Beans

I totally forgot to mention that Ex-cop got 2 orders of beans and a salad. The beans came on one plate, two perfect portions blending together in the middle, garnished with a raw ring of onion. It was black bean and some kind of lighter bean. It was a liquid mess, and all I could think about was the shit he was going to take when he got home. It wasn't hard to picture considering it was going to look exactly like that plate.

The One Word to Make Lunch Even More Uncomfortable

Today was the dreaded lunch with Twit and Ex-cop. It had been agreed that we would go to lunch at 12:30pm after originally setting it for 1pm. They asked me for restaurant recommendations, and I went for the what-I-won't-eat route (Asian, Indian and seafood/fish being at the top of that list). I may have mentioned if it has cheese, it's good to me. Twit recommends a southern-comfort food place, which was fine with me.

I started getting extremely anxious around 12:15pm. Hands were shaking, got sweaty even though I was cold, a bit of dry mouth and serious adrenaline coursing through me. I took half a Klonopin and told myself to calm the fuck down. I messed around for a bit, and 12:30pm slowly, agonizingly slowly crawled by and creeped towards 1pm. Ex-cop wasn't even in his office (I went and got some water just so I could check).

Finally Ex-cop showed up with Ex-cop Lackey in tow (henceforth to be known as ECL). Of course ECL was invited to join us. Then there was a lot of "Are you ready" and door-holding by the ex-cops. We take a company-owned SUV that I always assumed was new, but actually it is just really clean. The front passenger door has to be coddled in to opening for you. So there was a lot of fuss over that and ECL nominated me to sit in the front seat, which was quite a relief for two reasons: 1) I had zero interest in sitting next to Twit since she would try to talk to me, and 2) I realized on the way out of the building that ECL really stinks. Old-man stink. Mothballs and sourness. Dusty even. His smell was totally assailing my senses with though of nursing homes. The SUV was parked near the wall of the parking garage, and ECL felt that Ex-cop would have to drive forward so I could get in the vehicle. I resisted the urge to ask him if he thought my ass was too fat to squeeze between the wall and the door; instead I proved to him just what a 105lb person can do with a bubble butt. I got in through that door just fine.

Ex-cop made sure the AC was on as high as it would go, and I was quite relieved that I was wearing my denim jacket. I worked on not frowning and making my face a little more blank instead of looking constipated. Initial conversation focused on the training Ex-cop and ECL had just returned from--something like violence in the workplace. Yet, they only talked about workplace dating. I did not participate in this conversation, but Twit made a lot of agreeing noises and said things like, "Uh huh," and "It does cause trouble!" and the real jewel, "Some places frown on it." Every time she said something, she was very sure to punctuate it with her donkey-braying laugh. Again, I worked at keeping my face from showing violent twitches. There was some discussion on how there's even more problem when work couples split and one of the individuals start dating another person in the workplace. I guess I've worked at too many small businesses, because I have never remotely seen this happen. I kept all opinions on the subject to myself. Ex-cop asked if any of us were going to a 3-day concert happening this weekend. I ever-so-slightly shook my head, but was unable to verbalize anything. No one else was going, but discussed going in the past and other related banalities. I slept in my head during this time.

When we arrived at restaurant approximately 10 mins later, it should be noted that Ex-cop UNBUCKLED his seatbelt when we entered the parking lot, even though he still had to drive around a few minutes before actually parking. I tried to escape the vehicle, but seems it can only be opened from the outside. Really safe, you know, if you're in an accident and trapped in the car.

We are sat at a small table inches away from Forestry Service guys. I totally wish I could have sat with them. They were instantly more pleasant. Twit sat across from me, and ECL next to me and Ex-cop across from him. Did I mention the table was small? ECL's elbows kept hitting me and his smell kept confronting me with some jabs to my sinuses. I turned to look at him at one point, his face was maybe 6" from mine, and I realized he probably did not realize how awful he smelled because he had a fucking blond thicket of hair standing out of each nostril as if a small witch rammed her broomsticks up there and left the straw hanging out. I totally shivered and did my best to see if I could sit in the lap of one of the Forestry guys.

Ex-cop and ECL had some small talk regarding their work. I stared at my menu. Luckily Twit was totally in silhouette against the glare from the window. This made it easier for me to rationalize my 100% lack of eye contact with her. There was some discussion on the food--bbq chicken too messy for Ex-cop, but the special of the day (herbed chicken) seemed good to ECL. Twit voice hits at a frequency that I am able to often tune out. Ok, that's just fucking wishful thinking. She announced that she would not be getting the special--good for fucking her. We ordered, and then the real time in purgatory began. The inane chattering was in full force.

Topics covered:

• Current work duties and how they were going. I did contribute to this discussion by advising that according to the according budget and economy, we probably won't see a raise until 2011. How this came as a shock to them is a bit beyond me. I have no idea what the others are doing, and I did not pay attention because I don't want to start helping them do it.
• Cooking: We were eating bread, which of course made for a great conversation for Twit so she could tell us all how she bakes bread, and loves cooking. Ex-cop wouldn't really admit if he cooked or not, but ECL likes to cool. All eyes on me, I simply stated I do not cook. Twit asked if we went out to eat a lot, and I admitted that was true, but that most meals could actually be divided in to three portions for me, so I didn't need to eat out every day. This led ECL to say that in my future I would be cooking "after I found the right man and had rugrats hanging off of [my] shoulders." He also mentioned that I'm really young so have plenty of time to find that right man. (I should mention that The Boy and I have been together for enough time that we can apply for common-law marriage if we so desired--but NO marriage for me.) I actually smiled at this appalling commentary on my life. "No. I don't think so. As soon as my doctor allows it, I will be getting STERILIZED." Ah, success, conversation stopper.
• Family: But no, this led Ex-cop to ask if I had siblings. I confirmed that I do have a sister, and I attempted to say it with some finality to my voice, but they were all interested in if she was younger (yes), by how much (2 years--skipped story about how we have the same birthday, don't want to actually engage with these people), and where does she live. Big sigh. "I would not know. I have not talked to her since 1997." Oh, the joy this brings to Twit! We have something in common; she hasn't spoken to her sister or mother in years, and that she's not very close to her family. She was practically in my lap asking for approval and acceptance, and see, see, see we really are alike! Since our food had arrived, I really paid some good attention to it at this point.
• Weekend Plans: Since none of us were going to the weekend concert,we had to hash out what we were doing. ECL was the only one to really participate in this. He had to go out to his ranch and do something with cows or horses with his brother. Something like inoculations. I just kept chewing and desperately looking at those Forestry boys.
• Boston: Ex-cop for the thousandth time, he confirmed that I had lived in Boston (he keeps thinking I grew up there, but only if you consider lots of drinking, Uno playing and sex growing up). So then he told this horrifying tale. You may want to stop reading here if you are sensitive to anything a cop may have to say that he deems a funny story. Seems he was in town for a month for some kind of cop training, and was running on the Esplanade (or as he said, "that place, you know around the water?" and me saying, "you mean the Esplanade, the Charles River?). He was wearing the only college football shirt you see in Texas (it is terra cota baby-poop orange and has a longhorn symbol on it), and some "Orientals" pulled their car up to him and were asking for directions. At this point, Ex-cop was full of giggles and saying, "ME! Those Orientals were asking ME for directions, as if I knew." Right, because those Orientals should really know that anyone wearing a fucking UT t-shirt doesn't actually live or know anything about Boston. That would be a really obvious conclusion for their non-English-speaking asses to come to. And obviously, all Orientals KNOW what that ugly-ass orange shirt means. It means Texas! It means I don't cotton to Orientals asking me questions that involve a state that wasn't under the Confederate flag. Damn Orientals. So fucking stupid, yet so very funny! A great story to tell your coworkers. At this point I went ahead and let my jaw do a few tics. ECL and Twit seemed thoroughly amused.
• Hydrogen Peroxide & Terrorist: Seems hydrogen peroxide sales are being monitored. Terrorist may be using it! Good to know. I'm sure all those hair salons are going to be really excited to be on the FBI's Most Wanted list. Twist was unsure what terrorist could do with hydrogen peroxide. Ex-cop started explaining but did a really suave, subtle back-pedal and said, "Well, you take hydrogen peroxide and...um, oh, I don't remember, some other thing, to make a homemade bomb." Smooth Ex-cop, really smooth. ECL looked around to make sure no one was listening. The Forestry boys had already left. Left without me.
• Ex-waiter Cops: Ex-cop asserted that cops who used to be waiters made the best cops. Good to know.
• Retirement: Both ex-cops are really happy to be retired and pulling in a second paycheck. They are really glad they stuck with their jobs, and find it silly when people aren't happy at jobs and get new ones, because that only screws up their retirements. I resisted punching both of them by sitting on my hands.
  

It was almost 2pm by this time, and Ex-cop and ECL were 30 minutes late for a meeting. Ex-cop told the waiter he would like to pay for himself and the ladies. Guess ECL was invited but not on the VIP list. Now, I could only see ECL's bill ($12.xx) and he put a $2 tip down. Ex-cop's bill was not visible to me no matter how much I craned my neck pretending to pop it. However, he put down $5 for tip. I think there's some fucked-up math going on around here. Four people and a $7 tip? I tried to slip some more money on the table, but the ex-cops were all about "ladies first" and kept making us walk in front of them.

Back in to the SUV. Ex-cop did mention he thought maybe he should get the front passenger door fixed, but felt that it being in the shop last time a week would mean the same this time around. Ex-cop not putting together the danger of passenger not being able to open door. Genius. No wonder he took us out to lunch to thank us for all our help. Ex-cop reminded Twit and ECL to buckle up in the backseat due to the new legislative rules. Both Ex-cop and Twit were not pleased with this. I'm always amazed at how many people do not like to buckle up in the backseat. How many accidents have we all been forced to hear about where the vehicle rolled, tossing people out like little bloody ragdolls, and then to add some more injury to injury, the vehicle actually not only tossed the bodies out but rolled over them, too! Excellent. By all means, stay unbuckled. Oh, but wait, if you don't get thrown from the vehicle, you may just fly around the inside and break my neck with the impact of your body. Thanks, really appreciate the assistance in granting my wish to not live in to my 80s. Too bad I'm only 34 now.

Most of the conversation back had to do with difference courses the ex-cops had to take to keep up with various licenses. I looked at buildings and trees. It wasn't so bad. I slapped at the AC vents so I could unfreeze the snot in my sinuses. Ex-cop did get the hint and fiddled with the temperature a bit. He asked if he could drop us off out front since him and ECL were going to still make the meeting (please, they were now an hour late). I walk quite slowly, forcing Twit to walk in front of me. She headed for the elevators and I announced I was taking the stairs. Ha ha. Off I went, but unfortunately got upstairs at the same time the elevator delivered her, and she made some comment about beating me. People, please know that at this time, I did NOT beat her with my fist and feet to prove a point. I merely grunted, walked ahead of her and headed to my desk.

The End.

Flattered

A couple of months ago, I was in the office bathroom, where I had successfully managed to poop alone (a rare feat on this floor, since we are one of the entrances to the parking garage). Since I was heading out to the creek for lunch, I had a book with me ("Fragile Things: Short Fictions and Wonders" by Neil Gaiman), which I had placed on a chair (I have never seen this chair in use, but am assuming it is there so women can pump their tits in semi-privacy). As I was washing my hands, an elderly black woman came in, and said "hello" to me, then inquired what I was reading. Neil Gaiman wasn't something I thought I could explain to her, but she was right there with me. She totally understood, and obviously was quite well-read. I immediately felt guilty for my assumptions (which were more based on that she worked in this building, because hey, I would expect someone to have the same assumptions about me when I say I work here). We then started a lengthy conversation involving Toni Morrison (we talked of our love of "Song of Solomon" and how it is one of those books that proves to you that words really can change your life). She immediately said she was going to let me borrow some of her Toni Morrison books I hadn't read, and she was totally serious. Showed up at my desk early the next morning. Who knew a senior citizen would totally like me just based on my love of literature? Crazy!

The point of this story is totally coming up, so pay attention. She was one of the recipients of my series of Xerox emails, and this is what she wrote to me yesterday (including my response):

From: Awesome Coworker
Sent: Tuesday, September 29, 2009 3:00 PM
To: Grumples
Subject: RE: Xerox

A sense of humor is a “must have” to live a full complete life; yours is grand.

---

From: Grumples
Sent: Tuesday, September 29, 2009 3:17 PM
To: Awesome Coworker
Subject: RE: Xerox

Why thank you, ma’am! Levity is really the only thing that gets me through the day. (Redacted) came in to tell me that I should be a writer, and it was with great pleasure that I got to tell him my BFA is in writing, literature and publishing. I may have not done anything with my degree, but at least being able to still write well enough to amuse my coworkers is gratifying.

---

From: Awesome Coworker
Sent: Tuesday, September 29, 2009 3:35 PM
To: Grumples
Subject: RE: Xerox

Funny, the first day I saw you; you put me in mind of a southern writer. I almost saw moss covered trees, a big veranda, a white sundress, big hat, bare feet and an iced lemonade laced with Jack Daniels; intelligent enough to carry a hat; pure enough to wear white, naughty enough to lace your lemonade. That’s what made me say, hello.

Glad to know I wasn’t too far from the truth.

---

Can you just hear me squealing with embarrassment and pride? It has been a long time since someone has said something so kind to me (nice eyelashes and butt withstanding). To have someone envision me like this is beyond amazing. Especially since I eat Flannery O'Connor and Katherine Anne Porter and Kate Chopin like little fancy pastries. There's a sassy redhead out there whom I know would be just as thrilled with this characterization of me. I don't know if she is reading this blog, but if she is, I wish we could totally live out this dream together!

The Lazy Way to Amuse One's Coworkers

It doesn't take much to entertain my coworkers. This doesn't surprise me. Twit "LOL" and told me I was funny. She probably thinks it's funny when she's able to pick up a fork, spear some food with it and direct it in to her mouth. Another coworker (one I enjoy very much), advised I should be a writer, and that I was absolutely hilarious. He, too, said he laughed out loud, but perhaps since he is a man of math and science, he was able to actually say those three words. He's 5'1" and so damn cute. I wish I could store him in my pocket and bring out at parties, or sit on the couch when I'm lonely. Maybe he can ride the old man's back when he is in that rare frisky mood and running through the whole house (probably in search of the perfect place to pee).

Yesterday, the Xerox was broken. Many people told me about it. I'm not sure when I was designated the person to report this to, but the word got out yesterday that it was me.

This is how I handled the situation (and it is so depressing that this is what passes for genius these days):

From: Grumples
Sent: Monday, September 28, 2009 9:06 AM
To: Staff
Subject: Xerox

Good morning, all,

Yes, the Xerox is having a testy Monday morning and is refusing to perform. (Redacted) has been informed, and hopefully will be able to come by and discipline it. Please do not attempt to do the disciplining yourself by rebooting it. (Redacted) reserves this privilege for himself because it helps him understand the deeper needs of the Xerox by analyzing its error messages.

When (Redacted) confirms the Xerox is happily functioning, I will let you know.

Thank you for your patience.

Grumples

---

From: Grumples
Sent: Monday, September 28, 2009 2:48 PM
To: Staff
Subject: RE: Xerox

The Xerox is currently receiving its anti-depression medication, and it is our hope its mood stabilizes and will start working for us soon. As I said before, I do promise to let you know when it is functioning. IT (and I) thank you for your patience with this.

--G

---

From: Grumples
Sent: Monday, September 28, 2009 3:00 PM
To: Staff
Subject: RE: Xerox

The word is the Xerox is on happy high clouds and ready to get to business. Let me know if it doesn’t work for you.

Thanks.

My Charming Boy

"Your eyelashes are pretty."

"Thank you, but that's just the mascara."

"Well, I still like your butt even when you're wearing clothes."

Pictures of MY Creek From Today

Look! Wildlife in action!

Today's Ephiphany

It is better to rub your skin when you have an itch. Treat your skin like your cock. You don't use your fingernails on your cock do you? Always rub, not scratch.

The Morning Routine in All Its Glory

Because all of you need to feel as pained as I do, I feel the need to detail my Monday through Friday morning routine:

• Wake up multiple times during the night, usually starting around 3am and in a puddle of my own sweat, yet I am still cold. I can only guess that this is what menopausal women suffer. This is What We Talk About When We Talk About Hot Flashes (seriously, that should have been one of your titles there Mr. Raymond Carver). I first started experiencing the hot flash at night sometime in early 2009. At the time, I wasn't on any new medications, nor had my lifestyle changed in any significant way. I just started waking up feeling like I did that one time when orange and delicious peed on my head (and to think, he was only 13 at the time!). I have been less sweaty while walking around on a 100-degree, 100% humidity day in Texas. If there can be anything worse than waking up between damp sheets, is that somehow, inexplicably, I am cold! I will continue to wake up about once an hour to check in on The Boy to make sure he has not drowned in my salty fluids. He never seems to notice since he is too busy with his sleep apnea experiments (he holds his breath in his sleep then lets the air out like a 5-year-old making a balloon squeal).
• Wake up about 10 minutes before the alarm goes off, check my watch to make sure what deep inside of me I already know, that yes, I truly only have 10 minutes left (I cannot actually see the alarm clock, because it is a mere 2' away, which is about 1'11" more than my eyes can handle). At this time, I start making wishes. Mainly that I was dead. Not because I am suicidal, but because it just sounds so grand to never have to get out of bed again. And I already sleep in my own juices, so how much worse can death be? It takes about 5 minutes to get through this wishful-thinking stage and move on to bargaining (yes, me getting out of bed is very similar to the 5-stages of grief). Bargaining is math at 5:45am. No one likes math at this time in the dark morning. I start calculating if I can sleep 8-20 minutes later depending on when the last time I showered, shaved my legs or both. Due to my curly-to-frizzy hair, I must shower at least every other day, because the casual ponytail-with-tendrils look only works once before it becomes a greasy, flattened mess. As far as shaving goes, I'm really lazy in this area, and usually solve the problem by wearing pants, or my knee-high whore boots with a knee-length skirt. Part of the calculations is doing the math to figure out changing the alarm setting. This can be hard to do when the anti-anxiety meds are still holding me under murky water, compounded by the fact that I seem to like the alarm clock to be set 55 minutes ahead. Also, I have to physically lay across The Boy's face to change the alarm setting; again, he does not notice since he is busy gulping for air to hold in his lungs. At this time I review how often I have called in late or sick in the past 2 months, and decide if enough time has passed for me to try one of these tricks. Usually I have just done this like the day before, so the answer is a solid, disheartening NO.
  
• Then there is the process of extricating myself from The Boy, the sheet and quilt. It sounds easy, but I swear it isn't. So much could go wrong, mainly giving up and going back to sleep. Since I do not really enjoy crawling over The Boy's body during this painful time (what if this turns him on in his sleep and he gets all grabby hands?), I climb out at the bottom of the bed. This used to be relatively simple, but we bought a nice mattress about a month ago, and even though it was the same length as the old futon we used to sleep on (damn mildewed lumpy affront to humanity and my aching joints), this mattress seems somehow to be shorter. Even though it still seems to take up the same amount of space as the old futon, in that it sits against the top of the headboard and the bottom abuts my plastic 2-drawer cabinet (it holds my socks on top and sweaters on bottom), it is still somehow shorter. I know this because The Boy's feet now hang off the bed. I would like to use them as handicapped handles for my blind and tortured body, but for some reason he does not appreciate that unless accompanied by a foot massage. Squeezing my body between what is known as the "Sock Drawer" and his feet has often proved difficult and hazardous to my health, especially if he left his sneakers at the foot of the bed.
• Once I manage to get to the bedroom door, there is some dancing I am forced to do to keep at least two cats from barreling in to the bedroom on a quest for food. I refuse to kick them, so I do a shimmy and see how little the door has to be open for me to squeeze past it. The situation is not made any better by a bookshelf at the end of the hall that my bubble-butt will invariably knock against when trying to make the cats back the fuck off.
• If I am feeling somewhat in a good mood, I may lean down and pet any cat that comes near me. Some days, I just grumble a "hello" at them.
  
• Then to the bathroom, one door down on the left. Good god the light is so fucking bright, and the litterbox stinks, but there's my old man sleeping in the sink. Check to make sure he's not dead by holding my breath, and staring at his stomach for signs of life. To date, this has always had a positive outcome. I then give him some of my best loving--headbutts, nose kisses, belly rubs, and plenty of "I love you so very much, and don't tell the other cats, but you remain my favorite. Also, don't even think about dying, EVER." He opens his sleepy liver spotted eyes, and myopically stares at me and starts purring. This is the best gift I receive every morning. I might even nibble on his disgustingly waxy old-man ears, just so he knows how much I love him.
• Most days I do shower, so I let the water heat up while I inspect my face for any overnight-forming of zits (usually on my chin, because I am not just a hot flasher, I also drool more than all the saliva you created throughout a whole day) and stray eyebrow hairs. Our bathroom is small to the point of almost being pointless. I have to put my towel on the toilet, so I don't get the floor all wet (the Swamp Thing I live with apparently likes ponds of water in the bathroom). Shower is quick as can be for a person who has unruly curly bed hair. Shampoo, scrub face, soap body, possibly shave, soap the crotch one more time for good measure (that tub isn't the cleanest and I have to shave sitting down because I am blind and have zero ability to stand on one leg without slicking all the skin off my shin of the other leg), brush teeth (old man in sink means all brushing has to happen in the shower) rinse hair. To me this should take less than 5 mins, but somehow morphs in to 20 mins, and I really have no idea how (except if I shaved, then it makes sense; it takes time to work a razor through that thicket of black hairs). Towel off both feet before stepping out of tub. Greet the old man again (he has already forgotten I was there, and I don't want him scared by any sudden movements I may make). Stick in my contacts, and put on deodorant if I am wearing a shirt that buttons or is white; otherwise, skip that step until after I put on clothes.
• Leave the bathroom, feel guilty that it is all steamy in there and that the old man may suffocate in the rain forest I created (he never seems to mind, but geez, it is hot in there). Head naked toward the kitchen with three cats following me with three different voices: chirping, some kind of goat-like noise that I can barely hear, and an insistent high-pitched meow. Get a disposable syringe out of the pantry, head to the fridge and grab the insulin (always with a bit of paranoia that today will be the day I drop it thus breaking its fragile molecule and making it useless). The whole time fighting off the fat Siamese winding itself around my legs (really, bastard, are you going to pay for this $100 vial of insulin if I drop it?), and draw out 3.5 units. Then hold the filled syringe in my mouth, and go to the "food" closet (squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeal of door), and portion out the FOUR different kind of foods I have to give the cats. Exhausting. I'm not even dressed yet. Sigh. Take first two bowls and put down in the kitchen for the fat Siamese and the ear flattener (oh my god, hand coming down from above, will it kill me...oh, it's food...hooray!). One gets weight-control food, the other gets some kind of stinky anti-bacterial food. Inevitably they will switch bowls because obviously the other cat has the better food. Sometimes I just put down the wrong bowl to trick them. Ha ha, walnut-sized brains. Then I have to retrieve the diabetic cat's face out of the fat Siamese's food bowl (as a diabetic, he may wish for all the deep-fried hams and other cats' food he wants, but he can't have it), and carry him to the bedroom where he gets fed separately (so the temptation to drink Coke and eat a bacon cheeseburger is removed). As he eats, I give him his insulin shot sub-cu. He totally does not notice in anyway, he is too busy making sure all his kibble ends up outside of the bowl so he can be a little snarfing vacuum. Seriously, this cat eats his food by shaking his face and snotting on it all at once. Whatever makes my little fatty lumpkins happy.
  
• While chirpy-bird (the diabetic cat has many nicknames) frantically eats his food like he will never be fed again, I quickly get dressed in the dark to the dulcet sounds of The Boy's breathing. I always lay my clothes out the night before since I can't exactly turn on the light to pick them out in the morning, lest I wake the very angry man in the bed who foolishly stayed up until 3:30am playing Grand Theft Auto or watching Doctor Who. Usually whoopis (see, 3 nicknames already!) wants out before I'm actually done dressing. This is particularly annoying because his way of letting you know he's done is by scratching at the door and howling at it. You should see the bottom of the door. It is made of cheap particle board, and what he has done to the door really just shows you how cheap it is. We're talking strips of it have been flayed off by his anxious paws.
• Give boy a kiss (sometimes this backfires in that I trip over whatever is laying next to the bed and I kind of just smash in to his body), and leave the bedroom.
• Stand in front of hallway mirror to try and make something of my hair and face. Some days are better than others.
  
• Run to pick up the other cats' bowls because the diabetic is at it again. Ascertain that their water bowl is filled with clean fresh water (hear that boy, FILLED, CLEAN, WATER!). Get a scoop of food for the old man in the sink (geriatric food!), and enter the bathroom where the humidity threatens to ruin everything I attempted to correct with my hair. I show the old man that he has food, but he'd rather sleep. I so don't blame him. I put on deodorant and perfume as necessary (I have this great perfume from Demeter that smells like cherry Chapstick, but it leaves my skin looking like I rubbed every last thing I'm allergic to against it. I figure smelling good is sometimes better than looking good since I am able to obtain all the sex I could want).
• Time is seriously running short at this point, so I frantically scrounge around the fridge for my mainstays at work: yogurt, 16oz bottle of Coke, banana and grape tomatoes if we have them. Then I scurry over to the coffee table, unplug the laptop and shove in bag with some difficulties, shove in book, fridge items, verify I have my cellphone, check that wallet contains driver's license and some bail money. Lastly, and this is really important, make sure I have my laptop's battery. Woe is my world when I forget that.
• Before actually leaving, I check to make sure there are no Netflix to send back, since I somehow agreed to be the designated person on this front. Grab any bills sitting under my keys and out the door I go.
• Suddenly I am extremely aware I am wearing heels and already find it tiring, and can't imagine how I will make it through the next 9+ hours of them on my feet. Clump down the driveway in the most ungraceful way possible, usually without bending my knees and with my ass sticking out for balance. The car is parked 5 times out of 7 on the street (funny how when I bought the car in May, it was deemed that it should be the one in the driveway instead of the truck that might as well go join the old man in the sink for how old and tired it is), which means a longer way to go on uncertain legs.
• Unlock car, and unceremoniously dump bag with laptop in it on to passenger seat (and wonder why this laptop constantly does not meet my expectations in performance). Glance at clock (only 5 mins fast here), and head out. I'm only going 4 miles. It should be around 6:45am at this point, but it is usually more like 6:53am. This does not change anything for me. It is dark, I am fantasizing about the bed, and make it to work on nothing but my right foot on the gas/break and my dreams. If you ask me later in the day to recall that 10-minute drive, I won't be able to unless something traumatic happens (like that time I saw a motorcycle hit a truck and the rider and bike flew in the air and did a dramatic flip to land on his back on the passing lane of I-35--I called 911, and found out later from my paramedic friend that he turned away the ambulance saying he was just fine).
• Arrive at work. Sit in car for a moment to admire the sunrise. I have a rooftop space which would probably piss a lot of people off, but I enjoy the view. Sometimes I even take pictures of the sunrise. Then I begrudgingly take mincing, pained, high-heeled steps down the slop of the garage to enter the building. Thus, the morning routine ends, and work begins.

Now you can see why I'm so tired and cranky all the time, and why I refuse to get up on the weekends to do these chores. That is totally for The Boy. Dear sweet thing can't understand how much I love sleep, in that he likes being awake as much as possible, but he will let me sleep, which is LOVE.

Your Katamari Lacks ROMANCE

While waiting to be sat for breakfast:

"That church over there would look a lot better if painted any color other than brown."
"Oooom?"
"Or maybe a huge mural."
"Of what, little baby jebus?"
"Oh, you're right...um, maybe if it was condos?"

And I was just starting to get in to the concept of some horrific Old Testament style mural. We have enough condos. Yet, waiting for breakfast amongst a lot of yuppie rich types, I guess this is the best conversation The Boy and I could have.

Then there was that moment when The Boy overlooked his little cute cream pitcher, and took my syrup pitcher and poured it in to his coffee. He insisted it still tasted good.

Now the cats are cruelly being driven out of their little walnut-sized brains because we have opened the doors and windows by about 2", just enough for them to get their noses outside. The grackles are totally mocking them. The cats don't appreciate it and want to kill them by pawing at them lazily until the grackles give up and die. That ain't gonna happen. Only your nose is getting out there today kiddos.

The Boy is rolling up his ball (not THAT kind of ball), and Roboking thinks his katamari ball lacks romance. Roboking just doesn't know my boy that well. He is pretty good in the romance department, EXCEPT when it comes to his balls. He plays with them too much to be considered romantic. He won't admit it, but he knows it's true.

Katamari Forever

Damn my thumbs hurt. I love me some Katamari. I normally do not really like playing video games. I'm pretty terrible at them. When I say that I'm terrible, I more mean at the maneuvering skills. I have next-to-none dexterity. My fingers are like broken sticks glued back together. They rarely do what I want them to do, except type. They are pretty good at typing--right now, not so much. They tire easily with the PS3 (or 2) controller. I am good at understanding video games, and intuitively knowing what I should be doing next. I'm not so bad with puzzles. But ask me to walk Zelda across some skinny plank, fuck you. I can't do it. I can fall of with some serious skill. Even with Katamari I don't do as well, as say, The Boy (he has spent years really studying video games of all types, and his fingers are magical, and not just with video-game controllers...heh heh), but shit, it is good fun to roll things up for the King. I just found Dangle! That's my cousin, you know. Seriously people, if you have not played any of the Katamaris, you must go out and correct that shit NOW. You will want it for the dialogue and music alone ("The stars are crunchy!" "Dogs and Thunderclouds and Erasers and Handcuffs!"). When I'm done playing Katamari for the evening, there always is a nice little build-up of skin flakes at the bottom of the directional sticks. Those are pieces of my thumb dying for my love of Katamari.

Playing Katamari, always makes me think of my best friend, and how she introduced my years upon years ago to Pizzicato Five. They are this really kick-ass Japanese band. How a girl from Michigan who listened to Wally Pleasant introduced me (ME!) to Pizzicato Five is a bit baffling, but damn, she is a work of magic and frijoles. The first Katamari game had me up and rocking even when I wasn't playing. And I said to The Boy, "Hey, that sounds like Pizzicato Five on there." He would have looked at me blankly if he had been able to tear his eyes away from the game (usually I find this wicked annoying, but in his defense it is really hard to stop looking at all that STUFF on a Katamari level; we're talking shoes, sushi, sumo wrestlers, flying angels, elephants, rainbows, pins, small children, fires, stars, houses, tsunamis, giant squids, flying robot men, etc.), but he did kind of grunt at me. That is a normal way for him to indicate he is listening. So, I looked it up, and behold, one of the lead vocalists, Maki Nomiya (they've changed a bit, but she's from 1987 time period), sings a song called "Baby Universe." The Frijole and I used to share a very tiny office together (where we literally had to use graph paper to figure out how to configure all the filing cabinets that were in there so we could still fit ourselves and the desk in with them), and we'd dance to Pizzicato Five and Beat Happening. That girl could shake her ass to "Hot-Chocolate Boy" like no one's business. Fine, fine ass shaker she is.

This is really a lovely way to spend a Friday, and thank the Katamari gods that there is DVR, because I can still watch Dollhouse even though I rolled my prince right through the whole thing. Dollhouse better be getting a bit better, because I'm starting to feel a bit let down by the whole thing. Bring Pushing Daisies back if Joss can't live up to the hype. The Boy, Wikus and I spent 2009 watching all of Buffy and Angel (Wikus had always snubbed these shows, but we got him addicted and we didn't even have to get him that drunk on the whiskey). Obviously this man can throw something enjoyable together, but Dollhouse seems to be dragging. Maybe I just don't like him using all his old cast in these new roles. I'm probably stubborn like that. Now, as much as Wikus enjoyed Buffy (we both think SMG is one ugly horsey-face, but we got over it) and Angel, he did not like Pushing Daisies. That is some pretty fucked-up shit on Wikus' part. Sure, he liked Wonderfalls and Dead Like Me (seriously, two of his favorite shows), but he felt Pushing Daisies was too much, too cutesy, trying too hard. Blah blah blah. I stopped listening because obviously Wikus is crazy. Bryan Fuller can do no wrong, so Wikus, just go pick your nose somewhere else. Seems Mr. Fuller will be back to writing with the Heroes staff. That better mean Heroes is better this season because I'm so about to drop it on its not-so-super-tough ass. Oh, wait, it is only a short stunt. Your life is looking even shorter to me Heroes. Here's to Sylar doing all my work for me, because honestly, I am too lazy and too busy playing Katamari to actually do the dirty work myself.

Speaking of Wikus, he broke a spoke on his bike today, so he wasn't able to join in the fun tonight. Poor Wikus. I started some new medication today which has made me dizzy (and has left me feeling like I'm riding a rollercoaster when playing in that crazy Katamari game) so I could not drive the 2 miles to fetch him. High on drugs driving = bad; high on drugs playing a psychedelic Japanese game = fun times.

The Boy is out at some choir rehearsal (yawn), so it is just me, the cats and a tortoise. My stomach is full of Numero Dos Combo from a good Mexican place (read: totally dirty tacos like the deliciousness you'd find on the streets of Tijuana). Will he come home and walk in on me totally making out with the TV, trying to get some Dangle in me? I'll totally feel guilty about it in the morning, but I really do have medication to help with that. Wow, the King is giving me such low scores, but I don't care! I'm rolling his world all up, collecting his memories, and they may be small crappy balls, but I have a fun evening ahead of me.

Don't Panic! Orange & Delicious Is Alive & Well

Due to the odd nature of blogger.com, all the pics I post appear at the top of the post. I would rather pictures appear through the post, but either I am an idiot and don't know how to figure out how to make that happen, or blogger just won't let me. Due to this quirk, some of you thought my little orange lover had died, since his picture appeared right under the title "Sad Day." I completely apologize! Right now he is sleeping in some awkward position with his head facing the opposite way of his body. He is soft and has snuggled against me all evening. He relaxes me and makes me content in a way that I can rarely find except with him. Also, for a cat with the most rotten disgusting breath ever, the smell of his fur is so sweet after he cleans himself. I imagine this is why mothers are always sniffing at their babies' necks. It just hits you right it your stomach, that smell. Behind the navel, like he is tied to me. Oh, a sad day indeed it will be when he has to leave me. Though, I do believe I said HE WILL LIVE FOREVER GODDAMNIT!

Today I received my flu shot. I am not one to be shy of needles even in front of coworkers. I've had flu shots before, but damn, this motherfucker hurts. Who frog punched me instead of giving me a nice dose of seasonal flu vaccine? I do not feel well and am cranky. This morning I joked about becoming sick and having to call in tomorrow morning. Now it doesn't seem so funny. I've taken some drugs and should be asleep fairly early this evening. Though, I'm sure I will be just as sleepy in the morning.

The rest of my day was lovely, especially my lunch with a dear friend. She is always so joyful, and her laugh is like hundreds of slick rainbowed bubbles bursting from her throat. She does a great Katherine Hepburn. She makes me giggle and talk to fast and run through my sentence as if I am tripping on all of them just in the pleasure to talk with her. She has so many good qualities I admire; especially her awesome legs and the way she stays positive during an extended time of unemployment. I am grateful we are friends, and that she accepts my grumpy self with no judgment. She also makes the most delightful cakes. We should have a game night soon, so I can spend even longer in her company than just the hour (and a bit more, whoops) I get for lunch.

*************************

I suspect Twit had a job interview today. The other day I walked in on a suspicious phone call where it sounded like she was setting up an interview. Then, today she tells our boss she has a doctor's appointment this morning, and she shows up to work 2.5 hours late WEARING PANTYHOSE! Who the fuck wears pantyhose, even to a job interview (except maybe my mom)? So now I'm stuck in that place where I want to wring her neck daily, but don't exactly want her to leave since I have no desire to do her job. If I could stick her in a locked closet and never have to look at her or hear her, I think I'd be fine with her at work. How can I professionally ask to at least work with a box over her head?

Today's picture is a product of luck that happened because I forgot something at the house, and had to turn around to go get it. I'm on some medication that often makes me a bit forgetful. Something I loathe more than anything, and have always been impatient with people who couldn't keep more than two thoughts in their heads, but here I am, forgetting things. The sunset was a beautiful orange glow when I first set out, and was deepening into a rosy-purple flush with each passing blink. When I realized that I had forgotten the DVD (the whole point of me setting out to Wikus'), I knew enough to grab my camera with the DVD. This picture is about two blocks from my house, next to a car dealership (that's right, my neighborhood is total class), at a stop sign. Yes, I am willing to hold up traffic to get a picture of a sunset. The colors came out almost perfect--the white in the upper-right should be a robin's egg blue (I should have used my Canon Rebel, but my Sony is quicker to grab on the go, but it does tend to whiten-out light colors, sadly).

Sad Day

I'm one of those really annoying people who loves animals more than grody babies and kids. The Boy has to cover my eyes when we watch TV/movies if there is any hurting, mutilation, killing, etc., of animals. I cannot watch that Sarah McLachlan commercial about all those poor abused animals out there because they SHOW THEM. That poor one with the burns, geez. I want to kill people who do that shit. Discovery Animal Channel? Forget it. I have thousands of pictures of the cats, and I snuggle them, and give them kisses and licks, and talk some serious baby-talk to them. They will live forever and never die, you got that? Understand.

And why I'm so annoying is I totally eat meat. Yes, I hate myself for it, don't worry. I could probably give up meat rather easily--beside that occasional yearning for bacon, but I can't give up cheese, milk and eggs. If I am going to eat those items, then I feel that is just as bad as eating meat. I'm not going to be a half-ass vegetarian (sorry Boy and Wikus!). It's either all the way or not at all. No more puddings, flan, pizza, cheese in my burritos and breakfast taco? FUCK YOU! There's no way I can do that.

So, yes, I love animals to the point of vomiting at the thought of dead pets, and I eat meat. Very lame.

This morning I received a text message at work from my boss at 7am saying her dog had died. We'd been expecting this, but fuck, it was still hard to hear. I've never even met this dog, but my heart still felt ripped out and trampled. I also really like my boss, and I wanted to bring her dog back to life and bestow immortality on him like I have done with my cats (seriously, they will never ever fucking die, ever!). She's in a pretty high position so she can't just call out for the day because her dog died. She grieved in text message, on the phone and in person. I sat and listened each time with nods of sympathy, and doing everything to hold my tears and not vomit on my desk.

This has me all depressed since I constantly think about my 19-year-old cat dying (which is stupid since he NEVER EVER WILL). He's sitting next to me right now, purring against my toes. He may pee on everything, but he is still my little orange lover. Yet, I do think of his death, and I think about this time when I was living in San Diego. I did not have a car and had to walk everywhere. It was always chilly and not very pleasant for me. One afternoon, I was walking and saw a chow tied to a chain-linked fence outside of some commercial building. There were no houses around, complete commercial zone. I sensed something was wrong from blocks away. I should have crossed the street, but I didn't. I had to walk right by that poor fellow, tied to the fence with a dirty piece of frayed rope. He was sitting up but his head was done, his tongue stuck to the sidewalk. Obviously died of dehydration. Outside a fucking commercial building and no one noticed. No one cared about this chow. I cried and cried, yet there was nothing for me to do. I have that image of that poor dog and his tongue seared in to my brain. You need me to cry instantly? Talk about my cats dying or that chow. Or make me watch Sarah McLachlan and all those other abused animals. Or really, just watching Sarah McLachlan may do it.

In other news of a more random and amusing note:

• At a doctor's appointment this afternoon, one of the patient's name was Nevil (Neville?). When his name was called, I sort of jumped in surprise. He was cute from the waist down, but a bit of a shame going upward. Nice skinny black jeans, but a horror show of a shirt and his face seemed to have fallen in to his neck. Anyway, his name was Nevil! How awesome is that. He looked like he was 19, and his accent was totally not foreign, yet his name was Nevil! Thrilling.
• My doctor's office is on the same floor as a cardiology group I used to work for. While waiting for the elevator, I spied a poster for the upcoming Heart Walk. Since I had Wikus once design something for the Heart Walk event, I wanted to see what this Heart Walk poster looked like (and the elevator was taking its time). Seems my old job was going to raise some money by having a bake sale. It was a very simple poster, total MicrosoftWord clip-art crap. And what was that clip art? Fucking cookies, cupcakes, bon-bons, various dessert pastries, etc. I am so glad to not be associated with them anymore. Hi, we're cardiologist, we haven't yet figured out the connection between nutrition and the heart. Please have some cake, and don't feel bad that your money is being donated to other people with heart problems. Irony don't fail me now. I immediately called my favorite ex-coworker, and had a good chuckle with her. But since she has a real job, she couldn't laugh with me for long. Bitch.
• Tyra Banks is complaining right now that her left boob is bigger than her right, and that is sags more. She recognized that her audience member's question was not about her, but still, she wanted to get it out there about her saggy, larger left boob. My left boob is also bigger, but it isn't saggy. Take that Tyra. Also, Tyra kept patting at one of her audience member's ass, telling her that her "booty looks good." Is it wrong that I secretly want Tyra to validate my ass in that way?
• The Boy is so awesome, he went to get us dinner and understands why I'm so sad today. I am grateful that he understands my weird sensitive self.
• Lastly, not as amusing, but some dude on NPR today from the Washington Independent (Dan Wygle?) said that Obama has 400 times the death threats that George W. Bush had. What the fuck? No really, someone tell me, WHAT THE FUCK? Maybe it was 400 times, but 400 more. I was driving in the rain, so only half-listening. Anyway, still the same question applies.

The Creek Spews Forth

When my sinuses start to swell like all the pressure in the world exists behind my eyes and cheeks, I know it is going to rain. I envision drilling little holes in my face to release all that pain. My teeth actually hurt when this happens. The past few weeks have not been kind to me and my sinuses. Hell, the year hasn't been kind. I'm allergic to dust, mold, and almost all trees. This means I get no relief. "Seasonal allergies" is a fucking misnomer in my world. This year the drought was so bad, there was actually something out there called "dry mold." So just when I thought I wouldn't be suffering from the trees throwing their sexy bits all in the air, I start dying from this mold. Then the rains come with their evil barometric drop and the normal everyday kind of molds. It just makes me want to sleep on our great new mattress The Boy bought for us. It is ever so hard to get out of bed, and even worse when I was awake most of the night listening to rain slashing against the window and the wind whipping around the corners of our butt-ugly ranch house. I get up at approximately 5:45am, when everything is still, dark, fuzzy. It was still pouring, and I will drive in the dark and I will drive in the rain, but I will not drive in the dark while it is pouring. If I didn't end up killing myself, I would definitely kill someone else out there. Being night blind is already like looking through raindrops; so, driving in the rain is almost impossible. Texted my boss and said I'd be 20-30 mins late, just needed enough light in the sky to make it in--got to work and I was still the first one there. Damn I'm a sucker.

These past 3 weeks have been especially bad with the rain and threat of rain. My nose is rebelling. The inside of full of crusty scabs. It hurts each time I twitch my nose, which I guess is a lot, since it always hurts. And of course I can't stop picking my nose. I got some awesome boogers just velcroed to those scabs, and I feel a compulsion that is like an addiction to dig those damn things out, which of course only pulls on the scabs. So they are going to take a long while to heal. Don't try to tell me that you don't pick your nose, and ewwwwww, how gross that I do, because everyone does it. It's like saying you don't look at your shit before you flush. Please. Stopped being fascinated and repulsed by your body at the same time; that's just pathetic.

At work I have this little half-wall in front of my desk, which serves two major functions: 1) it hides my laptop perfectly, so no one can tell when I am using it, and 2) I am able to hunch down and pick my nose undetected (though I suspect there may be cameras around. I would like to pick my nose flagrantly with total disregard to who is around, but I fear that won't get me a raise.

My dear friend Wikus is also a staunch advocate of nose picking. He boasts about his nose-picking misdeeds and swears he doesn't care one bit who is around to see his gnarled finger poking around in his head. I am a little envious of how brave he is, and damn, what a coward I am, but I should point out he does not have a girlfriend. Which is absolutely stupid since he is wicked good-looking and is probably the smartest person I know. However, I feel that he is also the dumbest if he is picking his nose in front of the ladies. I have cautioned Wikus that this is not a wise plan, and that maybe he should cease picking his nose at work, since we all know that the easiest way to meet some one is through the job. Or at least it is a start--there's always the friends of the coworker (all of whom he should not pick his nose in front of as well). We all want Wikus to be happy, so please encourage him to pick his nose in the bathroom or while riding his bike or in front of the computer like I am doing right now (and I just caught The Boy doing out of the corner of my eye). Picking your nose is terrificate if you know when and where to do it. I like to think of all those traffic cameras out there that have caught me at it. Fuck you, traffic cameras!

I visited my creek today (yes, it is MY creek), which is usually a dry bed of limestone with just a few puddles to keep the grackles happily busy. I usually can walk around on it and take pictures of the grackles and herons that visit it, but not today. Autumn gave that creek a lot of water to feed upon, and it was crashing and thundering over the limestone rocks, bubbling in frenetic pools as it hit wider areas. I love my creek in its dry and wet states. It is so exciting out there. Enjoy the video--turn up your volume and listen to what a flooding creek sounds like during a drought.

Working

I realize it has been a few days since I last posted. I've been busy eating fatty foods and napping. The kind of luxurious napping, where you are up for less than 3 hours, and you find yourself already falling asleep on the couch, and you rouse yourself enough to go to the bedroom so you can be all the more comfortable, your stomach full of coke and nutty bars. It takes a lot of work for me to spend more time awake than asleep. The Boy and Wikus both think I'm crazy in that they feel compelled to stay awake, to accomplish something, anything, gosh darn it, even if the sun is down, and it is the middle of the night, and that accomplishment is 2 more hours of Grand Theft Auto. I admire their strength and dedication, but I still think sliding in to my 600-thread-count sheets and snuggling with a fat cat, is way more productive than being awake. It just feels so damn good. This morning when the alarm was about to start jangling my nerves, I woke up, and for a second, seriously contemplated quitting my job so I could just stay in bed only getting up to use the bathroom, and then back to bed. Though, that would be sad since my elderly cat isn't allowed in the bedroom due to his tendency to pee on my head while I'm sleeping.

The highlight over the past few days was when The Boy, Wikus and I were watching Torchwood, and one of the most horrible, fetid, intestinal smells came floating across the room. The kind of smell where you look around to see if some whale is beached in the living room that was somehow overlooked for the past 3 months, even with all the gulls swooping down, scavenging its putrid body. We quickly understood what was going on when one of the cats started scooting his butt across the floor--over by the front door, by the couch, by the kitchen, in front of the bedroom. Leaving lovely little brown smears of poo and stink. Torchwood was paused and the three of us went in to action with me as the leader. I belted out orders: Boy get towels, Wikus catch the soiled cat. We corral him in to the bathroom. He knows what's coming and is cowering in a corner already mewling. I have a very small bathroom, and with the three of us in there, our army seemed to large for the task, but we knew that once that cat hit water, all three of us were absolutely necessary. I regulated the water temperature, while advising Wikus of the risks he is about to take--mainly some serious scratches if things do not go as planned. That he is to hold the cat in the water, nape of the neck preferably but if that can't happen, just stay clear of the legs and keep holding him down around the middle of his back. The Boy was behind us as back up in case the cat got loose and attached himself to Wikus' face. I assigned myself the worst of duties, scooping diarrhea out of the cat's ass like it was some kind of warm fudgy dessert. Did I mention this cat is a long-haired cat? Poor fellow was weeping. Screaming in agony even though the water was only hitting his ass. Though, he did lose a lot of ass hairs as I tried to gently tug the poo from his rear. Then I shampooed his ass with Pantene for curly hair, which I felt was a fine choice for his hair type and would leaving him smelling nice. I used a bit too much shampoo (out of habit pouring enough for my head instead of his ass), and had trouble rinsing. Had The Boy get a cup to assist in the rinsing process. Once I felt he was good to go, I instructed The Boy to hover a towel near, and Wikus did his best at lowering the cat in to the towel. This ended in a torn towel and scratched forearms. We did our best to dry the cat off and tend to Wikus' war wounds. The cat was immediately placated with some food, and was left free to lick his ass and legs for the rest of the evening. We commenced watching Torchwood with our bodies full of adrenaline and the satisfaction of a job almost well done.

I'd post a picture of the wet cat, but the work's internet connection can't handle the bandwidth necessary to post something so huge in bits.

(Picture posted later at home where my internet can actually handle such a request; though, I don't want to make it sound like my home internet is that great, it isn't, it sucks.)

**************************************

In other news, I am working really hard on "assertively" communicating with Twit. Currently we are exchanging emails regarding the label maker. When I started here, I was given the label maker and told to keep it safe. Meaning, don't let people abuse it, keep the precious hidden. Then Twit started, and one would think her world revolved around the label maker. That she was too good to make file labels. NO! It had to be an expensive plastic label from the label maker. She used it on 100s of files she made for the dumbfuck ex-cop (who started soon after her and the first words out of his mouth was to ask which one of us was his secretary. I will save my vitriol regarding him to another post). The label maker was located on top of my hard drive, exactly at the level of my left knee. She would just walk up behind me, bend down and take it. Didn't bother to ask if it was ok to violate my personal space. Then she'd leave it on her desk and not bring it back. Such rude office etiquette. After a few times of this behavior, I actually moved the hard drive so it sat in front of my knees, making it so she'd be forced to either ask for it or get between my legs to retrieve it. Both intriguing thoughts. So she took to taking it while I was away from my desk. The DONKEY WHORE!

It is several months later, and I actually needed the damn thing and could not find it--at my desk nor hers. I sent an email out asking where the label maker had wandered off to, and she wrote a very snippy email back advising how she had put it in a "general area" since "several of us use it." Obviously trying to goad me in to an apoplectic fit, I decided to handle some other work items before responding. Otherwise I would have called her a thrice-used douchebag and mentioned how her face and flat ass are in a "who's uglier" competition, and that wearing her pants so tight that the crotch seam splits her ass and twat in half does not, in fact, give the appearance of a rounder ass, and forces most of us in the office to vomit in our mouths every time we catch sight of her.

Once I was able to breathe without fire in my mouth, I thanked her for letting me know where the label maker is and in the future it would be nice if she tells me of decisions she makes that affect me, especially when it is regarding something I was in charge of, and that it is nice to keep everyone in the loop and not make isolated decisions in a group setting. That's right, used her words right back at her. That's why you should never write emails to me; I will just take what you said, and turn it right back around and cut your intestines out with it.

It's also past Labor Day, so stop wearing your white pumps. Kathleen Turner would so brain you with a telephone right now.

Lincoln's Formative Years

When exactly did the back of the penny change? I parked the car this afternoon and found myself looking at the cup holder cum change holder, and the sun was shining directly on this penny. I thought it was Canadian or something. I mean, it is just a dude sitting on a log reading. Like he is waiting for his bowels to start moving. I brought it inside to show The Boy, and he was just as surprised. He didn't think it was a penny at first either. Honestly, I don't really use cash anymore. It's bulky and I spend too much of it at once. The only reason I even carry cash is for parking garages (Texas: Parking-Lot Wasteland). When I looked up this baffling turn of penny events, it seems I actually have the second in a series. A series of Mr. Abe Lincoln, even though only the 2nd and 3rd designs show the man (there are no releasing of slaves anywhere to be found).

I would like to have the one of his log cabin. That's pretty amusing for currency. Though, the penny is about as accurate as one can get when looking at that dilapidated mess. Then there's the good ol' Abe-Pondering-His-Bowels one. I fell asleep during his professional life in Illinois and watched America's Next Top Model. The last one might as well be an old penny for all it does for me. Look! White House, whoooooooooooa. Quick a diaper, I peed myself with excitement.

So tired now. Must go to bed.

GLEEEEEEEEEEEE!

Things That Excite Boy, But Not Necessarily Me

1) Grand Theft Auto IV
2) new PS3
3) choral music
4) messy piles of papers, books, mail, notebooks, etc.
5) staying up past 10:30pm/getting less than 8 hours of sleep (sometimes less than 4 hours)
6) Einstein's bagels
7) owning multiple guitars
8) air-conditioning
9) vegetarianism
10) Exercising


Things That Excite Grumples & Boy
1) Gleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

I Hear It Is Reuben Tuesday at Google

That's all I can tell you. Reuben Tuesday is very special day to a close friend of mine, but it is verboten for me to supply the other tasty victuals that were offered at lunch. It is beyond my control. There are weekly soup specials, but I cannot reveal what they are this week or any other week. Google is shrouded in a miasma of nerdy testosterone and a pulsing bright light of all the monitors displaying the hot, wild action of WoW. Hot. Wild. Action. WoW. Dear, dear Fink-Nottle.

Snort. I'm sure what ever they were eating over there at Google was a hell of a lot better than Papa John's "Cinnapie." Why are they advertising pornography instead of pizza. Though, I guess I could see where the two come together. Heh. Out there, on the great world wide web, is a website that caters to people who like looking at erect penises sticking through a hole in the middle of a pizza. True story. I've seen it. All I could think is wouldn't that cheese cause one hell of a grease burn on that cock? But maybe the goal is a permanent cockring of scar tissue. I don't know. The thing is, who would find that sexy? The same people who eat Cinnapie?

Yesterday Patrick Swayze died. I like to think that all that snuffing and sniffling Twit did today was grief over his passing. Or she was just crying in pain as my beams of hate singed her hair, crisped her flat ass like a poptart in a toaster, burning her insides until all her organs oozed steamy Twit juices.

Whew, that felt good. She's a braying donkey of pure jackassness. That is too a word. Shut up.

Today, a homeless man was fishing in the creek. He caught 11 fishes. They looked like perch, about 4" in length. Shimmering orange and yellow. He released them in to a shallow pool that did not feed back in to the creek. I found this really odd, and didn't quite know what to do about it. I felt it best not to ask.

My shrink is trying to convince me that I'm so intelligent that I have a valid, logical rationalization for everything I don't want to do. I say, well, go me! What's wrong with having a special talent of getting out of things I don't like, and making it look like I'm not doing any such thing?

Sorry Mr. Swayze, you put up a really good fight. I'm so glad you at least got to play a pedophile once before you left us.

The Wet Kitty

It's only 10pm, but I am ready to curl up in my nice new bed (a pillowsoft ULTRA--say you're jealous). I was going to spend some time ranting about this jackass I work for who makes $75k, but doesn't know how to use Excel. And when I say doesn't know how to use Excel, I'm not talking about formulas or anything of that ilk. He does not know how to place his cursor in a cell and type a word. However, that story is just going to have to wait. Not just because I am sleepy, but because my dear Buffalo-head of Canadian Tenderloin Goodness, sent this to me today:



Now, isn't that the most precious cutest thing you have ever seen. Look how the cat almost seems to be talking straight at you while lapping that water falling off his head. Damn. When my cat was a kitten he used to shower with me. I am so not shitting you. He was this furry little sausage of awesomeness, and he'd hop right in the shower and play with the suds, chase them around, bite at them, get all wet and happy. I'd dry him off, then myself. It was so pleasant; like I knew what it really meant when people said they loved their babies (gross). Then one day, he pulled the shower curtain down on himself, and he hasn't chosen to see the inside of a tub since. This cat would even climb in to a pot of water on the stove if you'd let him. One day I was eating macaroni & cheese directly from the pot (why dirty a bowl?), and he climbed right in the pot and sat there on the orange Kraft mac & cheese. Hilarious. These days, he's a bit older, a lot lazier, and rather chirp at you than move too much. I understand. I feel the same way.

The Trash Project

Another rainy day. I believe I crushed a snail on my way out the door to see the Trash Project. It sounded like the Boy took two out by accident. Sorry snails!

Ways I Would Have Enjoyed The Trash Project More:

1) Not being outside, standing in the rain.

2) Having enough seating for the 1257 people (all with overly large umbrellas) showing up with their little brats in tow.

3) If people actually understood what it means when an organizer tells them to "Stand behind the yellow cones."

4) A basic understanding of umbrellas, water and gravity, and how it may affect the person standing next to you.

5) Not staring in to stage lights due to standing at the edge of the performance field because someone vastly misjudged how many people would be in attendance.

6) Severe nyctalopia that was only exacerbated by staring in to the stage lights.

7) If that Little Person hadn't kept bumping in to my hip every three seconds to gain a better view. If I was under 4' tall, I would have gotten there at least 3 hours early.

8) Please, someone, turn up the damn volume--don't advertise some Graham Reynolds and then only play it loud enough for people within one feet of the speakers to hear it.

9) Give me some Texans who know that it is impolite to chatter and answer cell phones during a performance. This is art people, not your fucking backyard bbq party.

10) A hot dog with a very light layer of mustard would have been nice. Maybe some cotton candy or funnel cake. Sawdust on the ground would have added an amusing touch.

11) Some police presence to help people cross a busy road with no crosswalks or lights. Or at least to shoot the assholes who were speeding by in the rain at 60mph.

12) Not having snot bombs dropping down my throat every few seconds and choking me. Damn allergies. Damn rain and the mold. I feel I would have been more positive about the whole experience if I didn't feel like taking my eyeballs out and stamping on them, or having some kind of snot abortion of both my sinuses and lungs.

The Trash Project was really awesome in concept, and I'm sure in execution, but I really had a negative attitude due to the above 12 items. In general, my baseline attitude is negative. However, it was greatly improved later in the evening when I chatted with two lovely ladies about abortions, bikini waxes, pubic hair growing on the thighs, why we have pubic hair in the first place, 3" heels versus 4" heels, pedicures, sexy legs, and staying positive during an extended job search.

__________________________________

An important fact: "Mucus" is a noun. "Mucous" is an adjective. Please learn the difference when writing about mucus/mucous. Thank you.

Snails

Rain + Texas Drivers = Lame

Before last Friday, the ground was scorched, people complained incessantly and the sky was a lurid blue for as far as anyone could see. We're talking 70 days of 100-degree weather. Not that I mind so much. I like it hot and the Boy sits around in his boxers. It's kind of nice. Even if he does get mad that I break all his fingers when he touches the thermostat. I like it at 85, thank you very much.

Now it has been raining daily for a week. Some rain is nice--my grass is almost neon-green in its gushing love of it. My lilies around the mailbox that looked like crispy corn husks have magically grown about 5" and are all perky with their new tall status. However, the rain invariably makes me want to be taken out back and shot through the sinuses. The blinding one-two punch of the barometric pressure dropping and a snot-bomb is too much. Combine that with driving alongside Texans is a ring of hell I feel I do not deserve. These people are not good drivers in the first place. It sounds like a stereotypical joke--I know. I don't want to be that person that repeats the same boring jokes we've all heard, but it is unfortunately very true. The motherfuckers just don't know how to drive. Of course, when you don't know what that strange clear liquid is falling from the sky, it is bound to cause a panic on the interstate. I guess when I'm stressed on the road, I don't try shoving the front end of my car up the ass of some triple-heavy-duty monster truck with Confederate flag stickers plastered across the back windshield. That's just me. Anyway, this all means that I was unable to go play with my friend today after work, since her husband was unable to maneuver through the hordes of morons in the rain, to relieve her of childcare responsibilities (the last we talked she was keeping her 2-year-old from sticking his head in a steaming bag of popcorn while he said, "Googal!" over and over again, while her 5-year-old was jumping on the couch and falling off on to the tiled floor--having two sons must take an enormous amount of energy that I cannot fathom bringing forth). Stupid rain, stupid drivers.

The best thing to do in this situation is take a nap. Then snuggle with the Boy, watch some Project Runway and America's Next Top Model for the Little People of the World (look, I can't reach the top shelves in the kitchen, I'm allowed to poke some fun). Once I emerged from the bedroom, more rain had fallen and the drips off the roof were making a terrible racket on the aluminum pan we use for Elliott the Amazing Stink-a-Tortoise. I went out back to fetch it from the yard (yes, my backyard is that much of a shithole), and the place was covered in snails. Little teeny bitty baby ones, large marvelous ones with their eye stalks and rotting leaf detritus on their shells, to a couple I swear were having sex. Then there was the one that had no shell but its body looked like it was forming a shell. Do snails form their own shells? Must research.

I squatted on my toes, careful not to crunch any little snail I couldn't see under the mass of leaves we hadn't bothered to rake up in years, and took many pictures. I think I may have pulled a muscle in my calf, but it was well worth it. The snails are eating all those leaves we kindly left there in the yard for all those years, as well as the salad the Boy threw out there (his version of composting may be a bit looser than some people's).

Boo rain and Texas drivers. Yeah snails!

Super Friend Wikus sent me an instant message just now saying snails do in fact grow their own shells.