Me: Are you going to come read in bed with me?
Him: No, I already read today.
Me: Oh, you can't read more than once a day?
Him: No, it will make my penis smaller.
Me: ...
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Breaking news brought to us by the Austin American-Statesman: Mobile homes don't fair well in tornadoes. That is, um, shocking.
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Poor ET is still ill. He isn't pooing as much mucus, but he's also barely eating, and just sits all day under the heat lamp. Tonight I gave him a bath and stimulated his cloaca (oh, naughtiness with reptiles!), until he managed to squeeze something out--which ended up being more mucus. Poor fellow. Now he is hiding out in his Shiner shanty. I don't blame him at all. I still have to give him a shot in the leg at some point tonight, but felt he should have a break from my tortures first.
Hey, I've had an erection for four hours! Who doesn't love a good priapism commercial? Yes, I did do this to myself, and I thought it would be wicked awesome to have a boner for this long, but now I realize it is not sexy and rather painful.
There was a rumor at work today that Twit was going to come visit to show off her Twitaby (a shout out to a special sassy redhead--who is expecting her own little one, who I am sure will be nothing like Twitaby, and I'm told I will really appreciate her name, but I have to wait until she's born to find out--for coming up with such a delightful name for baby Twit). I know her and Ex-Cop Lady Lackey went to lunch, and thankfully, I was hiding in my boss' office for the whole afternoon, and wasn't around to be scarred by all the cooing and touch of Twitaby.
My rash is a lot better today. I canceled my doctor's office based on that premise, but really, to come clean and drop all the rationalizing, the truth is I just didn't want to go to the doctor. At. All. So I didn't. What I did end up doing was driving like terror on wheels to get to my optometrist in rush-hour traffic (it is such a pain to get in to south Austin--not enough bridges...but, that is a good thing, except when I am the one who needs to get somewhere fast). There's nothing wrong with my eyes (that is so wrong to write since I have tons wrong with my eyes, but nothing that corrective lenses can't fix), but I had a special package to get. I got there with 5 minutes to spare. Sweating and shaking I got my glasses and calmed the fuck down during my leisurely drive home. Now I have the most beautimous glasses anyone has ever owned. There is no point in describing them, because I am unable to do them justice. Just know that you would be extremely jealous of my eye wear if you saw me.
Now I am going to go back to reading this fascinating book about one woman's experience behind bars. It is a bit uncomfortable because she is an upper-class, well-educated (read: privileged) white girl, so her life is a lot different from most of the ladies in prison with her. However, she is honest and is able to acknowledge that she is getting special treatment due to her background, and explores (not too deeply) what it is like for all the other non-white women. Even though the book does not in any way make prison look glamorous (they have to strip naked after every outside visitor then squat and cough while someone is looking at their assholes...I don't know if I would be able to do that), but it doesn't seem that horrible either. Seems that most of the women are very kind and look out for each other. They can pretty much roam around freely to smoke and hang out with each other, watch television, do their hair in the "beauty salon," read books, work a job, lift weights, etc. Seems really the worst is missing the outside life, which is terrible, but I would think far better than being stuck in cell all day with nothing at all to do but sleep and jerk off in a listless bored way. They are kept busy and make friendships that will last long past time served. I'm only halfway through the book so there is still time for it to get a lot better or to take a serious nose-dive. So far I recommend it, Orange is the New Black by Piper Kerman.
29 April 2010
28 April 2010
Scabies, Impetigo, Roundworm, Thrush, Oh My!
As we all know, my body hates itself. Expose it to anything outside of a white room or bubble, and it reacts by attacking itself. Usually that just means a plague of mucus drips out of every hole in my head (even my ears get involved in the party!). However, there have been those heinous times when my skin got in on the action.
Age 15
A highly stressful time in my life. I would never repeat that year EVER. My life at home was terrible in so many ways. My closest friends were becoming estranged and alien to me. I was making new friends (who I am still friends with to this day, thankfully). I was having great sneaky sex, and was beyond bored in school. I was trying out different bits of myself, and trying to decide which part of me I liked best. And the anger. I had so much anger in me. I did stupid things like punch lockers and walls, burned my thighs with objects heated by purloined lighters, and cut my wrists and calves with dirty broken glass that I found on the ground. I really could have used some professional therapy at that time.
If life wasn't tumultuous enough, the skin on my palms literally started shredding, peeling off in thin long layers. I was shedding in a very unsightly manner. Tatters of thin skin hung off my hands, and little holes were forming where new areas of skin was going to peel. It lasted for months. It was beyond embarrassing, but somewhat easy to hide most days, until I found myself in a situation where I had to shake someone's hand. Ugh. It would be one thing if they were just dry and sandpapery, but actually hanging off of me in tattered shreds, not cool. The lowest moment came when my English cousins came to visit us for the first (and only) time. We met them right when they got off the plane (ah, the days of actually being able to be a visitor to the airport and not sheeple). I was shy and painfully aware of my hands, and I had no idea what the fuck they were saying. My stock is Liverpudlian; the accent is a muddled English with Scottish undertones. They were also amazingly soft-spoken. I had never heard a person talk so quietly in such an obviously loud nonprivate place.
Eventually my parents took me to the doctor, pronounced I was having an obvious allergic reaction to something. My parents refused to believe him since nothing new had been introduced in to my environment. No change in soap, laundry detergent, shampoo, etc. My parents were definitely creatures of habit and would never think of buying something new. They were also parsimonious to a fault, so the items that touched our skin consisted of some serious cheap ingredients. The most abhorrent to me was our soap: Zest. I shiver at the thought and smell of it. Since my parents refused to buy any other soap, I was told to buy my own. I got Dove and slowly my hands started to clear. Fact 1 was learned: allergies to certain things can come from nowhere, even if you have used them for years.
Age 18 & 19
Not surprisingly, things weren't completely awesome my freshman year in college. In many ways they were. I was finally away from my parents (for good!). I had all of Boston to learn and conquer (I didn't get on the T for a full year because I was really that damn timid, despite my purple hair and tattoos). I had boys and girls after me, and I only had eyes for one, which I landed quickly and lost even more quickly. (Hey, hey Dirty Boy!) It's so lame, but like so many at that age, that bad relationship consumed me in every possible way. It dragged on for years, actually. But that first year was the roughest, and I developed hives due to the stress. School was easy, no problem. I wrote stories that impressed my teachers; I read any book my lit professors through at me and enjoy writing essays. Yet, a fucking boy brought me to the very edge of me. The hives almost pushed me all the way over. The insane itching. I think of those nights when I couldn't sleep due to the agony of my skin. I looked like someone had lashed me with a long whip all over my ribs, the back of my legs, across my abdomen. I got up every night around 3am to just stand in the hottest shower my Boston dorm room could provide. It was such a lonely time. I didn't want to tell anyone. I was embarrassed at how my own body could betray me like that. I had those motherfuckers for six months--spring semester through the summer. Sometimes hives just have to run their course. If I was allergic to anything at that time, I never found out what it was. I later learned that hives can come about due to stress, and it often takes the body 3-6 months to work them out of your system.
Age 34
Yes! The here and now. Right this very minute I am scratching the underside of my right forearm and attempting to do the same for the top of my left forearm. My left knee also itches, but I am successfully ignoring it. Give me ten minutes, and I'll have different itchy spots to report. It's a roving rash. On Monday, during the good times, I had an itch on my left cheek right under my eye and above my beauty mole. That mole often is inflamed (okay, fine I promise to find a dermatologist this year), so at the time I didn't really recognize that this was a separate itch not related to the mole. When I got home, I noticed a very distinct red welt on my face. Definitely a bit of some type. What bit me, I'll probably never know. I distinctly remember telling Guamaniac that I was hella itchy, and then in bed that night, I felt like ants were crawling all over me. I was so uncomfortable and fidgety. I finally had The Boy bring me half a Benadryl. Half was still way too much for me to wake up on time for work.
Yesterday it was worse. In a meeting I sat there foolishly grabbing various parts of myself and rubbing, rubbing, rubbing. My arms and shins are the worse. I have no idea why it is mainly my extremities, but I also feel like there's something in me that I want to scratch but have no idea how to get to it. At least my boss got to see the rash on my arms as I was maniacally pulling up my sleeves and going to town on my wrists. I went home and took a Benadryl at 6pm, and spent my night doing my best to not nod off while hanging out with The Boy (we get about 1-2 nights a week to hang out, so I can't be sick during these days). Even taking it that early, I still got up way too late.
I'll save my feelings of guilt of all this tardiness to work for another time. However, that stress probably does make the rash stay around longer. My boss suggested I go see my doctor for steroids. I demurred and felt I should wait to see how I feel tomorrow. Since she seemed concerned and I was full of guilt, I called. Seems having a rash that seems related to an unknown insect bite does not warrant the urgency one would think (especially in a town full of brown recluse spiders). Thanks doctor's office. They set me up with some doctor I have never seen before tomorrow at 2pm. This is a less than ideal situation because the doctor is a he and I am meeting him for the first time over an all-body rash. I just took some Zyrtec (makes me sleepy but nothing like Benadryl), and have my fingers crossed I'll be better tomorrow and won't have to go.
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While despairing on FB today, my Martial Arts guru posted something about how I needed a fluke worm. I thought he was just trying to make my misery in to a joke, or suggest something that would get my mind off my current set of problems. Ends up, he's on to something. You can read up on it for yourself here and here. Sadly this amazing old-school medicine is not legal in the U.S. Therefore, please donate to the Send Grumples to the UK fund. I am at the point where I am willing to have a parasite hanging out in my liver or large intestine. Sure, it may cause some serious vitamin deficiency, but the luxury of being free of mucus and itchy skin sounds like it is totally worth it.
Age 15
A highly stressful time in my life. I would never repeat that year EVER. My life at home was terrible in so many ways. My closest friends were becoming estranged and alien to me. I was making new friends (who I am still friends with to this day, thankfully). I was having great sneaky sex, and was beyond bored in school. I was trying out different bits of myself, and trying to decide which part of me I liked best. And the anger. I had so much anger in me. I did stupid things like punch lockers and walls, burned my thighs with objects heated by purloined lighters, and cut my wrists and calves with dirty broken glass that I found on the ground. I really could have used some professional therapy at that time.
If life wasn't tumultuous enough, the skin on my palms literally started shredding, peeling off in thin long layers. I was shedding in a very unsightly manner. Tatters of thin skin hung off my hands, and little holes were forming where new areas of skin was going to peel. It lasted for months. It was beyond embarrassing, but somewhat easy to hide most days, until I found myself in a situation where I had to shake someone's hand. Ugh. It would be one thing if they were just dry and sandpapery, but actually hanging off of me in tattered shreds, not cool. The lowest moment came when my English cousins came to visit us for the first (and only) time. We met them right when they got off the plane (ah, the days of actually being able to be a visitor to the airport and not sheeple). I was shy and painfully aware of my hands, and I had no idea what the fuck they were saying. My stock is Liverpudlian; the accent is a muddled English with Scottish undertones. They were also amazingly soft-spoken. I had never heard a person talk so quietly in such an obviously loud nonprivate place.
Eventually my parents took me to the doctor, pronounced I was having an obvious allergic reaction to something. My parents refused to believe him since nothing new had been introduced in to my environment. No change in soap, laundry detergent, shampoo, etc. My parents were definitely creatures of habit and would never think of buying something new. They were also parsimonious to a fault, so the items that touched our skin consisted of some serious cheap ingredients. The most abhorrent to me was our soap: Zest. I shiver at the thought and smell of it. Since my parents refused to buy any other soap, I was told to buy my own. I got Dove and slowly my hands started to clear. Fact 1 was learned: allergies to certain things can come from nowhere, even if you have used them for years.
Age 18 & 19
Not surprisingly, things weren't completely awesome my freshman year in college. In many ways they were. I was finally away from my parents (for good!). I had all of Boston to learn and conquer (I didn't get on the T for a full year because I was really that damn timid, despite my purple hair and tattoos). I had boys and girls after me, and I only had eyes for one, which I landed quickly and lost even more quickly. (Hey, hey Dirty Boy!) It's so lame, but like so many at that age, that bad relationship consumed me in every possible way. It dragged on for years, actually. But that first year was the roughest, and I developed hives due to the stress. School was easy, no problem. I wrote stories that impressed my teachers; I read any book my lit professors through at me and enjoy writing essays. Yet, a fucking boy brought me to the very edge of me. The hives almost pushed me all the way over. The insane itching. I think of those nights when I couldn't sleep due to the agony of my skin. I looked like someone had lashed me with a long whip all over my ribs, the back of my legs, across my abdomen. I got up every night around 3am to just stand in the hottest shower my Boston dorm room could provide. It was such a lonely time. I didn't want to tell anyone. I was embarrassed at how my own body could betray me like that. I had those motherfuckers for six months--spring semester through the summer. Sometimes hives just have to run their course. If I was allergic to anything at that time, I never found out what it was. I later learned that hives can come about due to stress, and it often takes the body 3-6 months to work them out of your system.
Age 34
Yes! The here and now. Right this very minute I am scratching the underside of my right forearm and attempting to do the same for the top of my left forearm. My left knee also itches, but I am successfully ignoring it. Give me ten minutes, and I'll have different itchy spots to report. It's a roving rash. On Monday, during the good times, I had an itch on my left cheek right under my eye and above my beauty mole. That mole often is inflamed (okay, fine I promise to find a dermatologist this year), so at the time I didn't really recognize that this was a separate itch not related to the mole. When I got home, I noticed a very distinct red welt on my face. Definitely a bit of some type. What bit me, I'll probably never know. I distinctly remember telling Guamaniac that I was hella itchy, and then in bed that night, I felt like ants were crawling all over me. I was so uncomfortable and fidgety. I finally had The Boy bring me half a Benadryl. Half was still way too much for me to wake up on time for work.
Yesterday it was worse. In a meeting I sat there foolishly grabbing various parts of myself and rubbing, rubbing, rubbing. My arms and shins are the worse. I have no idea why it is mainly my extremities, but I also feel like there's something in me that I want to scratch but have no idea how to get to it. At least my boss got to see the rash on my arms as I was maniacally pulling up my sleeves and going to town on my wrists. I went home and took a Benadryl at 6pm, and spent my night doing my best to not nod off while hanging out with The Boy (we get about 1-2 nights a week to hang out, so I can't be sick during these days). Even taking it that early, I still got up way too late.
I'll save my feelings of guilt of all this tardiness to work for another time. However, that stress probably does make the rash stay around longer. My boss suggested I go see my doctor for steroids. I demurred and felt I should wait to see how I feel tomorrow. Since she seemed concerned and I was full of guilt, I called. Seems having a rash that seems related to an unknown insect bite does not warrant the urgency one would think (especially in a town full of brown recluse spiders). Thanks doctor's office. They set me up with some doctor I have never seen before tomorrow at 2pm. This is a less than ideal situation because the doctor is a he and I am meeting him for the first time over an all-body rash. I just took some Zyrtec (makes me sleepy but nothing like Benadryl), and have my fingers crossed I'll be better tomorrow and won't have to go.
_______________________________________
While despairing on FB today, my Martial Arts guru posted something about how I needed a fluke worm. I thought he was just trying to make my misery in to a joke, or suggest something that would get my mind off my current set of problems. Ends up, he's on to something. You can read up on it for yourself here and here. Sadly this amazing old-school medicine is not legal in the U.S. Therefore, please donate to the Send Grumples to the UK fund. I am at the point where I am willing to have a parasite hanging out in my liver or large intestine. Sure, it may cause some serious vitamin deficiency, but the luxury of being free of mucus and itchy skin sounds like it is totally worth it.
26 April 2010
Scoop Hands!
If you found yourself downtown tonight around 8:45p, and saw some crazy lady try to turn left in to oncoming traffic, I apologize, it was me. Sure, I had a glass of wine and maybe half of another one, and I was totally high off a great night with Guamaniac, my Viola Lady and the Golden Hornet Project, but that wasn't the problem. I SWEAR. I just didn't see the median, and turned too sharply for that road. Good thing Guammy shouted (in the nicest way, where I would have been totally shrill and shrieking in terror) for me to look out, I was going the wrong way. Luckily he caught me in time, and I just had to swerve around the median, but still, hot damn, that would have been messy. And just think, I was recently conversing with Fink-Nottle over the weekend wondering how the hell this woman ended up going the wrong way down I-35 at 2am. I think I may understand now. Look, if you don't like my driving, then don't make the night-blind lady drive in the dark. Okay?
This was the best Monday night for me in a very long time. Today was a bit meh (I made some really dumb mistakes at work, which made me wonder why my brain apparently had slept later than my body), but oh, the fun I have with Guammy. Every girl should have a gay boyfriend. I have been lucky my whole life in this regard. I continued the weekend trend of gluttony and had carpaccio, beef kebab, bread and butter, and a bacon pizza. Uh, that's the way we roll. And roll and roll. My hamhocks are growing by the minute. We thoroughly enjoyed the program tonight even though we di fail to throw our panties at Miss Viola. I did clap wildly through the show, and tried to send all my happy vibes her way. She is so good. Impressively good. I'm proud to know her. She inspires me when I listen to her perform. Then I go home and get lazy again. She obviously needs to play here at the house. Right? We stayed after and gave her lots of SCOOP HANDS. Said hello to Peter and sniggered when Graham walked by. They both composed beautiful pieces, and are very smart to get the best quartet ever involved. So, I give them props, even if one does look homeless and can't seem to remember who I am. That's okay. I respect his work. He was even a bit funny on stage. And it was Peter who di the most random thing of the night. An odd choice to end the show, he sang! Peter sang. It sounded like he was taken by the spirit of Anyanka's husband (go look it up kids). I can be picky about how far people push certain things. It di not overshadow the evening, so I should shut up now.
Driving home, Guammy came up with a new name for diabetic cats: Diakitties. Go ahead, slap that knee. Then feed you insulin-dependent cat some Diakitties Crunch for those with a Feeble Pancreas (hey, that's my next band name, hands off). We find this all highly hilarious. We are obviously the smartest people in the room.
The sad note to end this is I didn't get to see The Boy today. Sniffs. Also, sad, Ari-fucking-zona. It's disgusting. I'm angry and feel something akin to grief for the people who live there and what they are facing. Even the police aren't comfortable with this, and seriously, if the police aren't even down with it, you know you've gone way too far adrift to the right. Worse, are all the people who believe that this law is necessary because they feel that people who are here illegally from Mexico are deviant criminals, who do horrible criminal acts here in the U.S. then return to Mexico? SERIOUSLY! There are so many politicians and idiot racists and bigots that I want to give a serious kick to the genitals. There are so many people here doing our dirty work for paltry wages, and all we can do is say, oh, you know, you're here illegally, I know you were just raped and all, but see, there's this law where we have to ask your citizenship status during all LEGAL matters. Oh, not a citizen. Well, we'll do our best to capture your rapist, but we're going to have to also deport you. Thank you and have a good day. No wonder Fink-Nottle is always railing at the news these days. I may just have to keep listening to OMD while driving instead of NPR. It will probably be better for my health.
This was the best Monday night for me in a very long time. Today was a bit meh (I made some really dumb mistakes at work, which made me wonder why my brain apparently had slept later than my body), but oh, the fun I have with Guammy. Every girl should have a gay boyfriend. I have been lucky my whole life in this regard. I continued the weekend trend of gluttony and had carpaccio, beef kebab, bread and butter, and a bacon pizza. Uh, that's the way we roll. And roll and roll. My hamhocks are growing by the minute. We thoroughly enjoyed the program tonight even though we di fail to throw our panties at Miss Viola. I did clap wildly through the show, and tried to send all my happy vibes her way. She is so good. Impressively good. I'm proud to know her. She inspires me when I listen to her perform. Then I go home and get lazy again. She obviously needs to play here at the house. Right? We stayed after and gave her lots of SCOOP HANDS. Said hello to Peter and sniggered when Graham walked by. They both composed beautiful pieces, and are very smart to get the best quartet ever involved. So, I give them props, even if one does look homeless and can't seem to remember who I am. That's okay. I respect his work. He was even a bit funny on stage. And it was Peter who di the most random thing of the night. An odd choice to end the show, he sang! Peter sang. It sounded like he was taken by the spirit of Anyanka's husband (go look it up kids). I can be picky about how far people push certain things. It di not overshadow the evening, so I should shut up now.
Driving home, Guammy came up with a new name for diabetic cats: Diakitties. Go ahead, slap that knee. Then feed you insulin-dependent cat some Diakitties Crunch for those with a Feeble Pancreas (hey, that's my next band name, hands off). We find this all highly hilarious. We are obviously the smartest people in the room.
The sad note to end this is I didn't get to see The Boy today. Sniffs. Also, sad, Ari-fucking-zona. It's disgusting. I'm angry and feel something akin to grief for the people who live there and what they are facing. Even the police aren't comfortable with this, and seriously, if the police aren't even down with it, you know you've gone way too far adrift to the right. Worse, are all the people who believe that this law is necessary because they feel that people who are here illegally from Mexico are deviant criminals, who do horrible criminal acts here in the U.S. then return to Mexico? SERIOUSLY! There are so many politicians and idiot racists and bigots that I want to give a serious kick to the genitals. There are so many people here doing our dirty work for paltry wages, and all we can do is say, oh, you know, you're here illegally, I know you were just raped and all, but see, there's this law where we have to ask your citizenship status during all LEGAL matters. Oh, not a citizen. Well, we'll do our best to capture your rapist, but we're going to have to also deport you. Thank you and have a good day. No wonder Fink-Nottle is always railing at the news these days. I may just have to keep listening to OMD while driving instead of NPR. It will probably be better for my health.
25 April 2010
OMD Takes Me to My Special Place in the Grocery Store
Like so many of my fellow Americans, I suffer a horrible addiction where I walk in to Target with a specific item in mind to purchase--that item and nothing else, and walk out with a lot more in hand than what I was expecting. I didn't do so bad today. I got some panties and socks (I'm finally throwing out all my old underwear that have holes), and came out with those and two shirts. Lovely tank tops with a cowl neckline. I heart cowl necklines (see my red-and-blue duck dress!). I wore the black one to the Urban Family Get Together tonight, and it showed off my new necklace from yesterday so perfectly, that the necklace got unsolicited compliments. Whoot!
Now, can someone explain to me when I wear a size 2 dress, a size 4 skirt and size 6 panties? Seriously? What the fuck is going on here? It is so baffling to me that women have to deal with this bullshit. Is it so hard to size things by you know, inches? Give me an inseam and hip circumference, then I'll know what panties will fit the best. There is nothing worse than wearing panties that are too small for my ham loaves.
It was a great Urban Family Get Together (as always). I ate this MOIST cake (C, I hope you're reading this and just cried in your heated seat a little bit) that was made of white wine and butter. I totally thought it would be gross, and I was so wrong. My caramel and butterscotch magic cookies bars were a hit (that's two different flavors), even though the edges were a bit burnt (note to self: you cannot hear the microwave time go off when Vitesse is playing loudly on the stereo and the iSuckBot is vrooming around the hardwood floor). Guamaniac brought a hot boy--I can't wait to find out the details on our date tomorrow. I made terrible comments regarding KiKi's dish (ew, ceviche), and honestly it's not because he's the tallest yummiest black guy I know. So stop calling me racist, Guammy. I'll tear off your mustache and show everyone how you really are a 12-year-old boy disguised in that handsome body with the super smooth skin. Also, I would eat the pizza bagels because they have mushrooms on them. It is so hard to please me (stop snorting over there, BOY!). My friends are so talented and funny. I'm glad we get together every month. To have something to actually look forward to every month is a serious pleasure.
Now, time to decide my outfit for tomorrow (Guammy is wearing all black, so obviously I need to be the colorful flower on his gay arm--I'm thinking red dress and turquoise tights, yes?). Then more James Tiptree, Jr. for fantastical dreams.
Goodnight kittens.
Now, can someone explain to me when I wear a size 2 dress, a size 4 skirt and size 6 panties? Seriously? What the fuck is going on here? It is so baffling to me that women have to deal with this bullshit. Is it so hard to size things by you know, inches? Give me an inseam and hip circumference, then I'll know what panties will fit the best. There is nothing worse than wearing panties that are too small for my ham loaves.
It was a great Urban Family Get Together (as always). I ate this MOIST cake (C, I hope you're reading this and just cried in your heated seat a little bit) that was made of white wine and butter. I totally thought it would be gross, and I was so wrong. My caramel and butterscotch magic cookies bars were a hit (that's two different flavors), even though the edges were a bit burnt (note to self: you cannot hear the microwave time go off when Vitesse is playing loudly on the stereo and the iSuckBot is vrooming around the hardwood floor). Guamaniac brought a hot boy--I can't wait to find out the details on our date tomorrow. I made terrible comments regarding KiKi's dish (ew, ceviche), and honestly it's not because he's the tallest yummiest black guy I know. So stop calling me racist, Guammy. I'll tear off your mustache and show everyone how you really are a 12-year-old boy disguised in that handsome body with the super smooth skin. Also, I would eat the pizza bagels because they have mushrooms on them. It is so hard to please me (stop snorting over there, BOY!). My friends are so talented and funny. I'm glad we get together every month. To have something to actually look forward to every month is a serious pleasure.
Now, time to decide my outfit for tomorrow (Guammy is wearing all black, so obviously I need to be the colorful flower on his gay arm--I'm thinking red dress and turquoise tights, yes?). Then more James Tiptree, Jr. for fantastical dreams.
Goodnight kittens.
A Day of Excesses
Today was a sweaty-buttcrack day, which isn't totally bad, since the weather was in the 70s with a strong breeze; yet, my ass was still totally sweaty. I blame the two fucking hams tied to my lower back; however, The Boy was actually sweating today, so it couldn't possibly have just been me. He rarely sweats. I'm not lying here. His body just doesn't produce sweat. I'm a smelly hairy girl. Sure, I know what to do to keep that to a minimum, but he doesn't even have to know those secret rituals that most humans of either sex must go through. Sit down for what I'm about to tell you next. It is not hyperbole, no exaggeration. Just the plain truth. The Boy's sweat smells like maple syrup. What a total asshole. So, yes, today he was actually sweating, but not one bit of stink was emanating off his body. I hate to think what I might have smelled like out there under the sun walking between tents of the downtown art festival. The horrors.
Today was a glutinous day, which has left my stomach totally gurgling and gushing. The Boy is sitting here exclaiming every few moments, "Gaw! Gross!" He likes to pretend he doesn't fart. Whatev. Also, his farts do stink. Do not believe him when he says they smell like roses. Lies. All lies. Ahem. Breakfast (at 1pm) was IHOP, and I ate almost all of it, which is rare for me. I usually leave most of my scrambled eggs (with cheddar cheese) and half my hash browns. The eggs get so damn icy at IHOP due to their penchant of having the air conditioner set year round to 60 degrees. Today it was almost balmy for them, which made me ravenous. I had to stop myself from eating all my blueberry pancakes, because I knew I had a mission in the afternoon, a task that would probably require a lot of courage and a reasonably empty stomach.
I'm not exactly late to the Double-Down, because I did know about it quite early on, but I am late to actually trying it. I had proposed that Fink-Nottle and I do it together (virtually). Then it was released and the web went wild with everyone trying it and blogging about it. It was Fink-Nottle's birthday last weekend, so he already had plans that did not include something that could make his guts fall out through his belly button. Thus, we did it today (this is the abridged version so none of you fall over drooling on yourselves).
hello!
Grumples: i'm home
Fink-Nottle: likewise
Fink-Nottle: proud owner of a double down combo
Fink-Nottle: w/ mountain dew
Grumples: i just got the double down
Grumples: the KFC i went to doubles with a long john silvers
Grumples: so i was scared the fries would be fishy
Fink-Nottle: mine doubles with a taco bell
Grumples: i am drinking lime sparkling water
Grumples: taco bell is better than a long john silvers
Grumples: though, not as piratey
Grumples: they gave me 7 napkins
Grumples: do you think they give that many napkins with all the meals?
Grumples: it's heavy
Fink-Nottle: well
Fink-Nottle: KFC is pretty greasy
Grumples: true
Grumples: 1
Grumples: 2
Grumples: 3
Grumples: GO
Fink-Nottle: mmm!
Fink-Nottle: smells bbqy
Grumples: there's a little spice
Grumples: it does not smell bbq to me
Grumples: smells like my childhood memories of fried chicken
Grumples: it rivals country ham in salt content
Fink-Nottle: pretty tasty so far
Grumples: i believe the salt is actually burning my mouth
Grumples: which means I LIKE
Fink-Nottle: god, it is hella salty
Grumples: is your blood pressure rising?
Grumples: i'm sure our medications will keep it from spiking too much
Grumples: is there a condiment on this?
Fink-Nottle: cheesy half-mayo
Grumples: i should have been warned
Fink-Nottle: chipotle?
Grumples: hmmm, that would explain the slight spice
Fink-Nottle: man!
Fink-Nottle: that was one tasty sandwich!
Fink-Nottle: hard as hell to eat though
Grumples: you're done?
Grumples: i'm not even halfway through yet
Fink-Nottle: I am
Grumples: it is tasty
Grumples: however, even though i don't miss a bun that much, i'm not so keen on all this chicken in one sandwich
Grumples: i think i'd like this more as an open-faced single down
Fink-Nottle: that cheese was good
Fink-Nottle: monterey jack and pepper jack
Grumples: i find the bacon pretty subtle
Grumples: i could have actually used some more cheese to cut down on all this chicken action
Fink-Nottle: well, it's a bait-and-switch -- I mean, the traditional sandwich, the meat's the best part
Fink-Nottle: but the chicken's the best part of this
Fink-Nottle: I agree on the open-faced single-down
Grumples: Whoopis is over here with his nose in the air and looking hopefully at me
Fink-Nottle: he's your diabetic cat, right?
Grumples: yes
Grumples: so he's going to go on looking me hopefully
Grumples: until he walks of mewing dejectedly to himself
Fink-Nottle: figures. he can smell the diabeetus.
Fink-Nottle: well, I'm quite happy with this meal
Grumples: i'm glad
Fink-Nottle: however, it was super, super greasy
Grumples: i found it a little above average
Grumples: yes, i used the napkin a lot
Grumples: though, only one
Fink-Nottle: I liked the sauce and the cheeses
Grumples: i have 6 napkins left
Grumples: i did not like the sauce at all
Grumples: i'm hoping when the other half cools down, i can remove some of the sauce
Fink-Nottle: well, without your encouragement, I likely would not have eaten it
Fink-Nottle: so, thanks! my future cardiologist's yacht thanks you!
Grumples: i'm glad you found it to be such a positive experience
Fink-Nottle: life-affirming!
Grumples: oh, do you think he/she will name his/her yacht "Grumples"
Fink-Nottle: if we ask nicely
Grumples: sweet
Grumples: i'm so proud of this moment in our shared history
Grumples: you know, i think we should take this time to reflect and possibly nap
Fink-Nottle: nap-away
Grumples: and you?
Fink-Nottle: I can see this qualifying as a nap-inducer
Fink-Nottle: I'll be fine
Grumples: will you at least reflect on the awesome twenty minutes we shared together?
Fink-Nottle: I will indeed.
Grumples: my belly is heavy with two fatty carb-loaded meals
Today was a day of art. We go to this festival every April, and has never disappointed us. We can never leave without buying something. This year, we went a little overboard, and it was so worth it. As always, I also got a present for my Not-So-Secret Crush whose birthday is Monday. She won't get it in time, but that's okay. That's the way we roll with each other's birthdays. I got her something really nice this year in that it is the *real* thing and not a reproduction of a *real* thing. I just couldn't resist. We got items from Andy Van Schyndle, Jay Long (this is our second time purchasing something from him), Mary DiStefano Jarowitz and Margaret DiStefano Mitchell, and Edson Zinser Enriquez. All are paintings (or reproductions of paintings) except the last which is a very simple silver necklace. I have been looking for something like it for a very long time. Most necklaces are too long on me (only my legs and arms can be called long, everything in the middle is short), and they get lost in my chest tattoo. I wanted a necklace that would fall at the base of my neck, in that little shallow where the neck meets the collarbone (oh, it's the suprasternal notch).
For all my skinniness, my collarbones don't really protrude, but I swear, they are actually there right at the top of the tattoo.
Today was also the discovery of a good book that I've had in my possession for quite some time. A few years ago, I was reading an article about James Tiptree, Jr, and the biography that was just published about her. Even though I had never read her stories, I felt that it would be a great book to gift to Fink-Nottle. He in turn gave me the collected stories, Her Smoke Rise Up Forever. I can't remember if he gave it to me for Chicken Day or my birthday--no matter, the point is it has sat for quite a while in my to-be-read pile. Today, I decided to give it a go. And frank-and-beans, it is so well-written, fucking riveting. And I'm only two stories in to it. Go out and grab a copy right now. GO!
Today was a glutinous day, which has left my stomach totally gurgling and gushing. The Boy is sitting here exclaiming every few moments, "Gaw! Gross!" He likes to pretend he doesn't fart. Whatev. Also, his farts do stink. Do not believe him when he says they smell like roses. Lies. All lies. Ahem. Breakfast (at 1pm) was IHOP, and I ate almost all of it, which is rare for me. I usually leave most of my scrambled eggs (with cheddar cheese) and half my hash browns. The eggs get so damn icy at IHOP due to their penchant of having the air conditioner set year round to 60 degrees. Today it was almost balmy for them, which made me ravenous. I had to stop myself from eating all my blueberry pancakes, because I knew I had a mission in the afternoon, a task that would probably require a lot of courage and a reasonably empty stomach.
I'm not exactly late to the Double-Down, because I did know about it quite early on, but I am late to actually trying it. I had proposed that Fink-Nottle and I do it together (virtually). Then it was released and the web went wild with everyone trying it and blogging about it. It was Fink-Nottle's birthday last weekend, so he already had plans that did not include something that could make his guts fall out through his belly button. Thus, we did it today (this is the abridged version so none of you fall over drooling on yourselves).
hello!
Grumples: i'm home
Fink-Nottle: likewise
Fink-Nottle: proud owner of a double down combo
Fink-Nottle: w/ mountain dew
Grumples: i just got the double down
Grumples: the KFC i went to doubles with a long john silvers
Grumples: so i was scared the fries would be fishy
Fink-Nottle: mine doubles with a taco bell
Grumples: i am drinking lime sparkling water
Grumples: taco bell is better than a long john silvers
Grumples: though, not as piratey
Grumples: they gave me 7 napkins
Grumples: do you think they give that many napkins with all the meals?
Grumples: it's heavy
Fink-Nottle: well
Fink-Nottle: KFC is pretty greasy
Grumples: true
Grumples: 1
Grumples: 2
Grumples: 3
Grumples: GO
Fink-Nottle: mmm!
Fink-Nottle: smells bbqy
Grumples: there's a little spice
Grumples: it does not smell bbq to me
Grumples: smells like my childhood memories of fried chicken
Grumples: it rivals country ham in salt content
Fink-Nottle: pretty tasty so far
Grumples: i believe the salt is actually burning my mouth
Grumples: which means I LIKE
Fink-Nottle: god, it is hella salty
Grumples: is your blood pressure rising?
Grumples: i'm sure our medications will keep it from spiking too much
Grumples: is there a condiment on this?
Fink-Nottle: cheesy half-mayo
Grumples: i should have been warned
Fink-Nottle: chipotle?
Grumples: hmmm, that would explain the slight spice
Fink-Nottle: man!
Fink-Nottle: that was one tasty sandwich!
Fink-Nottle: hard as hell to eat though
Grumples: you're done?
Grumples: i'm not even halfway through yet
Fink-Nottle: I am
Grumples: it is tasty
Grumples: however, even though i don't miss a bun that much, i'm not so keen on all this chicken in one sandwich
Grumples: i think i'd like this more as an open-faced single down
Fink-Nottle: that cheese was good
Fink-Nottle: monterey jack and pepper jack
Grumples: i find the bacon pretty subtle
Grumples: i could have actually used some more cheese to cut down on all this chicken action
Fink-Nottle: well, it's a bait-and-switch -- I mean, the traditional sandwich, the meat's the best part
Fink-Nottle: but the chicken's the best part of this
Fink-Nottle: I agree on the open-faced single-down
Grumples: Whoopis is over here with his nose in the air and looking hopefully at me
Fink-Nottle: he's your diabetic cat, right?
Grumples: yes
Grumples: so he's going to go on looking me hopefully
Grumples: until he walks of mewing dejectedly to himself
Fink-Nottle: figures. he can smell the diabeetus.
Fink-Nottle: well, I'm quite happy with this meal
Grumples: i'm glad
Fink-Nottle: however, it was super, super greasy
Grumples: i found it a little above average
Grumples: yes, i used the napkin a lot
Grumples: though, only one
Fink-Nottle: I liked the sauce and the cheeses
Grumples: i have 6 napkins left
Grumples: i did not like the sauce at all
Grumples: i'm hoping when the other half cools down, i can remove some of the sauce
Fink-Nottle: well, without your encouragement, I likely would not have eaten it
Fink-Nottle: so, thanks! my future cardiologist's yacht thanks you!
Grumples: i'm glad you found it to be such a positive experience
Fink-Nottle: life-affirming!
Grumples: oh, do you think he/she will name his/her yacht "Grumples"
Fink-Nottle: if we ask nicely
Grumples: sweet
Grumples: i'm so proud of this moment in our shared history
Grumples: you know, i think we should take this time to reflect and possibly nap
Fink-Nottle: nap-away
Grumples: and you?
Fink-Nottle: I can see this qualifying as a nap-inducer
Fink-Nottle: I'll be fine
Grumples: will you at least reflect on the awesome twenty minutes we shared together?
Fink-Nottle: I will indeed.
Grumples: my belly is heavy with two fatty carb-loaded meals
Today was a day of art. We go to this festival every April, and has never disappointed us. We can never leave without buying something. This year, we went a little overboard, and it was so worth it. As always, I also got a present for my Not-So-Secret Crush whose birthday is Monday. She won't get it in time, but that's okay. That's the way we roll with each other's birthdays. I got her something really nice this year in that it is the *real* thing and not a reproduction of a *real* thing. I just couldn't resist. We got items from Andy Van Schyndle, Jay Long (this is our second time purchasing something from him), Mary DiStefano Jarowitz and Margaret DiStefano Mitchell, and Edson Zinser Enriquez. All are paintings (or reproductions of paintings) except the last which is a very simple silver necklace. I have been looking for something like it for a very long time. Most necklaces are too long on me (only my legs and arms can be called long, everything in the middle is short), and they get lost in my chest tattoo. I wanted a necklace that would fall at the base of my neck, in that little shallow where the neck meets the collarbone (oh, it's the suprasternal notch).
For all my skinniness, my collarbones don't really protrude, but I swear, they are actually there right at the top of the tattoo.
Today was also the discovery of a good book that I've had in my possession for quite some time. A few years ago, I was reading an article about James Tiptree, Jr, and the biography that was just published about her. Even though I had never read her stories, I felt that it would be a great book to gift to Fink-Nottle. He in turn gave me the collected stories, Her Smoke Rise Up Forever. I can't remember if he gave it to me for Chicken Day or my birthday--no matter, the point is it has sat for quite a while in my to-be-read pile. Today, I decided to give it a go. And frank-and-beans, it is so well-written, fucking riveting. And I'm only two stories in to it. Go out and grab a copy right now. GO!
22 April 2010
Running Short on Unique Adjectives
My house has turned in to an animal hospital. Mattress is the only one who is not being poked or having liquid shot in to his unsuspecting maw. However, he managed an impressive amount of vomit on the hardwood floors yesterday (The Boy feels that the cat's stomach acid will immediately eat through the floor and the foundation and we'll all die). So it is probably just a matter of time before we are shoving a suppository up his big furry ass. ET is getting a shot, Whoopis gets shots twice a day and The Bear is now getting liquid shot down his throat to see if we can get rid of the blood in his poos. Damn kids, always making my life so hard, and none of them will go grab momma a box of Cheez-Its. Ungrateful bastards.
A couple of years ago I attended an ex-boyfriend's wedding (different worlds completely crashing together on the coast of Lake Michigan), and I stayed with this wonderful woman whom I had never met before (I wasn't even on drugs yet, and I managed because she was so awesome and open with her home). She is going through something really horrible right now. Something I have yet to experience, and I just ache for her. The amazing thing is how she is able to write these painfully raw posts on FB expressing where she is at in her grief and anger. I'm proud of her and impressed. She is turned inside out and letting us all see her broken self. There are so many people reaching out to her, which is a testament to her greatness. I wish I could give her a hug and hold her hands while she cries. So, Twin (The Boy thinks we look like sisters), if you ever read this, know that I am thinking of you.
This afternoon our network connection at work croaked. When it came back up, I could not access any of my files. I managed to remap everything without having to call the help desk. This really is no big thing except I was beyond relieved that Ex-Cop and company were not there this afternoon. I would be forced to pretend that I had no idea how to fix the computers.
My cool work pals gave me this gorgeous orchid (phalaenopsis). Since I don't normally go to work with a camera (okay, that is not strictly true, since I used to all the time when I sat outside during lunch), I can't show the delicate pinky beauty. I'll try to rectify this tomorrow. They gave it to me for Administrative Professional Day. How silly is it that such a thing exists? Yes, I am an administrative professional, see me stand tall and proud. They all laughed at me when I asked a bit sheepishly if they were responsible for the gift, or if (the horrors) it was Ex-Cop (he was the only one in sight, and I was completely freaking out at the thought it could have been him--imagine the moratorium I'd have to put in place on shit talking for him being so nice). Luckily they weren't cruel, and just said, "Really? Seriously? Him?" I totally insulted them by asking. Sorry guys!
Every night when The Boy has left me to my own devices, the phone rings multiple times throughout the evening. Per my usual laziness, I don't even bother to get up and see who it is since it is usually an organization trying to get money out of us. The Boy is very generous, but now we have every non-profit that exists calling our house every single day. Lately, and this only happens when I'm home alone, a call comes through that makes the most obnoxious droning beeping noise when the answering machine picks up (yes, answering machine, The Boy must be able to screen his calls). It doesn't stop. It just goes on and on and on. It's so shrill and angry. This sound abolishes my laziness, and forces me to go and turn off the damn machine. I really just want to throw the home phone in the trash. I don't ever want to hear a phone ring again (my cell is on permanent vibrate mode). But no, The Boy works from home and feels that the phone is necessary. Lame. I'm sure he could still do his jobs without people calling here. I need to be his boss so I can lie down some strict rules.
I just realized that I haven't looked in a mirror since I left for work this morning. My hair looks so nice today. It's raining, so I don't understand how this is possible. Most days I look at myself and sigh over the fact that it is very obvious that I haven't had my haircut since my visit with Frijole and Fink-Nottle in November. Then a day like this comes along, and I second guess myself and think that maybe I should let my hair grow and grow and grow. Life is hard for those of us with curly hair. I never know when my tangles will be throwing tantrums.
Time to work on a design for a mosaic idea that's been floating around in my head for a few weeks.
A couple of years ago I attended an ex-boyfriend's wedding (different worlds completely crashing together on the coast of Lake Michigan), and I stayed with this wonderful woman whom I had never met before (I wasn't even on drugs yet, and I managed because she was so awesome and open with her home). She is going through something really horrible right now. Something I have yet to experience, and I just ache for her. The amazing thing is how she is able to write these painfully raw posts on FB expressing where she is at in her grief and anger. I'm proud of her and impressed. She is turned inside out and letting us all see her broken self. There are so many people reaching out to her, which is a testament to her greatness. I wish I could give her a hug and hold her hands while she cries. So, Twin (The Boy thinks we look like sisters), if you ever read this, know that I am thinking of you.
This afternoon our network connection at work croaked. When it came back up, I could not access any of my files. I managed to remap everything without having to call the help desk. This really is no big thing except I was beyond relieved that Ex-Cop and company were not there this afternoon. I would be forced to pretend that I had no idea how to fix the computers.
My cool work pals gave me this gorgeous orchid (phalaenopsis). Since I don't normally go to work with a camera (okay, that is not strictly true, since I used to all the time when I sat outside during lunch), I can't show the delicate pinky beauty. I'll try to rectify this tomorrow. They gave it to me for Administrative Professional Day. How silly is it that such a thing exists? Yes, I am an administrative professional, see me stand tall and proud. They all laughed at me when I asked a bit sheepishly if they were responsible for the gift, or if (the horrors) it was Ex-Cop (he was the only one in sight, and I was completely freaking out at the thought it could have been him--imagine the moratorium I'd have to put in place on shit talking for him being so nice). Luckily they weren't cruel, and just said, "Really? Seriously? Him?" I totally insulted them by asking. Sorry guys!
Every night when The Boy has left me to my own devices, the phone rings multiple times throughout the evening. Per my usual laziness, I don't even bother to get up and see who it is since it is usually an organization trying to get money out of us. The Boy is very generous, but now we have every non-profit that exists calling our house every single day. Lately, and this only happens when I'm home alone, a call comes through that makes the most obnoxious droning beeping noise when the answering machine picks up (yes, answering machine, The Boy must be able to screen his calls). It doesn't stop. It just goes on and on and on. It's so shrill and angry. This sound abolishes my laziness, and forces me to go and turn off the damn machine. I really just want to throw the home phone in the trash. I don't ever want to hear a phone ring again (my cell is on permanent vibrate mode). But no, The Boy works from home and feels that the phone is necessary. Lame. I'm sure he could still do his jobs without people calling here. I need to be his boss so I can lie down some strict rules.
I just realized that I haven't looked in a mirror since I left for work this morning. My hair looks so nice today. It's raining, so I don't understand how this is possible. Most days I look at myself and sigh over the fact that it is very obvious that I haven't had my haircut since my visit with Frijole and Fink-Nottle in November. Then a day like this comes along, and I second guess myself and think that maybe I should let my hair grow and grow and grow. Life is hard for those of us with curly hair. I never know when my tangles will be throwing tantrums.
Time to work on a design for a mosaic idea that's been floating around in my head for a few weeks.
20 April 2010
Grab Your Neck If You Smell Vampire in the Air
The Boy is at a board meeting tonight, thus leaving me to flounder about looking for something to watch that isn't Lost or Glee, since we watch them together. I'm testing out Dark Shadows Revival series. So far, I have laughed in places that I'm pretty sure weren't intended to be funny. I'm about three minutes in and have already heard a breathy voice over saying, "my journey is just beginning...a journey that I am hoping will somehow reveal the mysteries of my past...it is a journey that will bring me to a strange and dark place to a house high on top a stormy cliff at the edge of the sea...to a world I have never known, to people I have never met. People, who, until tonight are only vague shadows in my mind, but I will soon fill all the days and nights of my tomorrows" Wow. Has someone been reading a bit too much Wuthering Heights and V. C. Andrews? I can only hope those people she is meeting tonight are as in to her as she is apparently in to herself (says the lady writing a blog). What's up next? An inexplicably bloody rat in a box. What will happen next? You can stream it on Netflix to find out yourself. Guamaniac and I really need to knuckle down and write our own book of incest, murder, amnesic mothers, forgotten pregnancies, and dark places in damp small towns. Feel free to contribute. We are open to putting everything in our novel. Dark Shadows will surely give us good fodder for inspiration. Oh, WAIT, I forgot an important detail: The Governess! Of course Miss Sexy Voice Over is a governess. I'm sure she will have tons of scandalous sex with the man of the house.
After being treated to a lovely meal (steak salad, flan!) by The Boy, I came home to the daunting task of giving ET his shot for his staph infection. It was a lot easier than expected. He can try to hide his legs, but he's not a box turtle, so he can't fully hide his bits in his shell. Poor guy. Just four more to go--next one will be Friday night. I'll do that before heading out to the Raveonettes show.
Such a busy weekend planned. It kind of leaves me wondering who the hell I think I am. Where was Grumples stashed, and why did you replace her with this lady who wants to do things? No one can handle that. We like our Grumples napping on the couch. We can keep an eye on her that way. Raveonettes, Art City Austin (where I always get My Not So Secret Crush her birthday gift), Urban-Family Get-Together (theme: munchies, my contribution: magic cookie bars), and the Tosca String Quartet at the Drafthouse (featuring my favorite viola-playing lady) with new string quartets commissioned by the Golden Hornet Project (The Boy conducted one of these a few years back, and it was so much damn fun--I recommend Peter's works over Graham's, but Graham seems to be Austin's favorite homeless-looking composer [Graham, if you somehow stumble upon that last sentence, um, that is 100% my opinion and The Boy tells me to shut up when ever I mention your looks...hate me, not him, please]). Peter is the sweetest man I have probably ever met. Lovely blue eyes, too. Maybe I can pinch his cheeks on Monday. Maybe. Graham may sneer at me (he never remembers who I am, so I don't really worry about retribution for my less-than-flattering description of him). However, serious props to Graham for being talented and so damn dedicated. That goes for everyone involved with those groups. I have nothing but admiration for their talents.
Traces of human saliva in the wound? Oh, my! No! A tarantula. It's alive, not dead. His name is Terry. The dead rat's name was not discovered. How cute that little young Joseph Gordon-Levitt is. It's too bad that Dark Shadows Revival didn't last (due to the Gulf War [insert casualty joke here]), because his star did not exactly shine 3rd Rock From the Sun. However, he gained some ground with (500) Days of Summer, which couldn't have been very hard since Zooey Deschanel is a flimsy bit of wide-eyed prettiness whom I enjoy more when she is singing about cotton than to her acting. WAIT. Please don't infer from that statement that I like her band. No fucking way. I saw them a couple of year ago at SXSW. It was painful. She's a warbling bird of warbling squeaks and squawks. The highlight of that showcase was Noah and the Whale. British boys in tight blue pants and yellow shirts really make me hot. That sounds wrong. You had to be there. Laroux knows what I'm talking about, don't you?
Man, I'm in such a good mood, but look at all that judgmental I have been! I'll try again tomorrow. Been working on the budget with my boss. Seems to make me a bit punchy (in a very good way). I need more Excel in my life. Take three Excels today with your Wellbutrin and Celexa, and you'll be ruling the world in no time. Hopefully with cute British rocker boys.
After being treated to a lovely meal (steak salad, flan!) by The Boy, I came home to the daunting task of giving ET his shot for his staph infection. It was a lot easier than expected. He can try to hide his legs, but he's not a box turtle, so he can't fully hide his bits in his shell. Poor guy. Just four more to go--next one will be Friday night. I'll do that before heading out to the Raveonettes show.
Such a busy weekend planned. It kind of leaves me wondering who the hell I think I am. Where was Grumples stashed, and why did you replace her with this lady who wants to do things? No one can handle that. We like our Grumples napping on the couch. We can keep an eye on her that way. Raveonettes, Art City Austin (where I always get My Not So Secret Crush her birthday gift), Urban-Family Get-Together (theme: munchies, my contribution: magic cookie bars), and the Tosca String Quartet at the Drafthouse (featuring my favorite viola-playing lady) with new string quartets commissioned by the Golden Hornet Project (The Boy conducted one of these a few years back, and it was so much damn fun--I recommend Peter's works over Graham's, but Graham seems to be Austin's favorite homeless-looking composer [Graham, if you somehow stumble upon that last sentence, um, that is 100% my opinion and The Boy tells me to shut up when ever I mention your looks...hate me, not him, please]). Peter is the sweetest man I have probably ever met. Lovely blue eyes, too. Maybe I can pinch his cheeks on Monday. Maybe. Graham may sneer at me (he never remembers who I am, so I don't really worry about retribution for my less-than-flattering description of him). However, serious props to Graham for being talented and so damn dedicated. That goes for everyone involved with those groups. I have nothing but admiration for their talents.
Traces of human saliva in the wound? Oh, my! No! A tarantula. It's alive, not dead. His name is Terry. The dead rat's name was not discovered. How cute that little young Joseph Gordon-Levitt is. It's too bad that Dark Shadows Revival didn't last (due to the Gulf War [insert casualty joke here]), because his star did not exactly shine 3rd Rock From the Sun. However, he gained some ground with (500) Days of Summer, which couldn't have been very hard since Zooey Deschanel is a flimsy bit of wide-eyed prettiness whom I enjoy more when she is singing about cotton than to her acting. WAIT. Please don't infer from that statement that I like her band. No fucking way. I saw them a couple of year ago at SXSW. It was painful. She's a warbling bird of warbling squeaks and squawks. The highlight of that showcase was Noah and the Whale. British boys in tight blue pants and yellow shirts really make me hot. That sounds wrong. You had to be there. Laroux knows what I'm talking about, don't you?
Man, I'm in such a good mood, but look at all that judgmental I have been! I'll try again tomorrow. Been working on the budget with my boss. Seems to make me a bit punchy (in a very good way). I need more Excel in my life. Take three Excels today with your Wellbutrin and Celexa, and you'll be ruling the world in no time. Hopefully with cute British rocker boys.
19 April 2010
Therapy Is Not Going to Help Me Be Pretty but MTV Might
This past weekend was a bit of a struggle, but there were some good spots shiny spots between all the other crap. In no particular order, here are the highlights.
1. Fink-Nottle had a birthday, and even though I didn't get to witness it in person, I know that he and Frijole got all fancy for a night out at Wicked. He also received my birthday gift on time. Now he has three more books to add to his ever lengthening to-read list (his may be longer than mine since he has more extracurricular activities than me.
2. Doctor Who premiered. It was silly but still good. I had a hard time graduating from Christopher Eccleston to David Tennant, and I imagine the same thing will happen eventually with Matt Smith. I was so sad to lose David Tennant; I had become so enamoured of him. I will know I have moved on when I no longer notice how weird looking Matt Smith is. I am out on the new girl right now. I'm definitely not thrilled with this whole she's-getting-married-tomorrow-but-will-explore-the-world-and-discover-new-things-about-herself-along-the-way theme. We'll see.
3. Mattress was scared by a gecko in the house. He got all puffy-tailed and gave sad puppy eyes to his father. The Boy went to the gecko's rescue, while I ran around looking for an appropriate cup to scoop it up with. From the kitchen I hear The Boy make the strangest noise. The gecko got fresh with my man and ran straight up his pants leg, thus making The Boy clamp his pants closed, gimped over to the door and shook that gecko out of his pants. It was awesome. And yes, we have geckos despite what someone tried to tell me (you know who you are!). Wikus always come through with the scientifical back-up necessary to prove everyone else wrong.
4. Later same night I kept hearing this strange noise, which I felt had to be inside my head because The Boy didn't seem to notice. I finally broke down and asked him if he was hearing it. He did a perfect imitation of the noise, which made me feel better. As I was getting ready for the bed and doing my bathroom ablution, I could hear the noise much clearer. Owls! That noise was totally motherfucking owls! I have spent the whole week watching those baby owls, and hot damn if owls weren't visiting me! We ran outside (where it was very dark and wet), and found one rather quickly as it was sitting on this very tall antenna that is near the house (The Boy says the guy is a ham-radio operator, but that antenna is beyond small-time radio). Then we noticed that directly across from the owl on the same bar but opposite end was another owl. They were whoing at each other in regular intervals. It was way too dark to take a picture, which is sad. I haven't heard them since, but I fantasize about them living somewhere close by.
5. Play date with my Lady Poet and her bunbun. A tea party with salty chocolate-chip cookies, bread and bree with apples. Bunny ate a bit of apple from my hands, and then freaked out for a bit. It was a really nice afternoon.
Bunbun in a box!
6. Quelf night with C&L. That was some serious awesomeness. We also played Zombie Fluxx and Pit. There was that one moment where both C and I had some um, digestive issues, but we rallied and the fun continues. C had to write a little poem about The Boy, and she ended it with "he smells like one poo." One poo! I'm so glad he only smells like one poo and not a lot of poos. C gave me the best present ever, and I forever owe her for making it happen. She knows what I'm talking about--thank you!
7. Wildflower walk with Wikus. We have tried to go there three other times and for different reasons just couldn't make it. Seriously lame. This time we were almost turned back again due to parking issues, but some nice man gave us his spot, and we even avoided paying for it. Brahahaha.
1. Fink-Nottle had a birthday, and even though I didn't get to witness it in person, I know that he and Frijole got all fancy for a night out at Wicked. He also received my birthday gift on time. Now he has three more books to add to his ever lengthening to-read list (his may be longer than mine since he has more extracurricular activities than me.
2. Doctor Who premiered. It was silly but still good. I had a hard time graduating from Christopher Eccleston to David Tennant, and I imagine the same thing will happen eventually with Matt Smith. I was so sad to lose David Tennant; I had become so enamoured of him. I will know I have moved on when I no longer notice how weird looking Matt Smith is. I am out on the new girl right now. I'm definitely not thrilled with this whole she's-getting-married-tomorrow-but-will-explore-the-world-and-discover-new-things-about-herself-along-the-way theme. We'll see.
3. Mattress was scared by a gecko in the house. He got all puffy-tailed and gave sad puppy eyes to his father. The Boy went to the gecko's rescue, while I ran around looking for an appropriate cup to scoop it up with. From the kitchen I hear The Boy make the strangest noise. The gecko got fresh with my man and ran straight up his pants leg, thus making The Boy clamp his pants closed, gimped over to the door and shook that gecko out of his pants. It was awesome. And yes, we have geckos despite what someone tried to tell me (you know who you are!). Wikus always come through with the scientifical back-up necessary to prove everyone else wrong.
4. Later same night I kept hearing this strange noise, which I felt had to be inside my head because The Boy didn't seem to notice. I finally broke down and asked him if he was hearing it. He did a perfect imitation of the noise, which made me feel better. As I was getting ready for the bed and doing my bathroom ablution, I could hear the noise much clearer. Owls! That noise was totally motherfucking owls! I have spent the whole week watching those baby owls, and hot damn if owls weren't visiting me! We ran outside (where it was very dark and wet), and found one rather quickly as it was sitting on this very tall antenna that is near the house (The Boy says the guy is a ham-radio operator, but that antenna is beyond small-time radio). Then we noticed that directly across from the owl on the same bar but opposite end was another owl. They were whoing at each other in regular intervals. It was way too dark to take a picture, which is sad. I haven't heard them since, but I fantasize about them living somewhere close by.
5. Play date with my Lady Poet and her bunbun. A tea party with salty chocolate-chip cookies, bread and bree with apples. Bunny ate a bit of apple from my hands, and then freaked out for a bit. It was a really nice afternoon.
Bunbun in a box!
6. Quelf night with C&L. That was some serious awesomeness. We also played Zombie Fluxx and Pit. There was that one moment where both C and I had some um, digestive issues, but we rallied and the fun continues. C had to write a little poem about The Boy, and she ended it with "he smells like one poo." One poo! I'm so glad he only smells like one poo and not a lot of poos. C gave me the best present ever, and I forever owe her for making it happen. She knows what I'm talking about--thank you!
7. Wildflower walk with Wikus. We have tried to go there three other times and for different reasons just couldn't make it. Seriously lame. This time we were almost turned back again due to parking issues, but some nice man gave us his spot, and we even avoided paying for it. Brahahaha.
8. Cheez-Its!
The rest of the weekend was weird muscles aches, a grumpy stomach, extreme lethargy, horrible migraine, and shit tons of snot. Had to call in sick to work today, which totally sucked because I actually have things to do, and now I can't be lazy and stretch these things out over the week and will have to hoof it. Grrr. I slept for 14 hours straight and took a nap. I also went grocery shopping where there were a lot of annoying people milling about as if the grocery store was a club and there was an open bar. Tomorrow, I will try being a part of life again.
ET visited the vet Saturday morning. He left some serious mucous poo all over the counter, and the vet was unable to pry ET's mouth open to get a look inside (ET refuses to say, "Ahhhh!"). He weighs 4.75lbs! It seems he has a staph infection and we have to give him a shot in the leg every 72 hours. The vet assistant gave him his first shot, and tomorrow it will be out turn. That should be fun. It will definitely take three of us. I just hope we won't need to call Wikus as an emergency third person. The vet wants an actual stool sample (that isn't mucus) to check ET's bacteria level. It seems we can collect that and put it in the fridge and it will last awhile (unlike collecting cat stool). I got some timothy hay for him so he can graze as if he was in the wild. He ate a bit of it yesterday, but doesn't seem very interested today. He has learned to be a better farter by lifting up his back end when ever he lets one loose. I like how he's learning. My son is awesome.
Also, bad, Cheez-Its. I can't stop. Help.
15 April 2010
We Already Do Something Together...It's Called Work
Oh, Phil Hartman, you are missed. Thank you for your fine delivery of that News Radio line. It makes a good motto to have stitched on a pillow to place in my office chair, or a cross-stitched sample to hang above my monitors (yes, plural!). I can point to it the next time Ex-Cop gets all pissy when I decline to go to lunch with them.
I was doing something mildly naughty this afternoon. I felt the need to tell someone lest the naughtiness ate me up and made me do something stupid. I turned to Fink-Nottle, who often is my guide in life. This is the result of our chat:
Fink-Nottle: you don't want that to happen
Fink-Nottle: you want some involvement in the adoption process
Fink-Nottle: you want to pick it out
Fink-Nottle: and meet it
Grumples: no, i really don't
Fink-Nottle: really?
Grumples: the Orange Lover was picked out without my input
Grumples: (look, a good thing my parents did!)
Grumples: the problem is, i CANNOT and WON'T go to a shelter
Fink-Nottle: ah
Fink-Nottle: because it's awful?
Fink-Nottle: and you would leave with ALL the kitties?
Grumples: CORRECT
Fink-Nottle: and several dogs even though you hate dogs?
Grumples: every single one of them
Grumples: i don't HATE dogs
Fink-Nottle: and maybe a couple of bunnies?
Grumples: i like small dogs
Grumples: all the bunnies
Grumples: not just a couple
Grumples: and some ferrets, too
Grumples: i wouldn't mind a walrus, but they may not have one at the shelter
Isn't it sad how I'm calling these posts in lately. Using my work IM conversations to entertain the masses. It's just that I have spent my week high on drugs, and sadly, I can't remember any of the conversations I have been having with myself. There was a cat adventure today with my co-worker and her daughter who hadn't really thought her plan through. I'll skip the story, and just say, I held a beautiful cat today who was either hot with a fever or his balls were about to explode little kitty semen all over the place. He actually belongs to some college co-op house, and we returned him. I hope he is just really randy, ready to put those massive kitty gnads to some bad business of making more street kitties. Come on dumb frat boys--at least take the cat to the vet and get him fixed already!
The Boy is attempting to use the mega-super pet brush with the best name ever (Furminator) on the cats. Mattress is a bit bipolar and gets hissy angry and bites at your wrist when being brushed but as soon as you stop, he starts rubbing himself all over you and meowing endearing lovey bits. The black Bear cub felt hiding under the couch was a better idea. However, Whoopis agreed to be deshedded (yes, I'm aware that the Furminator basically is shaving the undercoat, but still it removes a lot of hair). He also felt it was a good idea to groom my hair after The Boy finished brushing him. Equal love around here. Though, Whoopis just licks my hair up and swallows it like spaghetti, at which time I have to pull it out of his gullet and make a mental reminder to take a shower in the morning.
I have an all-day meeting tomorrow, but am skipping out for a couple of hours to tutor my sixth graders. I'm not sure if all that really warrants a shower. I'll know in the morning if it is right for me. Obviously I will keep you all posted.
I was doing something mildly naughty this afternoon. I felt the need to tell someone lest the naughtiness ate me up and made me do something stupid. I turned to Fink-Nottle, who often is my guide in life. This is the result of our chat:
Fink-Nottle: you don't want that to happen
Fink-Nottle: you want some involvement in the adoption process
Fink-Nottle: you want to pick it out
Fink-Nottle: and meet it
Grumples: no, i really don't
Fink-Nottle: really?
Grumples: the Orange Lover was picked out without my input
Grumples: (look, a good thing my parents did!)
Grumples: the problem is, i CANNOT and WON'T go to a shelter
Fink-Nottle: ah
Fink-Nottle: because it's awful?
Fink-Nottle: and you would leave with ALL the kitties?
Grumples: CORRECT
Fink-Nottle: and several dogs even though you hate dogs?
Grumples: every single one of them
Grumples: i don't HATE dogs
Fink-Nottle: and maybe a couple of bunnies?
Grumples: i like small dogs
Grumples: all the bunnies
Grumples: not just a couple
Grumples: and some ferrets, too
Grumples: i wouldn't mind a walrus, but they may not have one at the shelter
Isn't it sad how I'm calling these posts in lately. Using my work IM conversations to entertain the masses. It's just that I have spent my week high on drugs, and sadly, I can't remember any of the conversations I have been having with myself. There was a cat adventure today with my co-worker and her daughter who hadn't really thought her plan through. I'll skip the story, and just say, I held a beautiful cat today who was either hot with a fever or his balls were about to explode little kitty semen all over the place. He actually belongs to some college co-op house, and we returned him. I hope he is just really randy, ready to put those massive kitty gnads to some bad business of making more street kitties. Come on dumb frat boys--at least take the cat to the vet and get him fixed already!
The Boy is attempting to use the mega-super pet brush with the best name ever (Furminator) on the cats. Mattress is a bit bipolar and gets hissy angry and bites at your wrist when being brushed but as soon as you stop, he starts rubbing himself all over you and meowing endearing lovey bits. The black Bear cub felt hiding under the couch was a better idea. However, Whoopis agreed to be deshedded (yes, I'm aware that the Furminator basically is shaving the undercoat, but still it removes a lot of hair). He also felt it was a good idea to groom my hair after The Boy finished brushing him. Equal love around here. Though, Whoopis just licks my hair up and swallows it like spaghetti, at which time I have to pull it out of his gullet and make a mental reminder to take a shower in the morning.
I have an all-day meeting tomorrow, but am skipping out for a couple of hours to tutor my sixth graders. I'm not sure if all that really warrants a shower. I'll know in the morning if it is right for me. Obviously I will keep you all posted.
14 April 2010
Pumpkin Puree With Cherry Anyone?
Spring is here and that means a modicum of people on the street. This is no New York, Boston or San Francisco. Texans certainly enjoy their cars, and I admit that I adore mine. There's not many places to actually walk here, which makes all that car driving easier. Who wants to walk down a long barren corridor of concrete, used-car lots, pawn shops, county offices, gas stations, etc. Oh wait, that is specific to my neighborhood. There are other areas that are your typical nice (coffee shops, bars, family-owned restaurants, parks, etc.), I'm just not near them, and when I am, I probably have high heels on and don't want to walk more than a block. Christ, I'm totally off point tonight. What I'm getting at here has nothing to do with this damn city. I'm getting back to focusing (my brain wrote "fucking" instead of "focusing" if you want to understand what I'm struggling against).
When I do happen to be walking down the street, and approach a woman with some young baby in hand or in a perambulator (I believe I have been using this word since I read some Mary Poppins book when I was young), the woman always looks me in the eyes with this smile. This smile that is two seconds from saying, "why, thank you!" I might be totally making this up in my crazy head, but I feel like she is just expecting everyone she walks by to tell her what a beautiful baby she has. She is primed to respond due to how often people have commented on her little precious. I've never even bother looking at the kids. Babies are ugly. End of story.
Tee hee, the boy on 16 and Under just bought his pregnant young lady friend a diamond engagement ring from a pawn shop. Not really funny, really sad. Good for him being thrifty, but sad to due it off the backs of other people who had to pawn their valuables. I'll never understand why people want diamond engagement rings anyway. Yes, yes, I have no desire to get married, so maybe I know nothing. I hear you, and DISAGREE.
Poor ET is still having his mucous poos. Need to set a vet date. I have not taken him to a vet, but at least I know somewhere to take my exotic pet. Hi, here's my African spur-thigh sulcata; he poos something akin to what my allergies produce. Please fix him. Thanks. ET, why are you launching snot rockets out of your ass? I'd understand if you did it on some new mom who was all proud of her baby and showing it off on the street looking for comments, but you do it in your own home next to your food and where you sleep. You're smarter than that! I just know it.
Speaking of snot babies:
guamaniac: stupid snot babies
guamaniac: abort!
Grumples: i hate them so much
Grumples: i can't find an abortionist for my snot babies
Grumples: too many doctors believe snot babies are our future
guamaniac: there are already too many snot babies not being cared for. think about the quality of life. i could never provide properly for my snot babies. they are better off dead.
Grumples: i absolutely agree
Grumples: they are not all even born yet, and i'm already yelling at them, and harassing them to get out of my house and never call me again
guamaniac: i keep throwing them in the trash, like any good mother would and yet they still come around.
Grumples: i know! i have drowned mine in the shower and the sink. i have flicked them across the room and on the lawn. why do they like me so much when i have only shown them hate?
We soon switched to discussing bacon sculptures, and our love of bacon and white-bread sandwiches (BWBs). I don't know anyone else who has my love for such a greasy salty treat. We are going to have a date where we just eat BSBs and take lewd photos of each other. Then we'll take a long nap. We work really hard and deserve those naps.
I have a bunbun fun action playdate on Saturday. Who's jealous?
Look what I found in the yard this afternoon:
We had a seriously brutal winter (for central Texas that is). In the late fall I planted a very nice aloe vera that I had been cultivating in a pot for a few years. Bad timing. The freezes totally killed it. Or so I thought:
Look at those wee little green shoots coming up from that frost-bitten mess.
Finally, I leave all of you with a tasty treat:
When I do happen to be walking down the street, and approach a woman with some young baby in hand or in a perambulator (I believe I have been using this word since I read some Mary Poppins book when I was young), the woman always looks me in the eyes with this smile. This smile that is two seconds from saying, "why, thank you!" I might be totally making this up in my crazy head, but I feel like she is just expecting everyone she walks by to tell her what a beautiful baby she has. She is primed to respond due to how often people have commented on her little precious. I've never even bother looking at the kids. Babies are ugly. End of story.
Tee hee, the boy on 16 and Under just bought his pregnant young lady friend a diamond engagement ring from a pawn shop. Not really funny, really sad. Good for him being thrifty, but sad to due it off the backs of other people who had to pawn their valuables. I'll never understand why people want diamond engagement rings anyway. Yes, yes, I have no desire to get married, so maybe I know nothing. I hear you, and DISAGREE.
Poor ET is still having his mucous poos. Need to set a vet date. I have not taken him to a vet, but at least I know somewhere to take my exotic pet. Hi, here's my African spur-thigh sulcata; he poos something akin to what my allergies produce. Please fix him. Thanks. ET, why are you launching snot rockets out of your ass? I'd understand if you did it on some new mom who was all proud of her baby and showing it off on the street looking for comments, but you do it in your own home next to your food and where you sleep. You're smarter than that! I just know it.
Speaking of snot babies:
guamaniac: stupid snot babies
guamaniac: abort!
Grumples: i hate them so much
Grumples: i can't find an abortionist for my snot babies
Grumples: too many doctors believe snot babies are our future
guamaniac: there are already too many snot babies not being cared for. think about the quality of life. i could never provide properly for my snot babies. they are better off dead.
Grumples: i absolutely agree
Grumples: they are not all even born yet, and i'm already yelling at them, and harassing them to get out of my house and never call me again
guamaniac: i keep throwing them in the trash, like any good mother would and yet they still come around.
Grumples: i know! i have drowned mine in the shower and the sink. i have flicked them across the room and on the lawn. why do they like me so much when i have only shown them hate?
We soon switched to discussing bacon sculptures, and our love of bacon and white-bread sandwiches (BWBs). I don't know anyone else who has my love for such a greasy salty treat. We are going to have a date where we just eat BSBs and take lewd photos of each other. Then we'll take a long nap. We work really hard and deserve those naps.
I have a bunbun fun action playdate on Saturday. Who's jealous?
Look what I found in the yard this afternoon:
We had a seriously brutal winter (for central Texas that is). In the late fall I planted a very nice aloe vera that I had been cultivating in a pot for a few years. Bad timing. The freezes totally killed it. Or so I thought:
Look at those wee little green shoots coming up from that frost-bitten mess.
Finally, I leave all of you with a tasty treat:
13 April 2010
Bitch-Slapped by a Fish
This morning during the twilight state of being between sleep and fully awake, the time my brain is busily coming up with preposterous what-if scenarios (what if I was forced to choose between The Boy and my Not-So-Secret Lady Love, and in deciding I was given two additional caveats being if I chose The Boy I would be able to quit my job and devote my life to my artistic endeavors and volunteering or if I chose The Lady, I would pretty much have all the knowledge of the world stored in my brain both past and present and could easily make assumptions on the future based on my immense understanding of all things...just who would I choose?), and while I was ruminating on whatever what-if nugget I had going this morning, I suddenly thought, "The folds in the comforter feels like fingers on my thigh." How melodramatic! Thank you, drugs.
I started writing a lot of blah blah about being on anti-anxiety medications, but then got bored by it. Obviously not fit for reading by others. However, I will say that Wellbutrin is a fucking miracle. I've tried so many drugs, and this one, boy howdy, it makes me feel good. I just started it on Saturday, and my psychiatrist said it would work fast, and she wasn't lying. I woke up on Sunday, and I was ready to get out of bed. I woke up on Monday, and only snoozed once. I got to work early. I was chipper, people made comments. Today Emma's mom said I looked better than she has ever seen me. My allergies are still making my teeth ache and my eyes blur. Yet, I'm awake! Totally awake. It's not perfect. I'm sure I'd still be freaked out if someone told me to go buy a Wedding Present t-shirt from David Gedge himself (thank you, Boy). It also makes me not really fall asleep at night. It's a sensation I've never felt before--it's not that caffeine-fueled freak-out where one is so fucking desperate to go to sleep but the body just won't do it. It is like I'm stuck between dreaming and waking, and my mind is just poking around in every corner of my brain and it talks to itself all night long. I need to put a notebook and pen by my pillow, because there are all these words I must capture, but can't when I finally surface. I worry that I may crash if I am not able to cross the border in to a deeper sleep. However, right now, it is fun to feel awake and not the normal cranky old lady I was becoming.
My biggest complaint about the Wellbutrin is how it is affecting my language skills in that I keep typing words that aren't right (just then, I wrote "write" and had to fix). Maybe this is how dyslexia feels. I really don't know. My brain sees the right thing, but my hands type out something slightly different. Homonyms are terrible for me right now. So is "now" and "know." I hardly ever rewrite anything, which is why I'm a terrible writer. Though, I enjoy very much editing other people's writing. Anyway. What I'm saying is I need everyone to be kind and not judge me too harshly right now.
I can only hope that this is just an early side-effect of the meds.
At work this morning, I got to hear the most amazing true-life outdoor adventure of Hampster Hater's morning swim in the springs. Seems a fish totally bitch slapped his face. You may think that this is just Grumples trying to be funny and make a good story of her totally boring workplace, but I'm not, I swear. He was swimming along, and then felt like he had been punched. He shot up out of the water to see if there was another swimmer around, and no one was around for at least 50 feet. He has a bruise blooming beside his nose, and a long red mark that looks like someone tried to snap a cigarette out of his mouth with a whip and missed and hit his cheek instead. I look forward to making fun of him some more tomorrow. Fish: 1. Human: 0. Or a t-shirt that says, "I went to Barton Springs and all I got was bitch slapped by a fish. I imagine fishes with one fin in the air, slapping high-fives and cheering.
Every day I find more and more mistakes that Twit has made. It is very frustrating to try and sort out what she has done or hasn't done. My boss keeps excuses her crappy work, saying that Twit is in her forties and was in a high-risk pregnancy. Sigh. I guess I'll have to wait a year or so for Twit to go on vacation, so I can prove it's not the pregnancy.
The fifth floor smelled like gerbils. It made me want to go to a pet store and look at the kittens up for adoption (PetSmart is smart, Petco is no). I won't do this because The Boy is not ready. I just have this hole in my life where the Orange Lover belonged, and I still have all this love to give, and I want to give it to a new kitty. It's too soon. I know. It's just been an emotionally fragile day. We miss him so very much. It's only been three months but can feel like it was yesterday.
I started writing a lot of blah blah about being on anti-anxiety medications, but then got bored by it. Obviously not fit for reading by others. However, I will say that Wellbutrin is a fucking miracle. I've tried so many drugs, and this one, boy howdy, it makes me feel good. I just started it on Saturday, and my psychiatrist said it would work fast, and she wasn't lying. I woke up on Sunday, and I was ready to get out of bed. I woke up on Monday, and only snoozed once. I got to work early. I was chipper, people made comments. Today Emma's mom said I looked better than she has ever seen me. My allergies are still making my teeth ache and my eyes blur. Yet, I'm awake! Totally awake. It's not perfect. I'm sure I'd still be freaked out if someone told me to go buy a Wedding Present t-shirt from David Gedge himself (thank you, Boy). It also makes me not really fall asleep at night. It's a sensation I've never felt before--it's not that caffeine-fueled freak-out where one is so fucking desperate to go to sleep but the body just won't do it. It is like I'm stuck between dreaming and waking, and my mind is just poking around in every corner of my brain and it talks to itself all night long. I need to put a notebook and pen by my pillow, because there are all these words I must capture, but can't when I finally surface. I worry that I may crash if I am not able to cross the border in to a deeper sleep. However, right now, it is fun to feel awake and not the normal cranky old lady I was becoming.
My biggest complaint about the Wellbutrin is how it is affecting my language skills in that I keep typing words that aren't right (just then, I wrote "write" and had to fix). Maybe this is how dyslexia feels. I really don't know. My brain sees the right thing, but my hands type out something slightly different. Homonyms are terrible for me right now. So is "now" and "know." I hardly ever rewrite anything, which is why I'm a terrible writer. Though, I enjoy very much editing other people's writing. Anyway. What I'm saying is I need everyone to be kind and not judge me too harshly right now.
I can only hope that this is just an early side-effect of the meds.
At work this morning, I got to hear the most amazing true-life outdoor adventure of Hampster Hater's morning swim in the springs. Seems a fish totally bitch slapped his face. You may think that this is just Grumples trying to be funny and make a good story of her totally boring workplace, but I'm not, I swear. He was swimming along, and then felt like he had been punched. He shot up out of the water to see if there was another swimmer around, and no one was around for at least 50 feet. He has a bruise blooming beside his nose, and a long red mark that looks like someone tried to snap a cigarette out of his mouth with a whip and missed and hit his cheek instead. I look forward to making fun of him some more tomorrow. Fish: 1. Human: 0. Or a t-shirt that says, "I went to Barton Springs and all I got was bitch slapped by a fish. I imagine fishes with one fin in the air, slapping high-fives and cheering.
Every day I find more and more mistakes that Twit has made. It is very frustrating to try and sort out what she has done or hasn't done. My boss keeps excuses her crappy work, saying that Twit is in her forties and was in a high-risk pregnancy. Sigh. I guess I'll have to wait a year or so for Twit to go on vacation, so I can prove it's not the pregnancy.
The fifth floor smelled like gerbils. It made me want to go to a pet store and look at the kittens up for adoption (PetSmart is smart, Petco is no). I won't do this because The Boy is not ready. I just have this hole in my life where the Orange Lover belonged, and I still have all this love to give, and I want to give it to a new kitty. It's too soon. I know. It's just been an emotionally fragile day. We miss him so very much. It's only been three months but can feel like it was yesterday.
12 April 2010
Frijole is the Beans to My Rice
Highlight of my week? Talking to Frijole. Have I mentioned how Awesome she is? That's right, Awesome with a capital "A." I can tell her things that I would normally only write about not vocalize. Like how I rode the maintenance elevator (aka: the Verboten Elevator...wait, what's "elevator" in German? Yahoo! Babel tells me it is Aufzug. Verboten Aufzug.) with a mentally retarded gentleman (it occurs to me now that she probably would have preferred me to say "mentally challenged." Sorry about that, Frijole!). So, yes, in the elevator and I'm all excited to do something so risky and as I enter the elevator I'm atwitter and try to get the man involved in my excitement. He looked like he was supposed to be riding it, and that he was totally in on what I was doing (he had a bright yellow safety vest on over a maintenance jumper). He kept nodding and saying "hello" to me, and then I realized he was mentally challenged and he had no idea why I was saying "Yay! I'm on the forbidden elevator!" He was so sweet and had a shy smile, and kept saying "hello, hello, hello!" He got off two floors before mine, and I wished him a good day as he said, "hello" back. Then about a half-hour later, I ran in to him in the hallway at the same time a coworker came out of the bathroom right behind him. I tried to say an individual hello to each, but it looked like he thought I ignored him when he saw someone behind him. I swear, I didn't! I tried dto say hello to him first and it isn't my fault of my coworker thought the hello was for her. So awkward. Poor guy. I'm full of guilt over it.
Other items Frijole and I discussed our stupid coworkers. She had to write a memo, and her boss wrote back telling her to put the dates (there were several) in "tabular form." Neither of us quite knew what this mean, since it was a fucking memo. Why would she want a table in a memo? What purpose would that serve? This led to her talking about something magical called Notebook that she insisted I would have in Word. Nuh-uh, I know Word up and down and around the block to your momma's house. There is no such thing. And she says, "Duuuuuuuuuuuuuuude, is that just a Mac feature?" Well, luckily, The Boy has a Mac, and he's not home, so I fired it up and sure enough, fairies and leprechauns must exist, because it is there and totally is for real magical. There are TABS! Why do I not have this? Is there an add-on for my Windows 7? Seriously, I must have it. I resent him for opening my eyes to a possibility out of my reach.
We discussed my animals' poos, naturally. The Bear is pooping bright-orange pumpkin poo with cherry-red bloody bits. ET still has the mucous poos (even though I am now bathing him twice a week), and Whoopis' still has his icki (with an "i"), soft diabetic poo. There's a lot of bad pooing going on around here. The Boy even took a picture of the Bear's poo just for me. I'm sure he was puking in his hand the whole time (he had to use a flashlight to accomplish this, so I guess he'd probably be puking on his knees). You can tell he is puking because he couldn't get a shot in focus. Here is Bear's offering:
Damn Blogger, won't upload photos tonight. Guess I'll have to post it tomorrow.
Strange coincidence for the day: it is my boss' and the Amazon's anniversary today. Except the Amazon has been with her man for 12 years, whereas my boss has been with hers 24 years. Go marriage...for them...not for me. It's kind of weird knowing that both of them are going to have sex tonight. Or, at least I assume that both of the men will expect some sexing fun times. I'll refrain from asking them if this was the case. In fact, I already know this will be the case.
Shocker for the day: I woke up feeling great. When I say that, I mean I actually woke up and got out of bed feeling awake and ready to go. I got to work 30 minutes early. I was happy, full of pep and witty comebacks. I accomplished a lot and didn't get too aggravated when the wifi kept cutting out (probably from all the bandwidth suckage of everyone watching the owlets). It's past 10pm, and I'm still awake. This is wonderful. Is this how other people feel on a daily basis? Please say this lasts for at least a week.
Wikus, The Boy and I are very excited that Doctor Who returns on Saturday. The only problem is that every time I see the commercial for the season, I cringe and look away. The new Doctor Who is so damn weird looking. All his facial bits don't match. He's totally put together with different people's bits. Guess I'll just be forced to call him Doctor Frankenstein. Look at that forehead hanging like a cliff, making his eyes look like deep inset caves. So weird! This will not stop me from watching the show, but I have a feeling I'll always crave the previous two doctors.
It is late, and I don't want to push this good feeling too far past my bedtime. I want to comment on how Mississippi is now all behind the Confederate Heritage Month bullshit. Here's a good article to read instead of reading my incensed ranting. This just fucking blows my mind that we still exult such a horrible time period in the U.S. Gnash, growl, grrr. Let's all just say to ourselves, state rights were rights to own slaves. Fucking assholes. Okay, I live in Texas and I'll never win. To all my black friends (and nonfriends, because the message is still the same except the "love" part), I love you and I'm so sorry you have to put up with this continuous bullshit for what I guess will be eternity.
Time to read (Meg Wolitzer's, "The 10-Year Nap").
If you need way more enjoyable reading, go see Mimi Smartypants. I'll discuss at some point how I believe she is 75% me. Or rather, since she's older by a few years, I'm 75% her. She should live in my pocket so I can talk to her all day long. Due to my serious anxiety about talking to strangers, I can't bring myself to send her an email. Instead, I find it easier just to tell the world how great I think she is. Partly because she is part me, and well, I rock. Rocking right into an 11pm bedtime. Oh, yea!
Other items Frijole and I discussed our stupid coworkers. She had to write a memo, and her boss wrote back telling her to put the dates (there were several) in "tabular form." Neither of us quite knew what this mean, since it was a fucking memo. Why would she want a table in a memo? What purpose would that serve? This led to her talking about something magical called Notebook that she insisted I would have in Word. Nuh-uh, I know Word up and down and around the block to your momma's house. There is no such thing. And she says, "Duuuuuuuuuuuuuuude, is that just a Mac feature?" Well, luckily, The Boy has a Mac, and he's not home, so I fired it up and sure enough, fairies and leprechauns must exist, because it is there and totally is for real magical. There are TABS! Why do I not have this? Is there an add-on for my Windows 7? Seriously, I must have it. I resent him for opening my eyes to a possibility out of my reach.
We discussed my animals' poos, naturally. The Bear is pooping bright-orange pumpkin poo with cherry-red bloody bits. ET still has the mucous poos (even though I am now bathing him twice a week), and Whoopis' still has his icki (with an "i"), soft diabetic poo. There's a lot of bad pooing going on around here. The Boy even took a picture of the Bear's poo just for me. I'm sure he was puking in his hand the whole time (he had to use a flashlight to accomplish this, so I guess he'd probably be puking on his knees). You can tell he is puking because he couldn't get a shot in focus. Here is Bear's offering:
Damn Blogger, won't upload photos tonight. Guess I'll have to post it tomorrow.
Strange coincidence for the day: it is my boss' and the Amazon's anniversary today. Except the Amazon has been with her man for 12 years, whereas my boss has been with hers 24 years. Go marriage...for them...not for me. It's kind of weird knowing that both of them are going to have sex tonight. Or, at least I assume that both of the men will expect some sexing fun times. I'll refrain from asking them if this was the case. In fact, I already know this will be the case.
Shocker for the day: I woke up feeling great. When I say that, I mean I actually woke up and got out of bed feeling awake and ready to go. I got to work 30 minutes early. I was happy, full of pep and witty comebacks. I accomplished a lot and didn't get too aggravated when the wifi kept cutting out (probably from all the bandwidth suckage of everyone watching the owlets). It's past 10pm, and I'm still awake. This is wonderful. Is this how other people feel on a daily basis? Please say this lasts for at least a week.
Wikus, The Boy and I are very excited that Doctor Who returns on Saturday. The only problem is that every time I see the commercial for the season, I cringe and look away. The new Doctor Who is so damn weird looking. All his facial bits don't match. He's totally put together with different people's bits. Guess I'll just be forced to call him Doctor Frankenstein. Look at that forehead hanging like a cliff, making his eyes look like deep inset caves. So weird! This will not stop me from watching the show, but I have a feeling I'll always crave the previous two doctors.
It is late, and I don't want to push this good feeling too far past my bedtime. I want to comment on how Mississippi is now all behind the Confederate Heritage Month bullshit. Here's a good article to read instead of reading my incensed ranting. This just fucking blows my mind that we still exult such a horrible time period in the U.S. Gnash, growl, grrr. Let's all just say to ourselves, state rights were rights to own slaves. Fucking assholes. Okay, I live in Texas and I'll never win. To all my black friends (and nonfriends, because the message is still the same except the "love" part), I love you and I'm so sorry you have to put up with this continuous bullshit for what I guess will be eternity.
Time to read (Meg Wolitzer's, "The 10-Year Nap").
If you need way more enjoyable reading, go see Mimi Smartypants. I'll discuss at some point how I believe she is 75% me. Or rather, since she's older by a few years, I'm 75% her. She should live in my pocket so I can talk to her all day long. Due to my serious anxiety about talking to strangers, I can't bring myself to send her an email. Instead, I find it easier just to tell the world how great I think she is. Partly because she is part me, and well, I rock. Rocking right into an 11pm bedtime. Oh, yea!
10 April 2010
Touching Me Is Out of the Question
Thanks to Sally at Already Pretty, she posted the most wonderful article from Jezebel. I don't read Jezebel often, though it is a good site with many fascinating posts (and led to my love of Rich Juzwiak and Winston). However, when I go to Jezebel, it just looks so busy. It is hard to pick out what I want to read; so, I am very grateful when someone else does the work for me!
I highly encourage all people to read the Jezebel article (look, I linked to it again so you don't have to arrow up--I know what laziness is like). It so clearly explains what I have dealt with for the past 17 years. Whether you like tattoos, hate them or just don't care, it is worth reading just to get some insight on how it really shouldn't matter what your opinions are about tattoos. It is a lot like any other art form: if you don't like it, you don't buy it, and you probably don't think much more about it.
Recently, I learned about the Rule of Nines. I haven't actually tried it out on myself yet, but I figure about 40% of my body is tattooed. I feel that is a fair estimate. Before the Orange Lover died, I hadn't been tattooed in a few years. I had become a bit burnt out on the pain after finishing a 2-year project on my left leg. Once you get the front and back of your knee tattooed, you can say you've been through some pain. Since I haven't pushed a baby out my vag, I really can't say if it is that painful, but it still makes my stomach roll over a bit. Ahem. Anyway.
Being a woman with tattoos has been an interesting experience, and one I rarely talk about, since in general, I do not enjoy talking about my tattoos. They are a part of me, no different than my eyes, ass or feet. They exist and I often forget I have them in the same way I often don't remember the act of breathing. However, in certain situations, I am painfully aware of them: interviewing, first few months of a job and any public place where I am in a bathing suit. I hate all these situations equally. Actually, not totally true, I hate when strangers touch me. Luckily, it seems as I have gotten older, people aren't as anxious to reach out and grab my arm when I'm ordering french fries.
Let's just think about that for a minute. How often have you had a stranger feel free to touch you? I suspect pregnant women know what I'm talking about. In college, I was at a bar and some grizzled man grabbed me with a disgusting lascivious look in his eye. I coldly told him to remove his hand, and he cooly appraised me and said something dismissive about how I wanted it. That happened a lot. I'm willing to bet that doesn't happen with pregnant women (please let me know if it does, because I will gladly rant about just how fucked up people are). There is a strong impression out there that a young lady with many tattoos wants strange men to touch her; the assumption being that the lady will obviously be willing to run to the nearest darkish spot (bathroom, alley, automobile, etc.) and fuck him silly, preferably doing all the work herself. You know, because tattooed women are like that. Breaking it down, being young, a woman and having many tattoos made people think I had no right to my privacy. Being in my mid-30s at least affords me less touching but just as much looking. Who knew this would be a perk of aging.
Interviewing is particularly painful, especially in hot weather. It is difficult enough trying to figure out what to wear to an interview, and is only complicated by having to make sure all tattoos are covered. Hey, look at that woman interviewing on this 100-degree day wearing clothes from neck to wrist to ankle. Sure, people can say I could have thought about that before I got tattooed, but why? What do my tattoos have to do with what I am capable of accomplishing? Does your taste in home decor matter when you are making a spreadsheet? I highly doubt it. Does your choice to have kids make you less ethical and loyal to your employer. Probably not. So why should it matter that I have tattoos. My mind and morals remain the same even if my skin doesn't.
Once I get past the interview, I have to figure out at least ten variations of an all-covering outfit. Some people are smart and can see through my sad little disguise ("Dude, why do you wear sweaters every day; that's kind of weird." Agreed.). However, it is necessary to prove how awesome I am before people know what I look like in a sassy dress and awesome shoes. If I didn't take this precaution, I would constantly fight against their perceived assumptions about who I am. Which is not, as exciting as it may be, a crack-addled, illiterate whore who plans to steal from the petty cash and sell office supplies from the back of her van. That will probably surprise a lot of people. I actually sell PCP-laced ice-cream from the back of a van. I digress. The point is, once I come out of the tattooed closet, it is usually cool, but I'm smart enough to get them to like me first. Worship me really. Did I mention that I just got the top score on my mid-year performance review? Well, I did.
Whatever, it all sucks, but I can deal with it fairly easily (especially now that I am on drugs...yay drugs!). What I still cannot do is handle questions about my tattoos with grace, nor when people freely comment about me when I am within hearing distance. It incenses me. One time this subject came up at a party, and a close friend's date got all in my face about how I must want this attention and that I am not allowed to have a problem with the comments and questions. That I deserve to be treated with disrespect because of my choice to have tattoos. Things got a little tense there for awhile, but we moved on eventually. Yet, that is a common opinion, which makes me sad, angry and depressed. You can feel free to think I'm disgusting and have made bad choices, but keep it to yourself unless I ask. If I want you to know about my tattoos, I'll bring it up myself. Let's try to be friends first before you ask me about my personal choices. I would rather talk about my preferred tampon brand than my tattoos. That is how private they are. Yes, they can be seen, but that doesn't mean they are for anyone but me. Got it?
I'll go ahead and answer the two of my most frequently asked questions: yes they hurt, and no, they do not have any symbolic meaning (except, perhaps, Orange Lover's paw print). Thank you and goodnight.
I highly encourage all people to read the Jezebel article (look, I linked to it again so you don't have to arrow up--I know what laziness is like). It so clearly explains what I have dealt with for the past 17 years. Whether you like tattoos, hate them or just don't care, it is worth reading just to get some insight on how it really shouldn't matter what your opinions are about tattoos. It is a lot like any other art form: if you don't like it, you don't buy it, and you probably don't think much more about it.
Recently, I learned about the Rule of Nines. I haven't actually tried it out on myself yet, but I figure about 40% of my body is tattooed. I feel that is a fair estimate. Before the Orange Lover died, I hadn't been tattooed in a few years. I had become a bit burnt out on the pain after finishing a 2-year project on my left leg. Once you get the front and back of your knee tattooed, you can say you've been through some pain. Since I haven't pushed a baby out my vag, I really can't say if it is that painful, but it still makes my stomach roll over a bit. Ahem. Anyway.
Being a woman with tattoos has been an interesting experience, and one I rarely talk about, since in general, I do not enjoy talking about my tattoos. They are a part of me, no different than my eyes, ass or feet. They exist and I often forget I have them in the same way I often don't remember the act of breathing. However, in certain situations, I am painfully aware of them: interviewing, first few months of a job and any public place where I am in a bathing suit. I hate all these situations equally. Actually, not totally true, I hate when strangers touch me. Luckily, it seems as I have gotten older, people aren't as anxious to reach out and grab my arm when I'm ordering french fries.
Let's just think about that for a minute. How often have you had a stranger feel free to touch you? I suspect pregnant women know what I'm talking about. In college, I was at a bar and some grizzled man grabbed me with a disgusting lascivious look in his eye. I coldly told him to remove his hand, and he cooly appraised me and said something dismissive about how I wanted it. That happened a lot. I'm willing to bet that doesn't happen with pregnant women (please let me know if it does, because I will gladly rant about just how fucked up people are). There is a strong impression out there that a young lady with many tattoos wants strange men to touch her; the assumption being that the lady will obviously be willing to run to the nearest darkish spot (bathroom, alley, automobile, etc.) and fuck him silly, preferably doing all the work herself. You know, because tattooed women are like that. Breaking it down, being young, a woman and having many tattoos made people think I had no right to my privacy. Being in my mid-30s at least affords me less touching but just as much looking. Who knew this would be a perk of aging.
Interviewing is particularly painful, especially in hot weather. It is difficult enough trying to figure out what to wear to an interview, and is only complicated by having to make sure all tattoos are covered. Hey, look at that woman interviewing on this 100-degree day wearing clothes from neck to wrist to ankle. Sure, people can say I could have thought about that before I got tattooed, but why? What do my tattoos have to do with what I am capable of accomplishing? Does your taste in home decor matter when you are making a spreadsheet? I highly doubt it. Does your choice to have kids make you less ethical and loyal to your employer. Probably not. So why should it matter that I have tattoos. My mind and morals remain the same even if my skin doesn't.
Once I get past the interview, I have to figure out at least ten variations of an all-covering outfit. Some people are smart and can see through my sad little disguise ("Dude, why do you wear sweaters every day; that's kind of weird." Agreed.). However, it is necessary to prove how awesome I am before people know what I look like in a sassy dress and awesome shoes. If I didn't take this precaution, I would constantly fight against their perceived assumptions about who I am. Which is not, as exciting as it may be, a crack-addled, illiterate whore who plans to steal from the petty cash and sell office supplies from the back of her van. That will probably surprise a lot of people. I actually sell PCP-laced ice-cream from the back of a van. I digress. The point is, once I come out of the tattooed closet, it is usually cool, but I'm smart enough to get them to like me first. Worship me really. Did I mention that I just got the top score on my mid-year performance review? Well, I did.
Whatever, it all sucks, but I can deal with it fairly easily (especially now that I am on drugs...yay drugs!). What I still cannot do is handle questions about my tattoos with grace, nor when people freely comment about me when I am within hearing distance. It incenses me. One time this subject came up at a party, and a close friend's date got all in my face about how I must want this attention and that I am not allowed to have a problem with the comments and questions. That I deserve to be treated with disrespect because of my choice to have tattoos. Things got a little tense there for awhile, but we moved on eventually. Yet, that is a common opinion, which makes me sad, angry and depressed. You can feel free to think I'm disgusting and have made bad choices, but keep it to yourself unless I ask. If I want you to know about my tattoos, I'll bring it up myself. Let's try to be friends first before you ask me about my personal choices. I would rather talk about my preferred tampon brand than my tattoos. That is how private they are. Yes, they can be seen, but that doesn't mean they are for anyone but me. Got it?
I'll go ahead and answer the two of my most frequently asked questions: yes they hurt, and no, they do not have any symbolic meaning (except, perhaps, Orange Lover's paw print). Thank you and goodnight.
All Paper Bags Should Come With a Baby Tortoise in Them
Look at this baby tortoise!
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He looks just like ET when Wikus brought him home from the pet store in Sandy Eggo in a paper bag. Sans shell. ET was the tiniest little baby. Now he's so big I could brain someone with him, and ET wouldn't even notice. That's why I like ET. He doesn't mind me using him as a weapon.
Thanks Daily Sqee!
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He looks just like ET when Wikus brought him home from the pet store in Sandy Eggo in a paper bag. Sans shell. ET was the tiniest little baby. Now he's so big I could brain someone with him, and ET wouldn't even notice. That's why I like ET. He doesn't mind me using him as a weapon.
Thanks Daily Sqee!
09 April 2010
Bob McDonnell Needs a Nation's Worth of Feet Up His Ass
At some point in my childhood, I was given a Zuni fetish necklace. It was so delicate with its silver beads and purple birds. I recall putting it in my mouth a lot. I loved the feel of those little stone birds (they had a pearlized luminescence) against my teeth and tongue. I had it in my mouth so much, I eventually broke one of the birds, and then eventually the string broke. I have thought about this necklace for almost twenty decades. This past weekend I was surfing around on various sites, and it dawned on me to search for a replica of my childhood jewelry. I found a strand for under $20 on Ebay, and it came in the mail today. Hooray! It has the same kind of pearlized stones but in many different colors, and it's not just birds, but also some bears. It's a bit long for my taste, and I worry I'll crack the fetishes with my bag or the seatbelt.
Obviously, I don't think this is an authentic fetish, but damn, it's almost exactly what I have been yearning for all these years.
Ends up, I have purchased a really nice cat toy. At least when I'm trying to take pictures of the necklace on the floor. Every time I finally got the necklace posed, a cat's paw would come in and snatch it away. I had this:
A second later, this:
That rascally son of a bitch. Silly Mattress.
______________________________________
I'm eating some dinner while posting. The Boy is really awesome and provides me with dinner almost every night. He just played a dirty trick on me and fed me ET's turnip greens when I was expecting baby spinach. I'm surprised I didn't vomit all over the front of myself. He totally just tried to poison me. I'm eating some Amy's pizza as an antidote.
Speaking of vomit, can you believe, no, really fucking believe that the governor of Virginia has declared April "Confederate History Month." As I told Fink-Nottle, I would seriously like to smash Bob McDonnell's face in my own barf. I am so appalled, yet not surprised. We have a black man as president for the first time ever, and this is what he gets. I want to yank that disgusting man's balls off and shit on them and shove them in his stupid racist mouth. If you aren't already vomiting in your own hand right now, you will--the motherfucker doesn't even bother to mention the slaves. I shit you not. Guess they aren't important enough to remember. I don't think I can write much more about it right now since I'm obviously too emotional to deal with such a heinous declaration.
______________________________________
Due to school holidays and a work-related day of training, I haven't seen my 6th-grade lit kids in 3 weeks. Can I just tell you that I suddenly found myself a sucker for hugs from children? Oh man, it was so fucking gratifying that they missed me. All those weeks of frustration where they goofed off and had no interest in reading melted away. I have actually made an impression on them. Then I gave them presents to make them love me more. Maybe I do have this mothering thing down. Ha. Before you comment on that, I should mention that part of our session today was coming up with our new motto, "Don't do dumb things at school!" Dumb being drink alcohol, smoke weed, etc. Thus implying that you may do dumb things outside of school, but you are an idiot if you do them on school property. Sadly, two of my girls were already suspended this year--busted drinking beer in the gym locker room. This was a good example of doing something dumb at school. It's nice when one can use real-life examples.
Sixth graders drinking beer at school. Makes me feel very very old. In sixth grade I was still worried about getting my period and wishing I could brag about kissing boys. Sigh.
Obviously, I don't think this is an authentic fetish, but damn, it's almost exactly what I have been yearning for all these years.
Ends up, I have purchased a really nice cat toy. At least when I'm trying to take pictures of the necklace on the floor. Every time I finally got the necklace posed, a cat's paw would come in and snatch it away. I had this:
A second later, this:
That rascally son of a bitch. Silly Mattress.
______________________________________
I'm eating some dinner while posting. The Boy is really awesome and provides me with dinner almost every night. He just played a dirty trick on me and fed me ET's turnip greens when I was expecting baby spinach. I'm surprised I didn't vomit all over the front of myself. He totally just tried to poison me. I'm eating some Amy's pizza as an antidote.
Speaking of vomit, can you believe, no, really fucking believe that the governor of Virginia has declared April "Confederate History Month." As I told Fink-Nottle, I would seriously like to smash Bob McDonnell's face in my own barf. I am so appalled, yet not surprised. We have a black man as president for the first time ever, and this is what he gets. I want to yank that disgusting man's balls off and shit on them and shove them in his stupid racist mouth. If you aren't already vomiting in your own hand right now, you will--the motherfucker doesn't even bother to mention the slaves. I shit you not. Guess they aren't important enough to remember. I don't think I can write much more about it right now since I'm obviously too emotional to deal with such a heinous declaration.
______________________________________
Due to school holidays and a work-related day of training, I haven't seen my 6th-grade lit kids in 3 weeks. Can I just tell you that I suddenly found myself a sucker for hugs from children? Oh man, it was so fucking gratifying that they missed me. All those weeks of frustration where they goofed off and had no interest in reading melted away. I have actually made an impression on them. Then I gave them presents to make them love me more. Maybe I do have this mothering thing down. Ha. Before you comment on that, I should mention that part of our session today was coming up with our new motto, "Don't do dumb things at school!" Dumb being drink alcohol, smoke weed, etc. Thus implying that you may do dumb things outside of school, but you are an idiot if you do them on school property. Sadly, two of my girls were already suspended this year--busted drinking beer in the gym locker room. This was a good example of doing something dumb at school. It's nice when one can use real-life examples.
Sixth graders drinking beer at school. Makes me feel very very old. In sixth grade I was still worried about getting my period and wishing I could brag about kissing boys. Sigh.
07 April 2010
I'm Late to the Baby Owl Party!
Remember the fall of 2008 with the Puppy Cam of Shiba Inu puppies? I sure do. I was newly unemployed--full of bitter resentment and lots of time to stew in my anger. Those adorable puppies didn't stop me from thinking of really awful things to do to the new CEO who laid me off, but they did keep me from going through with it. Thank you puppies for keeping me out of prison!
Now, we have live baby owls! It gives me a new purpose in life--or, at least at work. I can sit here working on this annoying spreadsheet and watch the baby owls. I hear at night you can watch the father arrive with fresh kill for them, like bunnies and rats. I'm excited and grossed-out at the same time.
Enjoy!
Now, we have live baby owls! It gives me a new purpose in life--or, at least at work. I can sit here working on this annoying spreadsheet and watch the baby owls. I hear at night you can watch the father arrive with fresh kill for them, like bunnies and rats. I'm excited and grossed-out at the same time.
Enjoy!
06 April 2010
Vicki Lewis: I Know Someone Who Adores Your Ass
Woke up this morning with aching feet and leg muscles. Usually this is something I would moan and bitch about at length. Not today! Even my ass hurts, and it is all thanks to the Wedding Present. I went to the show in heels (yes, a 3" advantage over my usual height!), and normally I would question something as absurd as hanging out in Emo's for several hours in high-heeled boots. However, the hard-pounding good times that David Gedge and company put on made me forget my feet and I danced with The Boy, and bumped hips with my favorite viola lady and my main man who always gives me the head up on the best shows coming to town. I am not a dancer; I'm a head bouncer. Yet, being able to take the magic of knowing that a whole album was going to be played through, made me lose my normal inhibitions, and just let myself go.
The concert shirts were the original Bizarro LP (dark green background with orange splotch), and came in the cutest little vacuum-sealed t-shirt-shaped package. I made The Boy buy one for me--I say "made" because I was stricken with an attack of shyness, and refused to approach the merch area since David Gedge was manning it with his lady friend (who knows her man so well, that she was ready with a new guitar tuned and ready for each song and for mid-song guitar-string breakage). While I was dying in the crowd acting like I wasn't really stalking the merch area, Viola Lady just went right up to Mr. Gedge and demanded a shirt (I'm sure there was a "please" involved, because she is one of those really sincerely sweet people). She has played with a lot of famous people, so maybe it is easier of her to demand concert shirts. I've only given James Taylor some coffee and when he was surly about me not giving him a "cap" for the cup, I was surly in return and pointed where he could go pick one up himself. It would have been much better if I could have just punched him in the nose. Ahem.
David Gedge was rocking so hard, we kind of got worried and hoping that he was not going to drop dead of a heart attack on stage, ala Mark Sandman of Morphine (I wasn't there for that show seeing as it was in Italy, but I think I'm forever haunted by the image of what that must have looked and felt like to the audience). Wikus assured me that he though Sandman did lots of drugs (which in theory would mean that he was assuring me that Mr. Gedge does not do or has done in the past a lot of drugs--Wikipedia in mum on the subject). We also spent some time guessing Gedge's age--prompting me to look it up this morning. Happy 50th to you, sir, on April 23rd.
We totally fell in love with the young drummer. The Boy insisted that the drummer must have been 4 when Bizarro was released. I have no proof of this, but he was certainly refreshingly young and energetic. He also mouthed "four" a lot on the fourth beat. Charming! I had lascivious thoughts. The guitarist looked bored out of his mind, and he seems to be having more fun at Denny's the next morning. As always Terry de Castro played with finesse (has anyone watched how elegant her hands look as they dance around the bass strings. I'm not kidding, it is a beautiful thing to watch).
Obviously, I took the day off from work. Slept late, bought some make-up, got myself all gussied up for a new driver's license photo, and was not surprised that the black-and-white copy of the temp photo reflects a woman who looks like there is a gun to the back of her head, and a Hummer bearing down on her in the middle of a deserted country highway on a moonless night. Also seems to be a fan blowing my curly hair straight off my face in an unflattering manner. The DPS lady pronounced the picture good. I was so nice to her, why does she hate me?
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Just spent the last few minutes doing Google searches on Vicki Lewis' ass. Before I get in to why I was doing that, can I just say that the search "Vicki Lewis butt News Radio" string yields very interesting results in Google image? When I say interesting, amp that up to horrifying. I refuse to link to any of it, and leave you to do your own searching.
I was recently complaining to an acquaintance about the size of my ass. During this conversation, it was revealed that this friend, has on occasion, pleasured himself while thinking of Vicki Lewis' ass. How's that for a thought? Now, is my ass bigger or smaller than hers? This is what I need to know.
_____________________________________
Listening to KUT this afternoon I learned that Austin is lacking in 3,000 miles of sidewalks. It is kind of a running joke how sidewalks disappear in this town. Or dead-ends in stairs. If you want to have a long, raging conversation about sidewalks in Austin, buy Wikus a drink and ask, "so, what are your feelings about the lack of sidewalks in this town?" Projections to complete the missing sidewalks under current funding would take 160 years. Make sure to mention that to Wikus. It would be a great button to push.
The concert shirts were the original Bizarro LP (dark green background with orange splotch), and came in the cutest little vacuum-sealed t-shirt-shaped package. I made The Boy buy one for me--I say "made" because I was stricken with an attack of shyness, and refused to approach the merch area since David Gedge was manning it with his lady friend (who knows her man so well, that she was ready with a new guitar tuned and ready for each song and for mid-song guitar-string breakage). While I was dying in the crowd acting like I wasn't really stalking the merch area, Viola Lady just went right up to Mr. Gedge and demanded a shirt (I'm sure there was a "please" involved, because she is one of those really sincerely sweet people). She has played with a lot of famous people, so maybe it is easier of her to demand concert shirts. I've only given James Taylor some coffee and when he was surly about me not giving him a "cap" for the cup, I was surly in return and pointed where he could go pick one up himself. It would have been much better if I could have just punched him in the nose. Ahem.
David Gedge was rocking so hard, we kind of got worried and hoping that he was not going to drop dead of a heart attack on stage, ala Mark Sandman of Morphine (I wasn't there for that show seeing as it was in Italy, but I think I'm forever haunted by the image of what that must have looked and felt like to the audience). Wikus assured me that he though Sandman did lots of drugs (which in theory would mean that he was assuring me that Mr. Gedge does not do or has done in the past a lot of drugs--Wikipedia in mum on the subject). We also spent some time guessing Gedge's age--prompting me to look it up this morning. Happy 50th to you, sir, on April 23rd.
We totally fell in love with the young drummer. The Boy insisted that the drummer must have been 4 when Bizarro was released. I have no proof of this, but he was certainly refreshingly young and energetic. He also mouthed "four" a lot on the fourth beat. Charming! I had lascivious thoughts. The guitarist looked bored out of his mind, and he seems to be having more fun at Denny's the next morning. As always Terry de Castro played with finesse (has anyone watched how elegant her hands look as they dance around the bass strings. I'm not kidding, it is a beautiful thing to watch).
Obviously, I took the day off from work. Slept late, bought some make-up, got myself all gussied up for a new driver's license photo, and was not surprised that the black-and-white copy of the temp photo reflects a woman who looks like there is a gun to the back of her head, and a Hummer bearing down on her in the middle of a deserted country highway on a moonless night. Also seems to be a fan blowing my curly hair straight off my face in an unflattering manner. The DPS lady pronounced the picture good. I was so nice to her, why does she hate me?
_____________________________________
Just spent the last few minutes doing Google searches on Vicki Lewis' ass. Before I get in to why I was doing that, can I just say that the search "Vicki Lewis butt News Radio" string yields very interesting results in Google image? When I say interesting, amp that up to horrifying. I refuse to link to any of it, and leave you to do your own searching.
I was recently complaining to an acquaintance about the size of my ass. During this conversation, it was revealed that this friend, has on occasion, pleasured himself while thinking of Vicki Lewis' ass. How's that for a thought? Now, is my ass bigger or smaller than hers? This is what I need to know.
_____________________________________
Listening to KUT this afternoon I learned that Austin is lacking in 3,000 miles of sidewalks. It is kind of a running joke how sidewalks disappear in this town. Or dead-ends in stairs. If you want to have a long, raging conversation about sidewalks in Austin, buy Wikus a drink and ask, "so, what are your feelings about the lack of sidewalks in this town?" Projections to complete the missing sidewalks under current funding would take 160 years. Make sure to mention that to Wikus. It would be a great button to push.
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