom die.

You Rock

To all of you that went to visit Anne, you rock!

To all others, what kind of fucking heartless bastards are you? What do I need to do in order to convince you that visiting her is in your best interest? Okay, how about this: if you don't visit Anne and leave a comment, you can't read this post. You may try, but suddenly you are feeling sleepy and are overcome with an intense desire to expose your genitals to your boss/next door neighbor/pastor/someone that it would be totally inappropriate to display 70's bush or miserable tiny penis to. And yes, I ended my sentence in a fucking preposition. That's how upset your lack of follow through has made me.

Now, onto my story for those of you that ROCK!

Disclaimer
This is a bizarre post. It may cause total disbelief and/or disappointment in my lack of profanity.

Background
My dad's primary cause of death was emphysema. He came down with a lung infection, which turned into pneumonia and was unable to fight it off. In cases of emphysema, the actual disease rarely kills you. It is the secondary infection that takes you out. His mother died the same way. In my family, smoking kills you. Hence, my non-smoker status today. My father was put in a nursing home on Monday, January 9th because he was so sick that he was having trouble getting out of bed. His nurse was worried and I gave her the okay to transfer him from his home. The next day I spoke to him briefly on the phone. Several hours later he fell at the nursing home and broke his hip. They put him on a morphine drip, and I flew into town later that day. Although he did speak to the nurses several times after the fall, by the time I reached his side he was unresponsive except to pain. He died almost 24 hours after I reached Salt Lake City. He never woke up, and although I talked to him I received no response.

Further Back
My dad had a 1970 Chevy truck. He was the original owner. Although the body is in rough condition, it runs and I worked on it in May 2005. My dad was preparing it for the journey back to California when he died, a fact that I did not understand at the time. He never drove it after May. When I visited him in October of 2005, he told me that he needed to show me how to start the truck after it had been sitting for an extended period of time. He never did.

Even Further Back
My dad quit smoking in November 2004. This is important to the main story. No more background, I promise.

January 11th
My father passes away around 8:00pm. Before he passed away I promised him that I will never smoke another cigarette again. I stayed at the nursing home to take care of final details for another couple of hours. This day was my 7 month anniversary of not smoking. Although I am still on the 14mg nicotine patch, I hadn't wanted a cigarette in months. On the way to my dad's house I am struck by an urge to smoke so strong that I almost stopped and BOUGHT a pack. It was so bad that I got home and put on a new patch. I generally put a patch on in the morning and take it off before bed.

I get in my sleeping bag and start to think about the dad, missing my dad. I hear him snoring in his bedroom. Some part of my knows that he is in the house with me (duh, maybe the part that hears snoring?!) and I hope that he doesn't get stuck in this house. Then I cry my fool head off, feel more at peace, and go to sleep.

January 12th
H3.2 flies into Salt Lake City. I tell him that I think my dad is with me. I feel this odd completion inside me that is hard to describe. I'm still terribly sad about my dad's passing, but I know he's not gone. That night, I have to put on a new patch again. The urge to smoke is still VERY strong at times.

January 13th
H3.2 and I attempt to jump start the truck. No dice. The truck just won't start. I call my dad's best friend in California and ask for his help. A little spray of carb cleaner in the carb and rumble rumble we have liftoff. I feel an incredible sense of elation. Then emptiness. My dad is gone.

The moral of the story? I think my dad stayed for that one last thing that he forgot to tell me. Once the truck started, he knew that I would be okay. I know he'll always keep an eye on me, but he's in a better place now.

Bonus
My dad's truck, plus H3.2 (left side) walking down those fateful stairs. WATCH OUT!

Look Ma, No Hands!

I found a new blogger, and her name is Anne. She is only 26, and she is battling ovarian cancer. Her blog is fairly new, but she is courageous and funny and in need of some support. Oh, and she's a comment whore. So please go visit her and give her some blogger lovin'. If you do I'll post lots and lots this week and love you long time.

A short twisted funny for your considerable time and effort:

H3.2 found a box of new catheters at my dad's place. For those of you without catheter experience, here's a picture of one:

This type of catheter is inserted into a man's penis, past the prostate gland into the bladder. Hands-free peeing without all those pesky trips to the bathroom! So H3.2 thinks that long, rubber catheters are perfect to bring into his workplace and hand out to his friends. Can you say "Woo hoo catheter fight?" After we got back from Utah, H3.2 sent me a text assuring me that the catheters were a big hit at the office. One of H3.2's friends found great joy in unwrapping his and leaving it sitting on the wrapper on some unsuspecting co-worker's desk. This was when he wasn't whipping people with them. All good, clean fun.
Now I just want my liquid morphine dammit.

If You See This Pussy

I have a new profile picture for your entertainment, so if you see this pussy hanging around your blog, don't worry. I find that keeping some pussy in a glass is an important part of life. Feel free to break the glass in an emergency.

Navel Collection

Well I'm home and just starting to process everything. For a while I'll be spewing out my feelings and experiences with my patented "Sam-snark". (Thanks Andi for the invention of today's word of the day!) Occasionally I will be serious and sad and we'll all enjoy a whining crying sniveling tear sob festival. First of all, thank you all for the support. It was wonderful to read all your comments and just sit and cry. I've decided it is a lot easier than trying to figure out how to react when people say "I'm sorry" in person. What is the appropriate response to that? Generally speaking, people that you aren't close to don't want you to break down and sob when they offer their condolences, but that's what I want to do. So here, in blogland, you leave comments, I cry and actually grieve. I'm pretty sure that grieving is healthy and one of those damn steps that people go through. Although I might be totally fucking wrong. So this is my long-winded way of saying "Thank you". It helps.

In other random events... I'd like to address my "Dumb Cunt" award in a bit more detail. I believe that I am neither dumb or a cunt. However, it tickled my twisted sense of humor to attempt to win a "Dumb Cunt of the Year" award. Probably because it was an excuse to say "dumb cunt" over and over. The social taboo of the "c" word gives it so much meaning and shock value. I'm a frequent reader of I Talk Too Much although I'm pretty sure that I pissed the bitches off a while back. For those of you that haven't visited, the premise of the blog is to review blogs when requested. The bitches (that's what they call themselves, I'm not being snotty) are hilarious in their reviews. Most of the reviews are conducted after a blog owner requests it, and many of the blogs are ripped to shreds.

For me, it was just good, clean fun and a learning experience. I've made changes to my blog based on reading what is annoying to others, just to make Sam's Stories more enjoyable. I've also made new blog friends (hi JoeC!) and read some that are good, bad and fucking horrible on the eyes. However, a certain blog caught my eye and I began to read in the comments. This blog was panned by one of the bitches, and after some research it did seem like the reviewer didn't dig too deeply before reviewing it. Whatever, right? We all have opinions, they're like assholes, etc. etc. Speaking of assholes, mine is killing me. Forever wipes. Ouch.

So on with my story... not only did they review this blog, but then left comments on her site that weren't polite. I didn't think it was cool, and I left a comment (on the person's site, not at I Talk Too Much) saying as much. According to the bitches I am now a traitor, and that is why I won the award... the readers don't like traitors. So I say "poo on you" to the bitches. I've got plenty of poo right now to go around, and it is the angry burny please just stop kind of poo. I'm still going to read their reviews, and I still think that much of their advice is valid and hilarious.

That was three paragraphs too many on that subject. How about something entertaining yet uplifting? Similar to a push-up bra with blinky lights. My dad's corneas were donated to the Utah Lion's Eye Bank at my request and I had to answer a bunch of questions to make sure that he was a good donor candidate. One of them was "Is your father HIV positive?" My answer "I don't think he's had sex since HIV has existed." The nurse said "That is the funniest thing I've heard". Seriously, I haven't seen my dad with a woman since he divorced my mother in the late 70's. Not one woman. I guess being married to my mother was enough experience with female bullshit for a lifetime.

Sorry about the no HNT this week. I'm not feeling up to my frisky self as of yet. Don't worry though, I won't be gone from the nekkid festivities for long.

What The Fuck?

My blog temporarily disappeared. I have no idea what happended, however it might have something to do with winning the "Dumb Cunt of the Year" award! I'm such a dumb cunt that I fucking lost my own blog!!

In other news, I'm back in San Diego. I'll try to update everyone tomorrow.

Fucking Liquid Morphine

I am not yet ready to discuss the whys and wheres and hows of my dad's passing. At this point I am simply amazed at the human capacity to say "I cannot fucking believe that you threw out the liquid morphine" when grieving and sadness should be the priority.

I would not be myself if I could not bury my pain and laugh at the fuckall that life is every day. I mean "fuckall" in a good way, the kind where you just have to laugh at the fuckedness of life because otherwise you'd find a nice dark corner to cry in and never get the shit done that you have to get done because there is NO ONE ELSE to do it.

Where does the morphine come into this so sad it's fucking funny story?? IT FUCKING DOESN'T. Because H3.2 threw it away. Let me crawl back a day or so....

H3.2 flew into Salt Lake City on Thursday evening to help me pack up my dad's house and take care of all the shit that one must take care of when one is the ONLY LIVING FAMILY MEMBER of one that passes away. Unless you count Chicken, and I only count him when he's not kicking up his heels in San Diego with his Grandmother, going to movies and playing with friends and shit.

So... H3.2 comes to help. H3.2 has a different opinion on drugs than I do. I like drugs. Lots of them are very tasty and good for you. That does not mean that I frequently smoke crack. It just means that I've on occasion done certain legal and illegal drugs, and currently I love various prescription drugs that keep me sane and breathing and free of "I'm allergic to my cat" sneezing. I have no problem with "better living through pharmaceuticals." My father, being on hospice care for these past 6 months has had free reign into the beauty of prescription drugs. One of those drugs is liquid morphine. Another is Ativan. I managed to keep the Ativan (there were only about 6 left) and take every fucking one and thoroughly enjoy them. However, H3.2 throws away the morphine against my EXPRESS WISHES. Now, I believe that when one is grieving one should be listened to, coddled and petted whenever one wants.

Ever heard of Karma? Well H3.2 has a problem navigating stairs. He falls up or down the stairs in our house approximately once per week. I've stopped the running and the "are you all right" nonsense because FUCK HOW MANY TIMES CAN ONE PERSON FALL UP OR DOWN THE STAIRS BEFORE THEY LEARN HOW TO FUCKING WALK? Today, H3.2 was walking down a few stairs that lead to my dad's house. They were icy because snow + above freezing temps + below freezing temps = ICE. He falls down them. He hurts himself rather badly. And I, the Queen of Empathy and Politeness say "I BET YOU WISH YOU HADN'T THROWN OUT THE FUCKING MORPHINE, HUH?!"

I Love Snow

Just a quick update for everyone out there in blogland. H3.2 and I are packing up my dad's place and heading back to San Diego sometime Tuesday. I'm doing okay, packing is keeping me so busy that I haven't had much time to fall apart. I'm planning on doing that when I'm home.

Here's a picture from yesterday.

Thank you for all of your touching comments, they have been a great comfort to me.

HNT Tribute

I took this picture Wednesday morning.

My father's hand in mine.

James Louis H.

4/27/1942-01/11/2006

Thank You For The Snow

Blogger friends,

My dad passed away this evening. I will give more information later when I am more composed. Thank you for all the kind thoughts and prayers. I am still in the Salt Lake City area, sitting at his desk, missing him.

-Sam

Bad News

My dad was put in a nursing home yesterday as he was unable to get out of bed and take care of himself. Today he fell and they think he broke his hip. He is in a semi-comatose state. I am flying to Salt Lake City tonight to be with him.

Your prayers and best wishes are needed.

-Sam

Dumb Cunt HNT

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Chicken and I were looking at Stuff On My Cat and Dude was sleeping on my lap. Chicken says to Dude: "Don't turn around, it's kitty porn!"

(Word verification is off for the day)

Cocksucker

First: You must read the post below this one. Or simply vote by clicking "Dumb Cunt of the Year Award" button (left, look left dammit), scrolling down selecting my blog. The post below does have its moments, though.

Second: Two funnies for you because I'm in a good mood due to my "almost first place no longer in the lead but fuck it I'm happy anyways."

Those of you that are dear readers of mine know that my dad is battling emphysema and my mom (they've been divorced since the 70's but get along) has been getting messages from God that he (my dad) is going to die on XX dates. Well, he's lived past those dates. She needs a new God, better reception, bigger antenna, satellite radio, etc. My mother called and talked to one of my dad's hospice nurses today to inquire about my dad's health/general wellbeing. The nurse happened to be AT my dad's at the time. She held the phone out and said "Well Gramps, how are you doing?" His reply: "I'm dead." Go dad!! I was laughing my ass off when my mom told me that. Especially since she doesn't know that he knows about the "messages from God." Was that story convoluted enough for you? The next is simpler and classic "Sam" family.

H3.2, Chicken and I were watching the beginning of "The Biggest Loser" special tonight. I remarked that Chicken and I together don't weigh as much as most of the contestants. H3.2 made some snotty comment about my delusions of weight grandeur, I retorted back with "COCKSUCKER!" To which Chicken replied "Thanks, mom for adding to my vocabulary!" Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Don't worry, he already knows THAT word. Fuck.

Update: Go TEXAS! I'm actually checking in on the game for dear Nessa and Chicken was yelling "Go TEXAS!" WOO HOO~~ Nineteen seconds and TEXAS is WINNNINGGGG!!

I'm Fucking In the Lead!

Please don't think that due to my title above that I'm fucking while in the lead. 'Cause actually I'm just blogging while in the lead. Although fucking AND blogging at the same time would probably fill some dark void within me I haven't figured out the mechanics of the whole endeavor. I'm also guessing that H3.2 wouldn't appreciate it. Now, if I was a man, it would be easier. I'd just toss my woman in the canine position, slap my laptop on her back and away I'd go. We'll call it blucking or fluggin or some shit. It will be an international craze. Speaking of my multi-tasking skills, (Dad don't read this sentence, your retinas will burn) I once smoked a cigarette while "doing the deed." Why? Just so I could say I had done it. I was fucking insane even when I was a teenager. Bad Sam, bad! (Chastizing oneself is the next step in the "I'm a fucking lunatic that cusses too much" process.

What was my point? Because of TOTALLYFUCKINGAWESOMERAD (that's for you, Corinna) people like JoeC and Nessa posting about my yearning for Cunthood Glory I am currently in first place for Dumb Cunt of The Year. Only by three votes, but fuckall if you guys aren't trying for me!! The contest ends January 17th, and if I win I promise to be the DUMBEST CUNT EVER. I will uphold my Dumb Cunt title with dignity and grace. I will get drunk and say things that would embarrass even Dude (the cat). And Dude is one unflappable character. I will flash my nether regions to innocent Catholic schoolgirls (18 and over only please) in their cute little schoolgirl uniforms. I will do HNT BUCK-FUCKING NAKED. Well maybe I'll throw a little something over a few bits and pieces. I will serve you all well with numerous postings filled with such funny stuff that you will guffaw. Yes, that is a word. I looked it up on Google to make sure I was spelling it right. Speaking of Google, I have a short "Sam is stupid" story to start the guffawing off right.

I may have said before that I am smart. However, I miss the REALLY obvious things. I was looking at the latest Google logo and was having serious trouble figuring out what the fuck it was. My first two thoughts were Binary and American Sign Language. I spent another couple of minutes pondering this while thinking it wasn't Binary and DUH! it wasn't sign language, it was Braille. How cool is that? Then I went to the "languages" page in Google to see if they had it listed as one of the available languages for converting web pages. I was so excited. And then I realized... Braille is for visually impaired people... and monitors don't have bumps. Gawd I'm a fucking moron sometimes. Happy Birthday to Louis Braille!

Note: For any/all of you geeks out there, if you would like to peruse Google's logo archives, click here. This is the link to the holiday logos, but there are other cool logo links on the page.

More Important Note:
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Happy Freakin' New Year

As I am still not feeling funny, I thought I'd at least do the minimal "New Year's Resolution" boilerplate post. Wherein I tell you my resolutions for the year, which you instantly scoff at and wonder how the fuck I manage to delude myself so well. Occasionally I do make a resolution and keep it, however.

Exhibit A:
2005 Resolutions
1. Quit smoking
2. Get in shape
3. Do not get engaged or married. (There's a post in my archives about this one)

So, how did Sam do for '05? Two for three. I quit smoking over six months ago. Woo hoo for me! I am still officially single, meaning no ring on my finger. Yes!! I win the office bet. I totaly fucked #2, however. Keep in mind that my resolution was to get in shape, as opposed to lose weight. The biggest workout I got in 2005 was um... in the privacy of my bedroom. I don't think that counts.

For 2006... (drumroll please)

1. I Have No Fucking Clue

Really. I'm just trying to get my shit together. I'd like to play with Chicken more, play with H3.2 more, be happy. Stop hurting (physically). But resolutions? I just can't think of any big looming thing that is worth resolving to do this year. So onto something marginally amusing...

Yesterday I said the sweetest thing to H3.2: "If we ever get married, I'm demanded a prenuptual agreement. If we divorce and it's your fault, I get to keep the bed." I fucking LOVE the bed. Sleep number 20 baby!!

As I sit here blogging, H3.2 is playing Animal Crossing on his Nintendo DS. He mutters "Fucking bitter assed snowman." What the fuck does that mean?

Note: Please see the post below and vote for me! I want to win "Dumb Cunt" of the year award. Pretty please?

Monday Evening Update

I'm currently in second place. Please oh please vote! Tell a friend! Also, the poor dear in 1st place in the Dumb Cunt category has been nominated by someone that doesn't like her. Vote for me, because I want to win!! I've added a button to my sidebar to make voting easier.