High on Soldering Fumes

The Boy has been in the garage soldering effects pedals (he is building them from scratch) while I am mosaicing. After a day of various errands (lunch, Target, Hobby Lobby, Lumber Liquidators and Best Buy) under a glorious blue autumn sky, we both went to work on our respective projects in the garage. I'd say we were out there around 4 hours or so. Hopefully I didn't suck back too much soldering fumes, because The Boy was all sluggish today, and he felt it was from yesterday's work in the garage. He was dragging and that's a dull way to be on the weekend. Tomorrow The Boy will be gone the majority of the day and probably a good portion of the evening. I feel that I will spend the day doing a mix of catching up DVR shows and mosaicing. Maybe I can call in sick on Monday with a broken back.

Here is today's song list--still my favorite top-rated song on shuffle:

The Milkman of Human Kindness, Billy Bragg (aka: Biccy Brass as I fondly call him)
Give Us Moon Rocks!, The Swirlies
You are the Everything, R.E.M.
A Little Less Conversation, Elvis Presley
Angelfuck, The Misfits
The Queen is Dead (Take Me Back to Dear Old Blighty), The Smiths
Halah, Mazzy Star
Buzz Buzz Buzz, The Primitives
What Do I Do Now?, Sleeper
Stuart, The Dead Milkmen
Christine, The House of Love
Friendly Advice, Luna
Melting Blue Delicious, The Wild Swans
Dalliance, The Wedding Present
Kiss Me on the Bus, The Replacements
Games Without Frontiers, Peter Gabriel
Vicar in a Tutu, The Smiths
That Great Love Song, The Raveonettes
I Don't Believe You, The Magnetic Fields
Things I Miss, My Bloody Valentine
That Girl, Beat Happening
A Feeling, Throwing Muses
Fade Into You, Mazzy Star
She Sings (All My Life), Ian McCulloch
Hunny Hunny, Book of Love
Swinging London, The Magnetic Fields
Boys Don't Cry, The Cure
City of the Damned, The Gothic Archies
Kundalini Express, Love & Rockets
Star Sign, Teenage Fanclub
Hats Off to Halford, Atom & His Package
I'm a Man You Don't Meet Everyday, The Pogues
Hot Chocolate Boy, Beat Happening
Song of a Gun, The Vaselines
Frankly Mr Shankly, The Smiths
Paint a Vulgar Picture, The Smiths
Black Cab, Jens Lekman
I'm On Fire, Bruce Springsteen
Lullaby, The Normans
Come Play With Me, The Wedding Present
Blue Light, Mazzy Star
Hate, Cinerama
Common People, Pulp
Honey Pot, Beat Happening
Disappear, Mazzy Star
Attitude, The Misfits
Pretty Shoes, Jen Lekman
Deanna, Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds
Letter From an Occupant, The New Pornographers
Atmosphere, Joy Division
Under the Milky Way, The Church
America, James
Here Comes My Baby, Yo La Tengo
Writing, The Normans
A New England, Billy Bragg
Senses Working Overtime, XTC
I Believe, The Buzzcocks
Last Caress, The Misfits
Listen to My Heart, The Ramones
Brand New Love, Sebadoh
Tomorrow's Tears, The Cranes
Our Love Will Still Be There, The Troggs
Blake's Jerusalem, Billy Bragg
I Don't Wanna Grow Up, Tom Waits
The World Is a Very Scary Place (from The Wide Window), The Gothic Archies
The Christmas Song, The Raveonettes
If I Should Fall From Grace of God, The Pogues
Wake Up, The Arcade Fire
King of Fools, Social Distortion
Black Steel, Tricky
Moon Palace, Luna

Now The Boy, Wikus and I are watching some dumbass movie with the lights off to avoid the trick-or-treaters. Right now a very erect nipple belonging to Nicole Kidman is practically stabbing me in the eyes. Ok, seriously, don't watch "Margot at the Wedding." Wikus thinks that some lame pretentious college student wrote it. Maybe we'll give up and watch "Raising Arizona" instead. We'll see.

Seven Days of Shredding My Fingers

This took me 5 hours. I was in the garage for 6, but took an hour off to speak with my best friend in San Fran. I get to see her in one week, and we are mucho excited. Shopping, margaritas, tide pools, etc. That's why I must kick ass on this mosaic as much as possible before I leave town.

Glass, as I'm sure everyone is aware, is dangerous. For me, I am always slicing my fingers when pressing the glass in to the grinder. I know there are these weird thumb and finger protectors I can buy online, but I worry that I won't be able to feel the glass. That is really important since I take off glass in teeny increments to get it to fit where I want. However, my fingers are so cut up, that I might want to try them out, since typing is really painful right now.

Since I knew today would be a marathon session, I chose to listen to my "favorite" songs on random. Yes, I star the songs on my iPod just for this reason. My favorite playlist plays only 5-starred songs. This is what I listened to, in order played, with the one hour I was on the phone with Frijole not included.

The Emperor's New Clothes, Sinead O'Connor
Superfreaky Memories, Luna
Everybody Knows, Leonard Cohen
Indian Summer, Luna
Too Drunk to Dream, The Magnetic Fields
Lonesome Tonight, New Order
Let the Cool Goddess Rust Away, Clap Your Hand Say Yeah
Getting Nowhere Fast, The Wedding Present
Pictures of You, The Cure
map ref. 41n 93w, My Bloody Valentine
Hong Kong Garden (With Strings Intro), Siouxsie & the Banshees
City Girl, Kevin Shields
Look on Down From the Bridge, Mazzy Star
Happy Birthday, Altered Images
Road to Nowhere, Talking Heads
This Charming Man, The Smiths
Skulls, The Misfits
Try and Stop Me, The Creation
Epitaph For My Heart, The Magnetic Fields
Son of a Preacher Man, Dusty Springfield
Our Secret, Beat Happening
Rocket, The Wedding Present
Suspicious Minds, Elvis Presley
Whisper to a Scream, Icicle Works
Up For a Bit, The Pastels
Breathless, Nice Cave & the Bad Seeds
Sex is Boring, Ballboy
Road to Nowhere, Talking Heads
Real Thing, The Wedding Present
Just Can't Get Enough, Depeche Mode
Love Will Tear Us Apart, Joy Division
Morning Has Broken, Cat Stevens (shut up Boy, I like this song)
Ask, The Smiths
Making Believe, Social Distortion
Love Vigilantes, New Order
Big Rock Candy Mountain, Motorcycle Boy
I Don't Want to Grow Up, The Ramones
The Boy With The Arab Strap, Belle & Sebastian
Slash Your Tires, Luna
Generals and Majors, XTC
Song 2, Blur
Escort Crash on Marsten Street, Heavenly
So Long, Marianne; Leonard Cohen
This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody), Talking Heads
Finest Worksong, R.E.M.
If There's Such a Thing as Love, The Magnetic Fields
Chelsea Girl, Ride
Honeydrip, Ian McCulloch
Throw Aggi Off the Bridge, Black Tambourine
Making Time, Creation
Jane Says, Jane's Addiction
The Book of Love, The Magnetic Fields
Kennedy, The Wedding Present
In a Big Country, Big Country
A Chicken With Its Head Cut Off, The Magnetic Fields
Joan of Arc, OMD
You Can't Hurry Love, The Concretes
The Stars of Track and Field, Belle & Sebastian

****phone call with Frijole****

Mercy Seat, Ultra Vivid Scene
Blasphemous Rumors, Depeche Mode
Ray, The House of Love
Folsom Prison Blues, Johnny Cash
London, The Smiths
I Walk the Line, Johnny Cash
Solsbury Hill, Peter Gabriel
Nice Guy Eddie, Sleeper
Garden Head - Leave Me Alone, Neutral Milk Hotel
Just Like Honey, The Jesus & Mary Chain
Punk Rock Girl, The Dead Milkmen
When My Boy Walks Down the Street, The Magnetic Fields
I Could Be Happy, Altered Images
Long Division, Aislers Set
The Skin of My Yellow Country Teeth, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah
Washington, D.C.; The Magnetic Fields
Head On, The Jesus & Mary Chain
Let's Get Out of the Country, Camera Obscura
Rich, Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Ballad of Peter Pumpkinhead, XTC
If You Own the Washington Redskins, You're a Cock; Atom & His Package
Bad Reputation, Joan Jett & The Blackhearts
The Red Door, Aislers Set
The Way to Market Station, Aislers Set
Judy is a Punk, The Ramones
Bingo, M.I.A.

That was some good listening for all that back-breaking work. I will sleep long and hard tonight. Tomorrow The Boy and I will visit some places looking at hardwood floor options. Probably go get some lunch, then back to slicing up various parts of my hands. I'm really enjoying this palm cut on my left hand right now.

Avoid Spraying in Eyes

In the bathroom at work is one of those aerosol cans that people spray to cover the smell of their poops. Right now it is some mango smell. Usually it is kept on the bathroom counter, but it looks like a lot of people like to use the handicapped stall for their bowel-moving needs, and balance the spray on the handrails. I find that all very odd, and sad for the actual folks in wheelchairs. I ended up using the handicapped stall the other day because the first stall had poo on the seat and second didn't lock (I believe I mentioned all of this earlier). While I was doing my business I started reading the back of the aerosol can--I end up reading anything with words on it. And there was a lot of blah blah blah on the can, but my favorite was "Avoid spraying in the eyes."

When I say something with the word "avoid" in it, I mean "try not to" but it is not an imperative "DO NOT." It's a suggestion. Hey, you may want to avoid putting that electric eel down your pants! Or avoid using the words sue and lawyer when writing to a company vendor, even in jest. I'm saying you can go ahead and do these things, but it doesn't matter to me how your life ends up afterward, because I did warnyou that I would avoid it.

When it comes to spraying a chemical in your eye, is "avoid" a strong enough word? If you have to call your local poison center, then I'm thinking, "DO NOT spray this product in your eyes" would be a better call. Or, "DO NOT spray this product in your eyes unless you enjoy searing pain and possible permanent damage to your cornea, which may cause agonizing blindness."

Anniversaries

I let yesterday pass without mentioning that October 27th is a special day for my rites of passage in to womanhood. These are two days that I don't think I ever discuss much, because really, why? Yet, I'm always a little amazed how both just happened to have occurred on an October 27th:

12 years old: I get my first period, and not being like Margaret, I'm less than impressed. I didn't get my second one until 9 months later. I thought that is how all periods should work: once every 9 months. Wouldn't that be grand. An important thing to note is I don't actually call my period but its usual monikers. I prefer to say, "george." It can be a verb, too, "georging." This started in 1990 when I was friends with this lovely girl, and it is what she called it, so of course, me wanting to be as cool as her in her plaid tights and totally punk hair-do, started calling it "george," too. I've never looked back. I have several friends who now use the same euphemism. George just seems so appropriate. In so many sexist ways. Sadly, I think I may be georging when I am in San Francisco, and that is totally wrong.


15 years old: got permission to go to our high-school's football game with two other friends of mine. Then I walked over to my ex-boyfriend's best friend's house. That's right. I've always been a terrible person. Started early, too. my friends discreetly left me there (I wonder what they did the rest of the evening?), and I have sex with this guy, TWICE, while his grandfather is making random snorting noises in the next room. The ex-boyfriend's best friend (EBBF) kept shushing me. He seemed horrified that I was making noise during all that sex we were having. He was very gracious afterward when he said he never had sex with a girl who could "move like that." Go me! Shortly afterward my friends came back by to pick me up, then we did some random violence on huge terra cota planters that were sitting outside of a grocery store. After we got that out of our systems, we went back to the football game just in time to be picked up by my parents. Ah, to be 15. Of course that is one of the last times I saw that guy, but that was ok with me. I was relieved I had gotten that pesky virginity problem out of the way. Also, he stole cars (Z-rocs I believe), and a judge made him move in with his mother who lived in Florida. I so used him.

As far as I can remember, no other October 27th has been particularly special. Yesterday certainly wasn't.

Pregnancy Rumor Update

I believe I was a little "snitty" to The Boy this afternoon. I had this grand idea, that was mostly self-serving, but geez, I thought he'd fall for it since it involved food. I was trying to trick him in to going out to his favorite restaurant ("modern" Mexican), and then running to the grocery store with me. I agreed to bring a fruit plate to my boss' "going-away" party tomorrow. I use that in quotes because she is only moving to the 8th floor, five stories up, so it's not like she's leaving us, but it certainly feels like it. I know she likes healthy food, so I thought bacon meatloaf would be inappropriate. Sadly, The Boy had some 4-hour budget-review meeting at work tonight, and usually he has no problem being late to everything, and always acts like I'm a moron when I'm anxious that I (or we) will be late to something. But today, oh no, he wasn't chancing it. I'm fairly certain we could have grabbed a fruit tray and eaten dinner and he would have made it on time. He suggested we just go in separate cars, and I basically had a panic attack, and just thought that was the most horrible thing in the world. I can't explain it, other than I am crazy, and sometimes things seem way more complicated to me then they really are, you know, in real life.

Even though I was bit short with him, he still made me dinner. How awesome is that? We had pumpkin raviolis and Quorn chick'n nuggets. So damn good. I swear those Quorn chick'n nuggets are like McDonald's, not at all like those dry wood chips Morning Star is passing off as food. Without that "e" and chicken, you know it isn't actually meat. I think McDonald's may want to get the clue.

I am currently typing with one of these on my arms between my face and the laptop:


(There's also a little smidge of the orange lover if you look closely.)

It took me awhile to get motivated, but once I made it to the garage, things progressed nicely. I am working on opposite sides each night in attempt to keep the Lucite from buckling and warping as much as possible. Tonight I worked on sea grass and water. When I close down shop for the night, I always gingerly lie the whole thing on the floor and put some MDF across it to keep it as flat as possible. I've never worked with such a long piece and I'm very nervous of the whole thing snapping as I get toward the middle. It is my hope that I am just being paranoid, and should pop an extra Celexa when I feel this way.

Day 6: mix of Atom & His Package (thinking of my dear Frijole and how I get to see her in 1.5 weeks), 2.5 hours



Twit Rumor Update: I spent the whole day attempting to get a glimpse of her stomach. She even caught me staring once, but I just squinted my eyes to let her know to not even ask what I'm doing. There is definitely a bulge. This woman is like 10-year-old girl skinny. She is so buttless, that her pants just ride up between the crack in her back. All I can say is I hope she has a benign tumor in there, because I will be shit-pissed if she is pregnant. I have zero interest in doing her work with no extra pay while she is out on maternity leave. Nor am I looking forward to her bringing her baby in the office, because I will NOT coo at it. No damn way.

After a Day's Rest

The weather is 55 and rainy. Which is just terrible if you have to be outside, but it is that time of year that is so nice inside. The cats are snugly, no one is calling me crazy for being under a blanket, and I can wear silly outfits to mosaic in the garage.



Check out that mighty-fine combination of pink-striped fuzzy pajama pants, red argyle socks and Converse. Seriously, this is the best outfit I've ever worn in the garage. Ok, I did run the space heater for the first hour or so, but so what? I'm allowed.


Day 5: mix of Luna songs, 2.5 hours




Some of you have asked about the tools I use. Here is most of them: WeldBond glue (best glue ever made, EVER), safety glasses (I really need to purchase ones that aren't as cheap), paintbrush (WARNING: do not use your hands to swipe glass bits off of table and mosaic), tile nippers (for chipping away very tiny areas of glass), glass cutter (scores the glass), and the thing I always forget the name of (breaks the glass along the score line). Not featured here is my grinder and ring saw. I have yet to break out the ring saw on this project, but probably will when I get to the seahorse. Also not featured is a green marker I stole a very long time ago from Wikus that I use to mark where I want to score my glass. Thanks Wikus!

Spreading Rumors about Twit

Monday. Torrential rain. Hour late to work but still the first one to get here. Xerox is down again, after being told by the Xerox technician on Friday that he had replaced all the boards and it should be working fine. This took him 6 days in a row to do. No one is pleased that the damn thing is down again. I sent a snarky email to the whole floor, IT and the person who deals with our Xerox contract. I may have mentioned dropping the Xerox from our collective will, and that we plan to sue the Xerox doctors, that our lawyers are already on the phone. Everyone on the floor ate this up like the good little boys and girls they are--so easy to amuse! However, the person who deals with our contract felt it was a good idea to send my email to the Xerox rep, who now thinks we are threatening legal action. Awesome.

Just went in to the bathroom, and there is poop on the toilet seat in the first stall. How does this happen? And once it does happen, however it does, why would a person not clean that up? I mean, if you get shit on the seat, isn't there a good chance you just got shit on the back of your ass? As far as I am aware, I have never shat on the back of a toilet seat, and my ass is not small, yet I still know how to direct my poop chute at the giant hole in the middle of the toilet seat.

Since I did not feel like cleaning up someone else's shit this morning, I went to the 3rd stall. The 2nd stall doesn't lock, and in my life I have been walked in on more than once while I'm in the middle of wiping myself. That to me is the lowest point of using the bathroom. I can handle being walked in on while pulling down my underwear, sitting on the toilet and standing back up, but I simply feel it is completely humiliating to be observed wiping myself. Thus, I did the horrible thing and used the 3rd stall, the handicap stall. I always rationalize this decision by thinking that I've never seen a person in a wheelchair in this building. Yet, the guilt still remains. I find it hard to move my bowels with so much guilt hanging over me.

Also, I may be 100% off base, but I think Twit may be pregnant. This is from a snippet of overheard conversation (she's always yakking on her cell at her desk), and something about her doctor, needing to check on the back pain which is probably just due to the extra weight, and all the chunks of time she's been out of the office lately. Now, to be clear, this is completely speculation. I never ever look at her, so I have never contemplated looking at her stomach. I did force myself to take a look today, but she is wearing a very ill-fitting blouse that is like a big box. This could be her normal bad taste in clothes or she is starting to show. Why I'm not totally sure about this for the most part is because the woman loves to talk about herself, and I'm relatively certain that if she was pregnant she would be telling everyone for the attention. I think she dreams of ways to receive emails from coworkers congratulating her on X, or sending their regards on Y, and regrets on Z. Seriously, I should copy the letter she sent 350 coworkers on why they should donate to charity--it included details of her near-death experience and her child dying. Which is sad, terribly sad. But is this the forum to tell strangers about your personal woes? No it is not. It is disgusting and looks like a total play for attention. Ok, yes, my baby died, but that's not the point, I'm just trying every play in the book to get you to notice me! Did it work?

Lastly, I have a hole in my black tights that I keep having to rearrange so it will be under my shoe. This is a very distracting situation.

Have I Mentioned I Have Allergies?

There will be no day-5 mosaic update today. I first canceled on Wikus for the gem and mineral show, and I so wanted really wanted to go. Then I became one with the couch and let The Boy take care of me. Though, he is now really sad because I ate all the crackers, but possibly misunderstanding what he meant when he said I could have some of the crackers that came with the soup. I took "some" to mean "all." We then watched the first 3 episodes of season 2 of Dexter. I'm really trying hard to enjoy Dexter, but that voice over constantly bopping me over the head with exposition makes me wince and say bad words. Or at least fling copies amounts of snot at the TV. The Boy seems to enjoy it well enough, so I do it for him. But if that character narrates one more "feeling" instead of just letting the scene play out so my wee little brain can actually observe what he's feeling, I'm just going to slit my wrists. That way The Boy can still watch it, and I won't have to. It seems the most logical thing to do.

Then I tried to read "What is the What," which I totally recognize as a good book with an important story to tell, but I'm just having the worst time wanting to read it. It's fine enough writing, it is a compelling story, but I just don't think about it when I'm not actually reading it. And I'm a COMPULSIVE reader. Yet, with this book, I'm totally willing to work through lunch, and watch tv instead of reading before bed. It is terrible, and I don't know what the problem is. After a few pages, I went to sleep in my fucking opulent bed. I am way more interested in this bed than I am reading. A super nice mattress, 600-thread-count sheets and a new down comforter makes for a soft heavenly bed. Even The Boy, who was skeptical about getting this particular mattress, is loving it. He doesn't like spending time in bed unless it is for something other than sleeping. The secret it seems to get The Boy to understand something truly awesome, is to just let him experience it for himself.

Reading obviously led to me falling asleep. Our very nice, yet crazy, neighbor was mowing our yard (the deal is he mows our yard if he is allowed to borrow our mower to mow his lawn--I had nothing to do with this deal, because I'm not comfortable with that sort of thing, but he insisted and The Boy agreed). There's a lawn mower going on outside and I fall asleep. This is basically unheard of. I don't like noise when I'm sleeping. Nor do I like light. I want to sleep all the time, but conditions are rarely optimal. I slept probably for a good 2 hours. The Boy had a shorter nap next to me, and oh, how I felt like shit, but it was easy to forget in the bed that is made of all that is good like kittens and puppies.

The rest of my evening have been spent here on the couch with the orange lover. There is no way I can even step foot in that garage. Not today. I'm so upset about it, I'm on a roll, and my body is forcing me to stay away. Stupid fucking body. Always fighting itself. Getting confused and thinks it is under attack by molds, juniper and dust, so it has to defend itself by trying to kill me. How can I be saddled with such a stupid, fucking moronic body?

I'm more than thrilled to spend the week at work where there will be dust stirred up as 3/4ths of the floor packs up to move. Maybe I should just remove my eyes now, blow up my nose and tear out my lungs. This should be good preventative measures. Or I could watch more Dexter and see which gets me to kill myself first.

Bets?

One Hell of a Mess in the Bed

The allergies are taking one hell of a toll on my body. I slept past 11am today, which even for me is a bit late. It took awhile for a plan to be made, but it ended up being IHOP, fetching Wikus, going to Ikea, taking Wikus to the FedEx office by the airport (to pick up foam of all things), then home for me to mosaic and the boys to work on soldering effect pedals. They finally got a pedal to work, just in time to leave for the Built to Spill/Dinosaur Jr show. I absolutely dislike Built to Spill, and I saw Dinosaur Jr at a day show a couple years ago during SXSW, and just don't really feel the compulsion to repeat the experience. It was nice to just keep mosaicing until I couldn't physically do any more.

Day four: still listening to a mix of The Magnetic Fields, 4.5 hours of work




Initially, we went to Ikea to get a new feather comforter. Mine is quite old, and the orange lover had peed on it several times. It doesn't really smell like cat pee any more, but it smells mildewy, and has a strange greasy feeling to it. It was a bit overwhelming to figure out what I wanted at Ikea since they had so many different options of feather blankets. I settled on a true feather one (not synthetic) that had a warmth level of 4 (levels are 1-6). On our way out we went through the light section. I love light pretty much for the same reason I love glass. I just can't get enough of it. However, most of Ikea's light don't cast enough to make it worth buying. Then I came across this little guy:




It's a very direct spot light on an awesome bendable stand. It's not flimsy at all, and stays exactly where I want it. Since I mosaic in the garage, I have the crappiest light for what I'm doing. I've been compromising on different light sources to accomplish my work, including using a flashlight to do back-lighting. This lamp makes it so I can at least shine a pinpoint of light directly on the area I am working on, and that made life just a little easier. It cost $30, but it was well worth it.

When we got home, The Boy went straight to the bedroom to drop off a body pillow he had purchased (he loves body pillows, to the point I call them his "girlfriends"). He soundly howls out for me to get to the bedroom, not in the way that made me fear a cat was dead, but in the way that let me know that it was something gross. Wikus was trying to get the orange lover back in the house, and I dropped everything in my hands since The Boy obviously didn't think I was running fast enough to the bedroom

As soon as I got to the doorway, the smell hit me. Sour baby poos. Evil-smelling poos. Poos that could only mean one thing, there was diarrhea somewhere in that room.

Remember how I went on about the wonderful new mattress we had purchased and the fancy sheets? Well, they were covered in diabetic-cat diarrhea. It was so awful. We were quick to blame each other for leaving Whoopis in the room all day, but I know it was The Boy. He was the last one in the room. He was still getting dressed way after me. He doesn't want to accept that it is his fault, but it totally is. I forgive him though, because he's the one who scraped the liquid poos in to the toilet and washed the sheets. I cleaned the mattress then Febreezed the fuck out of it.

Tonight I get to sleep on clean sheets and under a new comforter. It isn't a terrible way to end a hard day.

Day 3 of Even MORE Snot

The sad day has come where my boss, my sweet sarcastic boss has to move upstairs. The company is sorting out the pecking order, and felt that she was on too low of a level to be taken seriously. Read: We want to micromanage and keep an eye on you because your employees seem to actually respect you, and that makes us very nervous. She is moving up 5 flights. FIVE FLIGHTS! I'll never see her again. This means I will be left alone with Ex-cop, ECL and Twit. Ex-cop is supposed to be moving to an office even closer to me, which is sad since he is so loud, will only use the phone on speaker, and he'll have more chances to lay his eyes upon me and realize that he yet again has no idea what he's doing so he'll ask me to do it for him. However, it seems that he is trying to use his cop connections to stay where he is, which effects a large part of the move. He's such an ass.

A very nice lady helped my boss pack up her office, which stirred up a terrible amount of dust. I complained a lot and breathed through my jacket. My dust allergies are so bad, that my tongue actually starts swelling. Obviously this meant it was a great time to go sit in my dusty garage!

Today The Boy joined me in the garage and we rocked out to the Magnetic Fields together. He has such a nice deep hum to his voice, that really cancels out the shrill cartoony sound of my voice. He is working on soldering some effect pedals, and I was chatty, but I don't think he could concentrate well when I totally acted like a 5-year-old and asked every 3 minutes how soldering worked, and what does he do if he messes up, is it really hot, does it smell, whatcha doin'? I'm not used to company when I work, and it seems I can talk and mosaic at the same time. I'm just that talented. Even more so considering all the sneezing and wiping of my snot with my glass-dusted fingers. It's hella fun!

Day 3: mix of Magnetic Fields songs and 2.5 hours



Tomorrow I am going to go to town on this sucker. I expect to have the whole bottom finished. The colors are way better than they show up in the photo. Especially the purple. When the light shines through it, we're all going to have to hold our breath for fear of dying from the beauty.

Day 2 of Art & Snot

Our garage is a dirty pit. We have cleaned it so many times, yet, every time I go in there, it is like it never happened. I blame a lot of this on The Boy who a) keeps filling it up with packaging from his ebay and craigslist habit (those guitars don't keep in small boxes, you know), and b) we have lots of boxes of clothes for donation, and paint cans that need to be taken to a place that will accept them--both of which The Boy promises to take care of but is way too busy to actually make that happen. Usually too busy with all those toys he keeps buying. Then we can blame our little orange lover and all the towels he urinates on each night. We let them build up for awhile next to the washer until we've run out of towels to give him to urinate on. Then there's also all those magazines The Boy is hoarding. He doesn't like to admit it, but he can't throw a damn thing away. So the garage is full and dusty. He has his own studio, and I get the trash room that isn't heated nor air-conditioned. Complain and moan, complain and moan.

Today I woke up with a migraine. I was literally blind with pain, and had a terrible time using my cell to text my boss that I would be running late. I ended up texting her twice because I needed more time to get my eyesight back and my stomach out of my throat. It was storming outside, and I could tell that the temperature had dropped significantly, which equals allergy hell for me. So I slept about 4 more hours, and Mattress ended up sitting on half my face for most of the time. I'm sure this did not help my lungs, but damn, it was so nice cuddling with such a fat Siamese. I also believe he managed to NOT drool on me, which is an accomplishment for him.

I managed to eek out 6.5 hours of work, while dying on the inside. ECL lectured Twit on his feeling of the public option and healthcare. If I feel really nice one day, I'll post what he said. It is abhorrent. Damn socialist really gets his hackles raised. It must be hard to be ECL. I felt so dizzy and full of mucus that I knew going in to the garage was not going to be F*U*N. However, I did my best to overcome this by 1) listening to a mix of the Raveonettes, 2) taking Klonopin and Zyrtec and 3) texting with Flammo. I may have been sucking back a lot of snot and rubbing glass grit across my nostrils with each swipe at my nose, but damn, I really did make the best out of a bad situation.

Here's the run down so far:

Day 1: Wedding Present mix and 2.5 hours of work
Day 2: Raveonettes mix and 2.5 hours of work

Here is what I have so far (it is 12" x 45", it is absolutely HUGE):



When I came back in to the house, all dirty with fingers covered in drying glue, this is what greeted me:



Nothing like Lumples airing his empty ball sack. I don't believe him for one second that he plans on using that red exercise ball at any point. Though, I like how he likes sleeping next to it. It's very audacious. Like he's daring me to call him out on his laziness. Little does he know that mama can totally top his on how lazy one can be. I don't even pretend I'm going to do anything more with that ball than roll it in to Mattress, because that really makes him angry. HA!

A Serious Man

Yesterday I ended up being too busy to post anything. I am filled with guilt and self-loathing over it. I may have been able to post if I had remembered to bring home my power cord to my laptop. Which I forgot because as I was packing up to go home, Ex-cop called me wanting to know what versions of "UH-doe-beeee ACK-RO-bat REEE-duhr" he has. I am not going to even go in to the details of how the conversation went downhill from that, and ended with him saying, "Grumples, I am who I am, and I don't know where I put that document." I ran out of here in a blind fury, leaving my power cord plugged in the to power strip. Sad.

However, it was a bit of a good thing, in that I was not able to waste a few hours on the computer, and I was forced to start on a new project in the garage. I swear it is not cutting people up and making art with their body parts. Just my own. Things sometimes do get a bit bloody when I'm working. Mostly just my fingers, and occasionally a cheek or arm. It's a huge project, and I'll have to work on it every day to get it completed by my deadline of December 1st. I'll post pictures of it along the way, but not yet. I worked two hours yesterday, but it is still too early to really have anything to show for it.

Immediately when I came in side, I had to do my best to wipe away the glass grit in my hairline and go pick up Wikus. We had a lovely evening at the record store then viewing the new Coen Bros. movie. It was raining a bit, and there was a terrifying moment in the parking lot where I couldn't see a damn thing but bright sparkly lights in total darkness. Yeah night blindness. Wikus basically had to do the seeing for me and guide me around curbs and cars. I did not cry, but I felt like it.

I picked up four CDs: House of Love Live at the BBC, the new http://www.theraveonettes.com/, the new Hope Sandoval and the Warm Inventions, and the new Noah and the Whale. I'm listening to the House of Love right now. I love these guys. I want to slice my body up on Guy Chadwick's cheeks. Wikus got the new Raveonettes as well, and then some synthesizer album and something else. Honestly, I didn't pay much attention. It was some kind of new day with me buying more CDs than him. He can spend HOURS in a record store. I more or less blank out and my brain forgets it even likes music and feels so overwhelmed it wants to run away. The fact I came away with four and didn't even have a list, is something I'm a bit too proud of.

"A Serious Man" was pretty good. Better than "Burn Before Reading," but not nearly as good as "No Country for Old Men." I think I'm too goy to understand their latest movie. I have spent most of my life in Texas, and without having been in Boston for 5 years, I probably would have understood even less. I hate the Texas school system and how much it has crippled me. Good think I am able to educate myself, when I'm not feeling too lazy and watching How I Met Your Mother and America's Next Top Model instead. My priorities may need to be looked at. The movie is in a word, fatalistic. So right up Wikus' alley. My drugs may be working too good now to really enjoy something so depressing. I mean, you might as well show me a movie of my own life. I don't need to have it totally rubbed in by watching someone who is just as unlucky as me go through his day. There were plenty of jokes, but it wasn't enough to get me through the horribleness of it all. So, yes, a good movie, because it was too realistic. "No Country for Old Men" is depressing in a totally different way, one that I found absolutely riveting. But this one, damn, just kill the guy already, he has been through enough already. Even if some of it is obviously a farce, it was still painful to watch. I'm one of those people who will cover my eyes when something embarrassing is about to happen to a character--I feel what these people are going through, because chances are I have been there, too. Oy vey!

I used the last remaining juice of my laptop battery to upload the CDs in to iTunes, and even then I couldn't get them on to my iPod until I got to work late this morning (oh the humanity of rains and winds and my sinuses). I now have to work late, and it has turned in to such a beautiful day. And so my life goes.

Blood Donation

When I was a young child, perhaps around 1982, I gave up a lot of my blood for genetic-testing purposes. Specifically, to help doctors understand the disease my sister suffered from. It was the rarest form of Muscular Dystrophy at the time, Dermatomyositis, but it probably isn't anymore. Not even close. I don't really recall the whole procedure, but it was a lot of blood. Every one told me how great I was for giving my blood, that it may help my sister. I have no idea what happened with it, or if they discovered anything special. Am I somewhere in some medical journal, noted as sister to subject A? The ordeal obviously didn't scar me. Or at least did not make me afraid of needles.

However, I did not donate blood again until this summer. I would say there are a lot of reasons for this both valid and and completely irrational. Luckily the valid reasons totally trumped those emotionally stupid ones, like my extreme aversion to having strangers touch me. For a good portion of my life I was either underweight or had received a tattoo recently (within the last 12 months). Now, the weight thing is still an issue, but the thing is, no one weighs you!

There are two reasons I can think of that finally got me to enter a blood-mobile: my job constantly announces when there is a blood drive, and I'm on anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medications. I feel calmer and more willing to go in to unknown situations. I still panic a bit in my head, but I'm able to ignore it. It has been several years since my last tattoo, and I could get away with lying about my weight (or at least acting innocent), but what I didn't predict was that there would be another problem that I had not considered. Iron deficiency.

All those years I wasn't donating blood, it had never even occurred to me that this is something that was not only a problem for me, but for doing altruistic deeds. Sigh. I knew I had really low iron--I started seeing an endocrinologist a year ago on the advice of the head cardiovascular doctor I was working for at the time. He was always bothered about how cold I felt. That I bundled myself in sweaters and had a space heater on at all times, even in the middle of summer with a southern facing window. I always wanted to say that I am not wearing a blubber-suit, so I don't have self-insulation, but he got me in to one of the top doctors in town. The doctor couldn't figure out what was wrong with me (which was not a surprise at all, and I'm so negative that I didn't feel let down at all), other than my iron was at 22. Seems that's kind of low. Who knew?

I've been taking very strong iron supplements for a year. They often make my poo dark green, but I'm still just as cold as ever. I've added a blanket to my battle against the office goosebumps, and am often seen wearing it as a cape. I'm totally that professional. It looks really awesome with my whore boots.

When I donated earlier this summer, I was with an intake person who didn't tell me my stats (like blood pressure, temperature, pulse, etc.). So I have no idea if I just sneaked by or not. Today, I had a chatty lady. My pulse was 76, blood pressure at 96/78, temp at 97.8 (totally normal for me), and my iron was 38. I was very cheered that it was up so far from 22. However, seems that there is a different bar set for donating blood, and 38 is as low as one can go and still be allowed to donate blood. Hot damn! I don't know what more to do to get my iron at a thriving count. Geez. I practically eat an Atkins diet, not because I think it is a good idea, but because I'm such a damn picky eater. When I do eat vegetables, it is almost always spinach. I'm taking 361% of my daily recommended iron, and I'm taking 833% of my daily vitamin C, which is supposed to help my body process iron. I am on birth control that makes it so I only menstruate 4 times a year, so my period isn't causing this problem. What more can I girl do?

I was able to donate today, by one count. One small iron count. Sometimes it is just easier to be a completely shy freak, who doesn't like to leave the house, than have to worry about if I can or cannot donate. Lame. I'm totally going to eat like 5 corndogs before I go in the next time.

An Affair & Friends Wiping Each Other Asses Out of Love & Dog Farts

This is really hard to admit, but I've been having an affair. So far it has been a one-time only thing, and it happened yesterday in front of The Boy. That is how audacious I can be. Brazen hussy! Ok, so it wasn't The Boy I did this heinous deed to, it was my dear pal, A. He's such a good kid, but he lives too far away. Like 45 minutes away. That is far! There's toll roads between us, which practically means a foreign country. Emma was just up the road, 10 minutes top. I couldn't help myself. I had a NEED that had to be filled immediately. And it was so worth it. However, I worry that Flammo is going to totally rat me out to A. That would be very destructive to my relationship with A.; but Flammo can be really emotionally unstable, and I fear she is going to blackmail me. Twat.



Look at him! How could I do something that may end our relationship? He DANCES with me when I visit. Stands up, hugs my waist with his front legs, and dances me around, dips me when he's feeling saucy (which is always, damn dog feels me up when I'm doing the dishes).



But look at her! I just want to tongue her all day long.

I think Flammo was a bit jealous herself. I told her that Emma has a main squeeze so we're just having a side fling. Not to worry, that A. is still MY MAN. I don't know why it threatens Flammo so much, but it does. She doesn't want to see him "hurt." Those are her words. She said he's a "fragile pup." Which is true, he is recovering from FLACCID tail syndrome (aka: limber tail, limp tail, or most accurately, acute caudal myopathy).

After much discussion over my abhorrent behavior this weekend, Flammo and I got to talking about other matters. She started telling me about how a friend of hers (one I do not know but shares the same name as my sister whom I don't talk to, so it seems appropriate), who got a staph infection after shoulder surgery. She had to have a golf-ball-sized bit of flesh removed from her leg. This is a familiar story to me, because I have a friend who had it a lot worse. It's a long story, so let's just say she looks like a shark bit her arm, and she has a huge scar on her leg where her skin was harvested for a skin graft to cover the part they had to surgically remove on her arm. Those horror stories you hear about catching horrible MRSA infections, are not all lies.

Now, Flammo is such a good friend (though more stubborn that me, therefore things can be a bit contentious between us at times), that she actually not only visited her friend in the hospital, but offered to WIPE her if she had to go to the bathroom (one arm had an IV in it, and the other was the one operated upon). See, that is what I like about Flammo. She totally would wipe your ass if you were in need. I like to feel I am that type of friend, too.

However, The Boy, always says he would NOT do something like that. Who knows if he would change in mind when forced to face such a reality, but he is quite the squeamish type. If I tried to discuss this article, he would cry. I find it absolutely fascinating, and yes, I look at my poo before I flush, and I know Flammo does, too. I originally read that article because I've been having dark-green poos, and I just wanted to validate my theory that my iron supplements were causing it. Looks like I'm right. Regardless of what color The Boy's poo is in the future, if he ever needed me to wipe his ass, I want to go on the record and say I would not only do that for him, but I would do it for any one I love. My friends are just THAT IMPORTANT!

Read what happens during our conversation of wiping each other's asses:

Grumples: if you had to wipe my ass, i'd have you check for zits to pop
Grumples: you know, to make it fun for you, too
Flammo: there are some door-to-door meat sales people outside

That's right, DOOR-TO-DOOR MEAT SALES PEOPLE SHOWED UP AT HER DOOR! While we were talking about wiping my ass and letting her pop zits to make it more fun. I'm so not making this up!

Grumples: no way
Grumples: get some
Grumples: so you can throw it at the cowboy church people
Flammo: it is too expensive for that!
Flammo: i did answer and told him 'no thank you'

Of course I try to get her to buy some to throw at some god-fearing church people. It's good to know that Flammo's only principle against this was it was cost prohibitive. This is the rest of the relevant piece of convo that actually brings this all back around to A.

Grumples: that was nice of you
Grumples: i wouldn't have answered
Grumples: i can't stand opening the door
Grumples: it is like answering the phone
Flammo: i know, but i feel bad snice we are obviously home with windows open
Grumples: yes, that happens to us all the time
Grumples: but i just pretend i'm in the bathroom
Flammo: if it was the religious types then no, i wouldn't
Grumples: i mean, i sit on the couch and imagine that i am in the bathroom
Grumples: and then i feel less guilty
Flammo: haha!
Flammo: something about door-to-door meat just turns me off of meat period
Grumples: may i put that on my blog?
Grumples: there's so much of this conversation i'd like to post
Flammo: ammo tooted then whipped around to inspect his butt!
Flammo: sure!
Grumples: like "today i sate at work chatting with my friend Flammo, and she said she'd wipe my ass if i was ever disabled, and i said i'd let her pop my ass zits just to give her more pleasure in the chore"
Flammo: oh that would be fun!
Grumples: ok, tonight's blog will be all about our conversations today
Flammo: it is so funny!
Flammo: it makes a sound like pssssst
Grumples: and he goes, "huh? who's trying to tell me a secret?"
Flammo: i'll read it
Flammo: exactly!
Grumples: you should read this morning's
Grumples: it is amusing
Flammo: i'm scratching his butt for him now
Grumples: "is that my ass trying to tell me a secret?"
Grumples: "does my ass have snacks for me? is that what it's trying to say?"
Flammo: haha!
Grumples: "and will those snack be deep fried?"
Flammo: warmed, but not fried

Surprisingly, the subject changes after that point. (Don't judge our spelling errors--she was outside enjoying her day off, and I was technically working, working very hard.)

Slowly Eroding My Hearing in Various Ways

Finally a weekend that I did not spend making sweet sleepy love to the couch. I feel like I barely sat down on it, much less caressed its lumps and drooled on its stained cover. The cats probably missed me. We did watch a couple of movies (finally got Wikus to see A Very Long Engagement, which is this amazingly bittersweet, tender movie that I adore), and at long last my hair is dyed.

The weather was gorgeous. Highs in the 70s, blue sky and wisps of white clouds. A nice breeze ruffled my dark curls, and dried the occasional sweaty upper lip. Sunday I kidnapped my friend's dog, Emma, and took her with me to the AIDS walk.



Our group of 4 had 2 dogs, and both of them were borrowed. It is very important to have a dog when you walk with a gazillion strangers. It gives you something to focus on, and you always feel loved. Especially when you are sharing your fries.



Diego really knew how to tongue a bottle. I bet he is totally the best kisser on the block. Emma didn't bother to get to know the front end of Diego. She was more interested in what was under his doorknob of a docked tail. I mean, he was obviously OPEN FOR BUSINESS. Yet, if she had been watching the way he can drink from a bottle, I think she should have been more open about investigating his mouth.

The only low point to the day was how long our dearest gaysian had to wait for his Frito Pie. I'm talking almost an hour for serving up a bag of Frito's, some melted cheese and obviously pre-cooked pulled pork. The best moment came when an employee approached us, went straight for Guamaniac:

Employee: Give me your card. We're really sorry about the wait. It is in the oven now.

G: Ok.

Five minutes later, still no Frito pie.

G: Do you think that guy took my card to refund it?
Grumples: I can't believe you gave your card over without even asking if that is what he was doing.
G: (shrug)

Ten minutes later, STILL NO FUCKING PIE. Othe people who showed up way after us got their food, including that couple with the two yelping mini-dacshunds. Those dogs permanently deafened the higher levels of my hearing register. If I was able to record the ungodly being-raped sounds they were making, I'd totally play it on a never-ending loop when ever someone rang our doorbell. This will surely keep the Mormons from standing their for five minutes ringing and hoping I will finally answer the door and save me from my one-Coke-a-day habit. And living in sin. That too.

We finished our day at the Hope Sandoval and the Warm Inventions show. She has such a magical voice, that I am not going to spend the next hour griping about how horribly organized the show was, and the agonizing wait. Or why her backing band had some long-hair hippie creed. I do wish she had stepped out of the shadows, so I could lust after her more easily; but, I guess, even at 43 she just can't shake those stage-fright blues.

There was a truly drunk couple behind us, who obviously loved Hope and her band, even though they looked better suited for a White Zombie concert. They were so drunk that I'm pretty sure they forgot that they were in a theater with tons of other people. They obviously thought they were on their couch, and couldn't figure out why it was suddenly so damn hard to get to the kitchen to get another beer. They were practically yelling their mundane conversation:

Drunk Girl: But BABY, I WANT another BEEEEEEEE-EEEEER.
Drunk Guy: Sweetie, just a minute.
Drunk Girl: Oh. My. God. It's Hope! She's so BYOOO-TIFUL!
Drunk Guy: I LOVE YOU HO-OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOPE!
Drunk Girl: It's in my BAG. The SECOND BAG. Are you getting more BEEE-EEEER, BAA-BEEE?
Drunk Guy: Oh man, YEAH, but after this SONG. SHIT YES.
(Drunk girl passes out for last 20 minutes of show. I guess waiting for a beer, was too much for her body to handle. Completely had her head buried in the mounds of fat pillows on her chest.)
ENCORE
Drunk Girl: I think I need to go home.
Drunk Guy: Now? I was going to get another beer.
Drunk Girl: NOW! Baaaaaaa-beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Much groaning and stumbling. I swore my night was going to end with puke down my neck from those two. The encore was the best song, and the drunks weren't even there to enjoy it. Suckers.

It's Spring for the Butterflies

Dying with Vim & Vigor

Finally, a sunny day with a crisp breeze. All the colors were in high contrast and butterflies were everywhere. I tried to get Wikus to pose with the pink gorilla next to the bingo parlor, but he refused. With the light so gorgeously splashing around, I think it would have been a perfect photo. Though, that pink gorilla really could use a fresh paint job.

Wikus is helping me draw out my idea for my next project. I am fantastic at composition; I can arrange and tell you exactly how those three items there, should be placed for the best aesthetical harmony. However, I really can't draw. That's where Wikus comes to the rescue. I tell him how I see it in my head, I do some rough sketches, and he turns it in to something perfect. He plucks the idea out of my head and makes it real. I truly don't know what I would do without Wikus in my life. Certainly not my art projects.

Currently I have about 3lbs of hair dye in my hair threatening to drip on our lime-green futon cover. The ammonia is burning my nostril hairs, and I feel the constant itch of dye on my scalp. It has been probably a good 5-6 months since I last dyed my hair, and I was feeling bland. I bought this wonderful hat today at Target, very 1940's, and obviously I was going to be able to pull it off until my hair was the color of cherry cola. OBVIOUSLY. I have a very small head, I don't normally wear hats because they cover my ears and hit my nose. So, I must give myself confidence where ever I can to make me feel like I really do look like I know what I'm doing in a hat.

Tomorrow I'm borrowing a dog for the AIDS walk. We'll see how that goes. My guess is the dog will come home telling her owner how awesome I am. Like, "When I was on that walk with Grumples, yeah, she let me eat a whole deep-fried ham. She's so cool." "She also let me eat my own shit, then give her a sloppy dog kiss." I'm totally going to undue years of training. She's a therapy dog, too, so we'll see if I can get her shitting in the seniors' laps at the nursing home. That will give them a reminder of the exciting things in life! Vim and vigor, I tell you.

Describing My Stance on Marriage to Children

The Boy keeps saying "Crub Pawl" for "Pub Crawl." It makes me giggle every time he tries saying it again, but keeps saying it incorrectly. Dork.

There are so many lame things about my job (like Twit, Ex-cop and ECL for instances), but one of the nice things is they let us slaves leave for 2 hours a week to volunteer in various programs (I can't just go out for 2 hours a week free lab animals as my public service). Most of the volunteering opportunities involve children, which I think is very devious and sneaky of my job. It's an interesting weighing of evils: get out of work for 2 hours paid but interact with filthy mouthy beasts, or stay at work for 2 hours getting paid to sit miserably at my desk with spotty internet connection. Volunteering at least looked better on my resume than Slacker.

This school year, I'm tutoring 6th graders at a middle school near my house. It's every Friday around lunchtime. Today was a glorious day to meet the children. Usually I'm very nervous about the first day. Anxiety eating at me, not knowing exactly how the hour will go, or if my kids will be annoying jerks, and if I'll have to interact with the other tutors. At least today, the sun was finally out and the sky was a lurid blue that was almost too painful to look at. If it had been raining, I probably would have shown up close to tears. The sun gave me a bit of pep and fuzzy good feelings.

Since I had been to this school last year (surly 8th graders, ugh), I at least knew where to go sign in and meet up with the other tutors. I was quite focused on sending some text messages, so focused that I just couldn't be bothered to mingle. They were all very excited to meet each other, and talk about their previous tutoring experience. I didn't want to start drooling in my sleep, so I jotted off a line to my best friend about canceling our weekly call due to conflicting plans, complained to another friend about how my financial adviser screwed up my rollover, and a few texts to a friend who was yelling at me for not being at work to IM with. See, my life is busy, I can't bother meeting new people. Even if Flammo is going to turn me in to my therapist for using the cell phone as a pretext to not go through the stress of meeting new people. Whatev.

The strange thing about going to these schools to tutor is how there's always these cops around, coming out of the lunch room, lounging in doorways. If we had cops in school, I was blissfully unaware. This is an "underachieving" school, which to Texas is a polite way of saying, primarily low-income Hispanic children. I feel saying what it actually is, gives more insight to their struggles than saying "underachieving." Most of these kids know a third of English kids at other schools in the area, and so there is a struggle to get them interested in reading. I'm sure the cop hanging out in the lunchroom isn't exactly encouraging either.

My texting spree ended right when the coordinator came to collect all of us and take us to the classroom. We walked for quite some time, even had to go outdoors, and I immediately got a little frustrated since I would have to remember how to get to the classroom next week. I'm so bad with directions. I'm like, go down a long hall, go out a door, cut across some dirt, find a sidewalk loaded with breadcrumbs, and follow until you get to the right pre-fab trailer. Or at least follow the sounds of screaming, overly excited children. I hear they ate quesadillas in "Life Studies" (aka: Home Ec.) class, so I guess I'd be all amped, too.

Luckily, since I am a total loner and wasn't standing near a group of nervous first-time tutors, I was one of the first people to walk in the classroom, so I got to survey the kids and pick my group. I chose a trio of smiling girls. Last year I dealt with the class troublemaker, and I just wasn't going to go through that again. He was so distracting. These girls didn't look too shy, but not the most popular either. As 6th graders, they are so malleable, and want to please, or at least pepper me with so many questions that I have no idea which I should address first.

After getting through the complications of our names, I told them they could ask me anything they want. You know that they are just kids when you give them an opening like that, and all they want to know is how old I am. Then deny that I can possibly be that old. Thanks ladies, but it's been a long time since I was 20. They also wanted to know if I had children, if I was married, where I work, what my favorite food is, how many brothers and sisters I have (it was assumed I would at least have 2 siblings), how many tattoos I have, how old was I when I had my first boyfriend, etc. Such mundane things! It was like hanging out with someone's parents. Tackling the "why aren't you married" was a bit difficult. I want to be honest, but I also don't want to be yanked out of the program for being THAT WOMAN. The one where the parents call the school and demand to know what is being taught to their children.

How do I explain to these 11 year olds that I have never wanted to get married. That yes, they are required to take this "Life Skills" class where they spend a whole semester basically learning how to be a mother. How, when I was 11, I would have been so pissed off if someone made me take that class. I've never wanted to be a wife or a mother. Marriage is such a redundant concept to me. Can I not have a valid long-term relationship without it being sanctioned by church and government? I only want to prove my love to my man; I don't need it blessed by friends and family in a ceremony. I would hope they are happy for me every day, and hey, I don't have to spend money to bribe them with liquor and bland appetizers. Yes, I've been with The Boy 6 years, and my relationship before that was 7 years. I know how to commit people. I treat it like a marriage in that I have expectations of monogamy, security, love, being able to lie on the couch for 2 days without showering, etc. It really rankles me that the idea of marriage makes a relationship more legit. Lame. Also, like many others, I don't want to participate in something that isn't a right for every one. I'm very black and white, and try to make things as fair as possible, and dammit, that's just not fair. Gay people deserve to make dumb decisions and spend a lot of their gay money to have a gay wedding if that's what they want. I just know that I will not be held responsible for The Boys finances. Isn't that nice to know? Our money will never mix nor debt be incurred just because one of us dies. Hey, your death, sad, but that student loan, ha, someone else is going to have to pay it off, because it won't be me!

As far as having children goes. Ew. They may get in the way of all that napping I do, and my heroin addiction will not just be the same if I have to share my drugs with kids. I'm selfish like that.

I told the kids that I don't like labels. That I didn't need the state or a priest to declare us as friends, so why would I need the same for my partner. I'm not sure they totally got it, but it seemed to make enough sense for them to let it go. They do not understand why I don't have children, and I felt the first day of class was not the day to break it to them that children are disgusting and make me break out in to a nasty rash. It is always hard to break the news that they are really just one big sexually transmitted disease.

The Cultural Diversity of Potatoes

Today was one of those days at work where the most positive thing I can say is at least I looked pretty while doing it. Such a long day. The left side of my face was paralyzed with a cement block of mucus. The Xerox was in a coma, and I needed to use it, but I was in heels so I didn't really mind the inconvenience of not standing there waiting for it to churn out a 200-paged report. I made a co-worker/friend cry when I started talking about our pets dying, even though I was totally misting up, too, she made me seem all mean. Trust me, our pets will live forever; so there is no reason to get so worked up over the thought of their death, because that is just a LIE. Maybe I'm so cranky because for the most part, I actually had to work today. I even had to make some phone calls and make friendly talk with people. My skin tenses at these memories. I even had to do some physical labor that made sweat pool on my upper lip and forced me to take off my jacket. I used a dolly and dragged 4 boxes down 3 flights in the freight elevator. The whole thing must have looked ridiculous since the dolly went to my chin, and the whole thing obviously weighed more than me. And we were told it would be paperless open enrollment--how are 4 boxes of benefits booklets PAPERLESS?

This morning I spent 1.5 hours in "Cultural Diversity" training. I've had this instructor before, and she's a funny gal who has a penchant for 6" platform heels and dyed brassy orange hair. Really, the only thing that detracts from her serious spunk is her god-awful southern accent. The ways she can torment short words is amazing. She stretches them until they are unsprung. She obviously relishes her way with words. My meds must be working, since I barely squirmed through the whole thing, except when she was discussing things that I felt had strayed outside of being aware of cultural diversity and straight in to hippie bullshit. You know, how we are all the same because we all just want to be loved, so don't practice avoidance behavior, because that person you don't like, she's a person, too. I thought of Twit, and felt that she really is no different than that poo streak Whoopis left on the bathroom floor the other day. That way, she is not just a person needing love, too. She did assure us it is ok to dislike people, but we still have to be nice and make them feel loved. I call some serious bullshit on that. I made sure to spend a few minutes imagining disemboweling Twit with some letter openers I have in a plastic cup on my desk. That was pretty satisfying and I was able to make eye contact with the people on my team, and do some fun team exercises on making up stories about potatoes. Because even though all potatoes just want to be loved, they are also all different with their own stories. I did not take my potato home. I felt his life could go on without me. That will be his story, My Life Without Grumples.

Manhole

Anger in the Grass

Not Another Medical Drama!

Once again, I find myself nowhere near the remote, and am stuck watching some horrible new medical show. It is not as bad as the one from the other night, but damn, someone is getting paid to come up with this crap and it is NOT me. Which is a damn shame, because think of the slothful life I could live if I wrote these shows. I could do that from the couch...in my underwear, while watching Quincy (to bring back that old-school flavor).

It's snappy, one-word title is "Mercy." Contemporary, minimal, edgy! It gets even better--at least one doctor and one nurse are Iraq war veterans. I know, so damn topical. Think of the drama! They knew each other in the field, but the hospital is professional work setting! It is not a war-torn country. You can't have the easy banter and lax rules of the battlefield. This makes life super TUFF. Especially when you are treating another vet. I may sound snide and like I don't care about such things as people resuming their lives after coming back from war, but that would be wrong. I'm pissed off that they are making such a mockery of these people on this pathetic show.

If you are looking to see Michelle Trachtenberg's tits smacking her in the face every 2 seconds, then totally tune in. I fear looking it up on Google, but really, where did those pillows come from? Of course I watched our little Dawn grow up on Buffy, and saw the bumps appear, but we're not talking Punky Brewster breastage. So either she got really really lucky as a late teenager and woke up smuggling some nice prezzies under her pajamas, or she had some help. I have no problem with plastic surgery, but goddammit, just let me see them so I can determine if it was nature or not. My curiosity must be satisfied. I won't be able to sleep tonight. I'll just keep seeing her bits bobbing along in my mind.

Also, if you like that dude on Weeds, Guillermo, he plays a gay nurse on this silliness. Which is kind of charming in its own way. And his total weight gain on Weeds totally makes more sense on Mercy. He is such a cuddly bear.

Uh oh, full body shot of Michelle, I'm starting to realize that the breast may be natural. It goes well with the bottom half of her; however, that could just be the widescreen being cruel. "I smell like stale tequila and rejection." Yes, she just said that line. Yet, someone paid her to say it. Makes her smarter than me.

Excuse me, I need to go drink tequila and work at my specific brand of navel gazing.

So He Thinks

"I'll be breaking three of your fingers when I get home tonight."

"I need those."

"No you don't; I calculated healing time, and they will be fine before your next conducting gig."

"I have a gig this weekend!"

"Oh, that. If it doesn't bring money home, it doesn't count."

"Oh."

"Yep."

Unforseen Problems Caused By the New Mattress (and The Boy)

Over Labor Day weekend, The Boy and I made the somewhat impulsive decision to buy a mattress. It was impulsive in that way where you talk about it for 5 years, and then one day without planning, just go do it. That's how we work. I got up one morning, and said, "I cannot take this fucking lumpy, mildewy futon mattress any longer, or I will shoot everyone in sight to make up for how I feel today." That Sunday we went and prostrated ourselves on several mattresses at our local store. I can't imagine what it is like to be a salesperson at a mattress store, and watching all these prone bodies feeling up beds. They kept telling me I shouldn't lie on the bed sideways, that I won't get the full experience. I promised them I could sleep no matter which way I fell on to the bed, and that yes, sometimes I do end up sideways on the bed, so I must know if it is comfortable. Being 5'3", I find I can pretty much sleep in any direction without the risk of limbs falling numb dangling from the sides. The Boy and I do not have the same mattress "needs;" he likes it firm, which does not make my arthritic hips happy. This means we settled on a very nice pillowtop (it was either that or him put up with my constant grousing).

Part of the agreement in getting this mattress was a) I buy the "fancy" sheets (including a bed skirt!) and b) sleep in bed facing the "correct" direction. For months I had been sleeping with my head at what is technically the bottom of the bed. I just liked the orientation better, plus the room is too small for bedside tables, and the only lamp sits on a set of drawers that house my socks and sweaters. I like to read in bed before going to sleep, and it is next to impossible to do that with my head up by the headboard. Sure, I could read with my head at the bottom of the bed, THEN turnaround when it was time to sleep, but that is just silly. When I am ready to sleep, it means I am comfortable in that exact position and do not want to damage the fragile relationship I have built with my sleepy self by doing a 180 in bed. This habit of mine drove The Boy crazy. I have no idea why.

Next to the light at the end of the bed was the alarm clock. The other reason to sleep the "wrong" way was so I could actually see the alarm clock. My vision is 20/550. That means I can't see my own boobs without my glasses/contacts. Having a whole bed between my head and the alarm clock made it so I could never tell what time it was unless I scooted down to the end of the bed to check. Being incredibly lazy, it made more sense for me just to keep my head near the clock.

The clock was moved to a bookshelf near The Boy's head at the top of the bed when the new mattress was delivered. The bookshelf has a lot already on it (read: The Boy's various crap), so could only fit the alarm clock and not the light. I did try to convince The Boy to let me install lights on the wall above the headboard, so I could read in bed without the shadow of his body getting in my way, and making me so cross I would never make out with him again, EVER. He was fine with that idea only if the electrical cords did not show, meaning someone would have to drill a hole in the wall, and install the lights directly to the electrical line. This means NO lights for me. Or at least not any time soon. Reading in bed has taken a serious nosedive since Labor Day.

I am willing to compromise on this light situation, but the alarm clock is another beast all together. It seems that when the clock is next to The Boy, he turns it off in his sleep. I usually wake up before the alarm goes off, and just lie there wishing how I didn't have to get up in 15 minutes or an hour or whatever. I cannot even say how many times I have been awake and witness The Boy turning the alarm clock off one second after it started to make obnoxious noises. I slap his fingers every time, but I guess his sleeping self doesn't mind, perhaps even likes that sort of punishment.

I've been suffering a terrible allergy-cold illness, and go to bed with copious amounts of allergy and cold medication in my system. Between my soft mattress and this medication, my sleep is even more blissful and tearing myself away from such sweetness is cruel. To wake up 45 minutes late because The Boy turned off the alarm clock that I never heard, and had to rely on second alarm clock known as the Diabetic Cat Scratching on the Door for His Food, is agony, torture of the kind that would make Dick Cheney blush.

Running late on a densely foggy morning is not very fun. Yet, it was still amusing to make The Boy get up and do cat duties as punishment. Tonight I will break 3 of his fingers on his left hand. They should be healed in time for his next conducting gig. If he does it again, I may be forced to amputate a pinky.

Head Fetish

Keep Me Frozen and Skip the Mouth-to-Mouth, Please

Dr. Sanjay Gupta was on NPR this afternoon as I was driving home (an hour early since I skipped lunch--I wanted to have the option to nap when I got home) discussing his new book. It seems he has a new book out, and (gasp) it totally sounded interesting. I came in on the middle of the interview, but damn, they were talking about some lady who was in freezing water for two hours before they were able to fish her out of it. She was, obviously, DEAD. Yet, for what ever reason, and this part was not explained, they went the extra mile with this woman. They decided to keep her cold, not warm her core up (she was at about 55 degrees). They let her be DEAD and frozen for a few hours on top of the two she spent in the water. Then they slowly, ever so slowly, warmed her up, and she was totally fine. Sure, some physical therapy was involved, but her brain, good. She is actually a physician now at the same hospital that she was a patient at. How fucked up is that?

There was more of that kind of discussion about the benefits of an hypothermal state, and they started discussing studies that showed how people will say they will help a bystander who falls ill on the sidewalk, but in reality, it does not show to be true. It was determined that people were really wary of giving mouth-to-mouth (I am a bit suspect that this is the only reason people don't help out--it is probably more to do with how they just don't want to get involved in someone else's problems). Now, I had been hearing about the idea of not doing P part of CPR for awhile, but Dr. Sanjay actually explained why. He says that because of this hesitancy to put your mouth on some passed-out stranger's mouth, other people did other studies that skipped that part and just did chest compressions. And lo and behold, not only were the patients just as good as if they had some hot-mouth action, they were even better. Dr. Sanjay explained that usually, when a person hits the grounds, say of a heart attack, s/he was just breathing, so the blood already is oxygenated, and not really needing more. The point is to get that blood moving and pumping through the heart, so as he said, "just start pumping that chest and do it 100 times a minute and don't stop until the paramedics arrive."

I am totally fine with that. If you're on the ground, you don't seem to be responsive and totally don't seem to be breathing, I promise I will start chest compressions. However, you better hope I have some serious adrenaline running through me to get out 100 compressions a minute. My god, imagine what my biceps would have to look like to do that! The whole time I'm working to save your life, I'd be all guilty about how I cannot possibly do 100 a minute, then I'd start freaking out if I am breaking your ribs. Please do not pass out in front of me, I just can't promise I'll see you through it. I want to be able to save your life, but my arms are spindly toothpicks. You would probably wake-up just to mock the horrible job I'm doing, then die to rub it in. Luckily for any of you planning on stroking out in front of me, my good friend is a paramedic, and I'm sure she will at least talk me through the pain of all that pumping (she lives in the cunt-try, so don't expect her to come save you on a moment's notice). Though, she tends to heckle, so I may think twice about calling her.

I bring all this up because I got stuck watching this horrible, HORRIBLE show called Trauma (the DVR kind of dumped me here after recording Heroes and I was too lazy to do anything about it), and there's a scene where some no-good skate-rat is going wheeeeeeeeeeee down a steep San Francisco hill, and well, gosh darn, does he not run himself smack in to a car. Thanks Trauma for that riveting moment of drama. Anyway, when the station gets the call, the location is Potrero Hill, home to our dear friend, Fink-Nottle. We were IM-ing when all this went down, so I was able to discuss with him the tragedy of this show called Trauma. So, anyway, I guess what makes this show stand out from other shows is they actually follow the paramedics in the helicopters. Specifically, one ZANY paramedic in a helicopter. Nothing like two gimmicks in one show. This guy is called "Rabbit," and I have no idea why, but isn't it fucking cute, and make you want to watch more, as if really bunnies will start hopping out of that helicopter? So this little dumbass skater, is being a pussy and complaining about how he can't feel his toes or legs. He doesn't say anything about his dick, but you know, we're all worried and wondering the same thing. Brazen Rabbit knows what to do! Freeze his blood!! He gets in trouble because that is totally not protocol, don't you know? But don't worry, day is saved because the on-call doctor feels optimistic that despite this really crazy move on Rabbit's part, the kid may actually be able to get an erection again. Rabbit said he learned about this technique in a medical journal. I say he's been reading doctor-to-the-stars, Dr. Sanjay Gupta's new book. Go Rabbit!

Ok, I do have to give this show a shout-out for playing The Jesus & Mary Chain's "Almost Gold," in a bar scene. Though it kind of sounds like a cover, but if it is, they are doing it spot-on; just kind of hard to tell with all the bar noise and those people acting in loud convincing voices.

Maybe Dr. Sanjay listens to the Mary Chain. He does if he knows what's good for him. If I find him face down in the street, he better assure me that he is an avid fan, or I'm totally withholding both the ice and the chest compressions.

He's Not My Sugar-Daddy...YET

"I wish I didn't have to go to work tonight, so I could stay home and snuggle with you."

"Yes, I wish you could, too, but noooooooooo."

"I HAVE TO WORK!"

"I will only accept that as an excuse when you are making enough money so I can quit my job and still live in our current state of 'luxury.'"

Grumblings of an Ill Person

There's nothing like falling asleep approximately one hour after getting out of bed. I blame what ever this is that is ailing me (sometimes it is really hard to tell if my immune system is attacking itself YET AGAIN or if I actually have a cold that my immune system is legitamitly attacking). Usually I don't take a nap until I've been out of bed at 3-4 hours. One hour is ridiculous even by my own standards. I wasn't even prepared for it--as best as I can piece together, my laptop crashed (no big surprised there--do NOT ever buy Dell products), and I must have passed out waiting for it to reboot. That was a 2-minute window my body could not handle. I slept for 2 hours. I woke up and demanded The Boy make me some oatmeal.

Since I'm obviously dying, I demanded he make oatmeal MY WAY. Which is extremely simple and the only right way to make oatmeal anyway, so I am not sure what he was muttering about in the kitchen. Our house is so small, I can easily hear this muttering and it annoyed me. I yelled out the instructions on how to make it right because I could totally hear that he was doing it wrong. There was water running before I even heard the cabinet door open where the oatmeal is stored. I may be sick but I am not yet deaf. If he's lucky, my ears will fill with mucus and I will no longer be able to catch him making oatmeal the wrong way.

To make oatmeal:
1) Get a small bowl, side-salad size
2) Pour packet of instant oatmeal in to bowl (cinnamon or maple ONLY)
3) Take the 1/3 measuring cup and don't fill it to the brim, keep some space in there so you aren't sloshing water all over the counter; do that twice
4) Stir contents together
5) Lick spoon
6) Microwave for one minute
7) Stir again with same spoon
8) Bring to me with spoon and warn me if it is hot

Does any of that look difficult? He brings me soupy oatmeal in a large bowl. I felt it was well in my right to complain about it. I ate it and asked for another serving. It was less soupy but still in a large bowl. I hate when my food is brought to me on a dish that is too big for the serving. Lame. I generally avoid dinner-sized plates, and prefer lunch-sized plates. Wikus is on my side in this.

I sent The Boy off to find his own breakfast and to bring me back some hot chocolate. We'll see how he does with this errand.

Every time I am sick, and fall asleep on the couch, The Boy cannot help but bring up the time he was sick and asleep on the couch, and the orange lover peed on him. Every single time I don't feel well, and am on the couch, this unfortunate incident will be mentioned. I believe The Boy has some certain resentment that I have not been peed on while sick and sleeping on the couch. While this may be true, it could still happen in the future. Right now the orange lover is curled up next to me, and shows no signs of waiting for me to fall asleep so he can empty his bladder all over me, but one never knows what that rascal has planned. Also, I think The Boy should really remember the time that the orange lover peed on my hair when I was sleeping, and I had a flight to Portland, ME in the morning to visit a close friend. I can tell you that I had not prepared for cat-urine-smelling hair during my vacation, nor how unmercifully my friend made fun of me the whole time. That smell did not wash out for over a month. Every time the sun shone on my head, it came crawling out like the litterboxes on wet humid days. My friend would say, "Hey, it smell like cat pee around here." And he was so right. It did. It was me. Also, I did have a bad cold during that trip, so technically, the orange lover did pee on me when I was sick. Just not on the couch. So there. I don't know why that boy has to bitch so much when all I am asking for is some instant oatmeal prepared correctly and serviced in a size-appropriate bowl. GAH!

That hot chocolate better arrive with some whipped cream on top; otherwise, I'm going to lick the phone and all the door handles and make him know my wraith through experiencing how I feel right now. His schedule is busier than mine, so he won't even be able to take a nap on the couch and hope he doesn't get a visit from the orange lover's bladder of fun times.