I’ve Been Missing You

Apologies to the great bloggers that I follow. It’s been difficult to keep up with you all, due to the long, painful and mind-numbing recovery from the spinal surgery.  The mind-numbing part is physical; a result of the damned pain and pain medications keep me from concentrating too long.  Reading has been the worst. And it’s one of my greatest loves. Along with music and sex of course. Hey I’m in physical and psychological pain here, not fucking retarded.

Am pretty sure that this situation will never end. I’ll be the one at Burning Man in the faux-fur covered, LED lit, Diet Coke and Menthos powered pimped-out wheelchair handing out Tasty Beverages to the masses. Plan on finding a way to attach a buggy or large cooler on wheels to said wheelchair. Feel free to send blueprints.

In the meantime I’ve got a lot of catching up to do on reading. And at least I’ve written something, even if it isn’t amusing.

Welllll maybe a teeny tiny bit. Like my attention span. The cat and I have been spending more and more time together watching shiny objects.

~Miss R 

Broken Engine

Well it does has something to do with a motor, Okay, motor skills actually.

The whole  ‘engine’ thing was  more  than a Silly Putty stretch and more like a Stretch Armstrong  kind of stretch.

If you don’  recognize the two items that I’m referring to above  then you’ll just have  fuck  yourself and do some Googling.

And get off my lawn you kids.

There have been very few posts the last three weeks.  The surgery was long and arduous.

Am still using walker, taking opiates (which I a am weaning  myself off of )  feeling  intense pain

Right now the engine is broken and the Motor Skills are irregular and slow. My cognitive abilities appear to be  normal as well.

What’s worrying me is that it seems I’ve forgotten how to type.  Now what kind if weird side effect is this?!

Called doc yesterday to ask some questions.

Forgot to ask about this little tidbit.

Will let you know as soon as I can. This blog has taken over two hours to write.  It should have 15 or 20 minutes. The spelling is so bad, because I’ve forgotten where the keys are, that spellcheck doesn’t recognize th,yjindu.gyuiod!

~Way fucked up in Reno


stephen hawking that dumbass

Nice try Stephen. I’ll still kick your ass.

Sorry that the posts have been sparse. The surgery was far more intense (read: fucking painful as hell) than I’d imagined.

Sitting here with a cup of coffee and my medication is about all I can accomplish before getting my aching back and body into bed and the oh so lovely surgical corset. Gotta say, this corset is a sex magnet for every paraplegic for miles. Given the two large general hospitals and VA hospital close to the house, leaving the confines of the porch would be dangerous.

This post is really is a note to let you kids know the surgery went well. Also a note to all of you wanna-be writers and the hurdles you think are facing you.

This blog is brought to you by a  two-hour spinal surgery, two hung-over surgeons, a six-inch incision  across/through the abdomen, two walkers (one of which I’ve painted black with flames and skulls and shit (that slacker Hawking has GOT to agree to that race now. Yellow bastard)  two types of Oxycontin 3x a day, 10 mg of Valium 2x a day and of course my morning nurse…Ms. Espresso Double-Shot (she hyphenates her last name).

More later. Assuming I can find the laptop again. Where’s that bell? Hey Double-Shot it’s time for my sponge bath!

~Miss R

Who Will Live?! Who Will Die?! Tune In Tonight!

The doctor tells me not to do so much. My mom the RN nags me every day to do more.

It’s like a contest.


My thinking is… complete every task early in the day, then relax for the rest of the day and not strain myself.

In reality not only don’t I finish every task early, I don’t finish them until it’s dark. By then I’m exhausted, cranky (oh fuckit I’m bitchy), and in discomfort and pain. I should be healed and feelin’ fine by now.


I start out in the morning with small goals because I honestly believe that on this day my own flesh and blood will be of help.

Stop laughing at me right now. Stop it you’re cruel.

How does one compel a 13 year old to do their own chores nevermind help with others? Damned if I know and I’m out of brilliant ideas on this one.

None of the old tricks work; threats, guilt, time-outs, threats of guilt and time-outs. No matter what it’s a whiny attitude and snide remarks. From her I mean.

If I were not still hurting I’d let it slide. It’s part of ‘the deal’.


Between the ages of 13 and 17 it is her civic duty (nay her responsibility!) to be an Avatar of Satan. As a gifted student she is exceptional in this subject as in all others.


Here’s a typical day. We’ll call it, for lack of a better title, TODAY.

The morning started quite well. Doesn’t it always.

I lay in bed with Cate after she woke up. On the ceiling above her bed is a very large map of the world that she had taped there. We talked about different countries; which we’d visit, which would be dangerous, which would be strange, funny or amazing. We discussed why she had scrawled an Anarchy symbol across the North Atlantic.


Continue reading


First off I must apologize for yesterday’s kinder gentler blog.Seems my naturally caustic musings made yesterday’s writings appear like “a lecture from mom”.  This is a direct quote. Thanks R, you wench.

I vehemently denied this nasty accusation hurled at my writings. Until I re-read the fucker this morning and realized it was true.

Had I unknowingly been a victim of alien abduction?

Demonic possession?



Clearly it was not Rachael in the writer’s body yesterday.

This also explains my findings upon awakening:

the shocking memory gap, coffee ALREADY made and vomitously unpalatable, a Panic! At The Disco record on the turntable and worst of all…. A new pair of shoes with NO SPIKE HEELS.

What could possibly explain the blog, the heels, and all the rest?

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Dream States and Very Personal Considerations

You betcha this is Preferred List Only….

Could not sleep last night. Between intensified pain, crying jags, loneliness and emails from a stalker it was impossible.
Finally knocked myself out with a sleeping pill at about 3:00 am and slept until noon when my daughter woke me up.

The pain is apparently normal for the 3rd or 4th week after this particular surgery. Especially one which involved far more than a standard procedure. Typical Miss R; not only screwy and scarred in heart and soul but internally and physically as well.

My last posts have been rather hopeful and amusing. Have done this on purpose, as I’m sure people become exasperated and bored with meandering diatribes describing my various neurotic foolish exploits and thoughts. Fuckitall I get sick of it.

So to you I say Neigh! Go away or I shall taunt you a second time.

Here’s a dark brooding dream sequence courtesy of my current unbalanced state of life.
First a little background on the
Probable Causes of These Dreams…

After 4 hours straight of uncontrollable weeping, a joyful by-product of depression and the womb-ectomy, I finally gave in and took an Ambien to sleep.
You know, for a gal who went years as an alcoholic and connoisseur of pharmaceuticals it seems funny that taking any medication is a fight now. Jesus.

1. I am stupid-lonely these days for a loving and close romantic relationship. Maybe it is because I have become smarter with age. Stop laughing right now. It’s a refusal to settle for the short-term happiness. Long term happiness is a far smarter and worthy pursuit. Went my whole life accepting whatever man showed interest in me. See ex-husband blogs for explicit details. Being the outcast/fat girl/brainiac through school tends to crush self-esteem. No matter how much fucking analysis and therapy you pay for. I want my money back and where’s that Happy Pill you promised?

2. Met two very nice men in the past 3 months. Due to my Type A over-achieving obsessions at work, Cate’s craziness, and now surgery and unemployment I have lost the interest of those two men. I’m so tired of being the nurturing one, the caring one, the care giver. It seems that people should be able to accomplish both; give love and security to another and feel some for themselves as well. This being an imperfect world I’m not holding my fucking breath.

3. An old ex’s current girlfriend has decided her life is not complete without stalking me. Oh joy. Messages from a freak who is convinced I’m involved with her boyfriend. Great. This crap started at midnight. Seems she found some really old emails from him and decided that, despite the dates on said correspondence (going back to MAY?!) her relationship is in jeopardy. To think I took that Glock into the shop for cleaning and re-calibration. Sheesh.

4. Have you seen the cool ad featuring an insomniac conversing with Abe Lincoln and a beaver eating bacon and eggs? Love that. Except for the creepy guy in the vintage diving suit with his back to the camera. That is disturbing. The point is that last night’s foray into REM sleep produced non sequiturs of equal strangeness.

Episode One: The Cake Thing

Went into a cake shop (wtf Is there such a thing?) and found that I could not afford the torte-looking chocolate cake, but could afford the small, lumpy white cake. I chose a lavender butter cream icing. I hear you thinking.. What’s so odd about that? In a dream at any rate. Well, I don’t even like cake. Blech. I will happily eat an entire bowl or can of icing –stop looking at me that way- but do not like cake.

Episode Two: Elevator Music for the Masses

The dream begins with me playing music I’ve been working on, for a few friends. Two of my friends said that they really liked the songs and believed that my dark wry lyrics juxtaposed with rock sensibilities and jazz chording would make perfect elevator music.
Reality check: am considering recording these in the next few months and am serious about my original compositions for the first time in almost 20 years.

Episode Three: Jew Know What I Mean?

I’ve noticed that the surf is so high that it’s passed the low wall separating the beach from the walkway in front of my home. The water is quickly coming in and beginning to slosh against the sliding glass door.

So there’s this guy at the beach who asks if I’d like to swim and hang out for the day. The surf is rough and the waves higher than I prefer for body surfing. Rather scary. I decline although we do walk along the water’s edge scouting a place which looks less dangerous.
Reality Intruding: I DO love body surfing, the rush, and healthy exhaustion. Not so much the occasional fuck-up which has resulted in my body being slammed into a rocky sandy ocean bottom after being lifted into the air and feeling that indescribable adrenaline push.
Back to the dream: Said guy is in town staying at a men’s boarding house for several months. He is there to help others become something…? This part is really fuzzy. I only remember that he is Jewish (huh? so fucking what) and I meet his mother.
Another Reality Slap: This has got to be a flashback from years ago. Yikes. I met Cate’s dad in Brooklyn. His mother was/is the anti-christ (he’ll agree with me) although the mother in the dream seemed nice enough. Amusingly, the aforementioned first husband would go to Brighton Beach with me every weekend while we dated. As soon as he had the ring on my finger that ended. He suddenly announced
“Rachael, Jews from Brooklyn do NOT go into the sun”. To which I retorted
“Well Jews from California do!” and thereafter rode my bike to Brighton Beach each weekend alone. Hell, Mrs. Stahl’s Knishes was on the way back too. Yum!

Back to the dream: His room is sparse although I only see it long enough to pick him up for a trip downtown. Soon he begins to ignore my phone calls, and avoid conversation with me. During this entire time a store has opened in town which bears a more than passing resemblance to my own Cabin Fever. In the dream my store is gone (as in real life) and it is killing me to see my idea taken by another. Yet no one gives a damn and others suggest I get a job there. I decline, am awash in pointless self-serving self-pity and the dream shifts…

Episode Four: Return of the Tahquitz

I’m back running a hotel. The location is a bizarre compilation of Idyllwild, the tiny mountain town where I lived for years, and Sparks. Huh?
My parents, the paternal pair, make a surprise dream visit. So do friends none of which bears resemblance to any actual acquaintances.
More cake is eaten and a pie was devoured in the night though no one will claim responsibility. An apple cherry pie with a crisp crust and crunchy bits on top. Strange Winchester Mystery House hotel rooms, and missing an AA meeting with my friends.
Having another job at a restaurant/bar and doing my damnedest to keep from being fired.

Cate wakes me up at noon and says
“Mom you’ve told me to never let you sleep this long.”
She’s right.
Next stop: Talking water mammals
and Abe Lincoln cheating at chess.

~Miss R

Currently listening :
The Heart of Saturday Night
By Tom Waits
Release date: By 25 October, 1990

Can someone please open a window in here?

Had the stitches removed from my belly button on Wednesday. Oh joy. The other stitches (at the bikini line and internally) will dissolve over time.
Now there’s something creepy enough for Halloween.
Just wish that the pain would dissipate. Dammit sometimes being an acolyte of immediate gratification is a bitch.
the doctor told me to quit being such a stoic and take the damned Percocet more often. It’s gonna hurt for a lot longer.

God I love
Fall. Well normally anyway. Fall in Reno is kinda odd. There are a few deciduous trees here in town. Luckily I live in an older neighborhood and the blocks surrounding me are planted with many of these. Their leaves turning bright gold and red. Falling in the afternoon breezes.
Although I cannot see them float to the pavement and lawns I notice them there when looking outside from time to time.
I imagine the scent of fecund earth and am revitalized. It’s torture being confined to the house right now. I can’t open a window by myself because they are too heavy. Every so often I’ll wander to the front door, open it, and stand in the doorway. The sunlight touches my face and the aroma helps to heal my body and mind.

This season brings enough frost and occasional sprinkle of rain that the land releases the smell of nature.
Changing the seasons. An end to the year.
I love wearing sweaters, used to enjoy drinking mulled wine, and of course Halloween is my very favorite holiday.

The traditional ancient Celtic New Year is October 31st. In fact, the Christmas carol Here We Come A’Wasailing is a direct tie to our modern Trick or Treating.
On New Year’s Day all of the village would visit each other, bringing food, drink and visiting with neighbors. A vestige of that is all that remains on our modern All Saints Day/Halloween.

The Irish word for New Years Day is Samhain (literally summer’s end in Gaelic), for those of you who are interested in Celtic history.
When Christianity swept through Western Europe New Year’s was changed to the Winter Solstice to coincide with another change made by the new religion; aligning the birth of the Christ with Celtic/Pagan celebration of the re-birth of the sun.
Now our culture celebrates both sun rise and son rise.

The logic of ancient peoples makes sense. The old year ended when the harvest was done. The God died and would not be re-born until December 21st. Then the days start to become longer, the earth re-awakens, and the cycle beings again.

My own life has always seemed to follow a pattern which coincides with the cycles of our small universe. New jobs, new loves, endings and beginnings. Even such mundane things as amoveoccur in the Summer. Life begins anew in November. Coincidentally the month of my birth.

This is probably a reason that Fall has always been good for me.
An Irish/Welsh complexion glows in the breezes and filtered sunlight of Fall. We potato-eating whisky-loving people don’t fare as well in the summer. Witness my cupboard stocked with various sunscreens.
Having a red nose from too much time in the sun or at the pub does not count as a healthy glow. There’s a saying in the Program “Without the Irish, AA Meetings would be held in phone booths”.
Another digression. Shocking isn’t it.

My body is healing and changing as the old year ends. I’ve no idea what the New Year will bring.
Here’s a bit of synchronicity though; out of the hundreds of songs in my iTunes folder “New Year” by Death Cab for Cutie just started playing.

So I dreamall day and night now. Of the coming winter, feeling better, monsters, want, joy, everything. Good and Bad.

My hope is that this New Year brings a farewell to tumultuous change and pain and a greeting of promise, hope health and love.

Athblian shona duit!
(Happy new year to you!)

~Miss R


Government Experts Agree! Ketchup IS a vegetable

Last night I dreamed I weighed 191 pounds. No shit. I looked down at the scale and it said 191.
Not being able to take my evening walks, lift more than 5 pounds, or do a bloody thing is making me crazier. even my dreams are weirder than ever.
Plus: I am at the mercy of a hormonal, crazed, genius teenage girl. Karma SUCKS.

Today I get to drive for the first time since the surgery. Woo Hoo. Have an appointment with my shrink and then it’s time for some grocery shopping.
I am only afraid that some asshat will hit me, rip loose the internal stitches, and I’ll hemorrhage to death in a pile of twisted metal, Jeep parts, organic cereal and Soy Milk.

Yes, life’s last kick in the tuchus. To die amongst wreckage which indicates a vegetarian lifestyle. Told you that the kid makes me berserk.

Leslie is coming by to have lunch today. Yesterday she told me that my husband (station joke) gave his resignation. My husband was the head of News.
Don’t care. I still want my job back.

Actually I want any job. I’ll be eating the Government Cheese soon. Wonder if that crap is fattening. Do I get a subsidy of Ketchup so we’ll have vegetables as well?

Assuming I’m not kicked to the curb by today’s installment of Rachael’s Excellent Adventure (Party On Dudes!) I’ll attempt a visit to the library.

This is probably not in the cards for today, but always aim high say I.

~The Ever-Plumper Miss R