It's been a long day spent at consignment stores all over town--The Boy probably drove a good 50 miles in all (and he hates driving, but is totally in to fixing up the house). We didn't have much success, but ended up with nice bar chairs for our unused counter space. Okay, when I just said "unused counter space," I was totally lying. Right now it is used to store all manner of paper items. It is my hope, that if the bar chairs are sitting there, The Boy will not be as likely to dump various paper detritus on the counter. We are looking for a new kitchen table and chairs to go with it. I guess that will take longer to find.
Some of those consignment stores seemed to just be old Holiday Inn furniture and decoration. Anyone want an oil painting of a placid ocean scene? I can point you to a few stores for all your bland decorating needs. Beige is still as popular as ever, and I cannot help but find that disheartening. We were totally scared out of one place by overly eager owners. We were attacked with a barrage of southern accents and "Hi, ya'll! You ever been to our store before?" Why, is there something special about this store that I need to know? Because as far as I can tell, it's like a normal crowded consignment store where I see a bunch of shit I hate (mainly overly ornate, scarred, chunky wood furniture), and occasionally some item I may want to look at. There was even a customer who was just as enthusiastic saying it was the best store in town and she shops there always. Did they pay her money to act like that? We got out as fast as possible.
Before all our furniture-store browsing, we ate at the diner of constantly changing hours. Thankfully it was open and we were able to eat omelettes and hash browns. That is one way to get us in a good mood. Though, The Boy's hash browns had a piece of bacon on top of them. Most people would think of that as a friendly gesture, a nice gift. He was insulted. I took care of things by eating it, and he got over it enough to woof down those hash browns. Guess the bacon didn't taint his food with all its meatiness. I cannot imagine life as a vegetarian. I respect all who choose that path, and I wish I was stronger and could follow such an excellent example, but not to eat bacon, ham, steak? Oh, man, nu-uh.
While eating our breakfast, I took the time to admire our waitress' ass. It was very cute. It just looked really good in her pants. It was just a small, gently sloping ass. The Boy was not as impressed. He is very enamored with my own ass. I have no idea why, but he sure does like it. I know I should be very happy with this, but my logic just says, "seriously, it is big, my pants often look like I'm wearing a diaper under them. We deconstructed all aspects of my ass while polishing off breakfast. I do hope someone was listening in to us; you know, for good times.
Later, we got in a dumb fight in the middle of the livingroom section of IKEA. I was totally being melodramatic, but I was also right. Sometimes I have a hard time being nice when no one is acknowledging my complete rightness. The Boy was good and didn't get mad even though I was totally frustrated and being jerky. He is very kind like that. He acknowledges and accepts my craziness, more than I acknowledge and accept his slow thought processing and lack of common sense. I finally calmed down, and licked his forehead to show how I was no longer mad. He licked my cheek. We both had bad breath. The next time you find yourself in a retarded fight, and no you are a) right but b) wrong that you are trying to make a point of being right, just lick the person you are fighting with. It will all end well.
When we got home, The Boy took a quick drink of water and ran to the grocery store and I scrubbed down the whole bathroom. Leaving me exhausted, and almost (almost) unwilling to microwave Quorn chick'n nuggets. I finally got to it, and am having a rare beer to wash it down with.
The Boy is picking up all his papers in the kitchen, and then we will clean it like I cleaned the bathroom. This is all in effort to make our friends think good thoughts of us when they come over tomorrow for Urban Family Get Together/The Boy's 40th Belated Birthday Party. I just hope I am able to get out of bed tomorrow to attend. Maybe the guests will come visit me in bed, and bringing me tasty breakfast-for-dinner foodstuffs. Too bad I've already committed to making sticky cinnamon buns.
27 February 2010
26 February 2010
Sons of the Screech Owl
Does anyone else have a problem with biting in to fruit that just came out of the fridge? My teeth just can't handle that kind of cold. I don't like ice cubes in my drinks either; damn cold bits clinking against my teeth is totally unacceptable. I only bring this up because The Boy is insisting I eat the fruit we got on his birthday from his mom. I have a strawberry sitting on the edge of the futon warming up as I type.
I should also mention, while I'm talking about my weird quirks, I do not like when The Boy starts eating fruit when I'm eating my savory dinner. It totally ruins my meal. I don't like my chicken to taste like strawberries or bananas or apples or cantaloupe or pineapple or whatever fruit he chooses to sully my lunch/dinner.
The Boy and Wikus just hugged in a totally gushy way. I giggled and looked away in embarrassment for them. Now they are discussing boring things like some "guitar project" The Boy is going to do with some "cheap" guitar he bought (due to Wikus pointing it out to him). See? Boring. They are totally talking about the guitar's frets and how they may need to sand them down according to some reviewers feelings regarding them. I cannot make them shut up. Wikus just gave The Boy a birthday gift (a spider capo that can hold down various strings to make chords--yawn). This seems to make both of them very happy.
My nose feels like it is itching to have a nosebleed. I look forward to when I wake up at 2am with it running down my face. Another strong cold front is coming through, and the wind is blowing who knows what in to my sinuses. When will this fucking winter end?
If you go and take a poo at work and forgot to look to see if there is any toilet paper in the stall, cross your fingers that toilet-seat covers are in stock. I was that lucky today. I'm not sure what I would have done otherwise.
Wikus feels that the Netflix offering tonight is a "ladies' movie." I will enjoy making him watch it.
Last night I allowed myself to watch some of the Olympics (I honestly don't think I have tuned in to the Olympics since I was a teenager--where, I remember them playing something from JAMC's Darklands behind some commentators' blah blah), and some things have seriously changed. Fink-Nottle told me that since the winter Olympics has less to offer than the summer ones, that some committee decided to allow some EXTREME sports like those fucking aerials. There was something slightly sickening about watching people's suicide wish in action. Hey, I know, sure it sounds fun to go up 50' or so in the air and spend my next 3 seconds twirling around and hoping my legs find the ground before my face does. Then there was this bullshit nordic combined, where I guess there are exciting bits to it, but all we were shown was these guys cross-country skiing around and around and around a track. Who they fuck wants to watch that? I tried to describe all this to Wikus, who was more interested in if there was Yeti fighting and yak racing. Sadly, the Olympics just are not ready for that kind of fun. The only awesome part about the nordic combined was how the coaches would chase the skiers from the sidelines (and once a coach was actually on the track behind a skier yelling at him). I'm trying to imagine this happening during track and field--a coach pacing the runner and shouting at his athlete. I find it hilarious. "How, asshole, I can totally keep up with you and I'm only your pot-bellied coach...speed it up, mofo. Someone has to pay for the money that was spent to get you out here!"
Our new imaginary band name is Sons of the Screech Owl.
I should also mention, while I'm talking about my weird quirks, I do not like when The Boy starts eating fruit when I'm eating my savory dinner. It totally ruins my meal. I don't like my chicken to taste like strawberries or bananas or apples or cantaloupe or pineapple or whatever fruit he chooses to sully my lunch/dinner.
The Boy and Wikus just hugged in a totally gushy way. I giggled and looked away in embarrassment for them. Now they are discussing boring things like some "guitar project" The Boy is going to do with some "cheap" guitar he bought (due to Wikus pointing it out to him). See? Boring. They are totally talking about the guitar's frets and how they may need to sand them down according to some reviewers feelings regarding them. I cannot make them shut up. Wikus just gave The Boy a birthday gift (a spider capo that can hold down various strings to make chords--yawn). This seems to make both of them very happy.
My nose feels like it is itching to have a nosebleed. I look forward to when I wake up at 2am with it running down my face. Another strong cold front is coming through, and the wind is blowing who knows what in to my sinuses. When will this fucking winter end?
If you go and take a poo at work and forgot to look to see if there is any toilet paper in the stall, cross your fingers that toilet-seat covers are in stock. I was that lucky today. I'm not sure what I would have done otherwise.
Wikus feels that the Netflix offering tonight is a "ladies' movie." I will enjoy making him watch it.
Last night I allowed myself to watch some of the Olympics (I honestly don't think I have tuned in to the Olympics since I was a teenager--where, I remember them playing something from JAMC's Darklands behind some commentators' blah blah), and some things have seriously changed. Fink-Nottle told me that since the winter Olympics has less to offer than the summer ones, that some committee decided to allow some EXTREME sports like those fucking aerials. There was something slightly sickening about watching people's suicide wish in action. Hey, I know, sure it sounds fun to go up 50' or so in the air and spend my next 3 seconds twirling around and hoping my legs find the ground before my face does. Then there was this bullshit nordic combined, where I guess there are exciting bits to it, but all we were shown was these guys cross-country skiing around and around and around a track. Who they fuck wants to watch that? I tried to describe all this to Wikus, who was more interested in if there was Yeti fighting and yak racing. Sadly, the Olympics just are not ready for that kind of fun. The only awesome part about the nordic combined was how the coaches would chase the skiers from the sidelines (and once a coach was actually on the track behind a skier yelling at him). I'm trying to imagine this happening during track and field--a coach pacing the runner and shouting at his athlete. I find it hilarious. "How, asshole, I can totally keep up with you and I'm only your pot-bellied coach...speed it up, mofo. Someone has to pay for the money that was spent to get you out here!"
Our new imaginary band name is Sons of the Screech Owl.
25 February 2010
I Would Only Agree to Have Peelander-Z's Triplets
Kicking back and watching Triple the Triplets on Discovery Health. I am only noting this because one of the fathers on here has a really awesome mullet--the likes of which that have not been seen since the early '90s. They live in rural Missouri. That is probably the answer to the amazing mullet. Neat, this first aired on my 30th birthday. If only I had known--that would have made a really nice birthday tv-watching gift. Tons of bodily juice, blue shriveled babies and mullets! Sadly, Google cannot provide me with any information on this charming country family. Nor can I find a good example of the husband's mullet. There are plenty of mullet pictures out there, but nothing that really illustrates this man's very straight and very short in front (spiky!) and stick-straight long in back. This is the closest I can find.
Now, take that and imagine it on an adult man with dark hair. Also, shave the top part and let it grow for one week, and you'll have this man's mullet.
Also this mullet Google action led me to many pictures of that pointy-chinned Kristen Stewart and her mullet. She's so young to not know the horror of actually having to constantly be around people with this hairstyle--so, I'm sure she thinks it's really cute. I think it just emphasizes her man jaw.
"If you feel any leakage of fluid, let your nurse know." Yes, I suppose if you are bloated with triplets, that is something a nurse should know, so s/he can at least shove a bedpan under your ass.
Damn newborns are fuck ugly. Please don't try to act like you think there are beautiful. It's a wonder we don't eat newborns to get rid of the evidence of the abomination our bodies produce. I know people are totally happy to have babies, and that is just awesome for them, but those fresh out of the womb are totally disgusting. They do look a tiny bit better about a day later, but not by much. Just a little less like a small, wet skin-sack of bones.
Yesterday, leaving work, I got stuck at the light to take my left on to the interstate, which gave me the chance to watch a man in tight, pale blue jeans, a tucked in burnt-orange t-shirt, a construction helmet march through the intersection with a huge Texas flag on a pole. He was muttering in a slightly aggressive way. I was the third car back, so I wasn't able to really cheer him on with hoots and fist pumps. He seemed really excited to be out there, and the wind was cooperating in making that flag wave. Surprised it didn't blow him right off the bridge. That's a newspaper article I'd want to read: Construction worker fell to his death carrying a full-sized Texas flag to the horror of onlookers waiting for the light to change. Maybe it should be a short story, because I don't actually want him to die for me to have an enjoyable read.
Some people from one of The Boy's job gave him a really awesome boa for his birthday. I have no idea why or what it had to do with him turning 40 (should I expect a mid-life crisis of cross-dressing cabaret singer?). It has black and red feathers with sparkly red tinsel bits. I have a dress mannequin (you know, for those days when I break out my antique Singer), which I like to dress in all the embarrassing name tags I've had to wear over the years, plus any friends' name tags. There are other items around "her," like a rope noose and my hat that I wear when I want to feel like I'm from the 1940s. Now she has a boa to adorn her. The best thing I have on the mannequin (beside the awesome boa) is a whistle that got dropped when we saw Peelander-Z at a SXSW day show last year.
Here's a video you can watch to see just how kick-ass this group is. I'm in love with the boy-girl drummer. Swoon. This is a bit of a mash-up of their songs, but it starts with Mad Tiger (where we got our new song, "Mad Whoopis, mad Whoopis"), and ends with human bowling. The whistle was dropped during this part of the show. In the video is me, The Boy and Wikus--good luck finding us! You can really hear that whistle during the end of the clip. That singer is so cute in that ugly gap-tooth way, but not cute enough to get me to make out with the whistle. I'm sure it is safe enough to blow on now, but I'm not trying it out sober.
If Peelander-Z ever comes to your town, you'd be remiss if you didn't go see them.
Now, take that and imagine it on an adult man with dark hair. Also, shave the top part and let it grow for one week, and you'll have this man's mullet.
Also this mullet Google action led me to many pictures of that pointy-chinned Kristen Stewart and her mullet. She's so young to not know the horror of actually having to constantly be around people with this hairstyle--so, I'm sure she thinks it's really cute. I think it just emphasizes her man jaw.
"If you feel any leakage of fluid, let your nurse know." Yes, I suppose if you are bloated with triplets, that is something a nurse should know, so s/he can at least shove a bedpan under your ass.
Damn newborns are fuck ugly. Please don't try to act like you think there are beautiful. It's a wonder we don't eat newborns to get rid of the evidence of the abomination our bodies produce. I know people are totally happy to have babies, and that is just awesome for them, but those fresh out of the womb are totally disgusting. They do look a tiny bit better about a day later, but not by much. Just a little less like a small, wet skin-sack of bones.
Yesterday, leaving work, I got stuck at the light to take my left on to the interstate, which gave me the chance to watch a man in tight, pale blue jeans, a tucked in burnt-orange t-shirt, a construction helmet march through the intersection with a huge Texas flag on a pole. He was muttering in a slightly aggressive way. I was the third car back, so I wasn't able to really cheer him on with hoots and fist pumps. He seemed really excited to be out there, and the wind was cooperating in making that flag wave. Surprised it didn't blow him right off the bridge. That's a newspaper article I'd want to read: Construction worker fell to his death carrying a full-sized Texas flag to the horror of onlookers waiting for the light to change. Maybe it should be a short story, because I don't actually want him to die for me to have an enjoyable read.
Some people from one of The Boy's job gave him a really awesome boa for his birthday. I have no idea why or what it had to do with him turning 40 (should I expect a mid-life crisis of cross-dressing cabaret singer?). It has black and red feathers with sparkly red tinsel bits. I have a dress mannequin (you know, for those days when I break out my antique Singer), which I like to dress in all the embarrassing name tags I've had to wear over the years, plus any friends' name tags. There are other items around "her," like a rope noose and my hat that I wear when I want to feel like I'm from the 1940s. Now she has a boa to adorn her. The best thing I have on the mannequin (beside the awesome boa) is a whistle that got dropped when we saw Peelander-Z at a SXSW day show last year.
Here's a video you can watch to see just how kick-ass this group is. I'm in love with the boy-girl drummer. Swoon. This is a bit of a mash-up of their songs, but it starts with Mad Tiger (where we got our new song, "Mad Whoopis, mad Whoopis"), and ends with human bowling. The whistle was dropped during this part of the show. In the video is me, The Boy and Wikus--good luck finding us! You can really hear that whistle during the end of the clip. That singer is so cute in that ugly gap-tooth way, but not cute enough to get me to make out with the whistle. I'm sure it is safe enough to blow on now, but I'm not trying it out sober.
If Peelander-Z ever comes to your town, you'd be remiss if you didn't go see them.
Will a Roomba Clean the Twit off the Carpet?
This morning I had to chip ice and frost (mainly frost) off my car's windows with my Best Buy card (come on, it's the best card to have--a minimum guaranteed 3 months of zero interest!). That was some dirty slush I got off of those windows. I have a really nice ice scraper with a brush on the other end somewhere in the garage. When the Little Red Car was totalled last May, the scraper did not make it in to the new car. I hadn't missed it until now. However, the Best Buy card was totally serviceable, just like it will be when I buy a Roomba tomorrow.
That's right. A Roomba. The Boy really wants one, and I admit, having something automatically clean the cat fur off the floor totally excites me, because those damn animals won't do it for us. They love to pull great big tufts of their hair out and leave them rolling around like softy, fluffy tumbleweeds (side note: I'm totally full-on allergic to tumbleweeds, or Russian Thistle as they are technically called). Sure, a broom would be like $2, but it seems I have to operate a broom. I can pretend I'm playing a solo game of curling with the dust bunnies as my blue hone granite stones. Since none of that sounds like fun, I am going to just go ahead with what The Boy wants. I think it is a grand idea. Those are fancy new floor, someone, erm, something has to keep them pretty.
In other news, someone who works in the same place I do, who I do not know in any way, called me and immediately sounded annoyed and harried like she had a recalcitrant child hanging off her leg:
Me: Hello?
Her: (Makes frustrated huffing-puffing noises) Hello, I need to know what's going on, with, with the, the thing...the babyshower.
Me: Excuse me (since she didn't introduce herself)?
Her: The babyshower. Are you doing the decorations?
Me: No. I have nothing to do with the babyshower.
Her: What? I need to know what's going on with it. I called B and I called J, but neither one of them are there (she seriously sounded like someone had just ran her over and drove off while flipping her the bird).
Me: Well, I'm sorry, but I have nothing to do with it.
Her: Excuse me? Nothing, you are doing NOTHING?
Me: Correct, I literally have zero involvement in it.
Her: REALLY? (So shocked, I have obviously committed a serious work-family sin.)
Me: Yes, REALLY. I have nothing to do with it, and am sorry you can't find anyone to help you right now.
The shower is on Friday for Twit. What could she possibly have her panties so tightly twisted that this stranger to me calls in a panic needing to know WHAT'S GOING ON? Seriously? Decorations? That constituted an emergency call around the building harassing people who may or may not have anything to do with a stupid fucking baby shower? Twit being pregnant has nothing to do with work, and I fail to see why I should get involved in her personal life and give her free stuff.
That's right. A Roomba. The Boy really wants one, and I admit, having something automatically clean the cat fur off the floor totally excites me, because those damn animals won't do it for us. They love to pull great big tufts of their hair out and leave them rolling around like softy, fluffy tumbleweeds (side note: I'm totally full-on allergic to tumbleweeds, or Russian Thistle as they are technically called). Sure, a broom would be like $2, but it seems I have to operate a broom. I can pretend I'm playing a solo game of curling with the dust bunnies as my blue hone granite stones. Since none of that sounds like fun, I am going to just go ahead with what The Boy wants. I think it is a grand idea. Those are fancy new floor, someone, erm, something has to keep them pretty.
In other news, someone who works in the same place I do, who I do not know in any way, called me and immediately sounded annoyed and harried like she had a recalcitrant child hanging off her leg:
Me: Hello?
Her: (Makes frustrated huffing-puffing noises) Hello, I need to know what's going on, with, with the, the thing...the babyshower.
Me: Excuse me (since she didn't introduce herself)?
Her: The babyshower. Are you doing the decorations?
Me: No. I have nothing to do with the babyshower.
Her: What? I need to know what's going on with it. I called B and I called J, but neither one of them are there (she seriously sounded like someone had just ran her over and drove off while flipping her the bird).
Me: Well, I'm sorry, but I have nothing to do with it.
Her: Excuse me? Nothing, you are doing NOTHING?
Me: Correct, I literally have zero involvement in it.
Her: REALLY? (So shocked, I have obviously committed a serious work-family sin.)
Me: Yes, REALLY. I have nothing to do with it, and am sorry you can't find anyone to help you right now.
The shower is on Friday for Twit. What could she possibly have her panties so tightly twisted that this stranger to me calls in a panic needing to know WHAT'S GOING ON? Seriously? Decorations? That constituted an emergency call around the building harassing people who may or may not have anything to do with a stupid fucking baby shower? Twit being pregnant has nothing to do with work, and I fail to see why I should get involved in her personal life and give her free stuff.
23 February 2010
Going Into His 40s With Good Colon Health In Mind
On Sunday night, after a perfect sunny day that almost reached 80º, I went ahead and dewinterized my legs. It had been weeks since I last shaved, and it took some goddamn work to get my legs smooth. Had to keep banging the razor on the side of the shower wall to clear out all those gross hairs. I felt awesome in bed that night with our 600 thread-count sheets. Monday I wore a dress (even though I walked like an idiot thanks to my sore calves), and all was well with the world.
Then comes today. The Boy's 40th birthday. And it is fucking snow. Everyone in the city is going yipee, hip-hip-hooray! Not us. This is lame. He grew up in Maine, so he's had his fill of snowy birthdays. I had to cover my legs in long-johns and corduroy pants. Annoying. Then there's all this happiness about how it is snowing, but then everyone thinks they should be let out of school and work early because of the roads. My god, the roads are wet! It's 35º and the roads have slush on them. We will never be able to get through that. We will all die in fiery wrecks. Wet, cold, slushy fiery wrecks. This thwarted our day in that IKEA closed at 2pm due to the inclement weather. This is Texas. We have thunderstorms that rock the very foundations of our house, but some fucking snow makes us happy emotionally, and petrified to actually leave the house. Sigh, so we did not get the shopping on that we had totally hoped to do.
However, we did get an Edible Arrangements fruit basket from The Boy's mom (surprisingly, it does not have any prunes in it), which is totally cool, but I have no idea where we are going to store it. Our fridge is not that big, and is full of useless, expired food. I can't make The Boy clean out the fridge on his birthday. That is just mean. I'm supposed to give him blow jobs and other hot-sex action. That totally embarrassed him if he just read that. Ha ha. It's true, though, right? I got him a kick-ass birthday present (thanks to a rock guitar god and their recording engineer), so either way, I have served him well. Now, if I only knew what I actually got him (a pre-amp [Great River] and box [API Lunchbox], which sounds really lame, but cost a shit-ton of money).
The snow is obviously melting, but it is supposed to drop in to the 20s tonight. I can only hope my office opens late tomorrow morning, but I highly doubt it. The day off was quite nice with The Boy and I hope he had a very nice (albeit low-key) birthday. The party will be Sunday night with breakfast-for-dinner and drinks. I won't make him wear all the silly old-man stuff people have given him. I'll just continue to make fun of how old he is, and how I will always be 5 years and 2.5 months younger. Brahahahaha.
Then comes today. The Boy's 40th birthday. And it is fucking snow. Everyone in the city is going yipee, hip-hip-hooray! Not us. This is lame. He grew up in Maine, so he's had his fill of snowy birthdays. I had to cover my legs in long-johns and corduroy pants. Annoying. Then there's all this happiness about how it is snowing, but then everyone thinks they should be let out of school and work early because of the roads. My god, the roads are wet! It's 35º and the roads have slush on them. We will never be able to get through that. We will all die in fiery wrecks. Wet, cold, slushy fiery wrecks. This thwarted our day in that IKEA closed at 2pm due to the inclement weather. This is Texas. We have thunderstorms that rock the very foundations of our house, but some fucking snow makes us happy emotionally, and petrified to actually leave the house. Sigh, so we did not get the shopping on that we had totally hoped to do.
However, we did get an Edible Arrangements fruit basket from The Boy's mom (surprisingly, it does not have any prunes in it), which is totally cool, but I have no idea where we are going to store it. Our fridge is not that big, and is full of useless, expired food. I can't make The Boy clean out the fridge on his birthday. That is just mean. I'm supposed to give him blow jobs and other hot-sex action. That totally embarrassed him if he just read that. Ha ha. It's true, though, right? I got him a kick-ass birthday present (thanks to a rock guitar god and their recording engineer), so either way, I have served him well. Now, if I only knew what I actually got him (a pre-amp [Great River] and box [API Lunchbox], which sounds really lame, but cost a shit-ton of money).
The snow is obviously melting, but it is supposed to drop in to the 20s tonight. I can only hope my office opens late tomorrow morning, but I highly doubt it. The day off was quite nice with The Boy and I hope he had a very nice (albeit low-key) birthday. The party will be Sunday night with breakfast-for-dinner and drinks. I won't make him wear all the silly old-man stuff people have given him. I'll just continue to make fun of how old he is, and how I will always be 5 years and 2.5 months younger. Brahahahaha.
22 February 2010
A Couple Deep-Fried Hams and a Side of Sleep, Please
The Boy is busy turning 40 in his sleep. I am uncharacteristically not sleeping, which is frustrating since it happens so rarely to me (well, it would probably be even more frustrating if this was a normal thing, the lack of sleep would probably drive me to some pretty horrible things). Compounding my inability to sleep are a) Whoopis and b) intense calf pain. Whoopis is diabetic and goes through phases of being a nice, normal nocturnal cat, to a raging wild hungry beast, who will do anything to get your attention, because dammit, he really wants a fucking deep-fried ham and some beer to go with it. Tonight he felt the need to bat at the alarm clock, which is a truly disturbing and annoying racket. I gave in, like the bad mommy I am, and gave him some kibble. A common refrain around the house is, "Oh, that ker-razy Whoopis!." Feeding him was not easy to do because my calves are on strike, so it's like I am walking on stilts with my knees. Yesterday was spent moving Wikus out of his 2nd-floor apartment and in to a 3rd-floor apartment. I held up pretty well the first 4 hours, but flagged in the fifth. That's a lot of stairs, and as we know, I'm a lover of the couch. Thank goodness I had lemon poundcake for breakfast that morning and pizza for lunch. Where else would I get all the energy I needed for the task?
Today my calves are angry, swollen and pregnant with what feels like a large rock in each leg. To get to my office I must go down one flight of parking-garage stairs, and another flight inside the building (it's a slightly odd set-up). After taking my first step, I thought it would probably be less painful to just throw myself down the stairs. The only reason I didn't was because all I could think was it would be my luck to break my neck and suffer the humility of living through it and having my dress up over my head with my large, be-pantied ass hanging out for all to see.
Sometimes I think through the plan; other times I just let boxes of water drop on my head. Today was obviously a better day for working on following common sense.
Here's Whoopis on The Boy's birthday present about a week before our floors were installed:
He's going to be so sad tomorrow when that box is opened and later broken down for recycling. All the cats have enjoyed playing King of the Mountain on it. It seemed especially timely after the Orange Lover's death--they are re-establishing their hierarchy and this box certainly helped out with that. Though, it seems that poor Bear is still on the bottom, but doesn't mind sharing the box at times with Whoopis (check out the Bear's mighty-fine whiskers):
Mattress, however, has no time for the birthday box; he's too busy trying to mind-meld with the OED (I'm assuming here that mind-melding only works when your eyes are all glowy and freaky looking):
Today my calves are angry, swollen and pregnant with what feels like a large rock in each leg. To get to my office I must go down one flight of parking-garage stairs, and another flight inside the building (it's a slightly odd set-up). After taking my first step, I thought it would probably be less painful to just throw myself down the stairs. The only reason I didn't was because all I could think was it would be my luck to break my neck and suffer the humility of living through it and having my dress up over my head with my large, be-pantied ass hanging out for all to see.
Sometimes I think through the plan; other times I just let boxes of water drop on my head. Today was obviously a better day for working on following common sense.
Here's Whoopis on The Boy's birthday present about a week before our floors were installed:
He's going to be so sad tomorrow when that box is opened and later broken down for recycling. All the cats have enjoyed playing King of the Mountain on it. It seemed especially timely after the Orange Lover's death--they are re-establishing their hierarchy and this box certainly helped out with that. Though, it seems that poor Bear is still on the bottom, but doesn't mind sharing the box at times with Whoopis (check out the Bear's mighty-fine whiskers):
Mattress, however, has no time for the birthday box; he's too busy trying to mind-meld with the OED (I'm assuming here that mind-melding only works when your eyes are all glowy and freaky looking):
20 February 2010
The Bassoon Totally Farted
Yesterday was a big day for The Boy, and a date night for me with my lovely Amazon. I so wish she knew how gorgeous she is. I'm always kind of stunned and giggly in her presence. If I was able to sneak a close-up picture of her mouth, and posted for all of you to see, you'd totally understand. She even puts on gloss just for me, that damn minx. Of course, if she reads this, she'll just cry and see how fast she can hide under the bed even though she is almost 6' tall. She's my straight-laced good friend. She totally calls me out on my bullshit and has no problem snarking it up with me during inappropriate times (like in the middle of a choral concert). We only get together about once a quarter which is such a damn shame. I haven't even seen her kids in over a year. She is so dedicated to her job and her family, that there isn't much time to squeeze non-dedicated, non-family me in to her life. I understand this but am totally greedy and want more fun times!
Ahem. Moving onward. So, last night The Boy conducted Haydn's The Creation. He did such a wonderful job, and I always get so hot for him when he's up there wiggling his ass and pointing his baton at the musicians and singers. That boy is all mine! I sometimes forget to listen to the music because I just want to grab his arm and drag him in to some backroom and have my way with him. Which, you know, if we didn't get some good money from this gig, I would totally try it, because I'm pretty sure he would totally be all about that kind of dirty trick.
This was a very long performance. It was gorgeous, but damn, why all the repeating of lines? One of my favorite local sopranos sang (who is so much better than BJ in her 1950's overcoat dress and rolling R's), and her voice is so clear and made me so sad that I cannot sing like that. Then I hated her for a second for being such a genius (music, math, computer degrees), and can wear a strapless dress in front of approximately 200 people and never once pull up on it in that obnoxious prom way that you always see women tugging at themselves. My Amazon told me that she saw BJ burning holes in the back of the star's head in the hopes she'd drop dead so BJ could save the day. Sorry, BJ, just wasn't your night.
During these choral concerts, I have a problem focusing. I love music, but I struggle with choirs. I am more interested in the orchestra, and if there's brass, then I'm all in a tizzy with excitement (I am going to suggest to The Boy that he compose a choir piece of Neutral Milk Hotel songs complete with full brass orchestra). However, when there is just a lot of singing, I start to think of a lot of "what if" scenarios. Like, what if I stood up and shouted, "Holy Suppurating Sores!" and sat back down in the pew (these shows are always in churches). Or what if I got up on the stage and started singing with my wretched strangled voice? Or squeeze The Boy's butt and ran back to my seat? The Amazon would disapprove and say, "REALLY?" at me. That is what would happen. Well, that and a lot of other things. Or I'll start thinking about things like, if I had an 'edgepig, I would name it, "Kraken."
Thankfully, I was able to control myself and didn't do anything too terrible. During the first half of the show, there was a group of people who sat behind us who I swear were doused in patchouli. One of them had a serious nasal blockage (I know, because I do, too!), and instead of breathing through his mouth, which would have been the polite thing to do, he insisted on forcing the air through his clogged sinuses. Resulting in an audible snoring sound. I gave him the stink eye, but he seemed clueless. Whoopis makes that noise when he's awake, but I don't take him out to choral shows.
I did make a few groans during a particularly vomitous part of the piece, where Adam (he's black! A black Adam!) and Eve are doing a duet, and I had to put up with this:
ADAM
Now is our duty well fulfilled, our Maker have we duly thanked. Now follow me, companion of my life! Thy guide I'll be, and every step wakes new delights within my breast, shows wonders everywhere. Then surely thou shalt know what boundless realms of joy the Lord hath given us. Him praise we evermore, Him serve with heart and mind. Come, follow me! They guide I'll be.
EVE
O thou for whom I live! My arm, my shield, my all! Thy will is duty's blessing, so doth the Lord ordain: that I should heed thee and bring you comfort is my joy and glory.
ADAM
Sweet companion! Here beside thee softly fly the golden hours. Every moment is rapture, naught of sadness lingers near.
EVE
Dearest husband! Here beside thee, floods of joy o'erflow my heart. That thou love me is my blessing; thine forever is my life.
Dear fucking lord in heaven. Really? REALLY? Shut the fuck up already Eve. Tell Adam that you'll share his life with you, and you'll do things together, but don't give him any of that "I'll follow you" bullshit. It's a partnership, not stalking. Jesus.
_____________________________
My evening was spent stocking my new bookshelves with books--not all my books, but I did pilfer some from other shelves in the house. I am very happy with my accomplishment. They look great with the floors. The Boy should be happy because it's not the mess that the old bookshelf was. This is sleek and there are just so many fucking books. I want to throw myself at them, and tell the how awesome they are and that I'll follow them forever.
____________________________
Lastly, I totally enjoyed having Waitress on in the background while working. It's such a sweetly perfect movie. I should really buy the DVD.
Tomorrow we're moving Wikus to his new apartment. I've inhaled plenty of dust tonight, and have taken a Benadryl and an Allegra. Here's to hard work and a deep sleep.
Ahem. Moving onward. So, last night The Boy conducted Haydn's The Creation. He did such a wonderful job, and I always get so hot for him when he's up there wiggling his ass and pointing his baton at the musicians and singers. That boy is all mine! I sometimes forget to listen to the music because I just want to grab his arm and drag him in to some backroom and have my way with him. Which, you know, if we didn't get some good money from this gig, I would totally try it, because I'm pretty sure he would totally be all about that kind of dirty trick.
This was a very long performance. It was gorgeous, but damn, why all the repeating of lines? One of my favorite local sopranos sang (who is so much better than BJ in her 1950's overcoat dress and rolling R's), and her voice is so clear and made me so sad that I cannot sing like that. Then I hated her for a second for being such a genius (music, math, computer degrees), and can wear a strapless dress in front of approximately 200 people and never once pull up on it in that obnoxious prom way that you always see women tugging at themselves. My Amazon told me that she saw BJ burning holes in the back of the star's head in the hopes she'd drop dead so BJ could save the day. Sorry, BJ, just wasn't your night.
During these choral concerts, I have a problem focusing. I love music, but I struggle with choirs. I am more interested in the orchestra, and if there's brass, then I'm all in a tizzy with excitement (I am going to suggest to The Boy that he compose a choir piece of Neutral Milk Hotel songs complete with full brass orchestra). However, when there is just a lot of singing, I start to think of a lot of "what if" scenarios. Like, what if I stood up and shouted, "Holy Suppurating Sores!" and sat back down in the pew (these shows are always in churches). Or what if I got up on the stage and started singing with my wretched strangled voice? Or squeeze The Boy's butt and ran back to my seat? The Amazon would disapprove and say, "REALLY?" at me. That is what would happen. Well, that and a lot of other things. Or I'll start thinking about things like, if I had an 'edgepig, I would name it, "Kraken."
Thankfully, I was able to control myself and didn't do anything too terrible. During the first half of the show, there was a group of people who sat behind us who I swear were doused in patchouli. One of them had a serious nasal blockage (I know, because I do, too!), and instead of breathing through his mouth, which would have been the polite thing to do, he insisted on forcing the air through his clogged sinuses. Resulting in an audible snoring sound. I gave him the stink eye, but he seemed clueless. Whoopis makes that noise when he's awake, but I don't take him out to choral shows.
I did make a few groans during a particularly vomitous part of the piece, where Adam (he's black! A black Adam!) and Eve are doing a duet, and I had to put up with this:
ADAM
Now is our duty well fulfilled, our Maker have we duly thanked. Now follow me, companion of my life! Thy guide I'll be, and every step wakes new delights within my breast, shows wonders everywhere. Then surely thou shalt know what boundless realms of joy the Lord hath given us. Him praise we evermore, Him serve with heart and mind. Come, follow me! They guide I'll be.
EVE
O thou for whom I live! My arm, my shield, my all! Thy will is duty's blessing, so doth the Lord ordain: that I should heed thee and bring you comfort is my joy and glory.
ADAM
Sweet companion! Here beside thee softly fly the golden hours. Every moment is rapture, naught of sadness lingers near.
EVE
Dearest husband! Here beside thee, floods of joy o'erflow my heart. That thou love me is my blessing; thine forever is my life.
Dear fucking lord in heaven. Really? REALLY? Shut the fuck up already Eve. Tell Adam that you'll share his life with you, and you'll do things together, but don't give him any of that "I'll follow you" bullshit. It's a partnership, not stalking. Jesus.
_____________________________
My evening was spent stocking my new bookshelves with books--not all my books, but I did pilfer some from other shelves in the house. I am very happy with my accomplishment. They look great with the floors. The Boy should be happy because it's not the mess that the old bookshelf was. This is sleek and there are just so many fucking books. I want to throw myself at them, and tell the how awesome they are and that I'll follow them forever.
____________________________
Lastly, I totally enjoyed having Waitress on in the background while working. It's such a sweetly perfect movie. I should really buy the DVD.
Tomorrow we're moving Wikus to his new apartment. I've inhaled plenty of dust tonight, and have taken a Benadryl and an Allegra. Here's to hard work and a deep sleep.
19 February 2010
Lurking Small-Talkers in the Teachers' Lounge
It's another rainy Friday, which most mean another tutoring day. It seems to rain a lot when I have to tutor, which also means there are no parking spaces in the school's tiny lot. However, today there were plenty of spaces (nevermind the fact I had to park twice because I still cannot manage to park my car correctly even though I've had it for 9 months now). Who knows what was going on, but I was actually the first one there, and got to claim the big purple lounge chair as my very own (it could probably fit two of me, which makes it a particularly special chair for the overweight). As other volunteers started filling in to the teachers' lounge, I read my book in a way to discourage discourse with me. I hate fraternizing with the other volunteers. It is so awkward.
Today there was a new volunteer; a creepy, leathery geriatric with a voice that sounded like he had watched too many cowboy movies in his youth. He tried to chat me up, but I smiled vaguely and held my book up higher. Can't people see that a book represents a wall between me and you? Thus, he was forced to chat with another volunteer who sat down at his table. Seemed they had met previously and this is what they had to say to each other:
Geriatric: Hello there, (volunteer name, that I didn't catch and should probably know)!
Lady: Hi. Good memory. You're...Jim!
Geriatric: No. That won't do. It's Dan.
Lady: Oh. I knew it was three letters.
Lady: My daughter's boyfriend's name is Dan. He's a really good guy.
Geriatric: Is he in school?
Lady: No. Not even close.
Geriatric: Is he the marrying type?
Lady: No, I don't think so. But neither is my daughter.
Geriatric: I didn't think I was until I was 42.
Lady: Well, they may just not be the type.
Lady: Or they could just be late bloomers.
I bet the daughter would totally slash her own throat if she had heard this conversation. That her mom's prowessness at small talk is to use someone's name as a lead in to a conversation about her daughter's boyfriend. And then completely not plotz at all when this almost-stranger-whose-name-is-not-Jim point-blank asks if this boyfriend is the marrying type. How fucking intrusive and odd! It was almost like they were flirting with how easy this all rolled out of their mouths. Tee hee. Marrying. Geez, shucks.
Let's just go make recalcitrant pre-teens read generic age-appropriate hand-outs with many typos already. Gawd.
___________________________
For the first time in the year I have been with this company, all the stalls but one were filled in the ladies' bathroom on my floor. I nabbed the handicap stall--as far as I am aware, there is no disabled person in the building (well, not physically disabled in any visible way, and we certainly have mentally disabled people, and I'm not just making a joke there). While doing my business, there was another lady in a stall who kept coughing in an attempt to cover her pooping noises. I find that coughing only leads to more farting, and doesn't really cover up any sounds. She should have just sat there holding her poo until we all had cleared out if she was that embarrassed. When I went to wash my hands, the pooper ended up being this really whacko lady in PR, who enthusiastically greeted me with a "HEY YOU!" as I washed my hands. That is so inappropriate. I couldn't scrub off my anger, and was left to stew at my desk for the rest of the afternoon.
Today there was a new volunteer; a creepy, leathery geriatric with a voice that sounded like he had watched too many cowboy movies in his youth. He tried to chat me up, but I smiled vaguely and held my book up higher. Can't people see that a book represents a wall between me and you? Thus, he was forced to chat with another volunteer who sat down at his table. Seemed they had met previously and this is what they had to say to each other:
Geriatric: Hello there, (volunteer name, that I didn't catch and should probably know)!
Lady: Hi. Good memory. You're...Jim!
Geriatric: No. That won't do. It's Dan.
Lady: Oh. I knew it was three letters.
Lady: My daughter's boyfriend's name is Dan. He's a really good guy.
Geriatric: Is he in school?
Lady: No. Not even close.
Geriatric: Is he the marrying type?
Lady: No, I don't think so. But neither is my daughter.
Geriatric: I didn't think I was until I was 42.
Lady: Well, they may just not be the type.
Lady: Or they could just be late bloomers.
I bet the daughter would totally slash her own throat if she had heard this conversation. That her mom's prowessness at small talk is to use someone's name as a lead in to a conversation about her daughter's boyfriend. And then completely not plotz at all when this almost-stranger-whose-name-is-not-Jim point-blank asks if this boyfriend is the marrying type. How fucking intrusive and odd! It was almost like they were flirting with how easy this all rolled out of their mouths. Tee hee. Marrying. Geez, shucks.
Let's just go make recalcitrant pre-teens read generic age-appropriate hand-outs with many typos already. Gawd.
___________________________
For the first time in the year I have been with this company, all the stalls but one were filled in the ladies' bathroom on my floor. I nabbed the handicap stall--as far as I am aware, there is no disabled person in the building (well, not physically disabled in any visible way, and we certainly have mentally disabled people, and I'm not just making a joke there). While doing my business, there was another lady in a stall who kept coughing in an attempt to cover her pooping noises. I find that coughing only leads to more farting, and doesn't really cover up any sounds. She should have just sat there holding her poo until we all had cleared out if she was that embarrassed. When I went to wash my hands, the pooper ended up being this really whacko lady in PR, who enthusiastically greeted me with a "HEY YOU!" as I washed my hands. That is so inappropriate. I couldn't scrub off my anger, and was left to stew at my desk for the rest of the afternoon.
18 February 2010
A Day of Suffering Several Indignities
An Entry in the Annals of TMI
Some of you may roll over and die for a few minutes after reading this, but dammit, my tampon today was irritating the fuck out of me. It was basically all I could think about all day, and most of my day was stuck in a long meeting. A meeting where I really didn't have anything to contribute, other than nudging people back on track every once in a while. Tampon irritation isn't quite agony; it's something you think you can deal with, like a pebble in your shoe. Then you realize, that you are going to start killing kittens and shoving people in front of large buses if that tampon can't be shoved further up me and stop rubbing against my vag opening. Side note: Did you know that the "vaginal opening" is called the vestibule of the vagina
Around 5:45pm I was finally able to fix this horrible problem. It took less than two seconds for instant relief. Now I can't even tell I have a tampon in me. This is the amazing power of the vagina, and it goes to show you why no woman cares how long your dick is, because once the dick is past our vestibule we can no longer feel it that well. That should be a PSA on television...The More You Know...
Then The Humiliation
While checking myself out in the bathroom mirror, feeling good that I had finally solved my terrible problem, I noticed a strange pucker in the back of my dress right on my ass. At first I'm like, hmmm, slip must have gotten bunched up, but nooooo, it was a fucking hole at the bottom of the zipper; therefore, a hole directly in the middle of my asscrack. Several thoughts ran through my head, first and most importantly that I was thankful that not only was I wearing underwear but tights and a slip. Then the mind gibbering: when did this happen, how'd it happen, is my ass too big, has everyone all fucking day long been staring at my ass and giggling, was there a hole there the other times I have worn this dress, have I really been going around with a fucking one-inch hole over my buttcrack? Heavy breathing, panicky eye twitching, walking in a way that I hope diminishes the sight of the hole, but probably just makes me look even weirder. Good fucking lord. A hole in the butt of my dress. Geez.
The Ultimate in Stupidity
Completely out of groceries, I was determined to be good and go to the grocery store. BUT I HAVE A HOLE IN MY DRESS AND THERE'S NOTHING TO HIDE IT WITH! Should I skip it and go some other day, like, next week? Just starve and maybe lose weight in my huge ass that might cause holes in the seams of my dresses? I felt I would not let that hole get the best of me! Especially since without knowing it, I had been walking around all day with that hole. I had visited many floors and gone to an off-site meeting. What could possibly happen at the grocery store that would make it worse?
Oh, I know, drop a fucking 12-can box of canned bubbly water on my face. No problem. I can do that. Do you want me to have it crash in to my temple and barely miss my left eye? I can do that, too. Do you want me to do it because I don't have that handle on physics like I was bragging about just a couple of days ago?
I tried to make it the grocery store's fault for a few moments there as I was staggering and holding tentatively to consciousness and desperately trying to look like nothing horribly moronic just happened. It is their fault in that they stacked the 12-can boxes on the top shelf (I am 5'3", and that shelf had to be at least 5'10"), and not only were they on the top shelf, they were stacked 4 boxes high. If it was only one level of boxes, I could handle that easily (though, I was thinking about how I would probably tear the fucking hole in my dress even more). There I am, 5'3", staring up at a tower of boxed bubbly water. I devised a strategy that I thought would limit injury. I moved the boxes of water out of the way that I did not want (but would have been easier to obtain, but they weren't citrusy flavored). Then I moved the third and fourth level boxes in a way that I hoped would make them fall sideways to the right. It went off flawlessly in that those boxes fell exactly where I expected them to. While watching the beauty of my plan in action, I noticed a bit too late that the 2nd-tier box was falling on me. I had enough time to avert my face to I wouldn't lose an eye or break my nose. Leaving me with a fucking contusion. A huge welt with a nice hole in my temple. Two holes in one day! At least I know when this one happened. I couldn't believe that I wasn't knocked out (could I sue the grocery store then?). I just stood there acting like I was really looking over my water options. This must be how Whoopis feels when he falls off of the table, and acts like it never happened.
I finally toddled off, painfully aware of the throb in my temple, trying to pull my hair to cover the area, and thinking that I fucking have a hole in my dress that everyone could see.
It was almost all made better when I saw a skinny nervous teenager stalking various aisles to slowly find his way to the condoms. That was satisfying. I hope he found the courage within to buy some. Then I got to drive home through a gorgeous pink sunset. At least no one could see my welt, my hole and know that I suffered a too-low tampon all day when I was unloading the groceries. And there's a boy out there who may be ready to have some safe sex.
Some of you may roll over and die for a few minutes after reading this, but dammit, my tampon today was irritating the fuck out of me. It was basically all I could think about all day, and most of my day was stuck in a long meeting. A meeting where I really didn't have anything to contribute, other than nudging people back on track every once in a while. Tampon irritation isn't quite agony; it's something you think you can deal with, like a pebble in your shoe. Then you realize, that you are going to start killing kittens and shoving people in front of large buses if that tampon can't be shoved further up me and stop rubbing against my vag opening. Side note: Did you know that the "vaginal opening" is called the vestibule of the vagina
Around 5:45pm I was finally able to fix this horrible problem. It took less than two seconds for instant relief. Now I can't even tell I have a tampon in me. This is the amazing power of the vagina, and it goes to show you why no woman cares how long your dick is, because once the dick is past our vestibule we can no longer feel it that well. That should be a PSA on television...The More You Know...
Then The Humiliation
While checking myself out in the bathroom mirror, feeling good that I had finally solved my terrible problem, I noticed a strange pucker in the back of my dress right on my ass. At first I'm like, hmmm, slip must have gotten bunched up, but nooooo, it was a fucking hole at the bottom of the zipper; therefore, a hole directly in the middle of my asscrack. Several thoughts ran through my head, first and most importantly that I was thankful that not only was I wearing underwear but tights and a slip. Then the mind gibbering: when did this happen, how'd it happen, is my ass too big, has everyone all fucking day long been staring at my ass and giggling, was there a hole there the other times I have worn this dress, have I really been going around with a fucking one-inch hole over my buttcrack? Heavy breathing, panicky eye twitching, walking in a way that I hope diminishes the sight of the hole, but probably just makes me look even weirder. Good fucking lord. A hole in the butt of my dress. Geez.
The Ultimate in Stupidity
Completely out of groceries, I was determined to be good and go to the grocery store. BUT I HAVE A HOLE IN MY DRESS AND THERE'S NOTHING TO HIDE IT WITH! Should I skip it and go some other day, like, next week? Just starve and maybe lose weight in my huge ass that might cause holes in the seams of my dresses? I felt I would not let that hole get the best of me! Especially since without knowing it, I had been walking around all day with that hole. I had visited many floors and gone to an off-site meeting. What could possibly happen at the grocery store that would make it worse?
Oh, I know, drop a fucking 12-can box of canned bubbly water on my face. No problem. I can do that. Do you want me to have it crash in to my temple and barely miss my left eye? I can do that, too. Do you want me to do it because I don't have that handle on physics like I was bragging about just a couple of days ago?
I tried to make it the grocery store's fault for a few moments there as I was staggering and holding tentatively to consciousness and desperately trying to look like nothing horribly moronic just happened. It is their fault in that they stacked the 12-can boxes on the top shelf (I am 5'3", and that shelf had to be at least 5'10"), and not only were they on the top shelf, they were stacked 4 boxes high. If it was only one level of boxes, I could handle that easily (though, I was thinking about how I would probably tear the fucking hole in my dress even more). There I am, 5'3", staring up at a tower of boxed bubbly water. I devised a strategy that I thought would limit injury. I moved the boxes of water out of the way that I did not want (but would have been easier to obtain, but they weren't citrusy flavored). Then I moved the third and fourth level boxes in a way that I hoped would make them fall sideways to the right. It went off flawlessly in that those boxes fell exactly where I expected them to. While watching the beauty of my plan in action, I noticed a bit too late that the 2nd-tier box was falling on me. I had enough time to avert my face to I wouldn't lose an eye or break my nose. Leaving me with a fucking contusion. A huge welt with a nice hole in my temple. Two holes in one day! At least I know when this one happened. I couldn't believe that I wasn't knocked out (could I sue the grocery store then?). I just stood there acting like I was really looking over my water options. This must be how Whoopis feels when he falls off of the table, and acts like it never happened.
I finally toddled off, painfully aware of the throb in my temple, trying to pull my hair to cover the area, and thinking that I fucking have a hole in my dress that everyone could see.
It was almost all made better when I saw a skinny nervous teenager stalking various aisles to slowly find his way to the condoms. That was satisfying. I hope he found the courage within to buy some. Then I got to drive home through a gorgeous pink sunset. At least no one could see my welt, my hole and know that I suffered a too-low tampon all day when I was unloading the groceries. And there's a boy out there who may be ready to have some safe sex.
17 February 2010
Inappropriate Facial Expressions While Drilling
Extremely bad sinus problems. Called in sick (yet again). Was in bed until 3pm, and had hot chocolate and a bagel dog for lunch. You can't beat a hot dog wrapped in a bagel to make me smile.
Our hardwood floors are installed, in look so fucking gorgeous, that if I felt better, I would stare at my reflection in them. Wikus helped me put together 3 large bookcases, and when I think my body can handle the dust, I will put so many books on them. It will be glorious. A wall of books. That's something to make love to right there. We made some bets on which cat would totally slide out on the new floors. We couldn't decide who would be first, but felt Mattress would be the most upset, and Whoopis the most excited and nonchalant about it.
While the floors were being installed yesterday (or rather, while I sat around babysitting the workers and inhaling a half-ton of dust), a Grande contractor showed up to install our phone and internet. This was supposed to be the best moment in my life. A divorce and a new relationship all at once. However, the man who showed up was frightening and inept. He looked like someone from the depression who had gone west to pan for gold. Then he got frozen in time, and when he came awake in the 2000s, he decided to work for a communications company and install phone, internet and cable for people. I won't go in to the details--I can't bear to live through it again. He was here for FIVE HOURS. The Boy was very relieved that Wikus came over to keep me company while a crazy Ol' Codger was on the loose. We got in to a few arguments, and he had to call in back up (in the form of a young friendly black man with a gold-capped front tooth). I came to the realization that this was the man's first day on the job. Maybe he was more cut out for gold panning. I wish I had a picture of him with his foot-long drill bit in the wall, staring at me while pushing the bit through. Like an old man fucking the wall and using me for inspiration. Ugh.
The worst part is I wasn't even able to get the internet to work until today! Not an auspicious start. Please say it gets better from here. Imagine being driven back to AT&T!
Watching a show about pregnant obese women. Where's the show about pregnant anorexics? Obese people get all the love. I'm going to go make chocolate chip cookies and ponder how I can get my own television show.
Our hardwood floors are installed, in look so fucking gorgeous, that if I felt better, I would stare at my reflection in them. Wikus helped me put together 3 large bookcases, and when I think my body can handle the dust, I will put so many books on them. It will be glorious. A wall of books. That's something to make love to right there. We made some bets on which cat would totally slide out on the new floors. We couldn't decide who would be first, but felt Mattress would be the most upset, and Whoopis the most excited and nonchalant about it.
While the floors were being installed yesterday (or rather, while I sat around babysitting the workers and inhaling a half-ton of dust), a Grande contractor showed up to install our phone and internet. This was supposed to be the best moment in my life. A divorce and a new relationship all at once. However, the man who showed up was frightening and inept. He looked like someone from the depression who had gone west to pan for gold. Then he got frozen in time, and when he came awake in the 2000s, he decided to work for a communications company and install phone, internet and cable for people. I won't go in to the details--I can't bear to live through it again. He was here for FIVE HOURS. The Boy was very relieved that Wikus came over to keep me company while a crazy Ol' Codger was on the loose. We got in to a few arguments, and he had to call in back up (in the form of a young friendly black man with a gold-capped front tooth). I came to the realization that this was the man's first day on the job. Maybe he was more cut out for gold panning. I wish I had a picture of him with his foot-long drill bit in the wall, staring at me while pushing the bit through. Like an old man fucking the wall and using me for inspiration. Ugh.
The worst part is I wasn't even able to get the internet to work until today! Not an auspicious start. Please say it gets better from here. Imagine being driven back to AT&T!
Watching a show about pregnant obese women. Where's the show about pregnant anorexics? Obese people get all the love. I'm going to go make chocolate chip cookies and ponder how I can get my own television show.
15 February 2010
All For the Love of Hardwood Floors
Travails of shopping over the past few days, all with the installation of hardwood floors in mind:
Home Depot
Wikus and I made a quick run to the Home Despot (ha, we're so lame) to get a copy of his key, so I would have access to his apartment while my hardwood floors were being installed (I have President's Day off, so I couldn't avoid the dust by going to work).
The particular Home Depot we went to is shiny new and everything is out of order from the Home Depot that was closed down a few blocks up the road to make way for this one. We were good and asked where the key-making station was at. Once found, it was unattended, and I was scrutinizing the machines, and was saying out loud that I was pretty sure that I could make a key in under three attempts. I looked up to see if Wikus found this to be a good idea (he is way taller than me), and I see this Home Depot clerk totally lurking behind Wikus and giving me the stink eye. I stared at him, expecting, oh, I don't know, perhaps a "can I help you with something?" He totally wasn't going to bite, so I finally said, "Yes, we'd like a key made." I said it rather politely, if not a little pointedly, and he grunted, rolled his eyes, made some gestures at some other Home Depot clerk who just passed him to go down an aisle. It was this pantomime that suggested, Don't you know that I don't do keys, gawd. Then he scampered off and retrieved the other clerk, who was very polite to us and made the key. Gawd!
Einstein's
Shit, I've become one of those women. Someone who is totally creating a traffic jam at the cash register, because she doesn't have shit remotely together. Ugh. I was at Einstein's to get The Boy a coffee and bagel, since he is locked in the house all day while the floors are being installed. I do not particularly like Einstein's, and really hate the lay out of the place. I am also a crazy ninny who does not like going places by herself. Yes, I am in my mid-thirties and totally need my hand held, or at least let me sit in the car while you go in and get things for me (or us). However, this was something I obviously had to do to be considered a nice and good lady friend. Then there I was, struggling to find something to pay the cashier. Nothing in my wallet. Fish around in my bag some more and found my debit card and driver's license floating freely. Pay the lady, then I felt the need to put the cards back in my wallet but was having difficulty for whatever reason accomplishing this. Bag kept slipping off my shoulder, was trying to hold a cup in one hand while forcing my license behind the plastic window of the wallet, while totally freaking out over what a poor job I was doing, and was anyone annoyed, because dammit, I'm totally annoyed with me. Jesus. I practically ran out of there. The cashier was very nice and just stared blandly at me the whole time. I appreciate that. If I had been her, I would have said, "Ma'm, do you mind doing that over there away from the rest of the paying customers?" I've done my time in retail, I know how horrible I was as a customer today.
IKEA
The Boy has a totally different way of looking at bookcases than I do. I like them to be messy with books all which way, and decorated with various items, like toys, cards, small and large figurines, whatever random shit I put on them. This gives The Boy messy brain, and he feels it enables him to be messy with the rest of the house (oh, the piles of papers he can create). The bookcase I had in the living room was not very conducive to a neat orderly style. It was totally open--just boards on metal braces. It is very pretty, but also very easy for books to fall off the sides, especially when the cats would get up there and knock them over to the ground with kitty glee.
I decided to go to IKEA and drop some serious money on enclosed bookcases. I came up with a pleasing design (different widths and heights), and got over my ridiculous anxiety of shopping alone. The nice thing about IKEA is in the warehouse section, they have computers that help you locate the aisle and bin number of the furniture, if you do not feel the particular need to walk the whole maze to find the items, and write down this information. That's my style of shopping--the dash and grab (and pay). Since I do not enjoy meandering about browsing while avoiding the dumbfucks who standing in your way, as if their ass is the only person allowed in the store (breathe...), I felt staying in the warehouse was the best way to go. I looked up my items, one was in stock but not in the right color. Which was sad for various reasons, but then I decided to not let this foul my plans. I got the item (two) in white, and plan on spraying painting them a lovely turquoise blue (the walls are red, and turquoise and red is such an awesome color combination).
The next part was a hilarious dance of me struggling with a cart and the various boxes I needed. Some were totally easy to grab and maneuver on to the cart; the others, um, well, it took some thinking and a working knowledge of physics. I managed to finagle five of the boxes on to my cart without causing any serious injury to my internal organs (I do expect bruises on my groin and thighs). The last box was the heaviest at 74lbs. It was also around 7' long. There was a lot of tugging. A lot of sighing. A lot of wishing I wasn't wearing a sweatshirt and a coat. There was some desperate glancing around with my eyes to see if I could find a yellow-shirted IKEA employee. Finally one came by and he looked me up and down in my struggles--he totally was not planning on coming my way, he had more important places to be, and I understood that, but this thing weighed 67% of my body weight (I did the math!). I vainly tugged some more while staring deep in to his eyes with my sad, help-me face, and he turns on heel, walks over and says brightly, "Need some help there!" Oh, that's the way you want to play it, young man. Fine. I'll let you totally do that because I am out of energy to get sassy with you. Obviously I need help--look at me, look at that box. I don't give pathetic eyes out to anyone. Luckily, it took him some effort to put it on my cart.
Then self-check out. My scanner wasn't working. The cashier lady (who stands at the self-check out to make sure none of us steal anything) had to come over and futz with the scanner to get it to work. Finally we got it all together and off to my car I went. Yes, car. No truck or van. Car. More shoving, groaning, pushing, finagling. More physics using the cart and floor of hatchback as leverage. And, dammit, I got all six boxes in there by my little self. When I left, I was told there would be IKEA employees outside to help load cars. Bullshit. And since I am such a strong woman of pint size, I did it. All. By. My. Motherfucking. Self. Two of the boxes were about 2" too long, and therefore I had to twine the hood to stay down while I drove 70mph down I35. I totally made up the procedure on how to do that. I used a lot of twines and knots. I own a beautiful knot book, which I sadly did not bring with me. So my knots were probably pathetically wimpy; yet, the held the 20 miles to get home.
The Boy, a bit begrudgingly (he does have an upper-respiratory infection) helped me unload the boxes to the backyard. Why the backyard? Because the flooring people just didn't expect that 1968 linoleum to be really that hard to scrape off the concrete. I did. Which is totally why I would not let The Boy do this as a DIY project. The flooring people now have to come back tomorrow to finish. Fuckers.
Home Depot
Wikus and I made a quick run to the Home Despot (ha, we're so lame) to get a copy of his key, so I would have access to his apartment while my hardwood floors were being installed (I have President's Day off, so I couldn't avoid the dust by going to work).
The particular Home Depot we went to is shiny new and everything is out of order from the Home Depot that was closed down a few blocks up the road to make way for this one. We were good and asked where the key-making station was at. Once found, it was unattended, and I was scrutinizing the machines, and was saying out loud that I was pretty sure that I could make a key in under three attempts. I looked up to see if Wikus found this to be a good idea (he is way taller than me), and I see this Home Depot clerk totally lurking behind Wikus and giving me the stink eye. I stared at him, expecting, oh, I don't know, perhaps a "can I help you with something?" He totally wasn't going to bite, so I finally said, "Yes, we'd like a key made." I said it rather politely, if not a little pointedly, and he grunted, rolled his eyes, made some gestures at some other Home Depot clerk who just passed him to go down an aisle. It was this pantomime that suggested, Don't you know that I don't do keys, gawd. Then he scampered off and retrieved the other clerk, who was very polite to us and made the key. Gawd!
Einstein's
Shit, I've become one of those women. Someone who is totally creating a traffic jam at the cash register, because she doesn't have shit remotely together. Ugh. I was at Einstein's to get The Boy a coffee and bagel, since he is locked in the house all day while the floors are being installed. I do not particularly like Einstein's, and really hate the lay out of the place. I am also a crazy ninny who does not like going places by herself. Yes, I am in my mid-thirties and totally need my hand held, or at least let me sit in the car while you go in and get things for me (or us). However, this was something I obviously had to do to be considered a nice and good lady friend. Then there I was, struggling to find something to pay the cashier. Nothing in my wallet. Fish around in my bag some more and found my debit card and driver's license floating freely. Pay the lady, then I felt the need to put the cards back in my wallet but was having difficulty for whatever reason accomplishing this. Bag kept slipping off my shoulder, was trying to hold a cup in one hand while forcing my license behind the plastic window of the wallet, while totally freaking out over what a poor job I was doing, and was anyone annoyed, because dammit, I'm totally annoyed with me. Jesus. I practically ran out of there. The cashier was very nice and just stared blandly at me the whole time. I appreciate that. If I had been her, I would have said, "Ma'm, do you mind doing that over there away from the rest of the paying customers?" I've done my time in retail, I know how horrible I was as a customer today.
IKEA
The Boy has a totally different way of looking at bookcases than I do. I like them to be messy with books all which way, and decorated with various items, like toys, cards, small and large figurines, whatever random shit I put on them. This gives The Boy messy brain, and he feels it enables him to be messy with the rest of the house (oh, the piles of papers he can create). The bookcase I had in the living room was not very conducive to a neat orderly style. It was totally open--just boards on metal braces. It is very pretty, but also very easy for books to fall off the sides, especially when the cats would get up there and knock them over to the ground with kitty glee.
I decided to go to IKEA and drop some serious money on enclosed bookcases. I came up with a pleasing design (different widths and heights), and got over my ridiculous anxiety of shopping alone. The nice thing about IKEA is in the warehouse section, they have computers that help you locate the aisle and bin number of the furniture, if you do not feel the particular need to walk the whole maze to find the items, and write down this information. That's my style of shopping--the dash and grab (and pay). Since I do not enjoy meandering about browsing while avoiding the dumbfucks who standing in your way, as if their ass is the only person allowed in the store (breathe...), I felt staying in the warehouse was the best way to go. I looked up my items, one was in stock but not in the right color. Which was sad for various reasons, but then I decided to not let this foul my plans. I got the item (two) in white, and plan on spraying painting them a lovely turquoise blue (the walls are red, and turquoise and red is such an awesome color combination).
The next part was a hilarious dance of me struggling with a cart and the various boxes I needed. Some were totally easy to grab and maneuver on to the cart; the others, um, well, it took some thinking and a working knowledge of physics. I managed to finagle five of the boxes on to my cart without causing any serious injury to my internal organs (I do expect bruises on my groin and thighs). The last box was the heaviest at 74lbs. It was also around 7' long. There was a lot of tugging. A lot of sighing. A lot of wishing I wasn't wearing a sweatshirt and a coat. There was some desperate glancing around with my eyes to see if I could find a yellow-shirted IKEA employee. Finally one came by and he looked me up and down in my struggles--he totally was not planning on coming my way, he had more important places to be, and I understood that, but this thing weighed 67% of my body weight (I did the math!). I vainly tugged some more while staring deep in to his eyes with my sad, help-me face, and he turns on heel, walks over and says brightly, "Need some help there!" Oh, that's the way you want to play it, young man. Fine. I'll let you totally do that because I am out of energy to get sassy with you. Obviously I need help--look at me, look at that box. I don't give pathetic eyes out to anyone. Luckily, it took him some effort to put it on my cart.
Then self-check out. My scanner wasn't working. The cashier lady (who stands at the self-check out to make sure none of us steal anything) had to come over and futz with the scanner to get it to work. Finally we got it all together and off to my car I went. Yes, car. No truck or van. Car. More shoving, groaning, pushing, finagling. More physics using the cart and floor of hatchback as leverage. And, dammit, I got all six boxes in there by my little self. When I left, I was told there would be IKEA employees outside to help load cars. Bullshit. And since I am such a strong woman of pint size, I did it. All. By. My. Motherfucking. Self. Two of the boxes were about 2" too long, and therefore I had to twine the hood to stay down while I drove 70mph down I35. I totally made up the procedure on how to do that. I used a lot of twines and knots. I own a beautiful knot book, which I sadly did not bring with me. So my knots were probably pathetically wimpy; yet, the held the 20 miles to get home.
The Boy, a bit begrudgingly (he does have an upper-respiratory infection) helped me unload the boxes to the backyard. Why the backyard? Because the flooring people just didn't expect that 1968 linoleum to be really that hard to scrape off the concrete. I did. Which is totally why I would not let The Boy do this as a DIY project. The flooring people now have to come back tomorrow to finish. Fuckers.
14 February 2010
A Heart-Shaped Box of Dust Bunnies
Spent the past two hours trying to get the internet to work. Thanks AT&T! Who, by the way, never showed up this past Tuesday (it is Sunday for your time reference) and the phone sometimes rings now, but no one can hear what we're saying. Grande better fucking deliver me some consistent internet come Tuesday!
Who's going to try the Flirty Girl Fitness Pole with me? Now is the time to have some pole fun. I'm in the midst of totally emptying the livingroom. I must take many breaks due to all the dust. And to appease my laziness. With an empty livingroom that is soon to be covered in lovely butterscotch hardwood flooring, it is the perfect time to install a Flirty Girl Fitness Pole. Please come help me unlock my inner diva (I totally originally wrote "demon" instead of "diva").
Since it has been so damn cold here lately, I brought my succulents inside to bathe in the light of ET's terrarium. Two of the three cats came by to give them a good healthy sniff. I thought that was as far as it would go considering they are cactus, and therefore covered in sharp prickly bits. Part of my succulent collections are some hens-and-chicks, which are not sharp and prickly. Of course wily Whoopis figured this out, and took a nice bite out of one of the chicks. So rude! I have no idea if he managed to swallow anything, but Whoopis immediately started puking thick white foam all over the carpet (go for it Whoopis--ruin that nasty carpet, it is so getting ripped up on Monday). I made the appropriate sympathizing noises and petted him, and thinking to myself, well, that's nature's way of telling you, "Don't Eat Me!" Lesson learned and all that. Oh, no, not tenacious Whoopis. He went right back over to the hen-and-chicks and tried again, with the same results. This is a cat who knows how to turn doorknobs. I had higher expectations.
At some unholy hour this morning, I was jerked out of my sleep by what sounded like one hell of a kegger going on at one of the houses behind me. It was in the 30s last night. What the fuck were they doing outside drinking and singing? Did a frat move in behind us? Not even remotely acceptable. My strong constitution for not being awake totally won over, but it took awhile.
Wikus reports that the grocery store is mostly empty except for "a few dorks purchasing their grocery-store-quality declarations of undying love." Myself, I prefer my love to come from Walgreens. Thankfully, The Boy understands my distaste of Valentine's Day, and we probably won't even acknowledge it as we grunt and push the organ in to the kitchen; same goes with ET's tank, because hot damn that fucker is heavy with sand. Nothing says "I love you" like dust bunnies and heavy lifting.
Who's going to try the Flirty Girl Fitness Pole with me? Now is the time to have some pole fun. I'm in the midst of totally emptying the livingroom. I must take many breaks due to all the dust. And to appease my laziness. With an empty livingroom that is soon to be covered in lovely butterscotch hardwood flooring, it is the perfect time to install a Flirty Girl Fitness Pole. Please come help me unlock my inner diva (I totally originally wrote "demon" instead of "diva").
Since it has been so damn cold here lately, I brought my succulents inside to bathe in the light of ET's terrarium. Two of the three cats came by to give them a good healthy sniff. I thought that was as far as it would go considering they are cactus, and therefore covered in sharp prickly bits. Part of my succulent collections are some hens-and-chicks, which are not sharp and prickly. Of course wily Whoopis figured this out, and took a nice bite out of one of the chicks. So rude! I have no idea if he managed to swallow anything, but Whoopis immediately started puking thick white foam all over the carpet (go for it Whoopis--ruin that nasty carpet, it is so getting ripped up on Monday). I made the appropriate sympathizing noises and petted him, and thinking to myself, well, that's nature's way of telling you, "Don't Eat Me!" Lesson learned and all that. Oh, no, not tenacious Whoopis. He went right back over to the hen-and-chicks and tried again, with the same results. This is a cat who knows how to turn doorknobs. I had higher expectations.
At some unholy hour this morning, I was jerked out of my sleep by what sounded like one hell of a kegger going on at one of the houses behind me. It was in the 30s last night. What the fuck were they doing outside drinking and singing? Did a frat move in behind us? Not even remotely acceptable. My strong constitution for not being awake totally won over, but it took awhile.
Wikus reports that the grocery store is mostly empty except for "a few dorks purchasing their grocery-store-quality declarations of undying love." Myself, I prefer my love to come from Walgreens. Thankfully, The Boy understands my distaste of Valentine's Day, and we probably won't even acknowledge it as we grunt and push the organ in to the kitchen; same goes with ET's tank, because hot damn that fucker is heavy with sand. Nothing says "I love you" like dust bunnies and heavy lifting.
12 February 2010
If Only I Could Carry Stephin Merritt in My Pocket
Dearie me, chickens, I somehow had no idea about this until I read Neil Gaiman's blog this morning:
One really has to wonder where I've been to have missed it. I'm on the House of Tomorrow's mailing list, for fuck's sake. Grrr. Sadly I never buy SXSW tix, so I won't be able to watch it--I only do free day shows and get silly drunk and try to cut in the bathroom line at crowded coffee shops by batting my eyes.
There's a sneak preview of it in San Francisco on the 28th. If I wasn't already throwing a breakfast-for-dinner party and a birthday party for The Boy, my ass might have just flown up there for that (and some Frijole and Fink-Nottle action).
I wonder if it will be as titillating as watching Britta Phillips (Jem!) and Dean Wareham get all sexy with each other in Tell Me Do You Miss Me. That was downright shocking. Dean is not a man who you'd think would let his guard down and even show an emotion like grabbing his lady on to his lap. Whoo. I think I'll faint if I see Stephin Merritt get cuddly with someone without at least having something snarky to say while doing it.
One really has to wonder where I've been to have missed it. I'm on the House of Tomorrow's mailing list, for fuck's sake. Grrr. Sadly I never buy SXSW tix, so I won't be able to watch it--I only do free day shows and get silly drunk and try to cut in the bathroom line at crowded coffee shops by batting my eyes.
There's a sneak preview of it in San Francisco on the 28th. If I wasn't already throwing a breakfast-for-dinner party and a birthday party for The Boy, my ass might have just flown up there for that (and some Frijole and Fink-Nottle action).
I wonder if it will be as titillating as watching Britta Phillips (Jem!) and Dean Wareham get all sexy with each other in Tell Me Do You Miss Me. That was downright shocking. Dean is not a man who you'd think would let his guard down and even show an emotion like grabbing his lady on to his lap. Whoo. I think I'll faint if I see Stephin Merritt get cuddly with someone without at least having something snarky to say while doing it.
11 February 2010
Google's Dinner Menu: Molly Ringwald's Sausage Neck
The one thing you can count on each year, is that WE or Oxygen will show a marathon of happily-ever-after movies; one of them being Pretty in Pink. Surprisingly, I do not own any John Hughes movies. Thus, when I stumble across one on television, I generally stop and watch. Maybe not the whole thing, but at least until certain favorite parts have been hit. The first 40 or so minutes of Pretty in Pink are the best in the movie. My love for Annie Potts as a teenager was so immense, and I can still watch her in absolute fascination. She and Jon Cryer are total scene stealers. Is there really anything better than watching Duckie dance to Otis Redding. I just want to clap and squeal while jumping up and down, and then pull him to my bosom and give him many cuddles. Oh those pelvic thrusts! Swoon. Don't forget Echo & the Bunnymen's Bring on the Dancing Horses in the background. I know what I'll be listening to at work tomorrow!
I've checked out the now old Molly Ringwald on The Secret Life of the American Teenager. I watched the first season of this utter nonsense just to look at Molly Ringwald's neck. That's right, her neck. I just cannot reconcile how she looks in Pretty in Pink with how she looks now. Obviously we all age, gain a bit of weight, take on some wrinkles and gray hairs; but my god, her neck. The worst thing and why I keep staring at her current neck is because I fear it is going to happen to me. She'll be 42 in six days, and her neck is like a matronly rich lady with piles of necklaces heaped on top of her leathery ample breast. Her neck looks 75, while her face looks age appropriate. Basically, her neck looks like a lump of play-doh shaped in to a fat short sausage that is then wedged in to her upper body. There is a clear line of demarcation between her neck and her chest. Like she's one fat tube from her tits up, and a string was tightened around the bottom of her neck thus making a sausage link. And where the fuck did those tits come from? Good lord. Those are some serious dirty pillows that she is dragging around on the front of her.
She was so skinny, such a gazelle with a beautiful neck. Maybe that is what having twins will do to a person; I don't know. In my vanity, I absolutely wish my neck does not end up like that. I fear I wouldn't be able to leave the house, not because I'm ashamed of my neck necessarily (but, oh yes, the shame would be there), but because I'd be too busy staring at my neck in the mirror. How can a skinny neck betray a person like that. I definitely already have a line across my neck; what if it starts getting fat on either side of the line? Damn.
Watching Pretty in Pink is also amusing in that one never knows what color red Molly's hair will be scene to scene. At the beginning of the movie, it is a total washed out orange, like a dirty strawberry blonde--the hair itself is totally fried with no shine. Two scenes later and it is a beautiful fresh glowing red. Later it is something akin to brassy orange. I'm going to assume that she had her hair freshly dyed at the beginning of shooting, and you can put together the order the film was shot by the fading color of her hair. The beginning of the movie must have been shot last. If I had the energy, I would totally put together a slide show of her changing hair color in Pretty in Pink.
A brief Pretty in Pink convo with Wikus:
Grumples: pretty in pink is on tv
Grumples: where's my floral vest?
Grumples: and floral socks?
Grumples: and crocheted collar?
Wikus: Dunno, where did you leave them last?
Grumples: i'm just not sure
Grumples: the '80s maybe?
Grumples: ducky wants to know if you'd be interested in being pregnant by christmas?
Grumples: he also feels that andrew dice clay is a "sensitive, sexually potent kind of guy"
Wikus: That sounds accurate.
Grumples: sorry, it's "duckie"
An off-topic conversation with Fink-Nottle regarding dinner at Google:
Fink-Nottle: now, a series of important life decisions.
Fink-Nottle: do I stay late and eat here?
Fink-Nottle: or do I go home soonish?
Grumples: what would make one more desirable than the other?
Grumples: what would be a reason to stay late?
Grumples: good dinner menu?
Fink-Nottle: grilled chicken thighs with sweet soy, artisan mac and cheese, roasted purple peruvian potatoes, braised red cabbage with apples.
Grumples: hate you
Grumples: well, you can keep the cabbage
Grumples: that's just gross
Fink-Nottle: yeah, I think I'm staying.
Grumples: i would
Grumples: i was won over on the mac and cheese alone
Fink-Nottle: and it's *really* good
Grumples: shut up
Fink-Nottle: and lunch today was the brisket sandwiches and the grilled swiss/cheddar
Fink-Nottle: oh, god, so good
Grumples: fuck you
Fink-Nottle: I'll die three hours sooner, but I'll die much, much happier.
Grumples: indeed
Grumples: am i allowed to disclose these foods on my blog?
Grumples: seriously, people need to know about these purple peruvian potatoes
Fink-Nottle: certainly.
Grumples: i cannot wait until you visit next so i can introduce you to the best brisket sandwich EVER
Grumples: there will be no cheese dishes, but my god, the meat alone is enough
Grumples: you can even choose lean or fatty!
Fink-Nottle: sounds tasty.
Grumples: soft sweet buns
Grumples: that's right
Grumples: buns that are soft and sweet
Fink-Nottle: peruvian purple potatoes ROCK
Grumples: tell me more
Grumples: no really
Grumples: i do want to know
Fink-Nottle: that's really all I've got
Grumples: what do they taste like?
Grumples: garlicky?
Fink-Nottle: normal potatoes.
Grumples: salty?
Grumples: buttery?
Fink-Nottle: well, they salted and peppered 'em up but good when they roasted 'em
Grumples: describe the color
Fink-Nottle: it's a very dark purple
Fink-Nottle: much closer to a brown/black than I was expecting.
Fink-Nottle: which made me expect that they were a bit burned.
Grumples: do they taste burnt?
Fink-Nottle: not at all, no
Fink-Nottle: vaguely sweet, but not in any sort of distracting way
Grumples: how's the chicken?
Fink-Nottle: it was good. thighs can be hit or miss.
Grumples: yes, that is generally how life works when it comes to thighs
I've checked out the now old Molly Ringwald on The Secret Life of the American Teenager. I watched the first season of this utter nonsense just to look at Molly Ringwald's neck. That's right, her neck. I just cannot reconcile how she looks in Pretty in Pink with how she looks now. Obviously we all age, gain a bit of weight, take on some wrinkles and gray hairs; but my god, her neck. The worst thing and why I keep staring at her current neck is because I fear it is going to happen to me. She'll be 42 in six days, and her neck is like a matronly rich lady with piles of necklaces heaped on top of her leathery ample breast. Her neck looks 75, while her face looks age appropriate. Basically, her neck looks like a lump of play-doh shaped in to a fat short sausage that is then wedged in to her upper body. There is a clear line of demarcation between her neck and her chest. Like she's one fat tube from her tits up, and a string was tightened around the bottom of her neck thus making a sausage link. And where the fuck did those tits come from? Good lord. Those are some serious dirty pillows that she is dragging around on the front of her.
She was so skinny, such a gazelle with a beautiful neck. Maybe that is what having twins will do to a person; I don't know. In my vanity, I absolutely wish my neck does not end up like that. I fear I wouldn't be able to leave the house, not because I'm ashamed of my neck necessarily (but, oh yes, the shame would be there), but because I'd be too busy staring at my neck in the mirror. How can a skinny neck betray a person like that. I definitely already have a line across my neck; what if it starts getting fat on either side of the line? Damn.
Watching Pretty in Pink is also amusing in that one never knows what color red Molly's hair will be scene to scene. At the beginning of the movie, it is a total washed out orange, like a dirty strawberry blonde--the hair itself is totally fried with no shine. Two scenes later and it is a beautiful fresh glowing red. Later it is something akin to brassy orange. I'm going to assume that she had her hair freshly dyed at the beginning of shooting, and you can put together the order the film was shot by the fading color of her hair. The beginning of the movie must have been shot last. If I had the energy, I would totally put together a slide show of her changing hair color in Pretty in Pink.
A brief Pretty in Pink convo with Wikus:
Grumples: pretty in pink is on tv
Grumples: where's my floral vest?
Grumples: and floral socks?
Grumples: and crocheted collar?
Wikus: Dunno, where did you leave them last?
Grumples: i'm just not sure
Grumples: the '80s maybe?
Grumples: ducky wants to know if you'd be interested in being pregnant by christmas?
Grumples: he also feels that andrew dice clay is a "sensitive, sexually potent kind of guy"
Wikus: That sounds accurate.
Grumples: sorry, it's "duckie"
An off-topic conversation with Fink-Nottle regarding dinner at Google:
Fink-Nottle: now, a series of important life decisions.
Fink-Nottle: do I stay late and eat here?
Fink-Nottle: or do I go home soonish?
Grumples: what would make one more desirable than the other?
Grumples: what would be a reason to stay late?
Grumples: good dinner menu?
Fink-Nottle: grilled chicken thighs with sweet soy, artisan mac and cheese, roasted purple peruvian potatoes, braised red cabbage with apples.
Grumples: hate you
Grumples: well, you can keep the cabbage
Grumples: that's just gross
Fink-Nottle: yeah, I think I'm staying.
Grumples: i would
Grumples: i was won over on the mac and cheese alone
Fink-Nottle: and it's *really* good
Grumples: shut up
Fink-Nottle: and lunch today was the brisket sandwiches and the grilled swiss/cheddar
Fink-Nottle: oh, god, so good
Grumples: fuck you
Fink-Nottle: I'll die three hours sooner, but I'll die much, much happier.
Grumples: indeed
Grumples: am i allowed to disclose these foods on my blog?
Grumples: seriously, people need to know about these purple peruvian potatoes
Fink-Nottle: certainly.
Grumples: i cannot wait until you visit next so i can introduce you to the best brisket sandwich EVER
Grumples: there will be no cheese dishes, but my god, the meat alone is enough
Grumples: you can even choose lean or fatty!
Fink-Nottle: sounds tasty.
Grumples: soft sweet buns
Grumples: that's right
Grumples: buns that are soft and sweet
Fink-Nottle: peruvian purple potatoes ROCK
Grumples: tell me more
Grumples: no really
Grumples: i do want to know
Fink-Nottle: that's really all I've got
Grumples: what do they taste like?
Grumples: garlicky?
Fink-Nottle: normal potatoes.
Grumples: salty?
Grumples: buttery?
Fink-Nottle: well, they salted and peppered 'em up but good when they roasted 'em
Grumples: describe the color
Fink-Nottle: it's a very dark purple
Fink-Nottle: much closer to a brown/black than I was expecting.
Fink-Nottle: which made me expect that they were a bit burned.
Grumples: do they taste burnt?
Fink-Nottle: not at all, no
Fink-Nottle: vaguely sweet, but not in any sort of distracting way
Grumples: how's the chicken?
Fink-Nottle: it was good. thighs can be hit or miss.
Grumples: yes, that is generally how life works when it comes to thighs
10 February 2010
Pointy Little Baby Skulls
It was an absolute struggle to get in to work this morning. I even thought about canceling my lunch date, because I didn't want to have to stay late at work to make up for coming in late. However, dammit, my gaysian friends are awesome, and we were going to eat the meat. Tasty, fatty, greasy meat. One small problem: outdoor seating only. Tastiest motherfucking brisket sandwich I've ever shoved in my mouth, and I'm sitting at a rugged picnic table with my knees knocking together with cold. I couldn't even eat half my sandwich--my fingers were too cold to have an adequate grip. Guamaniac looked like a sphincter with his hoodie pulled around his face. A sphincter that sports a mustache. Oh, yeah. He gots the style! Squidly (that's right, I'm totally going to call her that), was totally enjoying her meat (we got fatty, none of that lean shit for us), and then suddenly, we all concluded at once that we couldn't sit out there any more.
For our little lunch date, I wore a special get-up that included fuchsia tights and a deep purple coat. I charmed the guy who did this awesome job of manhandling the brisket. He made that brisket sexy--he had the fat one ooze at me. Then when I was paying the other dude, Sexy Meat Man came and gave me an extra chunk of especially pretty pink brisket, saying, "Here's a special treat while you wait for your sandwich." The cashier totally rolled his eyes, and if I wasn't getting free meat out of it, I would have, too, since my sandwich was already ready, and I was about wo walk away with it. But come on, I am being wooed with some serious goodness. Now, did he fall for my awesome outfit or for my obvious joy of the meat? We'll never know. It was too cold to sit out there and see where he wanted to go with his free-meat-giving ways.
Beside slurping on meat with my two favorite gaysians, I actually did some work today. My love for spreadsheets is so great, that I have been known to actually take someone else's spreadsheet, and totally go to town on it. For no reason! It wasn't my job, no one asked me to do it, but oh man, when I get my hands on a crappy spreadsheet, I just want to sculpt it in to some pretty data joy. And that is what I did this afternoon. I made love to that spreadsheet. I am going to email it to the owner in the morning, and she's going to be astounded, and probably take credit for it. And that's ok. My little dalliance with it was so worth being snubbed in the morning.
MTV is showing some unaired footage of Teen Mom. There's a baby with Romaine lettuce on its head! And the father is nervously sucking at the kid's pacifier when his friends totally start being douches that his baby's mamma keeps him "wrapped around her finger." I just remind myself that these people are kids. Though, I know when I was a teenager, I would have totally slapped some one if that shit was said around me. You had a baby. You made a choice. Don't you dare make fun of one of the parents for the sacrifices they made. Man, I don't even like children, but for fuck's sake, once it is out, people need to be encouraged to take care of it. Otherwise someone like me might come along and tell your child it's ugly and to play in the street. Anyway.
Another scene has a different couple, and the girl lost her engagement ring, and bought a new one for herself at a K-Mart. Okay, I know it is not about the price of the ring, but seriously, there are other stores where you can get a nice ring that is cheap and didn't come from fucking K-Mart. I don't even know why this bothers me considering I hate the idea of an engagement/wedding ring. The Boy got me a nice ring in Vegas, and I happily wear it, but not on my left ring finger. Why? Because I'm not chattel. No one owns me. I don't feel I need advertise my taken status. That's what the tattoo across my ass is for. Ha.
Does Dr. Drew have emotions? Does he use Botox? I'm just asking. What are his true thoughts regarding the shape of some of those babies' heads that shot out of teen vaginas? Because those are some pointy little baby skulls.
For our little lunch date, I wore a special get-up that included fuchsia tights and a deep purple coat. I charmed the guy who did this awesome job of manhandling the brisket. He made that brisket sexy--he had the fat one ooze at me. Then when I was paying the other dude, Sexy Meat Man came and gave me an extra chunk of especially pretty pink brisket, saying, "Here's a special treat while you wait for your sandwich." The cashier totally rolled his eyes, and if I wasn't getting free meat out of it, I would have, too, since my sandwich was already ready, and I was about wo walk away with it. But come on, I am being wooed with some serious goodness. Now, did he fall for my awesome outfit or for my obvious joy of the meat? We'll never know. It was too cold to sit out there and see where he wanted to go with his free-meat-giving ways.
Beside slurping on meat with my two favorite gaysians, I actually did some work today. My love for spreadsheets is so great, that I have been known to actually take someone else's spreadsheet, and totally go to town on it. For no reason! It wasn't my job, no one asked me to do it, but oh man, when I get my hands on a crappy spreadsheet, I just want to sculpt it in to some pretty data joy. And that is what I did this afternoon. I made love to that spreadsheet. I am going to email it to the owner in the morning, and she's going to be astounded, and probably take credit for it. And that's ok. My little dalliance with it was so worth being snubbed in the morning.
MTV is showing some unaired footage of Teen Mom. There's a baby with Romaine lettuce on its head! And the father is nervously sucking at the kid's pacifier when his friends totally start being douches that his baby's mamma keeps him "wrapped around her finger." I just remind myself that these people are kids. Though, I know when I was a teenager, I would have totally slapped some one if that shit was said around me. You had a baby. You made a choice. Don't you dare make fun of one of the parents for the sacrifices they made. Man, I don't even like children, but for fuck's sake, once it is out, people need to be encouraged to take care of it. Otherwise someone like me might come along and tell your child it's ugly and to play in the street. Anyway.
Another scene has a different couple, and the girl lost her engagement ring, and bought a new one for herself at a K-Mart. Okay, I know it is not about the price of the ring, but seriously, there are other stores where you can get a nice ring that is cheap and didn't come from fucking K-Mart. I don't even know why this bothers me considering I hate the idea of an engagement/wedding ring. The Boy got me a nice ring in Vegas, and I happily wear it, but not on my left ring finger. Why? Because I'm not chattel. No one owns me. I don't feel I need advertise my taken status. That's what the tattoo across my ass is for. Ha.
Does Dr. Drew have emotions? Does he use Botox? I'm just asking. What are his true thoughts regarding the shape of some of those babies' heads that shot out of teen vaginas? Because those are some pointy little baby skulls.
09 February 2010
Bad Thermostat, Bad
Winter refuses to end here in Texas. It is very depressing. Some people actually like this damp, cold business, but not me! To compound this problem, a few weeks ago our heater became erratic. In that the thermostat started playing god, and would only heat the house to its own desired temperature and not the one we programmed it to be. Hey heater, I want it be 75 degrees. No problem, says heater, here's a nice 60 degrees just for you! Unacceptable, I say, shaking my fist at the heater. You cannot defy me! I'll send The Boy out to buy a new thermostat to replace your douchebaggery self. Those were fighting words. I showed that thermostat who's the boss, and um, yes, then I was lazy, and so was Boy, so we only now got around to installing the new one. I read instructions and held a flashlight, and he did all the manly work of putting wires in to holes. See, manly. Now we wait to see if this thermostat follows house rules.
____________________________
We were watching some Mad Men, and there was this scene, that I understand was probably meant to be shocking and to show how far we have come, but really, did people in the early 1960's seriously just obviously shake off their picnic blanket full of trash on to the grass they were just enjoying sitting upon? Seriously? I simply do not believe this. I get throwing beer cans in to the woods--it's out of sight, who cares? It was fun tossing it and all that. But just standing up and leaving piles of detritus in one's wake? Nope, just don't believe it. Sure it's the age of inventing trash such as disposable diapers, but not a total disregard for living with filth in nature.
_____________________________
I have a new quote of the day from The Boy, "My hand is my friend." Seems he even said this in front of his whole group of people at work some time ago. Oops. This all came to light today with all the talk about Sarah Palin reading bits of her speech off of her hand. Beyond what ever else The Boy may use his hand for, his dear buddy, his pal, he uses it to take copious notes using a black (or red) Sharpie. What would have been an awesome thing for him to say after advising his staff that his hand was his friend, was to say, "It is always staining my sheets, too. Grumples gets so angry over it!" However, The Boy would never say that because he wasn't being purposefully uncouth, that's just me. It's sad how he has to put up with me like that. Send him your prayers.
____________________________
Now for the Gaysian part of the show:
Guamaniac: i've gotten a little flabby in the middle
Grumples: you have NOT gotten flabby
Grumples: you're crazy
Grumples: good god, i should beat you for saying that
Guamaniac: my waist is still small, but my stomach is flabby mcflabb. it's weird
Guamaniac: i've been really lazy about the gym lately. stupid cold.
Grumples: obviously you are quite high
Grumples: drink one less drink each time you go out, and that will solve a lot
Guamaniac: it is b/c i do drink beer now too. stupid skeeball.
Guamaniac: i'm growing a beer baby. i never thought i'd see the day
Guamaniac: i actually crave beer sometimes
Grumples: um, yes
Grumples: stop drinking beer
Grumples: it will do nothing for your beer baby but make it bigger
Grumples: abort the beer baby!
Grumples: give it vodka
Guamaniac: i know. i need to go back to the basics.
Grumples: shots should work that baby right out of there
Grumples: i also don't mind punching you in the gut if you think that will help
Grumples: come on, i want more abortion references!
Guamaniac: hmmm. well, my fetuses are pickled and sent to mexico for tacos.
that's a little known secret.
Guamaniac: they were also featured on The Food Network. "So much flavor," says
Bobby Flay.
Grumples: bobby flay is a punk ass who i want to kick in the gnads
Grumples: the we'll see how flavorful he finds things
Grumples: anyway, those fetuses are not beer babies, those are poo babies
Guamaniac: Well I will save you the next jar. I'll make (Boy Toy) get on it
soon...literally.
Grumples: ha ha
Grumples: poor (Boy Toy)
Grumples: we should have a threesome date
Guamaniac: hand's off my nerd. you have your own.
Grumples: but i want to play with yours
Guamaniac: no way. STOP HOARDING HOARDER!
Grumples: i can't help myself
Grumples: i'm totally emotionally attached to your piece of ass
Guamaniac: well, i'll call the show. we need to get you help.
Grumples: ok, it is time for us to leave
Grumples: go grunt out some beer babies at the gym
Guamaniac: i'll push some out just for you.
Grumples: make sure you save the umbilical cord
Guamaniac: hahaha. gross.
Grumples: who knows when you may need that core beer for later
Guamaniac: we can use it for a keg stand. it all comes full circle
Grumples: oh, man, that is just wonderful
Grumples: i love the circle of life
_____________________________
Crap, the thermostat turned off at 70 degrees. Crap, crap, crap. A call to the insurance company will be next on the list. Poo. The good news is our divorce with AT&T should be finalized on February 17th.
_____________________________
Driving home today, in slightly-heavier-than-usual traffic, I thought about a website I used to read back in 2000. I hadn't thought about it in years, and I have know idea what spurred me to think about it now. I did some hot Google action, and found this and this. Sadly, the original website that so fascinated me with gross, stinky science, no longer exists. I will just have to perform my own experiments. Starting with how long can I make love to the couch before getting bedsores.
____________________________
We were watching some Mad Men, and there was this scene, that I understand was probably meant to be shocking and to show how far we have come, but really, did people in the early 1960's seriously just obviously shake off their picnic blanket full of trash on to the grass they were just enjoying sitting upon? Seriously? I simply do not believe this. I get throwing beer cans in to the woods--it's out of sight, who cares? It was fun tossing it and all that. But just standing up and leaving piles of detritus in one's wake? Nope, just don't believe it. Sure it's the age of inventing trash such as disposable diapers, but not a total disregard for living with filth in nature.
_____________________________
I have a new quote of the day from The Boy, "My hand is my friend." Seems he even said this in front of his whole group of people at work some time ago. Oops. This all came to light today with all the talk about Sarah Palin reading bits of her speech off of her hand. Beyond what ever else The Boy may use his hand for, his dear buddy, his pal, he uses it to take copious notes using a black (or red) Sharpie. What would have been an awesome thing for him to say after advising his staff that his hand was his friend, was to say, "It is always staining my sheets, too. Grumples gets so angry over it!" However, The Boy would never say that because he wasn't being purposefully uncouth, that's just me. It's sad how he has to put up with me like that. Send him your prayers.
____________________________
Now for the Gaysian part of the show:
Guamaniac: i've gotten a little flabby in the middle
Grumples: you have NOT gotten flabby
Grumples: you're crazy
Grumples: good god, i should beat you for saying that
Guamaniac: my waist is still small, but my stomach is flabby mcflabb. it's weird
Guamaniac: i've been really lazy about the gym lately. stupid cold.
Grumples: obviously you are quite high
Grumples: drink one less drink each time you go out, and that will solve a lot
Guamaniac: it is b/c i do drink beer now too. stupid skeeball.
Guamaniac: i'm growing a beer baby. i never thought i'd see the day
Guamaniac: i actually crave beer sometimes
Grumples: um, yes
Grumples: stop drinking beer
Grumples: it will do nothing for your beer baby but make it bigger
Grumples: abort the beer baby!
Grumples: give it vodka
Guamaniac: i know. i need to go back to the basics.
Grumples: shots should work that baby right out of there
Grumples: i also don't mind punching you in the gut if you think that will help
Grumples: come on, i want more abortion references!
Guamaniac: hmmm. well, my fetuses are pickled and sent to mexico for tacos.
that's a little known secret.
Guamaniac: they were also featured on The Food Network. "So much flavor," says
Bobby Flay.
Grumples: bobby flay is a punk ass who i want to kick in the gnads
Grumples: the we'll see how flavorful he finds things
Grumples: anyway, those fetuses are not beer babies, those are poo babies
Guamaniac: Well I will save you the next jar. I'll make (Boy Toy) get on it
soon...literally.
Grumples: ha ha
Grumples: poor (Boy Toy)
Grumples: we should have a threesome date
Guamaniac: hand's off my nerd. you have your own.
Grumples: but i want to play with yours
Guamaniac: no way. STOP HOARDING HOARDER!
Grumples: i can't help myself
Grumples: i'm totally emotionally attached to your piece of ass
Guamaniac: well, i'll call the show. we need to get you help.
Grumples: ok, it is time for us to leave
Grumples: go grunt out some beer babies at the gym
Guamaniac: i'll push some out just for you.
Grumples: make sure you save the umbilical cord
Guamaniac: hahaha. gross.
Grumples: who knows when you may need that core beer for later
Guamaniac: we can use it for a keg stand. it all comes full circle
Grumples: oh, man, that is just wonderful
Grumples: i love the circle of life
_____________________________
Crap, the thermostat turned off at 70 degrees. Crap, crap, crap. A call to the insurance company will be next on the list. Poo. The good news is our divorce with AT&T should be finalized on February 17th.
_____________________________
Driving home today, in slightly-heavier-than-usual traffic, I thought about a website I used to read back in 2000. I hadn't thought about it in years, and I have know idea what spurred me to think about it now. I did some hot Google action, and found this and this. Sadly, the original website that so fascinated me with gross, stinky science, no longer exists. I will just have to perform my own experiments. Starting with how long can I make love to the couch before getting bedsores.
08 February 2010
Trepanning My Sinuses
Ever since Saturday night, I have been subjected to one hell of a headache. The kind that makes me feel like someone evil is squeezing my eyeballs with the hope they will pop and squirt vitreous fluid all over my shirt. Cross your eyes and read something in very tiny font on your computer screen for 8 hours; that is kind of how my eyes hurt. I advised my boss that I plan to start trepanning my sinus cavities as soon as I find my trephine kit. I'm not sure she knew what I was talking about, but that's okay! Drilling holes in my face should be fun. Would having the holes hurt more than the pressure in my head? There's no way to find out unless I go for it, right? Society's standards of beauty be damned! Extra holes in my face it will be.
In my glee to move forward with Hardwood Floors 2007, I came straight home from work and tackled the bookcase in the livingroom. We are getting the floors installed on Monday the 15th (Presidents' Day floors!), and since I keep having these terrible weekends of allergy madness, I felt I should put my energy in to packing the livingroom when the moment strikes me. What I should mention is we do no dust. WE. DO. NOT. DUST. You can probably guess the problem here. If you don't feel like using your brain, I'll go ahead and point out the two obvious issues: 1) we're lazy, 2) I am highly allergic to dust. I feel it is better to leave the dust alone, than stir it all up in the air for me to suck in and die. Take four cats (now three...sniffs) and a good four years of dust accumulation, you have a horror show on the bookcase. I donned some latex gloves and a face mask (avian flu!), dug around the garage for various boxes, then went to motherfucking town. How do I dust books? Dragging them across the carpet, of course. I even managed to pack some DVDs and video cassettes from the entertainment center. I ran out of boxes at the same time I ran out of steam. The cats are enjoying chasing the dust bunnies, and I'm enjoying some couch time.
Wikus is being screwed by his current landlord. This is not surprising since they have been screwing him over since day one (hence the moving in a couple weeks). While he was at work today, they posted a notice on his door that said, "Dear (Ridiculous Apartment Complex Name) Residents: There will be an inspection tomorrow on all units, February 9, 2010. We will be entering your home between 9:00am to 5:00pm. Please make sure if you have a pet to put them in a safe place for the day."
What kind of inspection? Why such short notice? Really, between 9-5? Oh, find a place to put the pets all day? Seriously? Let's just call up our local cat daycare and drop them kitties off for the day. Grand. Then let's toddle on to work and not think of what may be going on in the apartment all day that would necessitate the pets actually vacating the premises. Poor Wikus. A lame sick day for him tomorrow. Texas has the shittiest laws for apartment residents. It is totally pro-business, and zero tenant. For example, in Boston, we at least had to have two egresses; here, you'll have just one and it will be connected to wooden stairs. And, no, they don't provide escape ladders. Ha. Laughable. Anyway, don't move to an apartment in Texas--you'll be very sad that you did.
The cats are enjoying the boxed books. Oh, god, there's Luke Wilson hawking AT&T again. Fucking fat bastard. It is going to take a lot for me to watch him in any movies again (outside of Rushmore..."They're O.R. scrubs." "Oh, are they?" Slays me every fucking time). I know it is going to be very hard to boycott everything AT&T has their filthy hands in, but boycotting fatty Luke Wilson should be somewhat easier. I'd rather watching that motherfucking "Do the Potty Dance" commercial a thousand times before dealing with AT&T ever again. Jackasses.
If there was some way I could force all AT&T executives to watch and listen to that video at top volume, then I feel my anger will abate. Any ideas on how to make that happen?
In my glee to move forward with Hardwood Floors 2007, I came straight home from work and tackled the bookcase in the livingroom. We are getting the floors installed on Monday the 15th (Presidents' Day floors!), and since I keep having these terrible weekends of allergy madness, I felt I should put my energy in to packing the livingroom when the moment strikes me. What I should mention is we do no dust. WE. DO. NOT. DUST. You can probably guess the problem here. If you don't feel like using your brain, I'll go ahead and point out the two obvious issues: 1) we're lazy, 2) I am highly allergic to dust. I feel it is better to leave the dust alone, than stir it all up in the air for me to suck in and die. Take four cats (now three...sniffs) and a good four years of dust accumulation, you have a horror show on the bookcase. I donned some latex gloves and a face mask (avian flu!), dug around the garage for various boxes, then went to motherfucking town. How do I dust books? Dragging them across the carpet, of course. I even managed to pack some DVDs and video cassettes from the entertainment center. I ran out of boxes at the same time I ran out of steam. The cats are enjoying chasing the dust bunnies, and I'm enjoying some couch time.
Wikus is being screwed by his current landlord. This is not surprising since they have been screwing him over since day one (hence the moving in a couple weeks). While he was at work today, they posted a notice on his door that said, "Dear (Ridiculous Apartment Complex Name) Residents: There will be an inspection tomorrow on all units, February 9, 2010. We will be entering your home between 9:00am to 5:00pm. Please make sure if you have a pet to put them in a safe place for the day."
What kind of inspection? Why such short notice? Really, between 9-5? Oh, find a place to put the pets all day? Seriously? Let's just call up our local cat daycare and drop them kitties off for the day. Grand. Then let's toddle on to work and not think of what may be going on in the apartment all day that would necessitate the pets actually vacating the premises. Poor Wikus. A lame sick day for him tomorrow. Texas has the shittiest laws for apartment residents. It is totally pro-business, and zero tenant. For example, in Boston, we at least had to have two egresses; here, you'll have just one and it will be connected to wooden stairs. And, no, they don't provide escape ladders. Ha. Laughable. Anyway, don't move to an apartment in Texas--you'll be very sad that you did.
The cats are enjoying the boxed books. Oh, god, there's Luke Wilson hawking AT&T again. Fucking fat bastard. It is going to take a lot for me to watch him in any movies again (outside of Rushmore..."They're O.R. scrubs." "Oh, are they?" Slays me every fucking time). I know it is going to be very hard to boycott everything AT&T has their filthy hands in, but boycotting fatty Luke Wilson should be somewhat easier. I'd rather watching that motherfucking "Do the Potty Dance" commercial a thousand times before dealing with AT&T ever again. Jackasses.
If there was some way I could force all AT&T executives to watch and listen to that video at top volume, then I feel my anger will abate. Any ideas on how to make that happen?
06 February 2010
A Brief Walk Along the River
The Boy has been really cute lately--in a way that I'm sure parents find their kids endearing. He's such a sweetie, but sometimes, I feel like I should put a quote of a day up for him. He is not an idiot and in no way stupid (I would hate him and mock him daily if he was more like Twit), but sometimes he talks before actually running what he is about to say through his head for a common-sense check.
Here are my two favorites from the past few days:
1. If we don't have long distance, how will my family call me? (After a BWAH? moment, and a few questions, I realized that he thought long-distance calls could only be made between people who both had the long-distance feature on their phones. I assured him that even if we got rid of our long distance on the land line--which we're not--his family would still be able to call us, and could continue not picking up the phone when they did.)
2. I wonder how IHOP got its name? (My eyes rolled around in my head for a moment, and I said, "REALLY?"). Oh, International House of Pancakes...mumble...mumble...mumble (some intense flipping me off and some mutters over iPod and such).
___________________________________
Since the sun was out today (versus the last week or more of rain), I wanted to go take a very tiny stroll by the river. My sinuses were enraged, but I chose to ignore them. Here are pics of our good times.
Flipping through my Field Guide to Birds, Eastern Region, and I believe these little fellows are American Coots, which aren't ducks at all--just "duck-like."
The Mighty Grackle!
Whoopis likes to make love to my head and stamp my eyes just like this. I felt I shared a special bond with these two squirrels.
_______________________________________
Damn, I love a good sunset photo. 1/23/10
________________________________________
Wikus on our city: "It's like a big monster ate a lot of strip malls, pawn shops, and suburban subdivisions, and then sicked up."
_________________________________________
One month ago we had to put the Orange Lover to sleep. Which is a term I don't really like, but is better than the cold scientific word of euthanasia. I am still quite sad, and every time I come home or shuffle in to the livingroom, I expect him to come greet me with his funny little silent meow. When he wasn't silently sassing me, he was running through the house howling like he was on fire. I firmly believed he had elderly dementia. He was such a fucking awesome cat. I still worry about the decision I made, but then I think about if the last month had been pumping him full of I.V. fluid and giving him B12 shots. That would probably have been a very bad month for my little lover.
I've been having these bittersweet dreams of him. They are everyday, normal dreams. He is happy, often sleeping and looking lovely. He's not dead, he's not sick. He's content. They are good dreams, but I wake up aching to hug him. I want to headbutt his head and have him snuggling against my stomach while I watch TV. I miss you little guy.
____________________________________
Speaking of TV, why the fuck is Luke Wilson a) shilling for AT&T and b) so fucking fat? This bothers me on so many levels.
My acrimonious divorce from AT&T is almost complete. We are getting Grande out here to give us internet and a new landline. We just don't have a date yet of when they are coming out, but here's hoping it is the next week or so. The Boy missed the call yesterday, so it looks like we have to wait until Monday to talk with someone. Going with a smaller business better be worth it. Either way, AT&T must die.
Here are my two favorites from the past few days:
1. If we don't have long distance, how will my family call me? (After a BWAH? moment, and a few questions, I realized that he thought long-distance calls could only be made between people who both had the long-distance feature on their phones. I assured him that even if we got rid of our long distance on the land line--which we're not--his family would still be able to call us, and could continue not picking up the phone when they did.)
2. I wonder how IHOP got its name? (My eyes rolled around in my head for a moment, and I said, "REALLY?"). Oh, International House of Pancakes...mumble...mumble...mumble (some intense flipping me off and some mutters over iPod and such).
___________________________________
Since the sun was out today (versus the last week or more of rain), I wanted to go take a very tiny stroll by the river. My sinuses were enraged, but I chose to ignore them. Here are pics of our good times.
Flipping through my Field Guide to Birds, Eastern Region, and I believe these little fellows are American Coots, which aren't ducks at all--just "duck-like."
The Mighty Grackle!
Whoopis likes to make love to my head and stamp my eyes just like this. I felt I shared a special bond with these two squirrels.
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Damn, I love a good sunset photo. 1/23/10
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Wikus on our city: "It's like a big monster ate a lot of strip malls, pawn shops, and suburban subdivisions, and then sicked up."
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One month ago we had to put the Orange Lover to sleep. Which is a term I don't really like, but is better than the cold scientific word of euthanasia. I am still quite sad, and every time I come home or shuffle in to the livingroom, I expect him to come greet me with his funny little silent meow. When he wasn't silently sassing me, he was running through the house howling like he was on fire. I firmly believed he had elderly dementia. He was such a fucking awesome cat. I still worry about the decision I made, but then I think about if the last month had been pumping him full of I.V. fluid and giving him B12 shots. That would probably have been a very bad month for my little lover.
I've been having these bittersweet dreams of him. They are everyday, normal dreams. He is happy, often sleeping and looking lovely. He's not dead, he's not sick. He's content. They are good dreams, but I wake up aching to hug him. I want to headbutt his head and have him snuggling against my stomach while I watch TV. I miss you little guy.
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Speaking of TV, why the fuck is Luke Wilson a) shilling for AT&T and b) so fucking fat? This bothers me on so many levels.
My acrimonious divorce from AT&T is almost complete. We are getting Grande out here to give us internet and a new landline. We just don't have a date yet of when they are coming out, but here's hoping it is the next week or so. The Boy missed the call yesterday, so it looks like we have to wait until Monday to talk with someone. Going with a smaller business better be worth it. Either way, AT&T must die.
04 February 2010
Please Give Me My Three Hours Back
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03 February 2010
Who Put That Sex Dwarf in the Office?
Eh, just another Wednesday night, sitting around watching TLC's "Conjoined Twins: After Separation," and depilatoring my pathetic dirty-blonde mustache. Nothing like the smell of chemicals to get my allergies flowing. I'm so sexy on the couch in a company shirt with a space heater basically on top of me. I'm one fucking hot lady! Who wants to hang out with me and peek in to the lives of these poor individuals? I have an addiction and I need to share it with someone.
God, one of these poor souls has a job as a "greeter" at Wal-Mart. He claims it "opens him up socially." I missed the first 20 minutes of the show. Must remember this guy when I'm feeling sorry for myself. Oh man, he even lies to people with one of three stories: car accident, war or survival situation. Christ.
The Mattress is lying across my arms like he is Superman, and that somehow his ass would actually lift with take off. He is making it a bit difficult to type, but he is so damn cute in his walnut-sized brain way. He will not relinquish my arms at all, not even for me to scratch my ear; which is just rude, considering how much he expects me to scratch his ears. Then he drools the nastiest, stinkiest, vilest drool known to mankind all over me in appreciation.
Today I took a bathroom break, and left my iPod unattended (I cannot work without music playing; so, I have a Bose at my desk), and when I got back to my desk, "Sex Dwarf" by Soft Cell was blasting for all to hear. I was so pleased with my friendly little podder. What a good boy. Since I came back at the end of the song, I felt that I was robbed of the enjoyment, and played it again. I feel that all of you should play this at work, very loudly. You will be so glad that you did. Even if you get written up, and have to go to some Sexual Harassment Seminar, it will be more than worth it. I can only hope Twit enjoyed it as much as I did. Surprisingly, she didn't comment. Perhaps it wasn't Christian enough for her tastes.
Project Hardwood Floors 2007 is finally going to happen. We don't have an exact date yet, but we do have the week. Expect some serious bipolar-mood action during the last week of February. That is if the dust doesn't kill me when this nasty pissed-on, vomited-on, shat-on, etc. carpet is ripped up. You can decide which of those were caused by cats or by humans! That last week of February will include not just the hardwood floors but The Boy's 40th birthday, Wikus moving to his new digs right down the road and an Urban-Family Get-Together that culminates in an after-the-fact birthday party for The Boy. I'm already sweating in anxiety. So many books to pack before the flooring people arrive. Menu planning! Gift buying! Ack. Where's my Klonopin?
God, one of these poor souls has a job as a "greeter" at Wal-Mart. He claims it "opens him up socially." I missed the first 20 minutes of the show. Must remember this guy when I'm feeling sorry for myself. Oh man, he even lies to people with one of three stories: car accident, war or survival situation. Christ.
The Mattress is lying across my arms like he is Superman, and that somehow his ass would actually lift with take off. He is making it a bit difficult to type, but he is so damn cute in his walnut-sized brain way. He will not relinquish my arms at all, not even for me to scratch my ear; which is just rude, considering how much he expects me to scratch his ears. Then he drools the nastiest, stinkiest, vilest drool known to mankind all over me in appreciation.
Today I took a bathroom break, and left my iPod unattended (I cannot work without music playing; so, I have a Bose at my desk), and when I got back to my desk, "Sex Dwarf" by Soft Cell was blasting for all to hear. I was so pleased with my friendly little podder. What a good boy. Since I came back at the end of the song, I felt that I was robbed of the enjoyment, and played it again. I feel that all of you should play this at work, very loudly. You will be so glad that you did. Even if you get written up, and have to go to some Sexual Harassment Seminar, it will be more than worth it. I can only hope Twit enjoyed it as much as I did. Surprisingly, she didn't comment. Perhaps it wasn't Christian enough for her tastes.
Project Hardwood Floors 2007 is finally going to happen. We don't have an exact date yet, but we do have the week. Expect some serious bipolar-mood action during the last week of February. That is if the dust doesn't kill me when this nasty pissed-on, vomited-on, shat-on, etc. carpet is ripped up. You can decide which of those were caused by cats or by humans! That last week of February will include not just the hardwood floors but The Boy's 40th birthday, Wikus moving to his new digs right down the road and an Urban-Family Get-Together that culminates in an after-the-fact birthday party for The Boy. I'm already sweating in anxiety. So many books to pack before the flooring people arrive. Menu planning! Gift buying! Ack. Where's my Klonopin?
02 February 2010
Elevator Etiquette
Today is my one-year anniversary at work. There were no balloons or cake. Not even a card. For the most part, I wasn't even acknowledged for the majority of the day. That was so nice. Gave me even more time to read my boss' trashy chick-lit novel. Best line of the day? "Dating was a jungle too scary for me to safari through." I don't think I could even make up something that terrible.
A year ago today, I was in "orientation." It was 2.5 days long, and very very painful. A lot of group activities with people I would never see again. I don't even want to think back to it. However, there was some guy there who ended up working in the same building as me. I did not pay much attention to him at the time, but we run in to each other every few weeks in the building. The problem is he knows my name, but I don't know his. He's always shouting out my name when he sees me, and I responded in a kind of "Ho ho ho, there, guy!" Basically I have to be a total self-centered card.
The other day, I was taking the elevator from the 3rd to the 8th floor. While I waiting, two people waited with me. One guy seemed to be German and a visitor to the building, and was chatting with some woman, whom I had seen before either. That is pretty normal around there. When the elevator arrived it was already full of people, but they insisted the three of us joining them. One of the guys on there was my dear nameless orientation buddy (NOB). We exchanged an informal head nod. While the elevator doors were closing, NOB said kind of frantically and indignantly to the German guy, "Dude, you're totally standing in my personal space! Shouldn't I have at least 3' around me. I'm not kidding!" I thought that was totally weird considering it was an elevator after all. Perhaps he was in disagreement with the others who invited us to join the group. I was in the very front of the elevator, almost smashed against the doors (being very careful to not touch anyone at all, for I, too, have personal space issues). However, after NOB said what he did, I just looked at him, and then slowly started side-stepping, sidling!, over until I hit right up against him. The German totally guffawed and said, "She's funny! She's so funny!" He kept saying it as he got off the elevator with his companion. Imagine, just invading someone's space totally makes German people laugh! NOB shouted out after him, how one could always count on me to provide the fun.
I should have farted as a parting gift to all of them.
A year ago today, I was in "orientation." It was 2.5 days long, and very very painful. A lot of group activities with people I would never see again. I don't even want to think back to it. However, there was some guy there who ended up working in the same building as me. I did not pay much attention to him at the time, but we run in to each other every few weeks in the building. The problem is he knows my name, but I don't know his. He's always shouting out my name when he sees me, and I responded in a kind of "Ho ho ho, there, guy!" Basically I have to be a total self-centered card.
The other day, I was taking the elevator from the 3rd to the 8th floor. While I waiting, two people waited with me. One guy seemed to be German and a visitor to the building, and was chatting with some woman, whom I had seen before either. That is pretty normal around there. When the elevator arrived it was already full of people, but they insisted the three of us joining them. One of the guys on there was my dear nameless orientation buddy (NOB). We exchanged an informal head nod. While the elevator doors were closing, NOB said kind of frantically and indignantly to the German guy, "Dude, you're totally standing in my personal space! Shouldn't I have at least 3' around me. I'm not kidding!" I thought that was totally weird considering it was an elevator after all. Perhaps he was in disagreement with the others who invited us to join the group. I was in the very front of the elevator, almost smashed against the doors (being very careful to not touch anyone at all, for I, too, have personal space issues). However, after NOB said what he did, I just looked at him, and then slowly started side-stepping, sidling!, over until I hit right up against him. The German totally guffawed and said, "She's funny! She's so funny!" He kept saying it as he got off the elevator with his companion. Imagine, just invading someone's space totally makes German people laugh! NOB shouted out after him, how one could always count on me to provide the fun.
I should have farted as a parting gift to all of them.
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