After Cleaning Spree, Lists Are All I Can Manage

Five things that made yesterday such an awesome day:

• Only being subjected to Twit's presence for 75 minutes.
• Playing with a teeny 7-week-old Siamese kitten.
• The Boy bringing me a surprise lunch of conchinita pibil pork taco.
• My last day of being in the office for a week.
• My new Fluevog booties arrived!

Other good news: ET continues pooping.  Bad news: He's still blocked and we must keep taking him to the vet for his nutritional liquid diet. 

The cutest thing in the world: Every time The Boy gives Whoopis his insulin shoot, he immediately follows it up with a kiss at the injection site.  Doesn't that just make you go, "Awwwwwww," then puke in your hand just the tiniest bit?

Something The Boy is remarkably good at that I am not: Putting the damn duvet cover on the down blanket (that yes we are still using even though it has been 90 degrees for at least a week now).  How does he do it so effortlessly?  He says it is because he has a degree in Awesomeness.  I demanded to see the diploma.  He didn't come through with it...yet.

Funny thing about The Boy and that damn duvet cover: He can never remember that it is called a "duvet" and always looks puzzled when I refer to it (which is not often, but still, why does he not know and why has he not learned?).

The best thing about today: Ivy Vyne will be here in 1.5 hours!  Flying in from Boston, and I am going to subject her to all sorts of slackery.  If all goes well, we'll be tubing the Comal River tomorrow and doing our best to not turn our uber-pale skin in to a red, blistery mess.

Hooray vacation!  If you don't seem me around much over the next five days, you'll know why.  I'm drunk and having seizures because the fun will be just that intense.

Twit is Back With Tears in Her Eyes

It is one thing to wake up with a blindingly painful headache after dreaming about drowning kittens and ET's legs shriveling off (don't worry, it is not true!), and a whole other thing when Twit fucking shows up unexpectedly at 10am.  Who the fuck does she think she is to further ruin my day?  She already inserted herself in to a conversation I was having with a coworker.  I'm so not prepared.  I actually had to take a deep breath and close my eyes when she started talking.  I was blind-copied on a response email to her from a coworker who needed X from Twit to return to work, where Twit totally spilled herself all over the email about medical issues.  There was no need for Twit to have even written back, but there she goes trying to grab as much attention as possible.  It was complete TMI vomit.

While gently cradling my head in a pillow this morning, attempting to relax while deciding if I was in fact experiencing an aneurysm, I had a semi-awake fantasy about God trying to talk to me, and me completely dismissing him as a delusion of my poor, desperate, blood-deprived brain.  Judas Iscariot made an appearance at some point, and we became fast friends.  I wish I could remember more details.  I told myself to make a point of remembering it, but then I fully fell asleep.  Evidently I was not having a stroke or anything more dramatic than the pressure in my sinuses was a hair's-breadth of exploding mass amounts of snot and blood across the bed.  Mattress would have had a lovely pre-breakfast snack, and The Boy would have just made that weird snore and hold-his-breath thing that he does in his sleep.

In other work news, emails!  Here's an awesome signature line from one of my actually kick-ass coworkers: "The will of God will never take you where the grace of God will not protect you."  I'm totally having to reevaluate my like for her.  I may have strange semi-awake dreams about god, but this is just some bullshit that should not be legally allowed in someone's email.  What kind of namby-pamby saying is that?  Does that offer succor to rape victims or friends and family of people who have been murdered?  Oh, don't worry, I know you can handle it because the grace of god is protecting you.  There there little one.  Praise be to Jebus. 

If you are looking for some punishment today, then feel free to read this next bit.  A friend sent it to my boss--I did not ask my boss if she agreed with it, because I just don't think I could stand knowing.  Seriously, this is very painful and you may want to have your barf bag on hand, because your hand won't be able to hold the overflow.  Also, try to get past the odd formatting--it is just par for the course on this kind of douchery.  I always enjoy a good read where people can break a complex matter down so simply!  Brava!  Assholes.

Clean the House in 2010

Let's say I break into your house   A lady wrote the best letter in the Editorials in ages!!!  It explains things better than all the baloney you hear on TV. 

Her point:

Recently large demonstrations have taken place across the country protesting the fact that Congress 
is finally addressing the issue of illegal immigration.

 Certain people are angry that the US might protect its own borders, might make it harder to sneak into this country and, once here, to stay indefinitely.  Let me see if I correctly understand the thinking behind these protests. 
Let's say I break into your house.
Let's say that when you discover me in your house, you insist that I leave. 
   But I say, 'No! I like it here. It's better than my house. I've made all the beds and washed the dishes and did the laundry and swept the floors. I've done all the things you don't  like to do. I'm hard-working and honest  (except for when I broke into your house).

According to the protesters:  
 You are Required to let me stay in your houseYou are Required to feed me
You are Required  to add me to your family's insurance plan 
You are Required to Educate my kids
You are Required to Provide other benefits to me & to my family  My husband will do all of your yard work because he is also hard-working and honest. (except for that breaking in part).


   If you try to call the police or force me out, I will call my friends who will picket your house carrying signs that proclaim my RIGHT  to be there. 


   It's only fair, after all, because you have a nicer house than I do, and I'm just trying to better myself. I'm a hard-working and honest, person, except for well, you know, I did break into your house 
And what a deal it is for me!!! 


  I live in your house, contributing only a fraction of the cost of my keep, and there is nothing you can do about it without being accused of cold, uncaring, selfish, prejudiced, and bigoted behavior.


   Oh yeah, and I DEMAND that you learn MY LANGUAGE!!! so that you can communicate with me. 

  Why can't people see how ridiculous this is?!  America is populated and governed by idiots. If you agree, pass it on (in English). 
If not blow it off......... 
along with your future Social Security funds and a lot of the former benefits of being an American Citizen.

Islands in the Snot Stream

In a thinly veiled attempt to avoid doing chores, I'm watching I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant.  This show is particularly stupid, but fun to watch just bits of it sporadically.  What always strikes me is the voice over in his strong manly voice saying "Even with no prenatal care, baby Shinola is 100% healthy."  A variation of this happens every show.  I don't think it is the show's intention, but every time I hear that sentence it just reminds me how we (we being Americans) really don't need to treat pregnant women like invalids.  Seems the babies come out just fine without all those doctor visits and steering clear of alcohol and fatty foods.  Thanks for debunking the myth TLC!  However, I do recognize that chances are there a many women who aren't signing up for the show because their babies did not survive.  I would like the statics on this, though. 

Groan, next is a Dwarf Adoption Story, and the wife just said, "We are a family just like any other family; we may not be average in heigTH..."  Seriously, you are a little person where "height" has to be a dominating word most of her life whether she likes it or not, and she misprounces it?  Really?

(All the above was written yesterday before I decided to go back to bed for the rest of the day.)

Sunday brings more allergies and hives, but got a few more things done (errands with Wikus and book shopping with some gift certificates--of course I spent double what the certificates were worth, but who exactly is asking you to keep score?).  This post should just really end already, instead of being drawn out in this terrible manner.  However, I do want to mention one more television-related item: Friday while The Boy was talking with a man regarding getting a door made for our study, I hid in the bedroom and watched Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton singing Islands in the Stream on Oprah.  It was fantastic!  Dolly's wig must be holding her face together, and I have no idea what plastic surgeon Kenny  has been visiting, but he doesn't really look human anymore.  His eyes are terribly beady, and they used to be so warm (I wished he was my dad when I was little, so I spent a lot of time staring at that sparkle in his eyes on The gambler record).  And Oprah.  Oh, Oprah.  How you do make me giggle.  I really liked how you sang along with them from the audience.  Just standing there in the audience, shaking your booty, and totally pointing back at Dolly and Kenny during choice lyrics, as if they weren't singing to you, but you were singing to them!  How magical to be so rich that no one laughed at you in the audience, and everyone felt they were party of some precious Oprah moment.  I wish I had the forethought to tape it.  Sadly, it will only live on in my memories until I find it in reruns.

Eat Meat With a Gay Day Fail

The saddest thing may have happened, and worse, I don't have a viable way to prove if it did or did not happen.  A sad thing did happen, but what caused it is in question.  Yesterday was Eat Meat With a Gay Day.  Did you get a gift of meat for the gay in your life?  I certainly did.  Even if I didn't get banana pudding as I had hoped (what, no more banana pudding, just pies?  I don't want a fucking pie, I want banana pudding, gosh darn it).  While eating my very large meat sandwich (tell me counter boy, was it the orange shoes that made you so generous with the fatty brisket?), I began to get itchy.  The dreaded itchy kind of itchy where I start struggling in  my clothes and rubbing myself in various places while trying at the same time to not touch myself.  It is an interpretative dance I enjoy doing to amuse the public.  Bits of cinder rained down around us, and the wind blew the divine smell of wood smoke under my nose.  It was lovely, except the welts that were forming all the fuck over me.  Guamaniac, him of beautifully flawless skin, looked at me with concern (for himself or me, I'm not sure).  We finish up lunch with him admonishing me for my continual rub-rub dance.  At work the welts kept creeping around my body, cropping up in the most unwanted places (have you tried to surreptitiously rub your nipple HARD at work?).  By the time I got home I was in full-blown allergy attack.  Snots, headache, swollen tongue, itchy skin, red eyes, throat ache.  All the good stuff.  With the aid of Benadryl I was put to bed around 8:15pm (The Boy was very kind and got me off the couch and in to bed).  Since I am ever the positive person, I set the alarm for 6am, thinking I could be at work by 7am.  At 7:20am, I texted my boss that I was dead and would be all day, and popped another Benadryl.  I finally got up for more than 15 minutes around 2pm.  I'm about to take another Benadryl (it says I can take like six in a 24-hours period, so stop looking at me like I am a Benny junkie, gah!).  My tits and stomach are itching.  Boo.

So, the question is, was it the mold spores in the air, or was the most wonderful BBQ place in all of Austin smoking their brisket with cedar?  See why I can't exactly test for that without trying to send myself to the hospital as well?  Do I dare eat the remainder of my meaty sandwich?  Help!

Purposefully Failing at Having Babies

There's a party I might attend.  Maybe.  Probably.  This  is something important to The Boy for various reasons that aren't germane to this conversation.  I want to go for him, but here's the thing, it is celebrating a child's birth.  Never mind the fact that I have no idea what one does at a party where we are congratulating a couple on their successful sex, there is a chance (though a very small chance) that I will unwillingly be subjected to a conversation about children and my lack of successful sex.  I only have unsuccessful sex where orgasms are had but no insemination.  Poor me.

I tend to get uh, extremely testy when I am in this situation.  The Boy likes to say I can make a lively room turn dead silent with a brilliantly turned phrase.  I don't really see a need to improve on this response, but he sees otherwise.  Not that he is telling me what to do per se, he isn't--he is very supportive of me and who I am.  However, he likes to gently try to open me up to other ways of thinking and reacting.  When I told The Boy that I am all down going to the party with him, but that if anyone feels it is necessary to get in my face about my decision to not have children, that I am going to get straight to the point with them, which may not be nice and pretty.  This led to an hour-long discussion with The Boy.  I am not going to attempt to discuss his point of view, because I am not him, and I don't totally understand it yet.  Nor does he mine, but it was still a good debate.  I made him late to rehearsal--oopsies.

Sure, this whole thing will more than likely never come up in conversation on Saturday, but as we all know, I liked to be prepared, even if that gets me more worked up than necessary.  This is what I imagine will happen, and the only reason I imagine this is because how many times I have had been stuck in this very conversation over the past 25 years:

Stranger at Party (SAP): Do you have children?
Grumples: No
SAP: Oh?
Grumples: Yes.
SAP: Any reason?
Grumples: I have no interest in having children.
SAP: Oh, you're young, you'll change your mind.
Grumples: (Barely containing her anger) I don't think so.  I haven't ever wanted children.  I've known that since I was a child.
SAP: Oh, yes, I always thought I didn't want children but then my priorities changed, yours will too.
Grumples: I hate children and would rather push them in front of moving cars than have one.
Whole Party: GASP!

This is my hilarious stab at hyperbole that no one seems to get.  Ho hum.  While I may not truly wish physical harm on children, I really don't want them and my mind is not changing.  I am perfectly happy saying as much, what I am not happy with is a) having to defend my decision and b) someone thinks s/he knows my mind better than myself.  It infuriates me to the point of eye-twitching, fist-clenching, teeth-gritting anger.

I understand that most people are not intentionally trying to goad me in to a full-blown freak-out, and they say things because they simply cannot understand where I am coming from.  They can't imagine their lives not wanting children.  That is fine, and I am even willing to probe this line of thought if I am friends with the people who are asking me these questions.  Sadly, I never am.  However, I am not interested in gushing about my feelings regarding my ideas regarding procreation with someone who happened to go to the same party as me.  And I really don't like discussing such things if the person totally dismisses my feelings by basically saying I am too young to understand the true beauty of children.

When someone tells me I will change my mind one day, may I say back, "Oh, yes! You'll change your mind about having children in the first place one day.  You'll see!"  Oh, that sounds rude and mean?  I had no idea, because what you said to me sounded rude and mean.  Is it that you feel it is completely okay to question women who don't have children because that is so damn abnormal that you can't even accept it as part of your worldview, and most immediately bury it before anyone sees that poor woman over there who doesn't want children.  That sounds like, oh, I don't know, sexism.

Do men ever have to go through this?  Yes, probably, occasionally, but I do not believe on the same way all of us women who are childless by choice.  Though, I guess men can suffer a reverse situation of this if they happen to totally want babies, and feel the need to make comments to everyone about how their baby-making timeclock is ticking, and ticking hard, and practically explodes when seeing a baby.  Then he'd be ridiculed much like I am when I say I don't want a baby.  That is so fucked-up.

On top of all this crossing of boundaries and asking personal questions and insulting my intelligence, there is the expectation to play nice because it is a social situation.  I thought answering the question was playing nice, but it seems I am wrong to think that.  Since I don't tell anyone to shove their fucking baby up their fucking ass, I feel I have been exceedingly nice.  I fail to understand how it is my responsibility to make sure there is no conflict and no one feels badly for being too inquisitive.  Why does the burden fall to me smooth things over and make sure no one sees that I am upset?  Why can't I make people uncomfortable as they have made me?  Why is this a "bigger person" situation?  What do I get out of accommodating people's rude behavior?

This is why I hate so many social situations.  People can act like asses toward me because I don't follow the normal female paradigm (how can this be 2010 and people still assume that all women, unless crazy, want children?).  The expectation (just like with my tattoos) is that I become some kind of spokesperson for "my kind."  I am at a party for pretty much the same reason other people are there--to have fun and be with people I like.  I am not there to be treated as a traitor to women's right to have children--like I am not taking advantage of everything that is afforded to me, and that just really fucks up the bell curve for everyone else.  Stop purposefully failing at having babies, dammit!

All this ranting and the conversation will probably never happen.  But damn, didn't it feel good to just get it all out like that?  Try it!  I need more people purposefully failing to have babies to back me up here.  Who wants to put all those breeders in their place?  Of course any of you open-minded baby-makers who don't have a problem with my want to get my tubes tied can definitely line up to be my friend.  I like you.

The First Year to Receive More "Happy ET Poos!" to "Happy Birthday, you!"

Does anyone watch Hotel Babylon?  Seems The Boy and I have an addiction.  Again.  It is kind of sad how we just keep falling for all these British shows.  We are total whores for England.  At least I am a quarter, pure-bred English--I don't know what The Boy's excuse is.

The weekend gave us more ET poos (I have gone through many Q-tips and green fingers to keep his wound clean).  The Amazon and I tried to shop our hearts out but completely failed and are appalled by this season's offering, especially in shoes (seriously, SERIOUSLY?).  I'm all about strappy sandals, but these are strappy in the extreme with baubles and metallic and cork and I can go on, but I have already mostly buried the memory.  There was some hydration issues at the Domain (too much walking, not enough beverages), but in the end, we managed to get fancy and attend The Boy's choral show.  It was so very lovely (though, Fern Hill did drag on for us, so we spent some time making fun of an image in the program that looked suspiciously like boobs, when I think it was supposed to be some kind of branch with leaves).  I always get this wonderful fulfilled feeling watching my boy up there conducting a choir in to making beautiful sounds.  And yes, the Green Lady's voice was so awesome and pure.  Tell her I said so when you see her, because she just doesn't believe me, though she should, since I really don't make a habit of lying to make people feel good (except for this recent aberration with the 6th graders).

Sunday can be summed up like this: allergies and napping.  The end.

It was a wonderful Monday--there are so few Mondays that will be this deliciously fun.  I didn't even sleep late--it was that good!  The Boy once again proved how good he is to me, and I got to see one of my dearest couples over a scrumptious dinner that has left me quite sated and sleepy during this stormy night.  (It may sound melodramatic, but it is all true.)

Breakfast:

Afternoon:

(Whoopis' sister)

Dinner:

I would like to post a picture of the awesome shirt Frijole gave me, but I am only wearing it and my undies, and The Boy (classically) got too much crotch in the photo.  I'm a demure woman in her mid-30s.  I couldn't possibly start posting crotch shots now.  I was willing to post a picture of my torso wearing the shirt sans bra, but showing my panties will just be going too far.  Trust me.  Maybe I'll let those on FB see the glory.

Am I Really Defending Kids Right Now?

Have you met my hair.  Here, let me introduce you.

I know, look at those curls!  How can you be sad with hair like that?  It is so gorgeous.  Blah blah blah.  Are you not seeing all the other hairs that aren't part of a curl and are a fucking frizzy halo that refuse to go with the crowd?  I was stuck talking to someone in the rain today ("Oh, we're getting wet!"), and I could feel my hair growing by the second.  I still had two more hours to spend at work while it dried.  There was no going back after that.  I just refused to look at myself for the rest of the day.

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Today was the last day of tutoring my 6th-grade girls.  Between my busy boring tasks at work, I wrote three heart-felt cards and one total bullshitting-it card.  All of them were a bit difficult, but hey, I gave kids cards that basically told them they were awesome and I'm very privileged to have met them.  Ends up one of my girls was suspended, but I gave her card to the teacher.  One of my other girls ran away to another group a month or so back (how those preteens do get overly dramatic with each other), but she was my little sparkplug and she really needed a card so she knew that she may have lost her friends in the group, but I still cared.  I'm selfish like that.  It is very important for people to know I still care about them.  Why?  Because I'm the most important person in the room (I realize only Amazon will get that, but I don't care).  To make things even better, I gave them cards with Extraordinary Chickens on them.  Basically, if I like something, I know 6th-grade girls will like it.  It's only a flaw if you're lame and boring.

The teacher had them write cards to their "coaches."  I don't know how much passion I instilled in them for reading, but I know that I taught them to remind each other, "Don't do stupid things at school.  Outside of school, whatever.  Just not in school."  Obviously I make a great life coach to 12-year-old girls.  Sadly, one of them is obviously not following this sage advice, since she was suspended for making out in the hallway.  Remember when that was okay?  Sure, the teachers were like gross, cut that out, go to class, but you didn't really get in trouble for it.  They take that shit way more seriously now.  They are also color-code dressing by grade.  Perhaps drinking in the locker room isn't that stupid under such conditions. 

Excerpts from their thank-you cards:

"I love you!" (x3)

"Thank you for telling us very good thing [sic] to me and my friends." (Oh, only one good thing.  Boo.)

"I really like what you did." (Like that time I said, "Oh, shit" in front of them when I forgot something?)

"Thank you...also for giving us snaks [sic]." (I never gave them snacks.  Awesome scented erasers in teeny milk cartons, yes; snacks, no.)

I wonder if I had boys in my group what they would have said?  Would they also say they love me?  Would they also thank me for imaginary snacks?  I should have read over another volunteer's shoulder to get a better idea of what 12-year-old boys write when forced by their teachers.

Part of wrapping up another year of bribing kids to read boring crap is for me to complete a survey for the group I volunteer with.  It was actually in essay format this year, which filled me with tons of overflowing glee.  No one should let me take advantage of them like that.  Unfortunately, in my zeal to shoot the survey back to them, I totally forgot to copy myself.  Gah.  I had a really good thing going with how I felt the program could be improved (monkeys riding goats!).  I dusted off my soapbox and preached my beliefs that kids are not dollar signs, and we're never going to convince them how awesome reading is if we keep stressing state-mandated tests that generate money for schools.  A kid is more than a passing grade.  Value cannot be assessed by test scores.  They offer these brittle "stories" that give a short history of Hershey's or Levi's or Johnny Appleseed, and if it makes me want to bang my head on the desk, then it must be making them want to slit their wrists and run around the room flinging blood on everyone.  I don't really appreciate working for a program that isn't really serious about getting kids to want to laze a whole Sunday away reading under a tree (and napping, one must really nap when enjoying a book).

Now, I realize that this is a tricky matter in that schools need money to improve.  But to improve what exactly?  Is the money really spent on a better curriculum?  Where does that money go?  Why do kids have to be continuously tested and not just enjoy learning.  I could sit all day learning about snails and blowfishes and autoimmune disease, but if you start telling me that I have to learn this because there will be a test at the end of the year, then, then I would totally plotz and start focusing on memorizing instead of enjoying what I'm learning.  I'm not going to actually absorb the info--it will drop out of my head within a day after taking the test.  Then, every time I hear someone say snail, blowfish and autoimmune diseases, I'll roll my eyes and snark about that horrible year in school where it was ALL snail, blowfish, autoimmune disease all the fucking time as if anyone cared about snails, blowfishes and autoimmune diseases!  Don't we all know that you have to trick people in to liking something?  Especially kids?  I refuse to push that agenda, and instead focus on discussing what we read, how did they feel about it, how does it relate to their own lives, what will they take away from what they read.  You know, actually making it about them and not some fucking test.

It's funny, my Green Lady had a similar thought (though way less wordy--good for her!) today.  She is in her last few days of teaching, and boy is she in a good mood!  Though, her beef may only be with how many students are absent from her class at any given time due to testing.  However, I hope she expands on her thoughts after she gets through with what promises to be an awesome show this weekend.  And don't listen to her go on about her voice.  I'm so immature when I go out with Amazon to choral concerts--I giggle and say plenty of inappropriate comments regarding the translations (Eve was so sexy with that snake!), but when Green Lady sings, I listen.  I shut up.  My mouth hangs open a bit and I am so happy and jealous, oh so fucking jealous, at the same time.  Why can't I sing like that.  That is what she should be complaining about--Why can't the most important person in the room sing like she can?  Seriously?  Why can't I?
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More poo!  A nice big chunk of poo.  I did have to use a Q-tip to get it all out of him, just like a good mother does.  He also peed so much that I had to change his wound dressing and shoot antibiotics in to him.  He is now ignoring me by attempting to swim in to the corner of his terrarium.  Poor thing doesn't seem to realize that he is a desert-dweller and that if he went in for a swim, he'd immediately sink to the bottom.

The Best Four Poops I've Ever Had the Joy to See

Look at my newest bits of pride and joy.  Some nice dark lumps of poo.  When I took this picture, he actually was working out a fourth poo.  The Boy had left him in his Tupperware square to bathe in the sun, and he came out and discovered these poos (which he later dumped out on our little cement slab).  He immediately called me and caught me at the tail-end of a meeting.  After much hooting and squeals of glee, I had to explain to the two people left lingering what the hell made my normally grumpy self so excited.  Yes, POOP!

I demanded that The Boy leave the poos for me to document.  ET is next to them for size reference.  Those chunks of poo were stuck in him for who the fuck knows how long.  The funny thing (to me) was they didn't really smell like I thought they would.  I assumed they'd be extremely fetid, but they smelled kind of antiseptic with a floral note. 

ET went to the vet yesterday and today (The Boy deserves some hot action for all these ET-related trips, when his big choral show is this weekend), and was man-handled in to some forced feeding.  The good news was he struggled against their administrations--he had his strength back!  Good sign.  But where the fuck was his motherfucking poop already?  I was totally in despair mode.  Today it took three people to get ET to comply with our demands of hydration. 

What a relief for all of us, especially him, that he finally worked something out of his poor constipated intestines.  Yay poop!  NO REALLY.  Yay poop!  I take him in to the vet Saturday for more forced feeding, and to drop off ET's poo for testing.  It is my hope that I will be told to take him home and give him tons of food and a nice bath.  It must be so yucky for him to have not bathed in over a week.  Especially after being in hospital.  Now, next step: outdoor paradise for him.

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My mind has been consumed with ET over the past 10 days, and it will be nice to actually notice the world around me again.  I'm going to start this by watching yesterday's America's Next Top Model.  There may be more high-brow things to immerse myself in, but I find it very important to acclimate to my surroundings slowly.  A learned this from ET.  He is the smartest tortoise ever.

Twit update: She came to work with the twitaby and asked if she could come back part-time.  My boss said very politely to fuck off.  It is full-time or nothing.  Luckily, I missed all of this because I was 10 miles away in some seriously lame training.  My Urban Race Coworker emailed the news to me, and I verified it with my boss during our afternoon meeting.  I also asked if someone had relayed to Twit to fucking unlock the shared spreadsheets so I can fix her broken formulas, and actually add formulas where she didn't bother.  It's really nice how I am supposed to run these data reports for her whiles she's on leave when the data can't be entered.  If I hear the excuse "Well, she was pregnant and pretty tired there at the end," I'm going to punch Twit in the face and gladly take the assault charges.

Tomorrow I'll find out if she was able to do such a small task or not.  We'll see.

Come Milk My Intestines, Please

ET is home!  He's moving around a bit.  Goes to his shanty, sleeps, goes to middle of terrarium, sleeps, go back to shanty.  It is exhausting being him right now.  The Boy took him outside for a bit today (in his Tupperware container to keep his underside safe), and reports that ET was very excited and practically frisky compared to how he's been over the past month.  However, we can't get too excited yet.  Not at all.  I must temper my joy, and remind myself that he is a very sick fellow.

After a weekend of anxiousness where the vet called every morning to update us, I went to work on Monday hoping I would get to go to Houston to bring him home.  There were no guarantees of this, and I tried not to get my hopes up, but I did bring my "emergency" bag of eyeglasses, lotion, sweater, sneakers and socks, a book, etc.  I prepared as if I was going to be stranded in Houston over night.  I come prepared, people! 

The vet had been calling around 10:30am each morning, and I spent the morning checking my cellphone and staring morosely at my computer screens (yes, two! Really three if you count my laptop).  It was one long morning of payroll and fighting off anxiety.  I called The Boy and bugged him with my nerves.  As much as I wanted to bring ET home, I was also scared stiff about driving to Houston and back by my little ol' self.  This is a totally dumb fear, and is the exact reason I take drugs.  I have driven a moving truck from Boston to San Diego to Austin to Boston, Austin to San Francisco, and Boston to Austin.  Sure, I was never alone during those trips, but for all of them but the San Francisco one, I was the driver (well, except for that short time I let Wikus drive in Tennessee, but then he tried to kill us and his drive time was over).  My brain just fears the unknown and really likes playing vague what-if games.  Anyway. 

After managing to do next to no work but feeling like I was drowning in work, and threatening to call the vet if she didn't call by noon, she called at 11:30am.  She gave really positive news of how he was awake and moving his legs and blinking his eyes, but then she said, "I would like to keep him one more day."  Gah! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.  She gave valid reasons like how he hasn't pooed and they need to give more fluids and what not to keep him hydrated to prompt his body to get the bowels moving.  Since I am quick goat thinker I asked if it would be okay if I got him, and then have my local vet give him fluids?  YES!  Perfectly okay. Thus I get to be reunited with him and save money.  Sweet.

I madly dashed around the office getting myself together (bathroom: check; out-of-office assistant: check, payroll complete: check; camera battery: oops, no).  My urban-race coworker loaned me her GPS but she admitted it was wonky (why'd it keep telling me to go right in the middle of a long stretch of highway?).  After an initial panic (call Boy, how the fuck do I get to Houston??), I made awesome time to Houston.  I am a master of cruise control (and kept telling myself Julie Cruise Control would be a good band name--I don't even know a Julie).  I was wearing a lovely spring frock and my awesome turquoise Fluevogs.  My iPod was set to my favorite songs and there was barely any traffic.  Lots of singing and cursing at other drivers (why oh why is it that people feel compelled to speed up when you are passing them and then they pass you and you have to pass them again because they start going slowly once they get back in front of you?  WHY?  I'm using my Julie cruise control, so I know I am not the one who can't keep a steady speed.  Assholes.).

Unlike The Boy, I found the vet hospital very easily (that is probably because I spent 40 minutes on the phone with The Boy on Friday getting him to the right place), and I swear the whole place is a vast underground hospital full of animals.  I met some big dogs and two ferrets.  There was a tiny dog.  No cats!  No other reptiles.  The exotic animal area is in the same place as surgery, so all the animals in there were either heading to surgery or coming home from it.  That could have been a really sad situation, but all the animals were jolly and tails were wagging.  At one point, an animal was rolled out on a stretcher complete with IV and oxygen mask, and I refused to look.  I studiously pretended to read my book (The Flying Troutmans: A Novel, by Miriam Toews), because looking would break me.  There's only so much my medicine can do. 

They finally bring me to the back, but they did  not have ET waiting for me.  The audacity of these people.  A really hot nurse (she was seriously the sexiest woman I have seen all year) explained the post-up care and handed me a bag full of condensation and THE stones!  One was about 1.5" in diameter, and the other was over 3".  The "small" one looked like chalk covered in moss.  The large one looked like a huge ball of concrete.  It was very hard and lumpy like concrete that isn't fully mixed yet.  It was appalling.  I hated myself.  I was in awe.  Those were IN him.  As his mom, I had no idea and do not even know how long they had been building up in him.  I was already making mental plans to buy a shadowbox, and thinking what wall it would look best on).  Then the vet came in and went over the post-op stuff again, and broke down the diagnosis and surgery.  It was a two-page long note.  More guilt.  Just terrible.  She didn't treat me like a tortoise abuser but she didn't go out of her way to assuage my guilt either.  She pressed home that I really need to get him natural sunlight on a daily basis, and we discussed my plan to build him an outdoor enclosure as soon as he is healthy enough to be left unattended in the yard.

The vet was asking if her nurse had given me the medications, and I stupidly, oh man, so stupidly was like yes, here, see in this bag, yep, I got his medicine, don't worry, right here, SEE?  And of course I had stashed the baggy of stones in the same bag with the medicine, and she grabs them and says in a scolding voice, "Oh, you can't have those!"  Sad.  So sad.  I wanted to fucking carry those around with me for a while.  Show people.  Look what my tortoise held in him without complaint.  LOOK.  She advised that they have to go to the lab to be analyzed and that they wouldn't be able to send them to me after they were finished.  She seemed worried that I was going to shove those stones down her throat, and nervously asked if sending me pictures would suffice.  I suppose.  At this point, I was tired of playing nice and just wanted my baby already.  Go behind the door for employees only and grab me an ET already!

She finally got to it.  He had a blue bandage around his middle and his head hiding in his shell.  Not a happy man.  She showed me how to change his bandage ("It's so easy a 5-year-old could do it! Oh, that sounded insulting to you..." She really said that to me).  Looking at his plastron made me come very close to losing my cool.  I wanted to grab him and run out of the place and cry in the backseat of my car.  It looks painful.  It is ugly.  It is a large bloody square with the shell wired back in place.  They did not epoxy the shell back in place, because she doesn't like how that makes it harder to go back in if there is an infection.  Therefore, on each side there is a loop of thick metal wire holding the square in place.  I touched it, and at least ET didn't flinch. 

We were finally released (I put the remaining $1200 on a 6-month no-interest card), and off we went.  I was starving.  He was sleep.  I nestled him on the floor where I could easily see him.  I was getting anxious again since it was rush-hour time by the time I finally left the vet (I may have summed it up quickly, but I was actually there for almost two hours).  I've heard that traffic is B*A*D in Houston.  Well either I'm really lucky or once again Texans do not know the meaning of traffic (seriously, go drive in Boston any hour, and tell me what you think about traffic now).  I did feel I should get out of Houston before I found me some food.  I saw a McDonald's right outside of Houston but it was on the other side of the highway, and I'll be damned if I have to do that loop-around shit just for a crappy hamburger (with cheese and onions, please).  At that point I started wishing there was an Arby's I could go to.  Yes, dirty, I know.  But man, I like Arby's.  I can't help myself.  I'm a sucker for that salty, gray deliciousness they pass off as roast beef.  And the curly fries!  Don't get me started.  I'm drooling over all the savory joy, and what do you know, the very next food sign is for an Arby's!  I shit you not.  After all this bad luck, I get an Arby's for an award.  Not so shabby.  It was even a drive-through so I didn't have to leave ET alone, and it was part of a gas station, and though I have a hybrid, I still needed gas if I wanted to make it back to Austin, and not, say, Bastrop.

After getting my food, I gave all the truckers a peepshow.  For free!  That lovely red-and-white, polka-dot and striped spring dress wasn't so friendly in high winds.  Hey boys, look at me with my dress over my head!  And pumping gas.  What an act.  No one gave me any tips, so I must not have danced and giggled enough.  Disappointed in my impromptu performance I booked it home.  This time singing and talking to ET while cussing out other drives.  Like that semi who thought he should take out me and the truck in front of me where I-10 curves in to 71.  Thanks guy.  Hey, asshole, you left your blinker on for over 20 miles.  There was also a truck towing a contraption that was designed like a side-show front.  Lights and drawings all over it.  Seems it was the "Sugar Barn."  There were cartoon bunnies on it.  I wasn't really sure what to make of it.  I saluted my favorite town name (Zapalaca, say it out loud, you'll see!), and made it home by 7:30pm.  What the fuck had I been all worried about?  I did an excellent job.  I denied my second-guessing to take hold of me, and I trusted myself to go with my initial thoughts, and it worked.  Yay me.

Now, as to ET.  It's not really good.  It's not bad either.  It is just limbo.  A lot of not knowing his future.  He isn't allowed to eat, because he has not had a bowel movement (damn you ET, please get back to shitting piles of steamy green poo already).  He has to be taken to our local vet every 2-3 days for force feeding of fluids (The Boy has first shift tomorrow, and I go on Saturday).  We have to buy him sterile pads and bandages, and change that out every 1-3 days while monitoring any discharge from the surgery site.  It's okay for him to leak fluids, but not okay to be bleeding.  He has to be given more shots of antibiotics every three days, and attempt to give him pain medication (orally, yeah right, as if he's going to open his mouth for us) daily.  There is no guarantee he is going to live.  It all depends on if he can get his impacted bowels cleared on his own (well, with the help of all the fluid pushing).  In humans, a doctor can literally pull out the intestines from the abdominal cavity, and work stuff out of them (they delightfully refer to this technique as "milking").  In a tortoise they can't do that.  They have to work within the shell and not all the intestine is accessible; therefore, the vet could only get out what she could get to.  All we can do is make him as comfortable as possible, which is pretty much leaving him alone and taking him outside daily.  We can't feed him, we can't bathe him, we can't handle him too much.  This is when having a reptile is hard--you cannot comfort him.  I just keep talking to him, and promising that I will do whatever I need to do for him.  He is my child, and I will spend all the money I have and don't have to keep him healthy.  He is supposed to outlive me for fuck's sake.  Make it happen ET!

This Charming Cult

There is a cult living next door to us.  I am so not making that up at all.  They do weird things like invite a lot of people over, gather in the garage (door open, of course), hold hands and chant.  Within the past month they have moved the good times to the backyard where in the audience sit on folding chairs and listen to some guy in a terrible white suit (I believe he's the neighbor) do some kind of non-funny stand-up routine while other people take his pictures and film him at close range.  Today there was about six of them sitting around a table in the middle of the yard.  They were wearing shiny metallic party hats and looked like they were having a tea party with the devil (I believe it was my neighbor wearing a lot of makeup and devil horns on his forehead).  The party even had a strobe light and a box with a red flashing light...in...daylight.  Later, I believe they were attempting to be zombies who feared the strobe by running around awkwardly and moaning while someone else held the light up to their faces (and recording it, naturally).

It was with great pleasure that we broke up this party by coming outside and hosing various items off as loudly as possible.  We had two pans of burnt magic cookie bars sitting outside soaking and melting in the sun, and those made a delicious noise when spraying them out.  It was even better when we took ET's terrarium to wash out and get ready for his eventual return.  We totally ran our neighbor off in to his house.  I guess the loud sound of water against glass just doesn't go well with their performance, cult piece.

Since ET is never ever allowed to have sand again, we got him some nice substrate made out of recycled plastic bottles.  He is totally into the environment and will do anything to be green.  I got two carpet pieces so I can change them out for cleaning each week.  I'm a good mother like that.  We also got him a larger heating pad, since he is getting bigger (I wonder how much weight he lost when the stones were removed).

Before I came back inside to laze on the couch some more, I took some photos:

Lastly, an excellent action shot of the Bear ravenously eating grass (which he puked up on the nice wood floors approximately five minutes later):

Pica is a Latin Term for Magpie

As a small child I could often be founding suckling windowsills.  So tasty.  Sometimes I would glom on to the styrofoamy covering on the back of school bus seats.  Nom nom.  And yes, I ate the cat and dogs' food.  It was in the garage in a metal bucket.  Free for the taking, right?  I'm not sure when I grew out of my fun pica habit, but thankfully I did.  With all that as part of my history, I am not very surprised that my child inherited my own youthful habit.

Even though ET is a desert tortoise, it seems he has been enjoying his calci-sand just a little too much.  He is supposed to nom on it for calcium purposes, but it isn't a meal substitute.  His bladder and colon tell us that he has spent years inhaling up as much sand as he could pack in to his body.  Once he comes home from the hospital, he will never ever be able to have sand in his terrarium every again.  Today we're going to dump out about 60lbs of sand, clean the fuck out of the tank, and head out to PetSmart to find a suitably soft substrate (astroturf is a possibility, even though it makes me cringe), and to find a cuttle bone (that is another way for him to get the calcium in to his body--if he decides to eat too much cuttle bone, then really I don't know what to do).

How much sand did ET have in him?  Well, what was supposed to be a 2- to 3-hour surgery, ended up being a 6-hour surgery.  I was plotzing all over the place when I hadn't heard from the vet all day Friday.  They were supposed to call us in the late afternoon, and I called at 6pm and was told they were still in surgery.  The Boy called at 8pm, and didn't get anywhere.  They finally called at 8:30pm to say that they got the stones out but his colon still has some feces in it, and that they'll monitor him over the weekend to see if he can successfully squeeze some poo out of there.

They called yesterday morning to say he is drowsy but able to open and close his eyes and move his legs a bit.  He isn't allowed to eat until he can pass some poos (can't keep shoving matter in if no matter is coming out), and they have left an IV in him to keep him hydrated.  Today they called to say that he spent the night rearranging items in his cage.  That is classes ET.  He loves to renovate.  For him, if he can't move something up against a wall, then he is not happy.  I have no idea what all is in his cage at the hospital but they had to take it out so he didn't get tangled up with his IV wires.  His rambling around is the best news I have heard in weeks!  The Boy said he imagines ET in a mauve cravat and lisping about how where he would like his furniture best.  I highly doubt ET would ever wear mauve.

Tomorrow before noon I will find out if I get to drive to Houston tomorrow afternoon.  I have to do payroll no matter what (I guess people should get their paychecks even during my family's medical crisis), but will be able to leave shortly after noon.  Yes, that has me heading home in Houston rush-hour traffic.  I'm giddy with the idea of offensive driving and road rage.  Bring it on Houston.  I must have my ET back, no matter how fucked up your roads are.

Now, horchata.

The Tarnished, Twisted, Scarred Non-Lucky Star Attached to My Ass

This day almost rivals January 6th in its awfulness.  Not quite though because no one is dead (or at least no one I am aware of personally).  Yesterday, when the vet finally called us, we were given the news I had been dreading: ET needed surgery.  His x-rays show two bladder stones and a very blocked colon.  See for yourself:

 (The two spheres in the middle are the bladder stones that are obviously way to big for him to shoot out his cloaca--they are literally as hard as rocks so they can't smoosh down in any way on their way out like say a baby would.  The bright C-shaped tube on the left is his impacted colon, which obviously opens right up to the bladder stone making it so no poop would ever be able to get out of there.  This is how serious it is!)

They were supposed to call us back with an estimate on how much that surgery would be.  They did not call us back last night.  I spent the night dreaming of a surgery that cost me my year's salary.  This morning I got up depressed and lethargic.  Yesterday was beyond boring at work, and I could not imagine sitting there with nothing to do for another day while thinking the whole time about my poor tortoise friend.  I sat.  I waited.  I read all my Google Reader subscriptions.  I tried to read a James Tiptree, Jr. story, but felt a nap would be better.  The phone finally rang close to 2pm.

Seems Austin does not have a tortoise surgeon.  That is some serious bullshit.  We were first given the choice to go to A&M or to Houston.  A&M actually offered a serious discount for their "exotic" pet surgeries.  Not only that, it is in a small town and well, it isn't HOUSTON.  It's an important distinction.  We were told to be at the vet's office (very far south of us) within 45 minutes.  The vet was going to call A&M to let them know that we'd be there by 5pm or so.  I take the quickest shower, hitting the stinky parts, quick wash to the hair, then ran around dripping and naked through the house trying to gather what I thought we would  need for an impromptu road trip.  Right when we were ready to go, the vet called to say that A&M was booked and can't do it.  Thus, Houston.  Gah.  Way more money, and Houston.

We get to the vet and enjoyed a tan-colored dachshund and a very large black cat.  We can at least appreciate other pets while we are peeing ourselves with stress and worry.  We get in to a room that had the most comfy chairs I've ever sat in at a vet--this must be the room they euthanize the animals.  I didn't say that there.  The vet comes running in saying, "False alarm, guys."  Seems the doctor in Houston hadn't looked at the clock, and didn't realize she was agreeing to check ET in at night.  Gah.  This was way more frustrating than just driving through rush-hour traffic out of Austin and in to Houston.  If you have not been to Houston, you may not realize the horror.  The thing is, I can't really miss two days at work and I have tutoring tomorrow.  It was way too late to find a substitute.

The Boy to the rescue.  He is going to take ET to Houston all by  himself tomorrow morning, which means he has to cancel some of his plans.  However, because his huge choral spring concert is happening next weekend, it means I will have to return the favor and drive to Houston by myself when ET is discharged from hospital.  Double gah.  I talked with the doctor in Houston, and she said that ET would have to do extraordinarily well after surgery to be picked up on Saturday.  So let's just go ahead and assume I will have to leave Monday after I do payroll.  Why? BECAUSE I OBVIOUSLY DO NOT HAVE A FUCKING SHINY STAR ATTACHED TO MY ASS.  My bad luck is rubbing off on The Boy now--he used to have quite the shiny star attached to his ass.  Ha, not anymore.  I have some serious tainting, corroding properties.

If you are interested on how this surgery works, the Long Beach Island Hospital has a very detailed site with pictures and a Quicktime video.  It is extremely informative, and it made me feel better about the surgery overall--especially how the shell is repaired after they cut in to it.  The thing to remember is that a tortoise's shell is living tissue--it hurts and bleeds.  It will take a long time to heal and for the muscles to reattach to it on the inside.  It looks like there is a very good survival rate after the surgery as long as he doesn't get an infection.  Gulp.

It's hot and I'm tired.  I had the last Nutty Bar in the freezer to make me feel better.  The Boy went to record to clear his mind a bit, which I am happy he has that outlet since I am totally beating myself up about having him go alone tomorrow when he is so busy preparing for some serious choral work.  Argh.

Don't Just Say It, Sing It!

After floundering for a few episodes, last night's Glee found some better footing.  I really enjoy fall's shows, but the spring ones have left me a bit bored.  Sure, sacriligious to some, but I'm rarely an avid fan of anything just because I think they are really cool.  Even Echo & the Bunnymen have had their off albums.  The first episode in April made me cringe--really, sitting through the same theme of choir ending if they can't pull of another win at a choir showdown?  Ugh.  There were still all those great one-liners but they did not culminate in to a great show.  There was actually too many songs that got in the way of plot, and fuck me if I didn't even know most of the songs (outside of the Madonna episode since the mainly stuck with her old songs).  Last night was totally vintage Glee.  Plenty of plot that was funny overall and not just when the ditzy cheerleader said a non sequitur, and the songs!  I knew the songs.  Sure, they all sounded like they were in a music studio listening to the finished, mixed product, but it was still enjoyable.  I realize that me having more appreciate for the show when I know the songs, is a personal problem, but I stand by it.  Sing songs that Grumples knows and you'll have another Golden Globe in no time at all.  I really do know what is best when it comes to this sort of thing.  Just ask The Boy.  When I met him, I immediately started rearranging his song lists for live shows.  Oh, how he just loved me.  Snort.

Why am I rambling about all of this?  Because I am annoyed that after every character had said "Bad Reputation" at least 13 times, they did not actually sing "Bad Reputation."  Totally lame move.  Sure, you gave us some Vanilla Ice, but what is that compared to Joan Jett & the Blackhearts?  If Freaks & Geeks can have it as their theme song, then I am pretty sure Glee can get the license to sing it.  If Olivia Newton-John agrees to be on the show, I'm pretty sure they can get Joan Jett on there, too.  Come on Glee, give me some true awesome bad reputation!  The woman just had a movie made about her--I'm sure she'd enjoy the tangential PR by being on Glee.  I demand a redo!  Now!

Tortoise in Need of The Force on Star Wars Day

We've reached a serious low point in the Grumples-Boy Overdrive house.  ET is in hospital.  You might as well send me off to the mad house if he dies.  I can't lose two kids in the space of 4 months.  That is just not acceptable to my very sensitive self.  I am a delicate flower.  I bend easily.  This is just not okay.  I have no idea how dire the situation is right now.  Right now we have to wait and spend a night sans ET, while he ass trumpets and blows bubbles with his nose.  I hope they gave him a nice bed and was allowed to watch at least four hours of television before bedtime.  I'm sure he will not be able to sleep without the black Bear lazing on top of his tank drifting hair and litter down on top of him.

While ET gets poked, x-rayed, flushed cloaca and tube-fed, I can only mope about and think of when Wikus gave me a little baby ET in a paper bag.  He was the size of a half-dollar.  In a paper bag!  I couldn't even tell there was anything in the paper bag at all.  Precipitating this monumental event was the very sad death of my dear box turtle, Enry.  Crossing the country in a U-Haul with Wikus from Boston to San Diego was a bit terrifying and exhilarating (seriously, Wikus almost killed us in Tennessee, but we survived, so for now, I won't rub his face in it); then, one morning in Las Cruces after waking in our tent to a chilly morning, we found Henry dead in his Tupperware home.  We don't know if it was the cold weather or if it was a coincidence.  We were in denial for a bit, and finally laid him to rest in rest stop along the highway leading to Arizona.  So, Wikus got me ET. 

ET has grown in to quite a hefty adolescent.  If someone broke in to my house, I was always secure in the knowledge that I could beam the violator in the temple with ET, and ET wouldn't even be bothered by it.  He would just do a bit of a tortoise shrug, and say, "It ain't no thing."  When I'm not obsessing about being robbed in the dark of night, I am completely content watching him eat his food.  There is nothing more charming than watching ET open his mouth, stick out his tongue, then close his mouth--sometimes with food on it, sometimes not.  It's magical.  Only Bunbun comes close in eating awesomeness.  Watching him make floaty poos when bathing is pretty cool, too.  It might be hard to believe, but once you see it, you'll totally understand the beauty of a tortoise appreciating a good soaking.  It really relaxes him.

Right now I have to be patient and try to freak out too much.  If he makes it through this, I really need to come through with making him an outdoor shanty.  He deserves space to roam and graze.  I'll hang a hammock (erm, on some metal stands) right next to the outdoor pen, drink some sparkling water and watch him sticking his tongue out at some hay.  If this comes to pass, I'll be sure to film it and share it with all of you.  When ET is big enough, I'll get a kitten and have him ride on ET's back.  Salmonella be damned, it will be cute as all get out, and I won't be stopped for disgustingly cute animal pictures.  I might be puking in my hand while watching it, but I think we can all agree that it will be totally worth it.

Wee ET.  Approximately one-year old.  

On Being a Mother with Sick, Hairy, Fanged Children

I'm feeling peckish.  Anyone want to come over for a meal of unicorn meat from a can?  Sadly, there's none in my pantry right now, and they were out of stock tonight at HEB.  Thankfully, when I came home from the various after-work chores (groceries, searching out hardwood-floor cleaner at Home Depot, attempting to find a picture frame to fit an odd-sized poster), The Boy already had dinner ready for me: salad and Amy's spinach pizza.  So nice!

It being Monday night, I had the pleasure of a long talk with Frijole.  It was a bit disjointed because ET started making some serious trumpet noises with his ass, sending out more mucus.  I had high hopes after he had two small meals of prickly pear (nopalitos!).  I guess The Boy will have to find time in his day tomorrow to take ET back to the vet.  I do believe he passed a bit of stool (yes, so it's gross, it needs to be monitored considering he hasn't had a true bowel movement in a week, and instead passed two huge ass bladder stones and mucus).  My poor little guy.  I grabbed a stool sample and put it in the fridge.  Don't worry about accidental ingestion, it is labeled.  He is now sleeping his hard work off in his new Shiner shanty (thank you, Wikus, for the beer and the shanty).  I do know that he has eaten some hay, and totally turned country bumpkin on me.

Can't you just hear him giving directions?  Yep, go right on down that there road.  Take a rightish-left turn near the yellow shanty.  Cross over those green logs three times and it will be up there behind you on that hill a mile away over there. Yep.  Don't forget that rightish-left.  It can be right tricky.

Mattress is busy making out with my left boob.  He is rubbing his head all over it and grabbing my paw with intense ardor.  This is making typing quite hard.  We got his bloodwork done recently, and he is our only child right now who is completely healthy.  If you can call a 17lb Siamese cat healthy.  Oh, god, he just covered me in happy drool!  It is all over my chest and face, and it smells so bad.  When he is really happy he starts drooling, then he has too much drool and feels the need to shake it all over those he loves.  His mouth doesn't smell bad at all, but this drool is atrocious.

As far as I know, The Bear has not had any bloody poos over the past week, but for all I know he's shitting under the bed.  That is his new sanctuary and possible restroom.  We are squirting some seriously rotten-tuna-fish-smelling medicine down his throat at least once a day with an aim of twice a day.  This is not leading to a happy Bear.  He's a street kid, and he is showing his mettle right now in classic danger-avoidance techniques.  Instead of whoring for pets, he is deeply engrossed in finding new hiding spots.  We are doing our best to keep him out of the bedroom since a) we can't force him out from under the bed, and b) the possibility that he is displaying his displeasure with urine.  We know this because it seems he whizzed (wizzed?) over every square inch of the office floor.  This morning we found him in the pantry.  Right now he is behind some books on the shelf of ET's hutch (well, it is not his per se, but his terrarium sits on top of it).  This little perch is really nice because he is hidden from view by the books, and it affords a perfect view out the livingroom window.  There are many grackles to yell at silently, or maybe slightly goaty if he feels rambunctious.  I've taken to bribing him with wet food to make me feel better about forcing medicine in his mouth while he is screaming for help.  That's right.  You love me and you'll give me hugs, dammit.  See, I gave you tasty fishy wet food.  I am a good mom; just ignore that part with the screaming and grabbing.

Whoopis likes to nap.  See, here's proof.

While going through these pictures from the past week, I notice that there is an overabundance of pictures of my ass.  The Boy obviously has an addiction.  Now I understand that my ass can win over warring nations, and bring peace to the world, but it is all for The Boy.  I must respect his selfish wishes to keep my ass all to himself.  Sorry kids.

How Do Gays Choose Between Applebee's and Chili's?

Wasting most of my work day on Friday, I had a little IM conversation with Guamaniac where we fantasized about leaving work at 10:30am, and going to happy hour.  It developed in to how we perceive mothers, which, it being so outside our own personal viewpoints, quickly developed in to generic stereotypes.  Sue us.

guamaniac:    tgi muther fucking friday!
Grumples:    no shit
Grumples:    can we go home now?
guamaniac:    i wish. when do the happy hours begin?
Grumples:    if we leave right now, we can have it at 11am
guamaniac:    score! i'll be waiting out front.
Grumples:    cool
Grumples:    where are we going to go?
guamaniac:    ummm..some place classy. applebee's?
guamaniac:    that would be awesome if we skipped work and went and got trashed at an applebee's.
guamaniac:    then made The Boy pick us up
Grumples:    totally
Grumples:    maybe we can go to chili's and have lots of ribs
Grumples:    so not only will we be drunk, but we'll be covered in meaty bbq sauce
guamaniac:    yes. can we please do it. let go home sick for the rest of the day
Grumples:    sadly, that would disappoint my little middle schoolers
Grumples:    today is a party day for them because they just finished the TAKS
Grumples:    we're going to play games and have ice cream
guamaniac:    boo...putting children before me and applebee's? i don't even know you anymore
i know
Grumples:    it's terrible
Grumples:    next thing you know i'll be married and knocked up
Grumples:    painting my walls beige
Grumples:    worring about calories
Grumples:    wearing elastic-waisted pants
guamaniac:    cutting crusts off of bologna sandwiches
Grumples:    obsessively cleaning
guamaniac:    sewing outfits and ironing socks and towels
Grumples:    and underwear
Grumples:    don't forget the underwear
Grumples:    and sheets!
Grumples:    at least two loads of laundry every day
guamaniac:    clipping coupons and making casseroles
Grumples:    joining the PTA
guamaniac:    getting some small dogs named gracie and noodles
Grumples:    with two cats: mops and butters
guamaniac:    having ladies over for tea and homemade biscotti
guamaniac:    wearing white gloves everyday
Grumples:    and sensible shoes with a low pump
Grumples:    with matching handbag
guamaniac:    vasoline smile and natural make up
Grumples:    pantyhose with open-toed shoes!
guamaniac:    spearheading the church bake sale
Grumples:    start wearing a cross pendant and judging people who drink and do drugs
guamaniac:    pray for their souls
guamaniac:    start a prayer chain for all the homosexuals
Grumples:    paper your door with names of organizations that can help you, turn you around, make you in to a good upstanding christian who only has sex with men under the cover of darkness in some remote bathroom in the woods
guamaniac:    or in the confessional
Grumples:    no, i would totally look down on that and drive you out of town for doing such a sinful thing in our holy place
guamaniac:    send me to camp to rid me of my sins
Grumples:    exactly
Grumples:    a boot camp
guamaniac:    where i will fall ill, but they wont send me to the hospital because the power of prayer will heal me.
Grumples:    and if our prayers don't work, it is because you were still thinking sinful thoughts
guamaniac:    it's better that i am with god, then here on earth sinning
Grumples:    with god, you're asexual and that is the most pure you can get
guamaniac:    i can't wait to wear all white
guamaniac:    and sprout wings