When Lance Armstrong Begs to Dip His Ball in It

During my morning commute in to work (it's laughable to call a 10-minute drive a commute), I pass the most hilarious billboard.  It is a great joy to see it every morning, especially when the sun is hitting it just right, and it is glowing and reaching out to the masses.  It's too bad that it would be total suicide to stop and take a picture of it. A lazy Google search did not reveal any photos.  Sad.  Picture for yourself a billboard of Lance Armstrong in full race regalia riding along all strong and stoic, and across one half of the billboard is an ad for Michelob Ultra Lite beer.  Why is Lance encouraging us to make jokes about him being a little "lite" in the pants?  The billboard is basically giving us permission to make crude jokes.  Thanks, Lance!

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A few minutes ago, in the bathroom, two ladies were having a good chuckle about how one found a bobby pin in her hair.  Yes, that is what passes for funny around here.  This other woman started to tell a story, "I listen to a Christian radio station every morning as I get dressed..."  The story was very unfunny, which is kind of what I assumed (lady was late to church choir due to Daylight Saving Time, and was worried she still had curlers in her hair).  It would have been more funny if it went like this, "There was a lady on there who said, I woke up this morning, realized there was no God, and snorted a line of coke."  That is what I expect for comedy on my Christian radio station.
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How gorgeous is this?

It would look great with my new shoes.  It's $88, so I should probably hold off for now.  Seems Dana LeBlanc is extremely popular, so this necklace won't be for sale for long.  I suggest at least bookmarking her Etsy site for further drooling.  Hey, it would look even better with those kicking red boots that obviously need to be bought just for me.
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Ex-Cop Lackey: Do you know how to get us logged on to this laptop.  My password is not working.
Me: It's not your laptop, and therefore your password won't work.
Ex-Cop Lackey: How do I get in to it then?
Me: Get the log-in information from the person whose laptop it is.
Ex-Cop Lackey: Oh.

Some New Guy (SNG): Oh, we have a new baby?
Me: Excuse me?
SNG: Have you heard from the new mother?
Me: I only have a professional relationship with her, so no.
SNG: I'm sure she's doing fine.
ME: Sure, why not.
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This may become my standard birthday greeting: "Happy birthday, my little lollipop of delicious lambchop drippings.  May your week be bright with sassy ladies and gentlemen with saucy smiles who bring gifts of love and liquor."  Of course I would translate it into something weirder using Babel Fish.  I find that it is really lovely in Italian.
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Let's pretend my license plate says POOPY.  I am sitting at an extremely congested light pretending not to be picking my nose while picking my nose.  Some lady pulls up next to me and mimes rolling down a window--she looked extremely harmless, so I obey.  She asked if I had seen her license plate, which I politely said, "No," and she said, "It says POOP.  I wanted POOPY, but you already had it!"  Ah, ruining other people's vanity-plate dreams.  It is a bit astounding that in the whole state of Texas that POOPY and POOP would be next to each other at a frontage road light.  

Then She Said, "You can't really prevent pregnancy."

My shoes arrived!  I love them.  Such a lovely Monday gift.  I would like to receive a pair of shoes every day.  Not that I have anywhere to put them, but I can still have my fantasies.

This past weekend we ran ET down town to help with a Great Urban Race clue.  The day was beautiful and in the 80s--when we came back home I bathed him in the front yard and let him wander around a bit eating grass.  He seemed so happy.  I cut some grass with scissors around the mailbox where I have some bulbs planted (I have no idea what type of flowers they are--they were given to me).  The Boy cleaned out the gutters.  It was all very domestic.

Today The Boy sent me an email saying that ET was farting up a storm.  Coincidentally, so was I!  We are farting machines!  I need to stop eating fiber bars in the morning.  Makes me so gassy all day long.  Ahem, moving on.  The thing is, ET seems to be having some serious digestive issues.  The Boy was not exaggerating the excessive farting action.  Suddenly, he shot out this substance that looked like congealed egg whites.  Seemed to be about two tablespoons worth.  I touched it!  Solid like gelatin.  Totally wiggled.

Time out: Am watching last week's 16 and Pregnant, and this stupid motherfucking girl (Texan, of course), who said, "You can't really prevent pregnancy."  Thankfully her friends immediately jumped down her throat about the exact ways you can prevent pregnancy (abstinence was not even mentioned!).  This was the pregnant girl's friend.  Then the dolt gets defensive and says, "Like, if you're having sex, so you can't, you can't really..." There goes the smackdown again on her.  Geezum crow.

Continuing: ET doesn't seem too upset.  He wants to eat.  He is moving about and watches what I'm doing.  If more congealed egg-white poo comes from his cloaca, I will get him to the "exotic" pet doctor.  ET will probably poo and pee all over the vet.  He gets excited like that.  I have yet to find anything online regarding "tortoise stool gelatinous." 

Driving home from a very long work day (an all-day meeting!), NPR had a story about the changing technologies at college.  It made me so jealous.  I so wish I could have my professors' lectures online to download to my iPod to listen to when ever I needed a refresher on what was said.  Hell, I was jealous of how people four years younger than me were all taking laptops to class.  I abhor taking notes.  My hands can't handle it.  Stupid joint problems.  Even though I am full of bitter resentment over those lucky college-going bastards, I am happy that they have tools to actually retain information better.  Good for them.

It's Time For Food on A Stick! Hot Damn!

The various smoke alarms in the house are completely insane.  There has been no fire (I am very thankful of this), yet they keep going off at an alarming frequency (please don't slap me for the terrible pun).  The one in the hallway goes off if I leave the bathroom door open, and take a shower longer than five minutes (I'm not sure I have ever taken a shower under five minutes).  The one in the kitchen goes off if I even think about using the over. 

Today is March's Urban-Family Get-Together.  I managed to shower (there were some precious nap minutes lost there), which was quite unpleasant with the hallway fire alarm going beep (silence) beep, beep, beep.  No one was home, and no one was asleep, so I didn't think to shut the bathroom door.  Grrr.  Now I'm making mini Yorkshire puddings (on a stick!) for tonight's fun, and dammit if the alarm doesn't go off while I'm preheating the damn oven.  Then again when I opened the oven door.  I have the stove fan on along with the kitchen overhead fan, and it is still angry.  I bet they won't work at all when the house is on fire.  That is one of my biggest fears in life--losing my house (boy, cats, tortoise, books, other important things like my laptop, music and iPod). 

It seems my grocery-store complaint letter has fallen upon deaf uncaring ears.  They obviously hate short people and want them dead.  Today I actually climbed up the shelves and got my water.  It was kind of fun.  Not remotely safe, but still, a good time was had.  According to several posts on FB, I came to the conclusion that today was some sort of religious holiday (Palm Sunday?), and I thought all the people would be at church when I went to the store.  However, since I dawdled at home watching Skins, I went too late, and encountered all these church-going folks who just love to go take a Sunday stroll through the local grocery-store aisles.  They were all very fancy dressed and seemed to not really need anything other than be seen by other people who had come there straight from church.  I was certainly underdressed for the event.

The best part of the trip was a dude sitting at a table with Pamper diaper coupons (I saw no free Pampers sitting on the table).  He was dressed very much like the Mormons who come to the door sometimes (there was that feeling of I should get naked and ask for some special Mormon holy underwear).  Nice slacks, nice button-down shirt tucked in and all pulled together with a tie.  He was slouched over and studiously text messaging someone.  He had no idea who was passing by the table, and certainly wasn't a good choice as a Pampers pusher.  I wanted to give him a high five, but felt it would be rude to interrupt him.

The worst part was standing in line to be rung up, and realizing that I recognized the horrible song being played.  It was that terrible "Breakfast at Tiffany's" song by some band I do not know, and will force me to Google.  Ok, Deep Blue Something.  That name just begs for a joke.  I was perfectly happy haven completely forgotten that song existed, and now it is back in my life.  I hope I forget it quickly.
It's almost time to leave. 

Going to peak in at my Yorkie puddings and hope things are rising nicely in there.  The Boy should be home from recording soon (he's looking for some Munchkins [on a stick!], but there are like two Dunkin' Doughnuts in town, and the first one he visited wasn't open, which is sad).  In an hour or so, I will be gorging myself on all the various foods my friends felt like skewering.  Yum!

What You Have Here is a Goat on a Rope!

Remind me to tell you of the time when I sat through a training class, and the instructor kept saying, "now,you really got a goat on a rope" (and other permutations of sentences featuring goat on a rope).  I'm not from these here parts, so I giggled each and every time he said it.  Apparently, there are a lot of times one can find him or herself with a goat on a rope.  I would just like a goat, please.  I assume the goat will eat the rope.

Here's a literal translation of a goat on a rope.  Added bonus: with monkey!

The Trials of Motherhood

The Bear often poos a ferociously mean glob of blood.  He doesn't seem to mind.  We think it is awful.  Lord knows the smell of it is worse than a wig factory on fire.  It's almost as if he actually enjoys leaving it for us to find, seeing as he never bothers to dig around buring it.  It proudly sits on top like chocolate pudding with a cherry on top.  We've experienced a difficult time in getting fresh stool samples from him (this is when having more than one cat can be aggravating--what, really, just that one thing?).  We attempt this fun task every month or so without obtaining significant results.  He still seems really happy, so I'm not to stressed about it anymore. 

Right now there is a stool sample in the fridge.  In a little plastic collection thing, which is stored in a paper bag.  Sadly, the sample wasn't fresh enough, and so it sits in the fridge in its paper bag.  I wonder how long it will sit in the fridge.  There's a new plastic sample collector here on the table.  I don't even know the proper technique to collect the bloody poo (take that literally and Britishly!).  I won't bother explaining the contraption, but know that it has two parts and doesn't seem as simple as one would think.  It bothers me that something as easy as scooping poo can be so difficult when given a plastic vial with an oddly shaped inner bit. 

I cleaned the litterbox and am hoping the Bear takes a poop soon.  I'm awfully tired.  Allergies are kicking me around a bit cruelly.  The Boy gets all pukey with this kind of task.  He is a wonderful stay-at-home mom and does everything for the cats and a lot of chores, but he can't touch bloody gobs of poo.  I find that easy.  Lucky him.

Fluevog Likes to Discuss My Toe Box

Ordering shoes from Fluevog is very amusing.  I have a gorgeous pair of high-heeled red-and-black Fluevogs that were purchased off of Zappos, and a pair of mid-calf lace-up boots that I got at a little shoe store in Harvard Square.  They were the only pair and I settled for a size too small.  I've never regretted that purchase.  The red ones are much harder on my feet--too narrow.  This is all to say I have never directly dealt with Fluevog until now.  Yes, I splurged all over myself and bought two pairs of Fluevogs.  Oh, man, was it naughty.  I had some serious cleaning  up today after clicking those buttons and entering my credit card number.

Here are my beauties that are just dying to get on my feet.

Fluevog is very into itself, and writes cute, cheeky things that purport to be just for me, to flatter and charm me into buying more expensive shoes.  Which I so want to do!  Like these here--someone, please, pretty please, get me these boots!

Here are some choice sentences from the two emails I have received since yesterday:

"Please allow 2 weeks from the order date for North American delivery (we know sometimes that feels like a long time... think of it in terms of the history of the universe)."

"Thanks again - you've got great taste... (especially you ;)"

 "Your Fluevogs can't wait to meet you..."

"If you have any quizzical questions, additional additions, or ch-ch-changes, please contact that store directly (contact details below) and one of its highly trained Fluevogologists will give you the quickest and best service possible."

And the best one of them all, "It should be noted that when your order came in earlier, a few of us sat around at break and talked about how awesome your taste and decision-making ability was. We hope you had a wonderful time on the site, we enjoyed cyber-hanging out with you."

Yes, indeed, it was definitely fun hanging out with all of you online, and talking about me in such flattering ways.  Thank you, all for almost $500!  More than half my paycheck on shoes.  That used to be tattoos, and now it is dresses and shoes.  What has come over me.

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Twit is officially on maternity leave as of today.  It was mostly gloriously quiet until Ex-cop and Ex-cop Lackey were faced with the daunting task of creating their own spreadsheet.  Here is a conversation that took place within a span of three minutes with Ex-cop in his office, and Ex-cop Lackey going between Ex-cop's office and my desk.


ECL: How do you change the font on a spreadsheet?
Me: Excuse me? (Standard response when someone suddenly approaches my desk and shoots a question at me--I will always pretend I have no idea what he/he is talking about, because I am cruel.)
ECL: You know, change the font on a spreadsheet?
Me: The font for the whole spreadsheet or just a cell?
ECL: Whole thing! (Excitable gerbil, watch out!)
Me: [Explain and demonstrate on my own computer]

                10 seconds later

ECL: How do you put numbers next to the stuff?
Me: Excuse me?  (Ha ha ha.)
ECL: You know, numbers over here.  He (being Ex-cop) wants numbers down the side there on the left.
Me: Insert a column, type in 1, 2 and 3 to make a series and drag down to the bottom row.
ECL: And it will be there forever?  Automatically numbering it?
Me: (Holding back a snort) No, you would have to drag it out more (why go in to automatic inserting with these guys?).

               2 minutes later

ECL: How'd you get those numbers in there? (He asks it in a way that would suggest that I just had fairies flying out of my vagina.)
Me: Excuse me? (Seriously meaning it this time.)
ECL: How. Did. You. Get. Those. Numbers. To. Appear?
Me: I typed, 1, 2 and 3.  (I said this in a way that suggested grey matter was flowing out of his ears).
ECL: ...........
Me: I typed a 1, then went down and typed a 2, and then typed a 3, which creates a recognizable series for the program, then I selected all three and dragged them down until I got bored (around 91, I believe).
ECL: Okay, thanks!
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A special complaint letter I sent to my grocery store yesterday after all that raging I did on the blog (I just had so much more to get out, I guess):

Hi.

Generally I enjoy shopping at [redacted]--great assortment of food (except for when it disappears like the Morning Star veggie dogs) and excellent 1980's college rock (seriously, my day is always made when I hear Echo & the Bunnymen while browsing through the produce). 

However, I find it really puzzling why [redacted] is now trying to brain those of us with an affinity for generic sparkling water.  Why exactly would a 10lb box be stacked 3 boxes high on the top shelf?  Does the staff like to snicker while watching people under 5'10" wrangle with  these boxes?  Should I be climbing the shelves to get up there and then just toss them down in to my cart hoping I don't accidentally wing a small child since my aim is not so good.  Or should I try, like I did in February, and kind of topple the boxes straight on to my face? That was fun.  Luckily I was not injured (just some pride and a really red temple).  That was obviously my own stupid fault for trying to accomplish something a 5'3" person could not possibly achieve.  When the boxes are stacked 3 high, it is well over 6'5" in height (I know, because my 6'1" friend had to reach over his own head to pluck off the box on the 3rd story of boxes).

Odds are that you are going to tell me to get a clerk's assistance if I would like some [redacted] sparkling water.  Which would be an amusing experiment in a) how long does it take to find a clerk, b) watching how the clerk also cannot safely get a box down either, and c) how long would it take to get a lift-ladder out to just get a box of water that was heretofore stored on the BOTTOM shelf where the 10lb boxes of water belong.

Wouldn't it be better for all of us if the water was stored on the bottom shelf again, right there next to the La Croix? Or do only name-brand buyers deserve the privilege of avoiding facial fractures?

Sincerely,

A Thirsty Grumples

Deep Breath...GO!

Whoops, did I leave work today neglecting to say anything to Twit about this is her last day of work before popping out the poor, poor baby that has to suffer a life of having Twit as her mom?  I agree, it was rude of me, but she was over by the fax machine, completely hidden from view, and I felt going to her to say something was more effort than I had to give.  If she had been at her desk when I left, then I would have said something vague, like "Goodbye, good luck, hope she gets handed immediately over to CPS." 

A sentence from an article in today's paper, "A passenger who refuses a 30-second body scan may receive a two- to four-minute manual pat down."  That seems to be an awfully long manual pat down.  I'm fairly certain that a person has been able to bring me to orgasm in under four minutes (I know I have, and I'm not even touching the vast percentage of my body!).  What exactly is security patting down for a whole two to four minutes?  Even if someone literally touched every square inch of my body, would that really take more than 30 seconds to ascertain if there was something there worth further investigation or not?  I'm going to ask The Boy to pat me down and see how long it takes him (I will deduct all seconds of hanky-panky from the over all total).  Hold, please.  Yes, he was very efficient and thorough, and managed to do it in under 30 seconds (that actually includes him grabbing both ass cheeks individually, honking my boobs and taking a rather unsexy swipe at my crotch).  I even reminded him to check under my hair, and we didn't go over 30 seconds.  Will someone pretty please explain, in detail, what a security person could be patting down on me for two to four minutes?

For the record, I'm totally against this asinine, pointless invasion of privacy.  I'm feeling a bit lazy, so I will point you to Patrick Smith, a person I don't know but really like the way he states things.  Obviously I also enjoy him because he seems to think like I do, which automatically makes him awesome.  That and his love for The Wedding Present.  Which reminds me, he should totally fly out and see WP with me on April 5th.  I think we'd  have a grand time, even though I really know next to nothing about flying, and just have strong opinions on various flying matters (like flying with babies, airport and airplane bathrooms, overweight people infringing upon my personal space, noisy airports, art at the airport, etc.). 

Yay, good news for Cary Tennis.  Take that BCBS!  The other good news is the passing of the healthcare reform.  However, I don't think it is perfect or even mostly perfect.  It is a step; a much needed step.  Many exciting things can start from  here, but there's also many ways it could still go wrong.  I stand by what I said before, we need insurance reform and insurance out of the lobbying arena.  Until that happens, there is only so far forward we will be able to move.  I was reading Dooce this afternoon (yes, I do occasionally check in on her), and she wrote a very level-headed response to how reform will positively effect her family.  She also had some crazy-ass flyer that was left in the handle of her front door:

That certainly caught my eye!  I don't think I even have to comment on it.  However, it did make me curious, for the first time, to read the comments on Heather's blog.  It was the usual stuff, all very moderate in language, nothing shocking left or right, but one person's comment did stand out in that s/he felt that we all do have health care, in that we won't be denied  health care if we are hurt and need help.  It just seemed so naive in that on the surface that is true, but Jesus, really?  I am doing my best to not plotz all over the place.

1. Receiving care can still cost a monumental amount of money.  The kind of money that can bankrupt a family and forcing someone to live on the street.  Or, less dramatic but still serious, not have any savings left.  Having worked in the healthcare field, I can tell you that doctors are not shy about referring their patients to collection agencies.
2. "Emergency care" would have been a more accurate phrase. Take Cary Tennis (again), only through his access to the media and blogging about his situation did he get the "care" he needed.  There are plenty of people who are alive and kicking for now, and insurance companies are not exactly compelled to cover expensive and ongoing treatment, especially if it outside of a specific narrow profile.  If you have something rare, good luck getting the testing and treatment you may need.  
3. Proper care often means repeat visits, any of those can be cut off at any time, and you will be expected to pay out of pocket to continue with treatment (e.g.: psychiatric treatment often gets cut off after a certain number of visits).  The insurance company will often determine what is the "appropriate" time frame is for healing.  Your body may have other ideas, though, and you'll be stuck paying for all that additional care that the insurance company didn't think you needed.  
4. Watch Mystery Diagnosis to understand just how much time and money one can spend on trying to find out what is wrong.  Never mind receiving actual care!  These poor people will go years feeling like death.  Sure, a lot of what this show depicts are people with very rare diseases.  However, occasionally there will be something run of the mill, like ovarian cancer that wasn't found in time because doctors didn't want to test for something they knew the insurance companies would not cover.  Also, tests are often not even mentioned to the patient as an option to pay out of pocket.  I don't know why, but it is probably as simple as the doctor doesn't bother pursuing what s/he most likely will not get reimbursed for by the insurance company (DENIED) or the patient (BROKE). 

Gah.  Seriously, there's a lot of shit I just can't get over today.  I haven't even mentioned how Twit felt the need to bring me on a premature-delivery joke.  She was discussing a what-if scenario with one of our coworkers, and they were having some good laughs with their imagined scenarios.  I was doing a fantastic job of ignoring them until my name was said in relation to how I would surely help deliver the baby in the office.  At which time I responded, "I will only call 911 and no more.  Now, this conversation must end.  Thank you."  Then they realized I wasn't joking and the smiles left their faces.  I'm such a party-pooper!

Billy Bragg Claims Drinking Tea Doesn't Make Him a Facist

Wikus convinced me to stay out later than I was planning  yesterday to see Billy Bragg (Biccy Brass!).  We spent most of our day camped out at a bar listening to various bands (only one was good: Beach Fossils), while sitting down.  Don't make me, I'm old.  Some man knocked a pint glass of beer off the bar, and it narrowly missed hitting my head, but did manage to get beer all over half my body.  Then I watched bands with beer-soaked shorts.  He was profusely sorry, but it kind of sucked.  Other observations at the bar: an Asian girl walked past who was dressed in classic Debbie Gibson outfit (you know, high-waisted shorts, black Amish-looking hat pushed back so the brim is basically pointing at the ceiling--I would find a picture of Debbie in this look if it wasn't so horrifying to browse through all the semi-naked pictures of her on Google).  Some fat Harley-looking dude came up to the bar, said "Howdy" to the bartender, lifted up his t-shirt, and patted his round, hair belly while asking for a vodka on the rocks with Red Bull.  Then he kind of tripped on the woman standing next to him in line, and tried to hit on her by apologizing and asking if she'd like a drink.  She (surprisingly) turned him down, so he started jabbering to the bartender about how his girlfriend "literally" tried to kill him last night.  I bet that woman standing next to him was quite relieved to have escaped that hot mess of action!  So many great people in town right now!

Anyway.

Once we finally decided to leave (the band we were waiting for had actually switched times, and we had missed them entirely), Wikus pointed out that Billy Bragg was to go on soon.  I saw Billy Bragg two SXSWs ago at a radio party, and he played about two songs.  I was worried it was going to be more like that.  How wrong I was.  He was playing on the east side in some big parking lot/grassy area, and he gave us the full show complete with beautifully inspirational socialist speeches, and an awesome set list.  I texted Frijole as much as possible, so she could enjoy it with me.  She would hate the crowds, but she'd swoon to hear it.  I even managed to sit on this sturdy box of promotional freebies (No, I'm not for free, assholes), and was able to actually see Billy Bragg instead of fat hot-dog necks, hairy backs and dirty ears. 

Billy told a story of how decades ago, when he was touring with Echo & the Bunnymen (excuse me, I need to take myself back in time and attend this show, please), they were served tea.  They were completed horrified to be given iced tea.  An abomination to the English.  He said when Americans come to his house, he serves boiling-hot Coca-Cola (you can hear part of the story in the video clip below).  For the record, I would drink that just to sit in his kitchen and eat with him.

He also insulted the Tea Baggers, and kept giggling over how that wouldn't go over well in England as a name.  Indeed, Billy.  It shouldn't here either, but that is how stupid people are.  It was a big audience, and I only heard one dude yelling at Billy to "shut the fuck up."  I guess he didn't like the truth so candidly (and succinctly) given to him.  Texans don't like being told how fucked up they are, especially not from some English guy.  Billy discussed how he is worried about England and who is up for election who is a holocaust denier, so that his (Billy's) politics are just as important now as when he was writing his songs in his teens and early 20s.  Give the man a hand folks--if he comes to your town, it will be well worth your while to go see him.

Here are some YouTube videos I found from yesterday's performance.  The person who shot it was either very excited, drunk or both, and you can't see Billy, but you can hear him just fine.





This morning right before it was time to get up and give Whoopis his shot of insulin (as handled deftly by The Boy), a huge storm hit and lightning was everywhere, to the point I was sure the house would catch fire.  That didn't happen, but The Boy did scramble to unplug the entertainment center lest our nice flat screen and all the video-game consoles get zapped in to unusable crap (instead of the usable crap it is now).  That storm dropped us from 70 to 40 degrees.  I refused to leave the house today, and spent most of it sleeping on the couch.  Thus forcing The Boy to get me both breakfast and dinner (we are in a desperate situation grocery-wise).  Have I mentioned how awesome he is?

Oh, yesterday I finally got my Turkish chicken kebab.  Thank you Kebabalicious for deigning to be open during the afternoon.  I gobbled it all down, and so did Wikus with his falafel.  I look forward to eating you again next year.

I'm in a bit of a quandary.  I'm going to buy a pair of these shoes, but I can't decide what color.  I'm leaning heavily for the olive or red.  I already have red shoes, but am always in need of more.  I have a pair of patent green mary janes that feel like I'm walking with a cement block tied to my foot.  The olive ones would definitely be a very nice addition to a professional wardrobe.  Sigh.  I need help--or at least the money to buy all variations of the shoes.  That would be the best solution, because the pale blue and pink ones are very nice, so are the lavender ones.  Sigh.

Then there is this problem.  My heart goes out to this man, and all other people in a similar predicament.  I have worked in the insurance industry and I have worked in healthcare, which has given me a lot of firsthand experience regarding the weighty matters of health.  Insurance companies are beyond crooked, and do not care one bit about the people they cover.  It always comes as a surprise to me that someone can sit down, read someone's story, and decide, no, you are too expensive for us, go on your merry way, and good luck staying alive.  I have worked with people who wanted me to scare a person off of our COBRA plan.  This person had renal failure and was driving our premiums up each year, and they wanted me to call and ask why not go on Medicare?  Hmmm, please go on to government assistance, get on the bottom of the kidney-transplant wait list, and have some half-ass health care, because you know, you're dragging our company down with you.  I refused.  I was also fired three weeks later.  Coincidence?  I don't follow orders very well, especially when it comes to dicking around with someone's health just because  he/she is a financial burden.  I really hope that there is a strong rallying cry behind Cary Tennis, and he is able to bully BCBS in to covering his cancer treatment.  Let's all put on a Billy Bragg album, and start changing the world by posting about this serious problem, and insisting the government opt for better health care for every single fucking person living in this country (and yes, that goes for illegals, too).

Ahem, I feel a little bit of a dry throat.  I seem to only have champagne in the fridge. 

Neck Hotdogs May Be Just One Sign of Substance Abuse

There wasn't much drawing me to the downtown activities today, except for Stephin Merritt and the Magnetic Field's Strange Powers documentary playing at the Alamo Ritz.  Unfortunately, no one really wanted to go see it with me.  Poo.  The best solution to that kind of disappoint me was to go home and take a 3-hour nap.  There are so many people out there who are just unable to enjoy a nap.  If I had to choose between food and sleep, sleep will win every single time.  Even better is that starving generally makes me sleepy anyway.  Sure at first my stomach growling will be a bit distracting, but I just hunker down under my covers and get to the business of sleeping.

Lately, I've been shirking a bit of my hardcore sleeping by staying up past my bedtime to read a book Ivy Vyne recommended, The Tea Rose.  It's a riveting read--a bit pulp historical romance and a bit literary.  A combination I can get behind, especially after suffering through 2009's Best American Short Stories (damn you Alice Sebold and your bad taste).  It's a good plot-driven book, and is way too easy to rationalize just one more chapter three or more times in a row.  This is probably a good book to give to someone like The Boy's mom or Wikus' mom.  It's always to have a good list of those on hand.  I should have it finished by tomorrow or Saturday at the latest.

Wikus and Esquire spent the afternoon downtown while I was napping, and Esquire wanted to have one last dinner with us.  The Boy was recording with one of his bands, so he couldn't go.  Wikus said Esquire was fine with Italian, Hamburgers or more Tex-Mex.  We just had Tex-Mex last night (and my god, he's eaten breakfast tacos like three days in a row), and the Italian place I like would probably have a line out the door at 7:30pm at night.  So hamburgers it was.  I neglected to mention the best hamburgers were at a dark steakhouse that lawyers frequent.  That was kind of funny.  He did agree it was a damn good hamburger.  I decided to go for the housemade veggie burger since my intestines still seemed pissed off with me.  Though, The Boy just came home with a fatty slice of cake with coffee icing (that tasted like fresh whipped cream).  Take that innards!  It's after midnight and I feed you cake.  What exactly do you plan to do about it?

The boys can't stop saying "I'm disabled" in a high quivering falsetto.  It's from the IT Crowd.  I highly recommend it.  Then you can say it too, and I'll giggle every single time.  It's almost as good as ending every sentence with "I'm homeless."  I need to start carrying around a little notebook to jot down other hilarity that Wikus provides.

I forgot to mention yesterday: being a short person in a crowd of tall people, I tend to notice ears a lot.  Especially when standing outside during live shows that I could never hope to actually see the band.  The sun hits ears in just the right way for me to see tons of wax on the outer rim of the ear, and just how man hipster guys don't seem to be hip to the idea of trimming their ear hair.  Please keep this in mind the next time you go to a show--us short people only have so much to stare at: ears, neck fat rolls, hairy backs, etc.  Be kind and clean yourself up before stepping out of the house. 

Speaking of neck rolls (or neck hotdogs as I prefer to call them), the guy in front of me yesterday (while I was suffering through Roky Erikson and Okkervil River) had a hat on with www.phoenixhouse.com embroidered on the back.  I stared at that for so long that I couldn't help looking it up when I got home.  Now I wish I had asked him why he wanted to advertise like that.  Maybe he works there and the cap was a goody bag given at a teamwork seminar.  Or, he just likes being open with his substance-abusive past.  All I know is he had some pretty thick neck hotdogs, and they kept drawing my attention up to his hat. 

Kebabalicious let me down this year.  It was closed when I went by there yesterday, and I got Esquire all excited for some tasty Turkish kebabs, that he tried to go again today, and it was closed again, at 3:30pm!  What gives?  I can only assume they ran out of food.  Unforgivable!  It's SXSW, you have good food, do the math.  Bring plenty of food for poop's sake.

Give Me a Blog; I'm Homeless!

Whoo, I'm sun-tired, walking-tired, allergy-tired.  My nose feels pink.

I spent the day being half-ass trained by twit.  I neglected to make a lot of eye contact.  I did stare rudely at her base line and hairy chin.  She really doesn't have a lot to do that isn't related to Ex-cop; so, I am confident filling in for her over the next two months will be relatively easy--unless she left out a lot during training.  I expect that she has, since she seemed totally confused regarding her own job.

Later, she and Ex-cop Lady Lackey went to lunch, and some jackass woman from the other side of our floor came by to specifically see if Twit was still pregnant.  "Is [Twit] here today?"  "Yes, she's at lunch." "Oh, I wanted to see if she was still pregnant."  Excuse me?  Really?  So fucking weird.  Then she tried to chat me up about how empty the floor was and how nice the weather might be outside.  It got to the point where I started texting with the phone in my lap, and saying, "uh huh" a lot, and she didn't get the hint at all.  Just like Twit.

Then there was that crazy hour of driving, packing up The Boy, grabbing Wikus and Esquire, driving back to the office to park, then fast-walking 1 mile to see Peelander-Z.  So worth it.  Such a damn entertaining band.  There may be no need to buy a CD, because their energy could not possibly translate.  You just have to find a way to go see them.  I swear to you, it is very much worth it.  "How do you like your steak?"  "MEDIUM RARE!"  "What a health?" "SUPER HEALTH!"  Sadly, the venue was not suited for their more acrobatic antics, like playing guitar upside while hanging from ceiling beams.  The Boy did get to touch Red Peelander's butt when he crowd surfed over our heads.  For me it was a bit frightening since all these people were running over just to touch Red Peelander, and it seems that none of them could see a 5'3" woman standing right there.  They just trampled me in their eagerness.  Luckily I got out alive, and my fun was not diminished in anyway.  An added bonus was Guamaniac and Two Ladies in a Cup (TLC) showing up for hugs and kisses and giggles.

Later, we stood in a long line for Roky Erikson and Okkervil River.  I did this for Wikus and The Boy.  A homeless woman approached us asking for a penny.  As The Boy went searching through his pocket, she totally knocked me to the side and said, "What are those?" pointing to the t-shirts he had in his arm (yes, he got his Peelander-Z shirts!), "Are those shirts?  Can I have those?  I'm homeless!"  I muttered under my breath that she could find shirts all over town right now (it is SXSW right now), and The Boy said they were our shirts, so no, she couldn't have it.  "Can I have a dollar?  I'm homeless!"  The Boy was  unable to find any money, and she wondered off in a huff. 

I know I just spent a good portion of my post yesterday standing up for homeless people, but her actions are way so many people yesterday were commentating assholes.  She was demanding and rude.  She shoved me more than once, and I have no idea if she noticed or not.  Sadly, it was just too easy to mock her every time she punctuated her demand with "I'm homeless!"  Leading us to come up with our own demands to entertain ourselves in the long line:

"Give me your panties.  I'm homeless."
"I would but I'm wearing tights..."
"Give your tights.  I'm homeless!"

God, we're so terrible, but really.  I'm homeless!

Roky Erikson and Okkervil River were so horrible that we bailed, which made Wikus sad because he was enjoying them.  I so have no idea why, but it was three against one, so he lost.  We went out for some Tex-Mex and margaritas to make it up to him.  Our waiter was totally pushy, and kept trying to upsell us on everything.  We kept saying no, and then he started rattling off the specials, which I didn't totally catch, but heard "mar" and I flat out said, "NO!"  I don't want your fish, mister.  There was some bickering around the table how he wasn't actually trying to convince me to get the special, just telling me what the special was.  However, he was still trying to give the specials to us, and we were being so unattentive that he actually walked off with the words still trailing out of his mouth.  Oops, sorry waiter.  I looked at the specials on the menu and what I said an emphatic "NO" to was some dish that was chicken, jumbo shrimp and cottage cheese.  Oh man, gross.  I'm so glad I didn't actually hear him list that nastiness out loud.  Sick. 

The waiter tried to serve Wikus a frozen margarita.  Poor Wikus, it just wasn't his day.  It took forever to get his marg on the rocks.  At one point, a hostess stole my water right out from under my nose.  I wasn't done!  She eventually brought back a full glass of water.  I stand by the idea that water is to be brought to my near-empty glass, not my near-empty glass taken away from me.  What if I had choked on my spicy flaquities?  It was totally possible.

To further really rub in the awfulness of the evening, we attempted (ATTEMPTED) to watch Miami Vice the movie.  Please do not ask me why I had this on my Netflix list.  I do not have an explanation.  At.  All.  Of course the movie is exactly what you expect.  Collin Farrell can't do an American accent, and you spend much of your time trying to figure out just what accent he really is going for.  There was some other bit character who I swear was doing his best Truman Capote.  The soundtrack was mixed terrible, and it was all music and loud noises with the dialogue pretty much set on mumble.  Which was fine, because it left plenty of time for tipsy Wikus to provide the conversation for us.  I will not repeat it here.  It wasn't always appropriate.  But he had Esquire laughing so hard, he almost fell off the red couch.  I had to warn him that the couch had no sides to catch him.  At an hour and 15 minutes, we checked how much longer we had to go--a fucking hour and five more minutes!  Oh no, that was unbearable.  We all agreed to watch the first few seconds of the rest of the chapters.  It really made as much sense as the part of the movie we actually watched.  Also, the two sex scenes both started in the shower.  Way to be derivative in your own movie.  Geez.

Tomorrow Twit is off and I have one more half-day to get through.  Then I'm free for the rest of the week to do as I want.  Maybe more SXSW, or possibly taking naps on the couch.  We'll see!

Who Doesn't Want Booze and Drugs All the Time?

Shit I suck.  I forgot to give a Happy Birthday shout-out yesterday to Frijole.  I mean on this here blog; I did call her.  I don't suck that much.  She is ill, which is just bad timing for a birthday.  No drinks for her.  Fink-Nottle was able to snuggle with her on the couch, so it wasn't as bad as it could have been (like say, spending the night on the floor of the bathroom making out with the toilet every half-hour).

Remember how I was going on about this awesome food trailer during SXSW (I'm too lazy to find the post), and couldn't remember the name of it.  Well, I overheard Argyle on Sunday say something to someone else, and it bumped my brain and I said, "Oh, yes, that's it, Kebabalicious!"  How could I have forgotten such a name?  Delicious kebabs!  It is truth in advertising.  Luckily, they are setting up shop right near my office again this year.  Tomorrow's lunch will be tasty.

I can't go today for three reasons:
1. They are not actually open for lunch until tomorrow (today is the last day of the film fest; tomorrow is the start of the music festival, which means more people wandering the streets in the middle of the day needing food and libations).
2. I am not at work and quite far from their location. 
3. There's something going on with my innards, which has kept me from work, and I highly doubt eating a spicy chicken kebab would make me feel any better, only worse.

My stomach has been bothering me since Saturday.  Nothing very forward of it; more like a whiny baby in the back of a movie theater.  I've been busy, and doing my best to ignore it.  However, I have become exhausted and gave up today.  Now I'm letting it full on out bother me.  I even drank some coffee to see if that would help make something happen (coffee to me is like a horse pissing in my mouth; albeit hazelnut-flavored horse piss).  It's all tight and terrible in there with a pain on the right side.  I swear if it ends up being my appendix, I'll kill someone.  I don't think it is, but I just wanted to get it out there so everyone knows what will happen if it is.  My dad and sister both had appendicitis (my sister broke her arm and had appendicitis all in the same week--she always got all the attention!).  Though, if I understand correctly, it's not really a genetic thing, so there's no reason to suspect I will need to be sliced open during SXSW and miss all the fun.  A day of rest and eating spinach should do it.  Right?

Wikus and Esquire are going to spend this rainy day visiting a museum with dinosaur bones in it.  They will have to wear long pants instead of short pants.  The weather is not as warm as it has been the past few days.  A museum is not a bad idea at all.  I will continue to stay in bed.  Thank goodness for the laptop.  The Boy is off to a meeting (he's been working in the livingroom ever so quietly, and bringing me things I need, like bubbly water, pills, horse-piss coffee and love). 

Here's the best kite from yesterday.

Here's Blossom, a very enthusiastic dog.  She was a great help during Twister.

I just browsed today's headlines in our mostly terrible paper, and here's an attention grabber, ""GETTING TO KNOW THE HOMELESS: According to a new survey, the homeless want friends, family, security and stability."  No way!  I always thought they just wanted booze and drugs, and to be raped and beaten on the street for sheer kicks.  Why would they possibly want to be loved and accepted?  If I wasn't laid up in bed, I'd totally be going on a murdering rampage right now.  And homeless people would not be my target--I'll start with all the fucking people who commented on the article (like you, "DefenderOfTheTruth," who thinks they are all asking for handouts and we need to ship them all somewhere else; "Merrick3000" believes we'll all be homeless soon under Obama; "ridewithclyde" feels they should all go in to the military). 

How sad that homelessness is so misunderstood, that there is actually an article like this in a fucking capitol-city paper.  I have never been homeless (though, I did spend a couple of  months on an acquaintance's couch and my stuff in the basement of her business), but that doesn't mean I can't understand homelessness and how it happens.  I'm scared of becoming homeless.  I hoard my money.  I have been laid off twice and fired once.  At any of these points I could have been forced to live on the street.  I've had health issues that so far haven't drained my bank account, but there is no telling what will happen in the future (like appendicitis!).  Of course there are plenty of homeless people who do just drink and do drugs, but at the same time, can I really blame them?  They are fighting for their lives out there, and surely deserve a vacation from reality.  Yes, that is not the best thing in the world to be a productive member of society, I get that.  At the same time, how productive are these commentators?  Do we know what they do?  Or do they simply have the luxury of enough money to not be homeless and thus feel free to comment on situations that they obviously have not even thought through?  I wouldn't say I'm a very productive member of society.  I have a college degree and good skills, but am I using them?  Am I really doing anything other than holding down a job that a brain-dead animal could handle?  Every time I see a homeless person, I realize just how lucky I am.  I don't hate them, I don't want them to be sent away and made to be someone else's problem; I want them to be able to have a better life, or at least be allowed to do the best they can on the streets without constantly being told they are drunken bums who deserve to die. 

A Weekend of Shenanigans

Wikus has a guest in town for SXSW.  He's an old friend of ours from college.  Wikus lived with him several times throughout the last decade plus; me, only a few months (where The Orange Lover often wandered out in to the apartment complex at large when certain drunken roommates came home and didn't shut the door behind them.  You know who you are.).  I feel he should be called Esquire (Esq.).  Seeing as he has obviously worked harder to do something with his life than the rest of us (excluding The Boy, who has probably worked harder). 

With Esquire in town, Wikus was practically giddy with excitement.  Wikus rarely gets giddy.  Maybe only over little baby animals (he's a softy like that).  When I was driving circles around the airport, Esquire called to say his plane had landed, and some alien took over Wikus body in the backseat.  There were giggles and funny voices.  If my car was a bouncy-house, Wikus would be doing flips in the air.  The Boy and I must not be providing Wikus enough love.

We went and stuffed ourselves crazy with some Southern comfort food, and dropped Wikus and Esquire off at Wikus' apartment--The Boy and I feeling sleepy went home and took naps.  Such hard work it is to drive to the airport and eat fried green tomatoes!  Later that evening we when to Argyle's art show.  She is such an amazingly talented person, and sadly I brought a seriously drunken Wikus with me.  Esquire was doing pretty good, and kept an eye on Wikus, but my god was he drunk.  His attention was held by a small dog with a serious under-bite for most of the evening, allowing The Boy and I to socialize with friends and look at the art.  We even bid on one of Argyle's pieces; though, I have no idea if we won or not.  We probably need to check on that.  She did two prints that featured The Boy's two bands, and one of our imaginary band, The Gay Friendlies.  We should get artist copies of those. 

Here are some things that came out of Wikus' mouth while we were driving him to and from the show:

• Bacon cheeseburgers should grow on trees!
• (Never mind the fact that he spent most of his 20s as a vegan, and his 30s as a vegetarian)

• The Bacon Cheeseburger Tree is actually the Tree of Knowledge.
• It is Daylight Saving Time.  Daylight Savings Time is a bank.
• "Whooooooooooooooo-iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii-aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa," wailing like a ghostly woman (he did this a lot).
• That owl [a nice sticker on someone's gas tank] has a ghost tail.
• Maybe I should go to bed now.

There was a lot more, but thankfully I have forgotten most of it.  He was very belligerent, in that every time I said something like, "okay," he'd say, "How dare you question me?"  Wikus is a strange and funny drunk.  Esquire just kept exchanging looks with me that said, "Should we dump him at the college and let him take his angst out on some frat boys?"

Here was our first exchange Sunday morning:

Wikus:         hello
Grumples:    how are you?
Wikus:         Sub-spectacular, I think someone put something in that last drink I had.
Grumples:    oh, no!  were  you rufied?
Wikus:         No, it's that other drug that just makes your head and stomach a bit angry.
Grumples:    oh, i think that is called alcohol
Grumples:    and i believe it was in many of your drinks
Wikus:         Yes, that's the one.

He wasn't up for much yesterday, but that didn't stop me from dragging him and Esquire to Target (him for short pants that he neglected to bring and other toiletries; me for a new watch band, which I obtained and bought some rockin' new shades that are huge rounded squares of turquoise), then to the best meat in town (where Wikus sat on a rusty chair looking like he may puke in a cactus basket at any second), then grabbing The Boy and heading to a kite festival.  This involved walking about 1.5 miles and wandering around trying to find our friends. Once found, Wikus and Esquire plopped down on our blanket and stayed put for the next 3 hours. 

The rest of the gang talked, ate, flew kites, played Twister, nuzzled with dogs, etc.  It was a truly fun day, and the weather finally cooperated: warm breeze and in the low 80s.  I really couldn't have asked for a better Sunday. 

We finally left because The Boy being the more responsible of the two of us (snort), reminded me that we have a diabetic cat who was due for his insulin shot.  Trudged the 1.5 miles back to the car, and we all agreed to go home and see if Netflix streams Carrie since Esquire nor The Boy had seen it.  We were in luck--the red couch was pulled up to the other couch and we spent a lovely two hours resting.  Then I packed Wikus and Esquire in to the car and dragged them home.  Damn Daylight Saving (it's-not-a-bank) Time really had me tired (that and being engorged on sun and happiness), sent me to the shower and off to bed to read.

I am not attending SXSW until noon Wednesday.  Until then, it's me and a mostly empty office.  Twit is here (just burped at my desk and didn't say excuse me and totally left a nasty smell in her wake), and I had to remind her of my two half-days and full day off, so she better get crackin' on writing her procedures to her job.  Her last day before maternity leave is this Friday.  Yay to better days ahead!

The Amazing Fruit-Fly Discovery From the Mind of the Non-Scientific

Talking with Hamster Hater this morning, I realized that my movie collection is heavy on Bill Murray pictures.  I blame a certain group of very good directors and writers who recognize the genius that is Billy Murray.  We were talking about movies that would be appropriate for his children to watch (girl: 15, boy: 11).  He introduced his daughter to Sixteen Candles and she loved it.  That bodes well for her.  I gave him my list of most-see Bill Murray movies from the past decade, and then realized I owned all of them.  Ha.

He gave me this awesome laminate fold-out of the trees of central Texas.  I don't think he gave it to me for keepsies, but I plan on photo-copying it on the fancy color Xerox.  Stealing from work on Friday, how dangerous of me.

This morning I was once again thinking of C in the shower.  Well, more like I was thinking of something she said at dinner last night and how her brother is finishing up his PhD on fruit flies.  Yet again, I don't know why my brain decided to pick up on this in the shower this morning, but I was just thinking about fruit flies, and what crazy thing has he discovered about fruit flies?  Then I started thinking what would blow the minds of the scientific fruit-fly community?  That the third segment of the fruit fly's back left leg actually determined if it liked bananas or cat poo more.  Then, oh my god, some bitch from Texas who knows nothing about fruit flies and was just making a joke on her blog, totally turned out to be right.  Scientist bicker in jealous resentment, call her a bitch and get on with their lives using this fantastic new information to map if there are more banana-loving fruit flies over the cat-poo-loving ones.

If I have not admitted this before, I am not very good at sharing.  I hate it.  Stuff is mine, whether that be food, money, the super-soft blankey on the couch.  I'm the oldest child, can you tell?  The Boy and I had a little spat when I went home for a brief lunch between mentoring and work.  He kept stealing my macaroni and cheese.  It was one serving, and each time I was in position to put the fork in my mouth, his arm blocked me to steal some more pasta.  So not only was he taking bits of my one-portion meal, he was keeping me from freely eating it at my own pass.  I finally got fed up with this and snapped at him by ripping his tongue out and eating it mixed in with my mac-and-cheese.  He always shares his food--he's really good like that.  He also always offers to make me food when he goes in to make himself food.  But let's be clear about today, he was home, had been home, and at any time could have gotten up and ate the mac-and-cheese himself.  I had 20 minutes to spare, and was eating my serving of food and he was stealing it.  Then when I offered to make him some food, he refused, on the basis that he felt I didn't really want to.  Which was not true.  I totally wanted to because a) he was right in that I didn't offer when he always does, and b) he sounds so pathetic without a tongue, that I wanted him to shut up already.

Obviously, I should only eat meat when I am at home to avoid this kind of thing.

Last night I neglected to remove my mascara before going to bed.  I really try to avoid this because I may have long eyelashes, but they aren't particularly thick, and sleeping with mascara on his like having dried paint on bristles.  This morning, before I took my shower (and thought all about C, her brother, and fruit flies), I took a look at myself and saw that I had no mascara on my left eye, but my right eye looked as good as it did yesterday (if not better since there was some slight smudging going on under my lower lashes).  I have always felt that my right eyelashes are way better looking then my left.  I had an epiphany, standing there naked in the hot steam of the bathroom: I sleep on my left side!  I wake up with no mascara on that side of my face, because I have spent the whole night rubbing it off on my pillow in my thrashing about (hot flashes!).  Even when I'm not wearing mascara, I'm still brutally destroying the eyelashes on my left.  Honestly, I'm almost 35 and this just now occurs to me.  That and how the fruit flies' back left leg absolutely determines if they like fruit or dung better.

Ladies Rockin' The Night

Too tired to write tonight.  Just want to read.  All I have to say today is, "Yes, I really do have curly eyebrows, and have never had a professional wax any part of my body."  There, take that as you will.

The One Who Doesn't Look Like a Frog

During breaks of making PowerPoint awesomeness, I looked up various things online and chatted with Guamaniac.  This made the day go by quite quickly.

Proving I'm Right Once Again
Wikus tried to convince me that he was just a wee bit over average height.  He disagreed when I pointed out that I am closer to the average height for women than he is to the average height of American men.  Because we are both obsessed with being the right one, I had to go research this matter (and this was from a convo on Monday night when he was getting those damn boxes of water down from the top shelf for me--a shelf he felt had to be around 5'10" level).  According to Wikipedia, white American men on average are 5'10.5" tall; whereas, a white American female is 5'4.5" tall.  So, that means he is 3" above-average, and I'm 1.5" below-average (hey, did you just call me stupid?).  I win!

I think it is high time to write a complaint letter to my grocery store advising that keeping 12 packs of 12oz cans of water on the top shelf is not very safe.  Especially considering that Wikipedia says the average height of a Mexican-American male is 5'7" and female is 5'2.5"!  That makes for a lot more short people than tall people in the store's demographics.  We aren't all dragging a Wikus around with us.

I find it curious that Wikipedia lists Vietnam women being 4'12" on average.  Isn't that 5'?  Or have I really lost all elementary-school-memories recall?

On the Loss of Corey Haim

Grumples:    do you need to cry on my shoulder over the loss of your dear corey haim?
Guamaniac:    corey haim died?
Grumples:    yes at 2:15a at a burbank hospital (so 12:15a our time)
Guamaniac:    wow.  how?
Grumples:    no word on how he went in to that good night
Guamaniac:    how old was he?
Grumples:    38
Guamaniac:    damn
Guamaniac:    which one was he? pretty or ugly?
Grumples:    non-frog
Guamaniac:    poor thing.
Grumples:    corey feldman is alive and kicking as far as i am aware
Grumples:    i'm sure he’ll do a press conference regarding his loss
Guamaniac:    i am still confused which one he is. I’ll google image him
Grumples:    curly hair
Grumples:    baby face
Guamaniac:    there he is. poor guy
Guamaniac:    he was the cuter one
Grumples:    http://www.nydailynews.com/gossip/2010/03/10/2010-03-10_actor_corey_haim_dead_at_38_overdose_suspected_reports.html
Grumples:    correct.  the other one looks like a frog.
Guamaniac:    hahaha...that's not nice.
Grumples:    overdose suspected
Guamaniac:    what animal do I look like?
Grumples:    the frog one isn't dead yet, so i'm not being mean
Guamaniac:    i'm poor. take me to lunch please
Guamaniac:    also, tell me what animal i am
Grumples:    but then i'd have to work until 5pm
Guamaniac:    but i'm mourning the loss of what's his nuts
Grumples:    you are a harbor seal
Grumples:    http://www.marinediscoveryadventures.com/HarborSeal4.03.jpg
Guamaniac:    hahaha. yes!
Guamaniac:    http://www.hidetanning.net/red_fox_1.jpg
Guamaniac:    this is you!
Grumples:    man, i'm awesome
Grumples:    just look at that facial expression
Grumples:    i need to work on those eye-boogers, though
Guamaniac:    it's just like the real GRUMPLES...crusty eyes!

Then the Conversation Took an Interesting Turn

Guamaniac:    somewhere in hand-cock center
Grumples:    excuse me where is your cock?
Guamaniac:    in hand
Guamaniac:    in the center
Grumples:    interesting
Grumples:    it's not in my hand
Grumples:    so possibly it is in yours in the center?
Guamaniac:    in both hands
Guamaniac:    centered towards my mouth
Grumples:    man, that takes some good stomach muscles
Grumples:    good work
Guamaniac:    i like to get it all over my face
Grumples:    well, really, who doesn't?
Grumples:    it's good for the pores

And If That Wasn't Enough

He then sent me this gem:

I wish I could give credit to whomever originally posted this, but for the life of me I can't read the web addresses in the lower left corner; nor does the link he sent me lead to anything.  Sad.






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Lastly, check out what The Apples in Stereo have in store for us!

Sophorine For Sale in May!

The sweet smell of spring is finally in the air.  My Texas Mountain Laurel doesn't seem to be in bloom yet, so there are only sweeter smells to come.  If you don't know what a Texas mountain laurel is, go find one when it is blooming, and you will smell the most awesome grape Kool-Aid smell ever!  I know it seems crazy, and that I must be lying,, and am just trying to get you to stick your nose where a lot of bees hang out, but this is totally a true story.  The bees, too.  Good smells for a bee up your nose is absolutely worth it in this case.  Also, avoid putting the red seeds in your mouth--they are highly poisonous.  I have no idea if they are a good suicide method.  However, they seem to be a good narcotic and are hallucinogenic.  Perhaps I should quit my job and just sell the red seeds that are all over the ground after the flowering.

March in central Texas is so pleasant.  I saw my first bluebonnets of the year alongside I-35 this afternoon.  There are some trees with white fluffy bits on them (I have no idea what kind of trees they are; they aren't particularly pretty, not like fruit trees; something more manly and coarse; update: I'm told that there is a chance they are Bradford pears).  Soon the wisteria will be in bloom and there will be ducklings in the water.  I'll have to start taking lunches again just so I can be outside every day to enjoy it.  Thank to The Boy, I now have a good telephoto lens to help me spy on all the creatures around the creek in back of my office building.

It is so beautiful outside, nice and warm, that I don't even care that there is some pollen out there making my eyes gooey with floating boogers.  Bring it on spring.  I'm ready for you!
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I was looking at something today, and there was a person referenced whose last name is Barfnecht.  I find this inconceivable.  How did this person even become an adult--wasn't killed as a child through serious playground abuse?  At the very least, shouldn't this person be an agoraphobe hiding away from society and not letting that name appear on any printed materials?
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Last night's House was totally silly (yet, of course, enjoyable for obvious reasons).  Please take note right now, I will always gladly espouse on poo--my poo, your poo, a stranger's poo.  Poo for all!  I'm surprised that this character really would have never mentioned her poo before (with the excuse that no one cares about that stuff--how untrue!  Who cares about your relationship when there is poo to be discussed?!).  Then there's the whole problem that she almost dies and it takes the whole episode and a House epiphany to get us to her issue.  Lame.  As doctors, they totally would have already been monitoring her poos.  They would have taken a sample, they would be making records of her bowel movements (that girl is hooked up in every possible way--she wasn't walking over to the stall every time she needed to go; there'd be a bedpan under That '70s ass).  It's so great that she took all this with such equanimity and didn't start screaming how she was going to sue them for not checking the most basic of symptoms.

As far as I am aware, I have never had a floater.  Just sinkers of various colors.  Nor do I generally have pellets, but it has happened.  Since I take 65mg of iron daily, my poos are going to remain very solid.  Go iron!  Go green poos!
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Even Bear and Whoopis are in the mood to go outside.  Listen to Bear make his goat noises.  He desires to bleat and get his coat all dirty.  Whoopis (seen attempting to eat a plant) will likely lick it all off of Bear later, because he is way nicer than I am.  You roll in dirty, your problem on how you get clean.

Moist, It's Really About Bread

In the shower this morning while I cleaned myself and dozed at the same time, I started in on this sort of fantasy where the friends and co. are playing Quelf and I had to write a poem to C and use a word she dislikes.  Now, I have no idea why my brain gets such ideas, and I hope C doesn't mind that I was thinking of her whilst showering (at no point did I think of her actually showering, it was all pretty innocent on that front).  C does not like the word "moist."  Any time that word is said, she'll tell you how she doesn't like it, and give a shiver and eye roll while making a serious YUCK face.  She'll also tell you that she is allergic to eggplant, but not when "moist" is mentioned.  You'd be surprised how often eggplant comes up in conversation.

Sadly, I did not write down my Moist poem, so I am doing my best to recollect it (I was sleeping and showering after all).

moist is the dark
where yeast rises
punch down dough
to make the little loaves

It starts off sounding so dirty, but it is about bread!  I have no idea if there really is a Quelf card that asks for such a thing, but I can always make up a card and slip it in to the deck, and I'm all prepared in the infinitesimal chance I a) get the card and b) C is playing with us when card is obtained. 

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Urban Race update:  Okay, a lot of confusion happened yesterday with my connection to the team only being my crappy cellphone and their quickly fired text messages.  I'm going to call my coworker Towlie from here on out (to differentiate her from my other coworker who does not want to be called Slag-Bag).  Towlie's team came in either 31st or 32nd (she claims one team was listed twice), and her daughters' team came in 20th.  Towlie's husband is friends with a team that came in 4th, and we'll be pumping them for information as we lead up to the Great Urban Race at the end of the month.

Also, it seems there were other questions they didn't bother asking me because they were so easy--didn't want to waste my precious brain's processing time.  However, we do have a plan for the next race on how we won't have to rely on the phone as much, and I'll end up knowing all the clues, from super easy to super hard.  We already have some strategies in place, including my actual knowledge of the piss-poor bus system.  I'm bookmarking important internet pages, and feel I will be much more prepared for this next race.  We must come in the top10 before I feel validated.  Good thing I'm not actually on the streets with them during the race.  I'd be so competitive and bossy, while at the same time whining for more water and just a moment to take a break, but no one else better be such a baby or I will get angry!

Some of the dares they had to do were stick their face in some whipped cream (that had presumably been sitting outside during the whole race) and find some bubblegum with just your tongue, then blow a big bubble with it (I asked Towlie why there was no picture of that travesty and she was evasive).  They had to do a wheelbarrow race (Towlie's husband was the wheelbarrow, which I think is silly since Towlie probably weighs 95lbs, and her husband could probably just run her body across the course without Towlie even having to use her arms much).  There was some other game that required throwing things.  They had to take a picture of someone doing a cartwheel and one of them shaking a dog's paw.  Towlie said strangers were pretty nice about it, but she figures it is because they were wearing official t-shirts of the event.  I totally would have told people I was on a scavenger hunt, now give me your black bra.

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Peelander-Z!!
Great news out today from my friend at Showlist Austin: Peelander-Z will be here during SXSW with their own free day-show!  We now all know where I'll be Friday, March 19th.  Mad tiger, mad tiger!

Where I Don't Even Mention Wikus' LEGENDARY GOLD Jeans

Urban Dare
Whew, that was some intense computer searching I did yesterday.  I have no idea how to live my life with the internet.  I would have been absolutely useless to my Urban Dare team if there wasn't the amazing search engine called Google.  The internet is how I fool people in to thinking I'm smart.  The first four clues I was able to answer in less than 3 minutes (add some time for crappy cell connections that led to a lot of "Huh, what did you just say? What about your VD?").

1. Paraphrased clue: Some kid did something really stupid and there is an annual award that is given out for such stupid actions (it was windy outside, so I really only got blah blah blah, and had to ask my coworker to repeat herself, and she summarized the story to stupid kid and annual award); go to the establishment named after this  yearly award and take a picture.  That was easy and Google was not needed: Darwin awards.  Used Google to find if there was any Darwin establishment in town, and right near the start point of the race was a Darwin's Pub.  Go me.
2. Next was take a picture with the person who said, "Do not call for black power or green power. Call for brain power." Sounded vaguely familiar, but why tax my brain and try to recall from what ever deep dark recess of my mind who that is.  Quick search got me to Barbara Jordan (which I should have known immediately--that fireplug of a lady!). My coworker started muttering about a Barbara Jordan statue being installed recently.  Well, it was almost a year ago actually, but yes, there she is on the UT campus.  That's one heck of a walk from downtown--they had to use the crappy bus service.
3. Then some more blah blah blah clue that talked about some kid being given a Brownie Kodak camera during a trip to Yosemite park, and was famous for his black-and-white photography.  I didn't quite catch the whole thing, but it had to be Ansel Adams.  It didn't take long for me to find an Adams Park just north of the Barbara Jordan statue.  Who knows what they had to do in the park--my job was just to get them to find the location.
4. Next clue was to take a picture of yourself with a VW painted like a Saints helmet.  "Saint?  As in religion?"  Audible sigh, "No, Saint as in the New Orleans football team."  "Oh, uh, really?"  Obviously I had no idea about this stuff, but again, simple Google search.  They had to be way back down south and west to get to that sucker.  I was really happy to be the brains behind the operation and not  having to run all over the damn place.  
5. This is the one that knocked me on my ass, and left me punching holes in my brain, and calling on Wikus and Fink-Nottle for assistance.  Sadly, we all failed and never came up with the answer (however, my team ended up getting help from some other teams, so eventually got it, but not soon enough).  The clue was to take a picture with the SPIRIT OF LEARNING.  Oh god, the searches for that.  Nothing.  Two hours worth of nothing.  I refused to give up.  I kept looking and trying to put together very lame ideas to make it work.  Ends up there is a statue in front of the Teachers Retirement System that is called The Spirit of Learning.  Guess what?  That is no where online, and I have no idea how anyone figured it out unless they were just visiting every statue in town.  
6. The last question was a bit hard, but I managed to figure it out after about 10 minutes.  It was LOOK for the spear--mural ad.  Not a very good clue to Google; or, at least not in the way I use Google.  Ended up if you just type in "look for the spear" you'll find what you want.  Problem was no concrete address but the Frost building in the background made the mural pretty easy to find.

I'll find out tomorrow what other things they had to do, since finding various landmarks and taking pictures in front of them wasn't the only point of the race.  I believer there were dares involved, but what they were, I have no idea.  I was too busy spending the whole race trying to find the answer to clue #5.  Looking around online, I found examples from other cities, and they pretty much axed any ideas I had of actually being on a team.  "Go to X comedy club, get up on stage and do charades."  "Take pictures of yourself with a stranger in scrubs."  Ugh.  I'd rather not, thank you.


It seems I got my team in to second place.  Their daughters actually won the race. Update: Miscommunication, the kids came in 20th and my coworker came in 31st or 32nd. My coworker is very very attached to her children, and I wouldn't be surprised if she actually assisted them.  I play to win, and don't take kindly to hand outs like that!  Anyway, ends up there is a Great Urban Race they want me to help out with on March 27th.  I loved every minute of yesterday, even when I couldn't figure out what the fuck the SPIRIT OF LEARNING was.  The jokes about why the Bob Bullock Museum and LBJ Library could not possibly be it, was entertaining enough.


For amusing transportation news, our commuter rail is set to start running on March 22nd.  This is pretty much high hilarity for Wikus.  It is probably going to end up being this huge boondoggle that will set back public transportation efforts in town many decades.  Texans are very attached to their cars (that includes me).  Wikus doesn't have a car, and I have to keep reminding him that he is not the target audience for this rail.  It is for people who live in the suburbs and work downtown.  Though, none of them would consider walking very far from the train, nor take a bus to get to anywhere from there, so not sure who will really end up using the train.  There is a stop near me--technically I could use the train to go downtown, get drunk, then come back home.  Too bad it only runs during rush hour, and not at all in the afternoon or at night past 6pm.  Sigh.


This train was supposed to start running over a year ago, so it is really amusing when they announce a new start date.  They obviously know it is shit if they are opening it the week after SXSW.  


There's a long IM of Wikus and I chatting about the futility of the commuter train, and the obnoxiously priced monthly pass ($70!  Boston doesn't even charge that much, and you can get to so many more places using their public transpo).  I won't pain you with the conversation, but the best part was when Wikus said, "Ghossssssssssssssst train!"  So true.

How Tasty Are The Treats in Your Plastic Egg?

I meant to write a post last night, but sadly I succumbed to a meat coma pretty early in the evening.  I'd been suffering from this soporific state since lunch, and had a very hard time rationalizing to myself why I had to stay awake at my desk for the next four hours.  The tasty meat made it worth it in the end, but the need to sleep was a bit overwhelming. 

One of my friends who joined us for lunch had a building evacuation.  I feel that calling in a bomb threat to get to your meat sooner if definitely an excusable offense.  She said that they had to leave so quickly she wasn't allowed to turn off her computer, and was only able to minimize our gchat.  We didn't say anything horrible, though, I worry that all our talk about meat may worry whomever was tasked with looking at the computers.  Is "meat" a code word for "bomb," they might ask their superiors.

If only my brain had instant recall--I would transcribe a conversation that was held over our meaty goodness.  It had us in tears and two of us had to resist the urge to vomit up the tasty meat bits.  Here's a list of highlights from the convo:

• Silkwood
• wire brush
• genital scrub
• high-pressure-hose-created orgasm
• picnic
• adult-themed egg hunt
• dental dams
• ejaculate as "prize" in plastic egg
• how much ejaculate it would take to fill an egg
• keeping ejaculate "fresh"
• mistaking ejaculate for melted candy

Sounds like an exciting party, doesn't it?  Radiation contamination and clean-up, eating, prophylactics and a nasty surprise that one might think is just a melted marshmallow.  Whoops.

Then there was the problem this morning where I was having a very realistic dream of being in a mansion (not mine of course, I never dream big for myself), where there was a glass cupola that exploded all over the room due to deep snow accumulation.  I was picking up the glass in my dream, and kept getting slivers of it stuck in my fingers and under my nails, when I heard shouting that sounded a lot like, "Please watch football!" then a very loud noise.  I woke up at the point, and the boy was already scrambling out of bed to check on the matter.  Seems the house diagonal from ours is having some kind of issue.  There were five policemen in riot gear, and they had rammed the door and broke a panel out of it (mostly likely scenario here is that no one was yelling for me to watch football, but rather announcing they were the police and to open up).  There was a lot of very slow activity (no one was in a hurry here).  An ambulance showed up about 20 minutes later, and they weren't in a hurry either.  A lot of photographs were taken inside the house, and not a single occupant could be seen.  I have no idea if anyone was hauled off before we actually got our glasses on to focus on the action.  We could see the neighbors across the street peeping through their blinds as we peeped through ours, which gave me a good laugh that we were all probably standing around naked looking at something we'll probably never figure out.  My three guesses are drugs, weapons or "illegals" in that order. 

When I left for work at 8:30am (hey, I've been working late and needed some extra sleep--I mean, there were cops keeping me up at 6am after all), there was no sign of cops nor the people who lived in the house.  There were no cars (cars had still be in the driveway when I went back to bed at 7am) or people around at all.  There was still a hole in the door (what, no plywood to help out?), and the place looked empty.  No crime-scene tape either.  So, tell me, what the fuck?

My non sequitur for the morning: Damn this getting old crap, and showing up to work with sleep wrinkles on my face.

Corrections:
This blog post incorrectly listed my friend living in Dallas, when he in fact lives in Houston.  I cannot vouch for what goes on in my head at any certain point.  I apologize for shaming him with Dallas when he lives in Houston.  Ha!

In this blog post I quoted a "coworker" without giving her proper credit.  I hereby corrected this oversight, and would like all of you to know that my dear coworker, slag-bag, is the one who gave me a slightly backhanded compliment regarding my outfit.  She's also the mother of Emma--the best dog in the world. 

I hope everyone now feels vindicated and are able to have a carefree weekend with no thoughts to all that slander.

Look!  Teeny seahorses on a Q-tip! (Thanks to dailysquee.com--I'm just a big softy at heart.)

Purple Dress, Blue Tights, Red Couch

 

 I had some fun this afternoon while The Boy was playing in his studio.  I'm so in love with our new red couch, and felt that my candy-colored outfit would look perfect against it.  Obviously.  As a coworker said today, "That's a color combination one would think would not work, but it totally does."  It's a little talent I have that really has not translated to anything beyond what I wear and what I have convinced The Boy to let me do to the walls.  I had a great teal-blue office with highlighter yellow accent walls.  That may sound crazy, but fuck it was gorgeous.  Too bad it was only mine for three weeks.  I enjoy thinking that someone had to inherit that.  I need to find a teal dress and some nice yellow tights to make me happy again.

Tomorrow I get to join my favorite gaysians for more of the best meat in town.  The weather will actually be warm this time, so it is my hope that we can sit for more than five minutes while enjoying our meat.  Let the meat-in-my-mouth jokes commence!  Don't be jealous, you can come visit me anytime between Wednesday and Sunday for the awesome fatty-brisket-in-your-mouth experience.  Oh, that just made me think how my favorite food stand will be open during SXSW.  I can't even remember what it is called, though I ate there like five times in one week last year.  It is a food trailer parked in some random parking lot, and shit damn, tasty fucking food--I believe it is some kind shwarma.  

It only took one sentence: "Tonight I'll be singing Eyes Wide Open by Creed" and I changed the channel.  Thanks for giving it to me straight American Idol!

Here's to another term with fuckface Perry.  At least I didn't have any other expectations.  Billy White there will be creamed, and life will go on as his for the past 9+ years.  Sigh.  I do wish when he decided to run a third term, he chocked on a pancake-and-sausage on a stick, which should make even Republicans a bit too embarrassed for the guy.  By the way, I have a box of those in my freezer (thank you, Kiki!) leftover from the urban-family get-together.  If Perry is feeling a little peckish, I am able to offer him a delicious treat.

At my office, there is a small department of five men and one woman.  They do something highly specialized and get paid over six figures for it.  They have master's degrees and other advanced certificates and whatnots.  Seems ex-cop went to my boss with some dumbass question, and he started it off by asking if the lady in this particular department was the department's administrative assistant.  Nice assuming, guy.  In actuality, they are perfectly capable of working without an administrative assistant, and she is the next in line to run the department when the current head retires in a couple of months.  Ex-cop is such a fucking cop.  Is she the admin assistant?  Jackass.  She could totally smack his shit up with the knowledge she has in her tiny trim left ass cheek.

Speaking of butts, today I kept catching glimpses of people's pants caught in clenched ass cheeks.  Why do people with extremely flat asses always stand in a way that their pants get pinched in their cracks?  My ass is so round, that not much stick to it without just rolling right off of it (though, skirts really like to get bunched in my crotch when I walk, even when I wear slips, which is supposed to prevent this).  However, I still (or at least I hope), I don't take advantage of my bubble ass to stand with it clenched.  That's just not necessary.

Oh, Ewan and Olivia, why the fuck did you work with Roman Polanski?  My respect for the both of you has just plummeted.