I Have No Richard, The Service Monkey

Project: Make a "mix-tape" of short stories for Frijole to read. It may just have to be a list right now, because I'm not sure I have the stamina to illegally scan all those pages, email it in chunks to my work account, and then turn them in to one PDF to print and mail. Am I a bad friend for already being a little distraught at the thought of all that work? Starting with a list should be good. First up is "Paper Lantern," by Stuart Dybek. I first read this in The Best American Short Stories in 1996, and it still holds a bit of me in its fiery hand. I'll post the finish list when I have it together.

Flipping through the channels, I found this wonderful show, Truth Be Told, on Discovery Health. What it has to do with health, I'm not sure; unless they are trying to say these people have mental problems. But, hey, I'm not going to be judgmental. If I had agoraphobia and a service monkey helped me get out of the house, then fuck yes, I would keep Richard around every single minute of my life. I would kill anyone who tried to get between me and Richard. Her monkey is so awesome. I believe he is a macaque:



I can't find anything online about him, so I can only use my own monkey knowledge to go by. That and the most awesome book Wikus gave me for Chicken Day in 2004. You cannot miss out on all the awesomeness in that book, including a blue scrotum! Okay, fine, I know most of you won't be able to get your hands on that book fast enough to see some blue-scrotum action. So, here you go:



Meet the Vervet Monkey: blue scrotum and red penis. Jealous? I know I am.

Wow, the lady and Richard are on vacation, and they are taking one of those "Ye Old Tyme" photos with him, where he is a gun-slinger and the lady and her friends are ye olde whores. Hilarious. The macaque even burnished a gun! Dammit, where's my Richard?

The Boy is on the phone discussing recording (music) and his studio set-up (recording equipment and how this Firewire thingy here was messing up this anus there), microphones, and other such boring shit. He totally missed the monkey and his trollops. Being a musician is totally lame, and this is only further proof of that fact. Lame.

Richard wears diapers and will totally scoot behind you and give your back a hug. He brushes his own teeth, and is a total snuggle-bunny in bed. My squeals of joy are upsetting the cats. Those cats can just suck it. They don't high-five me, and the won't pretend to drive the car when I put them on my lap in the car. I certainly can't take them to the grocery store and let them help me pick out the fruit. Ungrateful bastards. Stop playing with that pen, you dumbass Siamese. Geez. That macaque probably know how to write primitive symbols with that pen indicating a slight obsession with masturbation and Hurricanes.

I Heart Words

The Boy posted the greatest link on my FB page tonight. He is a boy who knows me well. I immediately shared it with Fink-Nottle and Wikus. Fink-Nottle is practically crapping his pants in glee, and I don't know what happened to Wikus. Seems to have dropped off the net--probably playing with this synthesizer he built. He's handy and gets easily distracted. Oh, there he is, wondering how the heck someone puts an "a" in "definitely." He has been away from Texas too long--this is relatively easy to do when you hear how people say "definitely" around here. Def-un-nate-ly.

What's even more awesome about that link is that you, yes you, can buy it as a poster. I'm trying to figure out how long I could have it up at work before I am asked to take it down due to its offensive nature. Though, my boss talks about her hemorrhoids all the time, so I don't think that will be an issue. If I can't have it at work, I can certainly find a place for it at home. You just can't go wrong having an educational poster that is fucking hilarious. It teaches as you laugh. Genius.

Now, the problem is, this poster is missing a very important word. It goes with "definitely" having no "a" in it. I have heard it almost daily for the past decade (the length of time I have been in Texas). I have heard extremely intelligent people say it, and of course it comes as no surprise that Twit says it.

I want to make it very clear: Height does not end in an "h." Please stop saying heighTH. It makes me violent. Blood starts running out my ears each time I hear someone say it. That is very unpleasant and stains my shirts. Which also tends to make me violence. There is no way out of it. I am going to be violent. The bigger problem is I think a lot of these people do not even realize they are doing it, because they spell it correctly. Is it a habit from hearing it said incorrectly so often? Like how I started saying "greazy" as a joke, but then really started saying it by accident? So far I can still say "crick" in jest, while still being able to reference a "creek" when necessary. No matter. Please just don't say heighth around me. Grrrr.

Grocery Shopping

Since these past four days were almost exclusively sleeping and napping-on-the-couch days, I was practically forced to go to the grocery store after work today. The good thing about shopping after work is I am already up and out of the house, and I pass it on the way home. It wasn't even that crowded; thug, giving me time to think about various aspects of the store. Specifically, why is there an "Ethnic Care" section? Does this bother just me as a middle-class white person? Or is it offensive to black people and everyone else who the grocery store may think is "ethnic?" I was very puzzled why the aisle can't just be, you know, HAIR CARE.

I kept hearing bird noises in the store, but noticed it was one of the worker's walkie-talkie. The grocery store sometimes does have birds in the rafters, but usually in the summer. However, much to my extreme delight, I turned down an aisle and there was a lady grackle on the floor totally nipping in to some bag of food on the floor. Go lady grackle, use those resources! She wasn't making any noises--was too busy eating.

Monday seems to be a stocking day. So there was a lot of dodging around pallets and giddy employees who seemed more busy flirting than unloading boxes. I don't begrudge them their grocery-store romances, which really just means I was in a pretty good mood. A bit incongruent considering how much I hate the grocery store. Therefore I'm just going to chalk it all up to the fact that for the past two days (at least) I have been napping between 2pm and 5pm; so my body must have thought it was dreaming.

I did get annoyed at the check-out line. There was no wait, but for some reason the cashier didn't start scanning my items until I had FULLY UNLOADED my cart. Just stood there, kind of staring in to space, and waited and waited and waited. Then when he started to finally scan my stuff, the bagger then barks, "plastic, paper? HELLO!" At first I was taken aback by his gruff demeanor, then I realized he was mentally challenged. Neither the check-out guy nor the bagger could figure out how I had gotten everything in to my cart, and were packing it all willy-nilly until finally asking for my assistance. I'll forgive the bagger, since he obviously had issues, but come on checker! Stack the 12 packs of water on top of each other, fool.

On my way out the door I set off the alarm. The jovial man at the door made me go through the gate a few times to ascertain if it was me or something in my cart. Seems it was me, at which time he started asking where my clothes came from. Seems The Gap or Old Navy has tags in the clothing that are still active for my grocery store's security system. Isn't that neat? I got to dance for this man in front of a whole line of people and be grilled on where I buy my clothes. That is so damn fun. I even had to show him the inside of my jacket, which got a "Huh, I don't see anything..." He finally let me go with a parting, "Well, see if you can find that tag before you go to Wal-Mart, or they will totally call you a thief." To which I responded, "No worry there, I won't be going to Wal-Mart," and he whispered in my ear, "They are totally evil aren't they?"

What a wise door guard.

Immediately after having some dinner, I fell sound asleep for two hours on the couch. Fun how much control my body has over me. At least I'm not sleeping at work. Yet.

A Special Boxing Day Cleaning for The Boy

Armed with nothing more than my Sony CyberShot and a flashlight, I made the cutest little film of Whoopis cleaning The Boy's head. It's no Winston nummy-num times, but it is still pretty damn cute (even if it is quite dimly lit and I can't keep the flashlight steady). In the background you'll hear The Boy laughing at the latest episode of 30 Rock ("Secret Santa").



Seriously, check out that tongue action!



Look how he must use his claw to keep his prey, erm, friend still for the cleaning:



Happy Boxing Day!

Me & My Couch

Today was about me and my couch. That is me and my ass on this couch. It actually started way before the "day" part of the day when I hacked a nice dry fuck-you-cedar cough all night, and woke up at 4am not able to take it anymore. I felt badly for The Boy since I had literally been eh-eh-eh-ing the whole time we were in bed, so I went to the couch. It is really a futon, and is horribly uncomfortable, but I usually can manage a nice nap on it. If I sleep with my head elevated, I don't cough as much, so it seemed the best decision possible. Also, I felt the bedroom was too hot. There is something very wrong with me in that while I am asleep these days, I sweat like it is the middle of summer and no shade. During the day, I'm freezing and must wear layers and cuddle under a blanket. The living room was much cooler and full of cats! I slept on the couch until 8:30am, then went back to bed to snuggle The Boy. Then I commenced my full couch camp-out at 10am. The only times I got up were for the bathroom, drinks from the kitchen and once to go out and get a pizza. Some people may think that is a sad Christmas, but luckily for me, it was just a wonderful day off where I could be on the couch all day long completely guilt-free. I accomplished reading, eating, holding cats, and watching Beowulf (why did they bother with the animation?), Away We Go (oh god, give me more of that fat boy gleefully talking about smothering babies!) and Catch-22 (I believe it should be law that everyone reads this book at least once a year; and if you have too many books in queue, at least watch the movie).

Two more days of sloth! Whoot.

A Plastic Baggy of Ham!

That's right. I'm the proud owner of a bag of ham. It's not even lunch-meat ham. It is ham off of a bone. It is full of delicious ham fat, and delicious ham muscle. it is so deeply pink. it totally moves me. feels me with joy that i have it in a baggy, too. it's like having a goldfish in a bag, except for a it pork in a bag. I just made The Boy smell my hands. He said, "hammy?" I giggled and nodded "yes." Then he called me a "dumbass." Vegetarians just cannot appreciate how awesome it is to have ham-smelling hands.

We had dinner at our friends' house (the ones we visited in Michigan in July--they head back there on Saturday) with a great bunch of people who actually find me funny. Which is saying a lot. The Boy and I brought the twin girls a game we just found called Consensus. We got them the "Junior" edition. It was a lot like Apples to Apples but with less hurt feelings when your card never fucking gets chosen. I swear I'm not bitter. Oh hey, I just read that there's an Apples to Apples Bible edition. The twins would love that, but The Boy just put his foot down rejecting the idea.

The cats are loving my ham hands. They rub on my fingers and are totally slobbering on themselves. Man, what a good night. Who knew it would end up so swell? Ham!

PS: Dallas hates Chicken Day. Or at least their PO does. They returned all my Dallas cards as undeliverable due to me owing an extra 20 cents. What kind of bullshit is that? It made it to Boston, Michigan, California, other Texas towns, but not Dallas? ANGER!

My Life in Snot

Since spending my evening in the sticks with all that cedar, I have been very sick. Each passing minute I feel worse, and it is all allergies. Meaning, it won't kill me, I just want to die. Desperately want to die. Or at least bore holes in my cheeks and the roof of my mouth.

Today the allergy index is at 8, which is considered medium-high. Now, how about this for some fun?

Wednesday: 10.2 (RED ZONE)
Thursday: 7.9
Friday: 9.7 (more RED ZONE)

I'm just the luckiest, snottiest girl to have every lived. And let me tell you something, if another person laughs at my sneezing and carrying a box of Puffs Plus with Lotion around with me, and commenting, "Well, you are living in the allergy capital of the world!" I'm going to shove every single cold, wet tissue up each and every one of his/her orifices and I'll let the snot just pour out of my nose and yell, "Who's the stupid one now, asshole?" Then I'll sandpaper the edges of his/her nostrils and crack each one of his/her upper molars so he/she can feel exactly how I feel. So there.

The One Time He Gave the Finger

There is a very dear man here at work. He is the sweetest guy and has such a charming accent. He is from Nepal and has been in the U.S. for 30+ years. He is always making jokes (consisting mainly of puns). Both he and his wife are middle children of large families, and are both 5'1", the shortest in both families. How adorable is that?

He was just by my desk, and saw that I was reading, "The Devil's Poison: How Fluoride is Killing You," which quickly made me comment I'm just perusing it for the hilarity of it, since I in no way feel that fluoride is killing anyone--or at least drinking water from regulated sources (no, if you feel like taking fluoride in large doses, then yes, enjoy your painful death). Wanting to prove that I really do have better things to read, I pulled out the book in my bag, "Traffic: Why We Drive the Way We Do (and What It Says About Us)." It is by far more interesting that the fluoride book.

This led my friend to tell me a story (he has so many, so it doesn't take much to set him off on one):

In 1983, he was newly married and his wife came over from Nepal to join him in Texas. She had never driven a car before, and he taught her to drive by picking her up after work from the local community college that she was attending, and have her drive them home. It was a pretty long ride if staying off the highway. She was a very cautious driver (read that to mean SLOW). One day, she was driving in the right-hand lane and going ever so slow, that a whole slew of cars got backed up behind them, but she was determined to keep her speed. By the time they were almost home, there was one particular car that kept flashing its brights and honking at her. She was in the left-hand lane preparing for the left turn on to her street. My friend was so impatient with the whole situation, with his wife's inability to go any faster than a slow creep that asked for them to be cruelly run down, and the asshole behind them who refused to pass on the right. So he gave the car behind them the finger. A very aggressive finger. The one and only time he has ever given someone the finger (I believe this, he is so kind and gentle).

Immediately after displaying his anger, the blue-and-reds of a cop car came on behind him. Yes, this poor man had flipped off a cop. His wife, who didn't speak English yet, and didn't know what "giving the finger" even meant, was very upset and confused. My friend had her pull over to the right (which was very difficult due to the rush-hour traffic). Then they both sat there listening to the cop give them an earful about how you should never ever give anyone the finger. EVER. Got it? He let them go with a warning. Too bad his wife didn't understand one word that was said!

Let that be a lesson to all of you little birdies.

A Night in the Sticks

Here I am, out in the country (cunt-ree). It is cold out and the stars are bright. We walked the dogs and looked at a 20'+ snowman made out of x-mas lights at the entrance to the neighborhood (can you call it a neighborhood if it is only consists of a dead-end street?). We watched some people going 70mph on the main road, and shivered in our coats against the brisk wind. I was lured out here by my friend who was having a lot of people over for a dinner and game night. However, now I'm sitting with my friend, her mom, and her mom's partner. This was not exactly the night I envisioned. Everyone seems to be sick, and decided at the last minute that they couldn't come. I was really looking forward to playing some Quelf with some new unsuspecting innocents, but even my friend's husband left for another party. What gives people? So my friend invites her mom. This is not something I would do. Ever. And I'm not just talking my parents. I just think it is weird when adults invite their parents over for something that was supposed to be like a friendly drunken game night with friends. We had just sat down for a game of Zombie Fluxx when her mom showed up. I love her mom. I love her so much. It's just not what I was prepared for. Now we aren't playing games, and there's just a lot of shooting the shit going on here. A lot of it is family stuff, so perfect time to check in on the blog.

I have a heating pad on my lap and I'm under a blanket with my overheating laptop on me. It isn't warm in here. I've had two beers. I'm a little sleepy. I'm staying the night so I don't have to drive the 45 minutes back home in the dark. I get my own room with no cats scratching at the door. The Boy is sick but he assured me he'd survive all on his own tonight. He's probably in to his 8th hour of Grand Theft Auto.

Here's my sad news for the day. Seems like my mosaic didn't win first, second or third place. I'm basing this on my friend who went to see it on Friday. She had no idea what the awards meant, so I had to quiz her to straighten out what was going on; bottom line, no award next to Mr. Seahorse. I'm really bummed out over this. Sounds like mostly photography and paintings won; which is no surprise since the judges were a painter, photographer and an art teacher. It's just I put 30 days of hard work in to that thing--so much different than taking a picture (and I love photography, so I'm not slighting it at all; it's just not really hard, physical labor). I'll just be happy to bring it home in three weeks and hang it in my kitchen window; because, dammit, I love what I did.

Ok, they are leaving now. So maybe we will continue with Zombie Fluxx.

Ray Bradbury HATES the Buttercups

I have it on good authority from Frijole that Ray Bradbury has been seen protesting outside of various libraries because he is against the buttercups. Frijole's Michigan accent occasionally shines through. So I may have lost something in translation. However, I am particularly fond of what I heard. I am not very fond of buttercups myself. It just never occurred to me to march outside of a library declaring my deep, personal opinion of buttercups.

The Loveliest Chicken Story Ever Told

Hayti, Missouri
I received this picture today as a belated Happy Chicken Day. I have such great friends. They totally think of me when they find themselves confronted with extremely large chicken sculptures.

Then there is this truly beautiful story from The Boy's mom:

"I was brought up on a large working farm in Maine, as (The Boy) may or may not have
told you. As a little girl I raised and showed special Bantam chickens, both for show and for the eggs, and especially for my pets. They were the best loved and cared for chickens that ever live. I started having my first ones at age three and showing them at summer fairs at age four when they were grown. They all had names and knew them and came to me when I called to them. I always had a rooster so could raise more chickens from the hens eggs. I started out with Andy the 1st and the last Banty rooster I had was Andy the 8th. I was then 19 and gave him to a nice man, one that played the organ at a Congregational Church, and had chickens of his own and his old rooster had passed away. My last hen had died at a good old age and my rooster was (or at least seemed) very happy at his new home with the Rhode
Island Red regular hens. (I am sure that he missed me though.) He truly was my dear pet and I would take a walk all over the farm fields with my little dog, Peppy, my rooster, Andy the 8th, and my two cats, Mickey Mouse and Topsy Twinkle Toes, who were old boys following me, and with my white bunny in a harness and leash hopping along beside me. Andy would sometimes fly up and land on my shoulder and crow to show off to the other critters. I was a blessed gal to grow up with all my many pets over my childhood years until I was ready to leave home and go off on my own.

When I was young and went off for a month with my Mama to visit my Grandmother in Massachusetts. I would get homesick and cry as I missed my pets. On arrival back home in Maine and to our farm one time at night at age eight, my Dad kindly got
out the flashlight and took me back outside to the chicken house so I could
go inside and see and love all of my chickens."

Lastly, my last Chicken Day present of the night was from BunBun's parents--a thank-you gift for taking care of their small menagerie. A little soft red BunBun of my own. Here is a picture of him hanging out at the festive little Thai restaurant we went to last night. Take special note of the "Yes Hot" and the patch that Wikus gave me yesterday.



Then there is "Redson" hanging out in the pocket of my jean jacket (check out my duck dress for Chicken Day! Also, if you look closely, you'll see I have another jean jacket on my legs; thanks to Wikus who doesn't get as cold as me--I need warmth for my legs):

Whence A.C.H.

(2008)

In ancient times, super-intelligent chickens came from outer space and landed in Japan (Nippon). Due to the primitive nature of the human inhabitants at that time in history, it was easy for these highly intelligent chickens to befriend the natives. For many years they lived in peace together until the humans grew jealous of the chickens and their superior technology. The humans rose up and enslaved the chickens. Many of the chickens escaped in their starships; and the few who were left behind refused to speak or display their intelligence in protest against their cruel enslavement. Over time, the chickens forgot their extraterrestrial origins, and lost their powers of speech. One day, their brethren may return from beyond the stars to liberate their unfortunate comrades, and wreak a terrible vengeance.

This day, December 17th, commemorates the chickens' first arrival on Earth, and looks forward to their triumphant reappearance. As humans, we decry the oppression of our feathered comrades, and humbly celebrate and submit to their loftiness and their eventual return.

(2009)

The Toe Stretch Electric

A year and a half ago, I started dressing nicer. It was work related, and it was good "proper" clothes--not sassy, but fairly stylish. Part of that transformation was high heels; not pumps, high heels. Beside lurching around like a stiff-kneed jackass, I looked pretty good. However, when I got home each day, my feet just felt horrible. When shopping for the heels, I was advised that wearing Converse for the last 20 years had not exactly left my feet in a shape to fit heels correctly. My feet had gotten wider and were a half-size bigger. So all the shoes were rubbing off the top of my toes, and my toenails felt like they had been shoved back in to the nail bed. What was worse, though, was when ever I stretched my toes, and man, I love to stretch my toes, a horrible electric jolt would run through my big toes, and they felt like they were separating from the joint. It is painful, but also sort of enjoyable. It's the electric-shock bit. It hurts but my toes feel alive with juice! Then they just feel disconnected and horrible. So I stop stretching and everything goes back to normal.

For several reasons, I believe I suffer from Ehlers-Danlos syndrome; yet, I have never had this confirmed, and not sure where I would start. I have had agonizing joint pain since high school, and am fantastically double-jointed. I can touch my elbows together behind my back! With years of zero exercise, I can get in the lotus position in 2 seconds flat AND lift myself up by my fists while in that position. Most people go to yoga for at least a few months to comfortable get in that position, much less be able to lift themselves. I discovered recently (during the Hope Sandoval & the Warm Inventions show) that I can flex my fingers in such a way that they look like scoop hands, and that is with my palms facing the floor and my fingers pointing up to the ceiling. It's very creepy and I like to terrorize The Boy and Wikus with it. The worst are my knees (that is where all the pain started during my freshman year of high school). The only sport I've ever participated in was swimming in 7th and 8th grade. I was fairly good in freestyle and backstroke. I developed a terrible chlorine cough and my knees just killed me. A doctor told me and my parents that my ligaments were really loose and weren't holding my kneecaps in place; thus, my kneecaps were rubbing against my bones. Doesn't that just sound like a grand time? So, to this day, my knees sound like tires on gravel when ever I bend them. There are all these old men that I work with, blue-collar guys who have always done manual labor, and they'll boast about how awful their knees are, and I say, "Oh, really?" and bend down. Their jaws drop. If I knew how to record a wav file of the sound of my knees, I totally would, and post it for all of you, so you would know I am not exaggerating.

Way back then, the doctor said I would probably have the same joint problems in other areas as I got older, and shit, he wasn't lying. In college my hands and fingers started crying if I wrote in longhand for more than 2 minutes. They got to the point where my brain would tell them to do something, but they wouldn't even move. My friends bought me this awesome jar opener because I was incapable of opening anything sealed. I still use it to this day. After college it went to my elbows. I used to love braiding my hair, and now I can't have my elbows bent for that long just to braid my very thing hair. Or when I'm sleeping, I wake up at night to find my elbows are locked and I can't straighten them out for awhile. Have you tried sleeping with your arms out straight by your side? I can't do it.

So now it is my toes. Just in time for my developing taste in wearing awesome clothes. That is just downright wrong. I have put up with the pain in my knees, hands and elbows, but why my toes? I have the money now to buy lovely dresses and skirts, and the fun shoes to go with them. Most people at my office look like kindergarten teachers, then there is me. And I don't want to give that up! Yet my toes are disconnecting from their joints when I stretch! It is exacerbated on days I wear high heels. What to do?

And that is my Chicken Day Eve story!

Toothpaste in My Eye

Yes, my day started off with a bit of toothpaste in my right eye. Right in the inner corner. This is a consequence of brushing my teeth in the shower. However, it is usually way riskier to brush them after the shower because I WILL get toothpaste all over my clothes. I find it impossible not to. Sure, I could brush my teeth before the shower, but the Orange Lover is asleep in the sink and I'm not going to disturb him. So, brushing in the shower really is my only option.

My eyes take a beating almost on a daily basis. My allergies just love to suck my eyes dry then throw fine grains of salt on them. Thus, they burn and itch at some point every day.

(TV pause: Oh, my, god. I'm watching Britain's Missing Top Model and they are playing Nick Cave in the background. I'm so not shitting you. Now it is the House theme song; which makes me wonder if the House theme song is actually a *real* song.)

The rest of the time I am pulling cat hairs and crusties out of my eyes. I've been wearing contacts since 1987 (seriously, this is the kindest thing my parents did for me, because I was one ugly duckling). I don't know if wearing contacts for 22 years makes my eyeballs a bit desensitized when things like cat hairs find their way up in there. Seriously, I can pull out a 2" cat hair. It tickles. It isn't as horrible as it sounds. Yet, how can a 2" hair find its way in to my eye in the first place, then hang out there for awhile until I fish it out of there? The allergies cause the mass amounts of crusties. Thus, I am constantly picking at my poor eyeballs.

And now this. Toothpaste in the eye. That mentholated coolness packed one hell of a sting for such a tiny fleck of paste. Yes, your eye can definitely feel COLD. My eye was red only for a couple of hours, but I can still feel exactly where it hit. Like a pinprick of acid.

Thus, I decided to look up online what others have to say about toothpaste in the eye. Seems a lot of people were worried about their eyes burning out of their head. That never even occurred to me. I saw it more as a little dot of a burn on my eye, but nothing actually burning through my eye in to its little rods and cones. Then there are all these posts about how toothpaste is a great way to combat teargas if you're at a protest (or where ever else you may be that teargas could be present). Now, I think that is one hell of a toss-up: teargas in the eye or toothpaste? There's a reason why toothpaste SCRUBS, it has little granules in it, and you can't exactly wash it out without some serious irritation. Does anyone want to volunteer and see which is better? Teargas or toothpaste? And then teargas first with a nice minty-cool toothpaste washing?

Lastly, there was some wacky person who uses toothpaste to actually whiten her red eyes. Seems she puts it right under her bottom lash line, and let the fumes rise in to her eyes. I personally do not advise taking this route; but hey, if it works for you, and you don't mind being blind one day, then go for it! White eyes now, blindness later, an easy choice.

Garlic Mouth

That's right; I have garlic mouth. The Boy doesn't like garlic mouth, but I don't mind it. I think it is great that I'm still tasting my dinner several hours after the fact. I'm just sad that we are out of sparkling water. I could do with a bit of a bubble scrub on my throat. The Boy even flossed while we watched some episodes of 30 Rock on Netflix. I did not. I haven't had a cavity since college, and my dentist always tells me to keep up the good work. Ha. Goes to show you what good genes can accomplish: long eyelashes and hardy teeth. Thanks ma and pa. Now I am going to go to bed with my garlic mouth and make sure to breath in to The Boy's face as much as possible.

Couch Sunday

Spent my day in my night pants and my shill shirt, under a blanket, on the couch, with a rotating shift of cats snuggled against my belly. Sure, I felt guilty a lot of times for this being my whole day (mostly). Feeling a bit depressed, the reasons I am not going to air here. I did accomplish cleaning the horror-show of our bathroom. The Orange Lover, as mentioned before, has his good and bad days. The last two days have been bad. He has managed to pee multiple times on the floor, pooed in various places except for the litterbox, and threw up at least two of his meals. There's also the litter that has been spread on top of every surface: toilet, sink, counter, floor. Accomplishing cleaning that was so depressing: a) because it is dirty work, and b) it is an in-my-face representation of the decline of my best friend. I also made some Tollhouse cookies from a tube. Then I ate half of them. That's right, half of them. I would have eaten more if I knew it wouldn't make me feel so guilty for doing it. Damn you guilt.

To make it worse, it was finally sunny outside today, and I only got off the couch twice, and neither time was it to leave the house. I think it even made it in to the 70s. So lame of me.

Oh, and I watched this really fucked-up show on the BBC America channel. "Britain's Missing Top Model." Was there a Top Model from Britain missing? Was this show following the mystery and detective work to find her? Could that possibly be a show. I checked out the description and it seemed like a regular Top Model show. Heck yes, I tuned in, and oh, my, god. This is a show about ladies who have some kind of disability. Some were born without a limb or deaf; others had a horrific accident or some rare disease. It was crazy. I was shocked. It was so crude. Yet, at the same time, I understood that these people chose to be on this show, and each of them wanted to be a model, and that the modeling industry probably doesn't usually have a lady in a wheelchair on the catwalk. But come on, we all know that people are watching it just to see women with missing limbs posing in their underwear! And so help me, I was one of those people, and I have set the DVR to record all new episodes. I feel so evil and dirty.

Yesterday was a busy day with Wikus. He was kind enough to help with at the PO with all my Chicken Day packages. I learned the automated machine, and my life is changed forever at the PO. I probably won't avoid it as much now. Chicken Day cards are in the mail! Packages are on their way. Then we went to view my mosaic at the museum. You can see it as soon as you open the door. There is some pretty good competition, and I really have no idea what the outcome will be. The judging happens this week. Next up was book-shopping for Wikus' mom, which was mostly me suggesting books I have read (some Wikus has read), and balancing whether his born-again mother would appreciate the book based on how much sex, drugs and other sins were in it, and finding the right balance. We have given her T.C. Boyle in the past and Christopher Moore, so we know that she can handle sex and comedy, but it can be a bit challenging to keep that combo going across a broader expanse of authors. In the end, we got her "A Dirty Job," by Christopher Moore and "The Secret History," by Donna Tartt. The first one Wikus hasn't read, but is trusting me that it is good, and the second one he has read since I gave it to him as a gift. Lastly, we went to a small art fair that happens every year, and features some really quirky artist. I bought my Gaysian friend something hilarious for Chicken Day that I really hope he enjoys. He's been wishing for a Pegacorn (Pegasus and Unicorn mix), and this was the best I could find. As always, when ever I buy him a gift, I'm totally jealous to have to give it up. The rest of the day we watched TV (caught up on Dollhouse), and then Life Aquatic (a movie I love, but totally better on a large screen with all those colors), then The IT Crowd. By the second episode I was dead asleep and The Boy had to drive Wikus home.

Today the back of my thighs hurt from spending all of yesterday in heels. No matter, since I lazed on the couch the whole time.

And no, I still have not started the mosaic I am supposed to have like half-done by now. I have zero motivation. The same goes with the grocery store and laundry that desperately needs to happen. Look, I cleaned up mass amounts of cat pee, poo and vomit today. There's only so much I can handle these days.

Did I forget to mention the 3-hour nap I took this afternoon. Maybe I need to move up my psych appointment to discuss tweaking my meds.

Anyway, if you are in Texas and know the details (you know who you are), please go see my mosaic and vote for it for the People's Choice Award. Thanks!

No Class

Today was the last day of tutoring the 6th-grade girls for the semester. I'll return mid-January. Parking is very tight at this school, and I had to park on the street and totally walk around the whole school back to the front. While I was making this trek, I noticed a fucking HUMMER pulling out of the space closest to the front door. And I said to myself, "surely, fucking, not!" Sadly, yes, yes it was the principal who drives the Hummer.

Ok, fine, I hate Hummers in the first place. For so many obvious reasons: gas consumption, aesthetics, attitudes of most people who drive them, safety problems when paired against smaller vehicles during a crash, etc. However, I found this particularly galling because the middle school I tutor at is one of those "under-performing" school that is always being threatened to close due to the children not having high enough TAKS scores to get all that money from the state. Last year, it was on the list to be totally closed, and they were saved at the last moment (by what, I'm not sure). This is a school of very poor children whose primary language is Spanish. They have a lot to struggle with, and I'm proud to be mentoring them. Yet, the fucking principal drives a Hummer. If I knew how to slash Hummer tires, I totally would do that one Friday.

A Request For More BunBun

Because no one can get enough of the little fellow:

He's daring me to touch his alfalfa pellets. I would never dare to take food away from such a sweet little cutie-pie. Also, that alfalfa smelled so awesome that I wish I could feed it to my tortoise.



Look at that handsome profile. I'm melting with love.



Oh! Why so worried bun? I swear that just because I say I'm going to eat you all up, does not mean that I will really bite in to you. I just want to nibble on one of your ears, I promise. A very small nibble.



Oh. My. God. Is that your little pink tongue sticking out at me? Let's kiss!



That's right, eat that carrot, then get in my pocket so I can carry you around all day. We'll giggle and play together under my desk at work. I promise a good time and more carrots.



Bribing him is totally working.



Sadly, after I ran out of lettuce, carrots, alfalfa pellets and hay, Mr. BunBun decided to not go home with me. He felt he was happy enough in his two-story house-condo. I had nothing as nice to offer him, except my undying love and affection. I even told him he could nibble on my toes as much as he wants, and he could cuddle with the cats. But it was a no-go. Sigh.

A Lack of Motivation

November was an amazing month for me in that I actually made it off of the couch most nights. That took a lot of work. It can be exhausting being such a lazy person who set some personal goals that actually required work. Geez. All that exertion left me drained of all motivation for December. I keep swearing I will get around to making the new mosaic, which is basically due in 2 weeks. Gulp. I have the template and the supplies, but I have yet to get my butt out in to the freezing garage to get to work. It is 37 degrees right now, and sitting in a concrete box working with glass and a wet-grinder is not exactly my idea of fun. I'd much rather sit here in my night pants (NIGH PANTS!), a nice thermal shirt (with my work's logo, I'm such a shill), a fun bright purple sweatshirt with pink zipper and my wonderful pink-striped fleece NIGHT PANTS.

Here is the sweatshirt I am wearing. It has a strange high collar and some seams that I guess are supposed to give my body more "shape." I was solely sold on the purple and pink.



And the most important part of sitting on the couch? Cats! Always at least two, and sometimes three, and rarely four. No one can honestly expect me to go in to the garage and work with glass under such circumstances?

Tonight I managed to address some Chicken Day cards. That took me over an hour. I also took my mosaic template in to the garage, which verified that it was indeed damn cold out there. I'm waiting for The Boy to get home so we can watch the finale of Glee (high hopes that it is better than the penultimate episode, which was only good in that Will Schuester's wife was finally, FINALLY outed as not pregnant).

Man, there's this grocery-store commercial on right now where the store's staff is singing "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" (I have no idea if that is the real title of the song), by adding "er" to everything ("we wish you a merriER Christmas, and a happiER new year"), which is totally lame in of itself; but they made it fun (unintentionally, I'm sure) by picking the most tone-deaf employees on staff. Thing totally flat tone with a Texas accent. It's that bad. I bet that's how the carolers will sound at work on whatever day that is happening. Maybe I should stick around for that show instead of hiding like I had originally planned. This commercial has really opened my eyes.

I wish all of you a merriER week of waiting for Chicken Day!

Christmas at the Office

This is my dreaded time of year. It is such a pain to always explain why I am opting out of X, because no one is just happy with my initial response of "no, that's ok, thank you, though." There's a lot of bewilderment and some sputtering. No one expects someone to say no to participating in some holiday activity. It is just so unbelievably upsetting for them! I've gone and ruined Christmas. Shame on me. So, no, I will not be helping with putting up a tree and dressing it. I will not be organizing a secret Santa nor participating in one that gets organized by someone else. Same goes with White Elephants and Exchange Hilarious Junk To Each Other. There is no way you'll get me to join in the company-wide reception to mingle with a lot of people I don't know and natter on about what I won't be doing for Christmas, and that I don't even acknowledge it as any other day that isn't my birthday, anniversary or Chicken Day.

I got an email at work seeking volunteers to go around the building caroling. SERIOUSLY? Caroling? What fucking adult would willingly go around a 10-story office building singing holiday songs? There was even mention of someone in a Santa costume. I want to make clear that I do not work in a building with children. In fact, most of the employees are middle-aged; though, they are the type who are prone to wearing scary holiday sweaters and vests.

Like these:





And my favorite:



It's like working with a bunch of kindergarten teachers. I did find out that there is a work policy that I am not allowed to give any of my superiors a gift, which is great. How nice of the company to get me off that hook so easily. I do relish the moment when Twit and Ex-cop attempt to get me involved in something Christmas-related; I will relish telling them, "No thank you, I'm an atheist!" Back off, bitches.

In other news:

Yesterday, Ex-cop brought in oatmeal cookies that his wife made. He asked if he could put the tin on my desk. Feeling generous, I said ok. He made a sign and taped it to the tin. Of course every one came by and asked me if I made those cookies. I sweetly said, "no" each time. Then I actually looked at the sign, which said," Oatmeal Cookie's, Take One!" I am absolutely insulted that people thought those cookies were made by me, especially after reading that sign. Just call me Oatmeal Cookie from here on out--that's my granola-slut persona.

Allergy Coma

I can't stay awake. When I am awake, I am moving like I have some muscle or nerve disease. I lurch around, and grunt with a phlegmy cough. Driving is a complete hazard, since I can barely focus. I miss exits and take wrong turns on well-known routes. Thank you so much allergies. Right now I am struggling to write this. It is not even 9pm, and I really must go to bed. I am only up this late because I agreed to pet-sit for the loveliest bunny and kitties. I take that commitment seriously, and Wikus has been a wonderful help. He is my hero.

Also, look at this little guy--even though I am walking snotty death, how could I miss seeing him eat lettuce?



Now, time for bed.

The Annual Making of Chicken Day Cards

Did I mention yesterday was hella cold? Well, it was. Last night Wikus and I had planned to put together our Chicken Day cards. We do this every year, but it isn't usually so damn cold when we set out on our project. Wikus has a terrible apartment. It is one of those that looks pretty nice, but is really a hideous craphole. I have a lot of guilt over this, because I pretty much got him this apartment--I am obviously a fool who falls for pretty things. Anyway, to prove how crappy this apartment is, last night Wikus was deep-frying tasty tasty tasty french fries and defrosting some Boca Chik'n patties, which made the power got out. I am not shitting you. He yelled, "WHAT IS THIS? BOSTON!" That's the kind of shit we put up with in Boston, but not here. The even more fucked-up bit was it was obvious that there was still some kind of ghost power happening. The light on the digital-converter box was on, and the faintest of glows emitted from the overhead light, yet nothing would turn on for us, no matter how many breaker switches Wikus popped on and off in the box. I told him to get a flashlight and go outside to see if he could find the main breaker box for his apartment. I sat in the dark and ate some french fries while he was out in the cold. See what a good friend I am? He managed to find the box, where there were two switches: one on and one off. Flipping the switch made the lights come back on, which was awesome. Except, EXCEPT, to keep the power on, we had to turn off the heat. That's right. TURN OFF THE HEAT. Mind you, his apartment could not have possibly been over 50 degrees in there with the heat set on maximum. Yet, this was too much for the apartment to handle.

At that point, considering my hands were numb, and I was fearful that my nose was going to fall off due to frostbite, we gave up on the idea of the Chicken Day cards for the night, and just watched a few episodes of The IT Crowd. If you have not watched this show, you must do it NOW. You can watch it on Netflix. Yeah!

However, that meant we had to get to work today. His apartment was marginally warmer. He already had the design made, and we had purchased cardstock this past Monday, so it was just a matter of me choosing the colors for the design and him doing all the cutting and folding. I messed around in Illustrator while he did the grunt work.

After a lunch of tasty tasty Tex-Mex (with The Boy in tow), we came back to my house (where it is warmer!) to assemble the cards. We managed to sit at the kitchen table for a couple of hours without breaking a window. Yeah us. Part of our annual tradition with the cards is to have a haiku. We make it up on the spot together, every single year. This year I did one-third and he did the rest, with me making a minor change resulting in a gerund.

This is a limited edition, and if you want your Chicken Day card, you better make sure I have your current address. We'll make more as needed, but it may end up being after Chicken Day (12/17), because we tend to get a bit lazy when it is cold outside.

Tomorrow: Tales of pet-sitting good times. Including: the children of one of Wikus' cats, and a bunny. Oh my god! Have you ever just sat and watched a bunny eat lettuce? It is almost as awesome as watching my tortoise eat lettuce. A damn amazing good time.

Bananas

Today there is snow in Texas. And I DON'T CARE ONE BIT. I have lived in Boston and Anchorage--I would be very happy to never see snow again. Sure, a lot of people are happy to see snow, but this isn't snow. This is more like a brief interlude of white dust. Which means I don't totally hate it, but it does mean it is cold out, and that makes me quite angry. See me shaking my first at the cold air?

If I hear anyone say a sentimental sentence regarding snow and the holidays, I can't be held accountable for what may happen next. Whether it is my foot or fist in your mouth, just consider yourself warned. This is Texas, cut it out with all those fake-nostalgic feelings of what December is supposed to be like to have a nice holiday. Morons. If you've lived in an actual snowy climate during December, then I doubt you think of snow as fondly. Or you may. But if you've always lived in parts of Texas that don't regularly get any kind of snow that actually sticks to the ground, then shut up. You don't even know what you are reminiscing about.

Oh, bananas. I really didn't mean to get all caught up on weather issues. I just ate a semi-green banana I bought at the store last night (that was packed due to the WINTER STORM '09, and infested with sorority girls in sweatshirts with sweatpants tucked in to Ugg boots). I love bananas, but have a hard time finding the right banana. I am totally squeamish of ripe bananas. My mom used to make me eat bruised bananas, and I still gag at the thought. I only buy green ones, and stick them in the fridge (separating them first) to ripen slowly. However, today I was hungry for a banana, and this banana was still too green. It tasted okay, but left the worst fuzz on my teeth. Nothing can get that off except a toothbrush.

I am not the kind of gal who brings a toothbrush to work. I drank a Coke in hopes that the fizz will combat the fuzz.

How do you feel about bananas?

PS: Twit just said something like, "Is there not enough snow out there to make ice cream?" What the fuck is wrong with her? What does that even mean? Does she not understand how ice cream is made? Even Snoopy Sno-Cone was made with shaved ice bitch, and no one called it ice cream.

A Belated Rant

I was driving and listening to NPR when I heard about the new mammogram recommendations by the United States Preventative Services Task Force, and I strangled myself on some disbelief noises my throat was making and almost rear-ended a car.

If you don't feel like clicking on the links, and reading up about this, here is the verbiage direct from the USPSTF's website:

*The USPSTF recommends biennial screening mammography for women aged 50 to 74 years.

*The USPSTF concludes that the current evidence is insufficient to assess the additional benefits and harms of screening mammography in women 75 years or older.

*The USPSTF recommends against teaching breast self-examination (BSE).

*The USPSTF concludes that the current evidence is insufficient to assess the additional benefits and harms of clinical breast examination (CBE) beyond screening mammography in women 40 years or older.

*The USPSTF concludes that the current evidence is insufficient to assess the additional benefits and harms of either digital mammography or magnetic resonance imaging (MRI) instead of film mammography as screening modalities for breast cancer.

I can barely even respond to this. I've had to calm down and stop shooting my middle finger at this group. While I understand I may not have had this reaction if I didn't know anyone with breast cancer, or had my own scares. Though, I would like to think that as a logically thinking woman, I would still be ticked.

Like so many other situations with health care and insurance for women, this is just one other stab in the eyes that really hurts us. It does nothing for preventative care, and pretty much creates a scenario of reactionary treatment. Why bother finding the cancer until you are 50? Sure, only 7% of women under 40 get breast cancer, but that's tough shit, because our guidelines say 50, and we're sticking to it. Doctors get paid the same and do less, and the insurance companies aren't having to cover as many diagnostic tests. It's a win for everyone BUT the women who may have breast cancer.

Insurance companies are swearing this won't affect current coverage, but I just don't believe it. Or rather, I believe it won't affect policies already in place, but will affect all new and renewed policies. A policy is a contract, so it would be kind of hard for them to change it mid-policy year, but that will not stop them from doing it the next time around. I look forward to that day, don't you? You'll have to pay for your own mammogram until your 50, unless your doctor specifically thinks there is a problem, which by then, that little problem could be a huge problem because a lot of lumps have already metastasized by the time they are palpable to a human; too bad it had been in there since you were 38, but couldn't feel it until you were 43. Would have been nice to have a regular mammogram screening at 40, wouldn't it?

The whole idea that the recommendations were set out to make women feel less anxious about the prospect of having cancer. Right, because I am just a little ol' lady, and my knees buckle and I feel weak at the idea. Thank you for stepping in and saving me from my pesky emotions. I am totally less scared now knowing that I am not even being screened for cancer until I hit 50. What a relief that I can now just put all of that out of mind. Such silly thoughts to have to entertain! I don't even have to examine my own breast now! That was some hard work, and touching myself is so yucky.

Seriously? No, really, SERIOUSLY? How hard is it just to screen us? I always thought 40 was pretty late in the game, and now 50? It smacks of money. That it is not about women's health, but about having to spend all that money on screening tests. Sure, mammography misses a lot of tumors, and it has a lot of false-positives. But should that mean we just use it less? Instead of say, using it while researching better, more sophisticated ways of detecting breast cancer earlier with less false-positives? Why would we just stop screening until 50? Whether it is through a mammogram or self-exam? That is ludicrous.

I know getting a mammogram is scary, uncomfortable and sometimes painful. However, I don't need some group to coddle me and be patronizing. In case no one understands this, women are adults, too. We are not children. Are they going to stop doing digital anal exams on men because it scares men, and they will needlessly worry about having prostate cancer? I doubt it. Will they recommend doctor's to stop checking testicles and recommend men shouldn't feel them either (except for the usual man fondling that has nothing to do with looking for tumors)? I would hate for all those men out there to be worried at the prospect of prostate and testicular cancer--that would really suck if they are having those feelings, so it is probably better that we just stop screening for such things so they don't have to feel the agony of worrying if they have cancer. Obviously if you are not screening for it, it no longer exists. Hi, I'm a baby, you are hiding in another room, obviously you have disappeared off the face of the earth since I cannot see you anymore. Same principal at work here, right? No screening, no worry of cancer! Awesome. Why did I not think of that before? Think of all the doctors' appointments I could have skipped.

What are we doing here? What, exactly, is the point? Who is this benefiting. That's what I want these people to really explain. Do you care about my health? Why would you not want to screen me as early as possible if you care about my actual physical health? Telling me that you want me to feel less anxious, doesn't work for me, because now I'm anxious that I'm not being screened and something could be missed! Is it to save me money? Hmmm, having cancer is pretty expensive, especially when it is invasive due to not looking for it for a decade or more.

I absolutely cannot wrap my mind around this. I will continue to examine myself, and have my doctor send me for diagnostic mammos as needed, and as I get older, if that means I have to make my doctor write me orders for a mammogram and call it diagnostic instead of screening so it will be covered by my insurance, then that is what I will do. I have already gone through the scare of having a tumor, and I think I can handle what ever may come in the future. I'd rather deal with the agony of not knowing if I have cancer or not during the testing process, than just skipping it all together and being oblivious to what is going on inside my body.

Assholes.