Brought To You By All The Loving Parents of Rapists

It's an extremely quiet day in the office.  I've cleaned out my bag and made some folders.  Caught up on some blogs, pretended I would get back to other blogs I haven't read in months.  Went to the bathroom, washed my hands, and then dried them.  That doesn't sound very exciting, does it?

Well, here's the thing, the paper towels in the bathroom smell like hot dogs when they get wet.  So every time I wash my hands and dry them, I get hungry for hotdogs.  How fucked up is that?  It's like when you fart and the smell makes you want to eat some burritos.  Does this happen to anyone else?

Another thing, The Boy claims that all people (openly or secretly) like the smell of their own farts?  I disagree.  I only like the smell of my own farts when they make me want to eat burritos.  At no other time do I enjoy the smell of ass-gas. 
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Ahem.

Earlier this week, I went to drop some stuff off at HR (the fun I get to do at work is so overwhelming) and there was some teenager hanging out there.  Ends up being a coworker's 15-year-old son.  Ends up he has the hots for me, and wanted to know how old I am.  Sweet.  I can still make teenage boys swoon.  I could be the kid's mom for crap's sake.  Glad  to know I still have it.
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I left work about a half-hour later than I intended, and in doing so, caused me to have a bit of news-rage while driving.  I may only have 4 miles to go, but you don't want me angry during those miles.  I'm on drugs; I can't be held responsible for my actions.

NPR reported this story regarding some Massachusetts legislators who are drafting a new law for parental privilege (much like the privilege married couples have).  Meaning that parents won't have to be put in a position to testify against their children.

If you don't employe critical thinking, then this probably seems perfectly reasonable.  I believe in some cases it can be, especially when it comes to small children and the mentally/physically ill.  However, the real-life example they used was a father whose son raped someone, and the son told him about it, and the father was called by the prosecutors to testify against his son.  Here's the thing.  The "child" in question is a 25-year-old man.  What kind of fucking parent are you if you defend your rapist kid?  Maybe I just can't understand families, and I get that.  But I want to make it clear that I have very close friends whom I consider my family, and if any one of them committed a crime against another person, especially a crime such as rape, murder, physical violence, etc., I would ask my friend to turn him/herself in, and if my friend refused, I would go do it myself.

Here's a golden gem of a quote from the news piece:

"It wasn't even a close call. It was family. And you don't betray your family. You don't rat on your own kid,"

 or, even better

"We weren't trying to get him off, because he owed society and his victim," he says. "But the trust you build up with your kids needs to be protected, and I don't feel the state has the right to come along and tear it to pieces. You know?"

Okay, so you know your kid raped someone, but it's not cool to rat on your own kid.  That's just tacky and ruins trust between the two of you.  Sure, he owes society and his victim, but not by my hand, by golly.

I want to kill people whose reasoning is so despicable--that they can validate their reasoning for not turning a rapist in to the police.  This is just bullshit.  How do you even talk to someone you love who has committed a horribly violent crime against someone.  Listening to this, as someone with a not-so-great past, I am completely offended, and I think a lot of survivors out there would feel the same way.  Sure, it may be easier to overlook that really horrific that a person did, because it is embarrassing and shameful, so let's all act like out of love, we are going to keep it a secret.  Ugh.  Seethe.

Seems there are four other states that recognize the parent-child privilege.  There really should be some consideration of the privilege only going through age 18 and what type of crime was committed.  But hey, I'm just that lady estranged from her parents, so what do I know?

Let It Be Known

Henceforth, Dude I Don't Know (DIDK) will be refered to as Lang Pontoosh.  If I encounter a second Dude I Don't Know and write about him, he will become DIDK2, just in case some people stay misty-eyed over the long-gone days of DIDK "The Original Stranger."

Can't Even Be Bothered to Bullet My Points

Morning
The kittens managed to knock my toothbrush down and have diarrhea on it.
I get to work at noon due to my head being taken over my General McSnot.

Afternoon
Stumbled around in a fog.
Sat through painful meeting, but managed a few salient points before submitting to the voices in my head.
Lady in the bathroom advised I always have cute shoes, and with some weird lilt in her voice, informed me that I had been dressing differently.  Emphasis on the differently.  I have no idea what she was implying.
Played Words With Friends with various people, and didn't completely suck considering General McSnot was in charge and generally he can only spell "mucus" and "mucous."

Evening
Nodded my head and made agreement noises to my boss until 7pm.
Tried to drink fruit smoothie The Boy made me.  Tasted like it was made from the rind of oranges--left the whole thing for him in the fridge.
DVR totally neglected to record the new Project Runways.
Cursed a lot.

Night
Read Michael Chabon's Gentlemen of the Road; will probably fall asleep with the light on two minutes in, and manage to have the corner of the hardback cover gouge a hole in my cheek.  That's just projection at this point.  

This Blog is Sponsored by Sarah Palin's Nipples

New twist in my ongoing teeth issues: a bone spur.  Joys of all joys.  Sing hallelujah and praise the spectacularness of my mouth.  I'm going to keep assuming it is my tori being bitches.  I thought they were growing after all, so maybe my gums just couldn't keep up and the damn thing poked right through.  It's a sharp little poking bit in the back of my mouth, under my teeth where it touches my tongue (but thankfully does not rub it...not yet at least).  The teeth pain suddenly disappeared one morning, and for that I am glad.  I will attempt to not fantasize about the horrible mouth cancer I undoubtably have.  I admire Roger Ebert for being able to go through such things, but I really don't think I have the strength for it.  That won't stop me from totally freaking out at the thought of it, which I will then of course think of it some more because I'll feel guilty for being such an idiot in the first place for freaking out over nothing.  The cycle will continue until it either goes away, or it is bothering me so much I go to the dentist.  My hygienist is my friend on FB.  Maybe I should send her a work-related question; but that makes me feel guilty as well.  Grrr.

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The heavy flash thunderstorms are loitering.  They've been here for ages.  They deluge different parts of town daily, but never the whole time at once.  Welcome to Texas.

Here's the aftermath of an afternoon storm on Sunday, July 9th.

 This is from this afternoon when I was driving back to work from my therapy appointment.  I got some strange looks at the traffic light as I shouted at my hands to stop shaking and take the goddamn picture already.  It literally started pouring a minute after taking this, so much so that I could barely drive back to the office.  The wipers couldn't keep up, and it was almost impossible to see where anything was.  I know the reasonable thing to do is pull over, but that's not the way we roll around these parts.

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Fun with Facebook--using a friend's status update to tell crazy stories to her friends whom I do not know.

Ivy Vyne's status from last Friday: would like to know why Amtrak always has the a/c cranked? Two more hours of shivering. Awesome. And yes, I'm wearing a sweater.

Comments ensue from various people (who knew it would be such an exciting status update?):

Grumples: I once spent 3 days on a train. I ended up with frost-bitten nose and toes. It was awful. Play more words!

Ivy Vyne basically responds that she is not worried.

Grumples: My clothes ended up breaking and cracking off my body. My nipples fell off, too.

Ivy Vyne: Ok, now wait just a minute...

Some other people mention what other trains they have found to be too cold.

Grumples: I was really sad because my nipples (after falling off) rolled down the aisle. Some little kid picked them up and put them in his mouth. I have no idea if he swallowed them. His mom was screaming at him, and I don't really to get involved in family matters.

Dude I Don't Know (DIDK): I’m sure all those victims of Aushewitz that arrived by train in the dead heat of summer shared your pain, [Ivy Vyne].

Lady I Don't Know (LIDK): AHAAAAA!!

Ivy Vyne: I don't know, [DIDK], [Grumples'] harrowing tale might rival that of the Jews.

Some discussion regarding global warming--I found this line of conversation boring compared to what I had written (I'm very self-involved).

DIDK: True, I can't wait to see the premier of Shindler's Tits.

Grumples:  [DIDK]! Comic Gold!!

DIDK: Thank you, thank you, I'll be here at the Hampton Casino all week.

Grumples:  That's too long of a drive from Austin. It's a bitch driving without toes and I always get laughed at when fueling my car. People can be so cruel when it comes to prosthetic noses. I'm looking at you Tennessee. However, driving without nipples is oddly liberating. And no, I won't be taking the train--my doctors have strongly advised me to avoid that mode of transportation. Maybe you'll do a Southern tour at some point?

DIDK: I most certainly will [Grumples] - provided you can get me tickets to this:

Grumples: Damn [DIDK]. Get you a ticket? Only after I secure mine first. If I had nipples, they would be very erect right now!

DIDK: I would be willing to donate my nipples for even just a little glimpse of Sarah. 

Grumples: Okay, [DIDK]. Let me see what I can work out for us. Go on and put your vacation request to your boss. 

Notice how Ivy Vyne completely left our conversation.  

Is There An Office Bathroom Etiquette Class?

P2 just ate a super-tiny click bug.  Poor bug.  It was awesome watching him catch it.  He lost it for a bit under the couch.  I tried to film it, but it's dark under that couch, and there was no time to rig appropriate lighting.  P2 took that sucker down in less than two minutes.  I'm so proud of him.  And sad for the bug, of course.  Now he is giving P1 a good head-licking.  Ah, my domestic life.

For weeks now, we've had flares of heavy rains.  Today a huge storm hit right over my office.  I made the poor choice of leaving right before a huge clap of thunder and zip of lightning took out the downtown intersection lights.  When Texans stumble upon this situation, they panic.  One of two things will inevitably happen: freeze at the stop and refuse to move while looking about helplessly, or act like the lights are actually working and it is conveniently green.  Sadly I was forced to experience both.  Came within seconds of being T-boned by some asshole who went with the latter option.  He was going so fast, I actually had to look sideways to see if his light actually was green (how fucked up would that be if my lights were out but the cross-traffic lights were working?).

I safely made it home to watch last night's Mad Men with The Boy before he had to run out for rehearsal.  I'm going to keep my thoughts to myself for the time being regarding the episode.  I think I always have a third season slump with shows.  We'll see.

Is it wrong of me to hold the kittens' food over their heads so they could meow and meow and meow up at me?  It is just so adorable.  Their mouthes all bright pink with their tiny pointy white teeth.  They harmonize with each other so well that I want to hear it for a bit longer than necessary.  Bad mom!

My office is holding a "Cube Etiquette" session.  Should I attend? They want to focus on phone etiquette, respecting your neighbor, respecting cubicle space and respecting personal space.  I don't even have walls at my desk.  I'm just a desk at the end of a hallway.  With a window that looks out in to the entrance to the parking garage.  I'm going nowhere fast.  I would prefer they held a class that taught coworkers to mind their own business and to stop coming to me for reports on how Twit is doing.  I have no idea!  None.  Why would they think I know?  I've been working for 20 years (fuck I'm old), and I do not know the personal health of the people I worked with.  There's been a few rare exceptions where I have become especially close with a coworker (like Amazon); even then, it's not like I would divulge to another coworker my friend's personal business.  Geez.  I'm all about gossiping but not in the middle of an open space with people I barely know.  


Off to read Catching Fire for the rest of the evening (like the next hour or so).  I will ponder if I will attend the Cube Etiquette session.  I'm so torn.  Ho hum.

A Not-So-Simple Matter of Respect

The strange pain in my mouth has migrated from the bottom right molars to my bottom left molars.  Tori or infection?  I did have a slight fever on Thursday when I was at my post-op appointment (those people are very serious about weight, blood pressure and temperature each and every time).  My temperature is usually around 97.8, and it was something like 99.2.  Nothing one can get out of work for.  I'm going to suffer with this pain a bit longer before I give up and go to the dentist.
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Some sad news greeted me today.  Not personally sad, just sad in that sad things happen in the world.  My friend KSU was driving back to Dallas last night and hit a deer.  It was a small deer, probably an adolescent.  It didn't do much damage to the car, and KSU was not hurt; however, the deer was not dead.  I just can't imagine this moment for KSU.  I fear this moment.  I hate driving at night, especially in places like around Amazon's neighborhood, because there are deer everywhere.  I don't blame the deer--we're totally encroaching on their land and they end up around roads and houses.  Hitting a deer can seriously damage a car, and cause serious harm to the driver and passengers, and obviously the deer.  So there he is, a herd of them running across the road; he does his best to come to a careening stop, and smacks in to the last one.  And it is alive.  And injured.  KSU broke its neck.  An amazing act that I have no idea if I could do myself.  Even though I believe it is the absolute correct thing to do.  I admire him.  I think he is brave. 

Yet, when he wrote about this on Facebook, some people were more interested in the meat.  Not KSU and the deer, and that happened to both of them.  Just, what did you do with the meat.  I'm sure some of them were joking, making light of a grim situation.  It just struck a nerve in me.  I say this as an outright hypocrite--I eat meat, I love meat, it's tasty and makes me feel good when I eat it 1-2 times per week.  My initial reaction was that I would never eat the meat of an animal I just brutally murdered in its own habitat with my car.  I was worried for my friend and how he was doing, and if his car was okay (he needs his car).  I was sad for the deer.  I was sad for KSU.  I was sad that these things happen.

Then I thought about how most animals are killed to provide us our food.  Is it any less dreadful for them to live all packed together, constantly stepping in shit and smelling the fear rising off of every animal?  It all makes me queasy, because what happened last night was more humane than how the meat industry treats most animals.  So maybe the question of salvaging something of the deer is the proper thing to do.  Maybe even a symbolic gesture of apology.  That the deer's life was not to become roadkill.  That its use in life can be used a bit longer.

I don't know if anything is right or wrong here.  I still don't feel it was the appropriate thing to discuss immediately.  Yet, it may still be a valid question.
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After mulling this over, I did the most rational thing and went to the grocery store, because nothing lifts one's spirits like being forced to be in close quarters with people who don't understand proper cart etiquette.  Some bitch honked at me for letting two pedestrians walk in front of my car in single file.  She was in an SUV and should have easily seen over my car that I wasn't sitting there playing Words With Friends (I did that after I parked).  Maybe she really did want me to run down those people.  Maybe she was in a hurry to get the organic water that was displayed in the entry of the store.  That's right, my store sells organic water.  None of that artificial manufactured water.  Most stores sell water that is closer to polyester than what we get out of our wells and rivers.  Maybe she was just hoping that I would hit the pedestrians so she could pick their carcasses up and store them in the deep freezer for a nice winter-long treat. 

Sadly I did not take a picture of this.  I did take a picture of my grocery list that I brought with me after I realized that it was really annoying to hold it and my phone.  I'm like the smartest person ever, right?

I'm Not Drunk, It's My Tori

Words With Friends is highly addicting.  Kind of like when we all were playing Scrabulous--you know, before Hasbro got all douchey and don't-touch-this on us.  With it being on my phone, I am guaranteed to play it even more.  Like with my coworkers and my boss.  Though, with my boss, I don't turn words around as quickly in hopes that I am giving the impression of a hard-working lass.  My friend Lister (because he is and Lister is my favorite character on Red Dwarf) is totally kicking my ass and so is C.  I've had a migraine for a good portion of the day, so I am blaming my headache on my poor skills today.  I have also beaten some other friends to the ground, which makes me defeats a little easier to take.  Best word of the day was a killer play against Ivy Vyne: HORNY, 40 points.  On another game I made TWIT for some paltry points, but it made me giggle appreciatively.

Emma's mom pointed out something last  night regarding my raving about how awesome Ex-cop was for giving me his parking spot (and how marvelous it was to park there today, too).  Here's what she posted on FB, "Oh the irony. The sexist sob is now your knight in shining polyester."  Thus twanging my feminist cord, and trying to rationalize the whole thing.  He is sexist, it's true.  But did he offer his space out of pure niceness or did he do it because I am a small woman who is always having troubles being blocked in by cars.  Could it be a little bit of both?  Even if he did it from a macho-cop stand point, is it wrong that I took him up on his offer?  Do I have to turn things down just because I am a woman and a sexist man is willing to help me out with an actual problem?  Does it rankle me a bit that it was Ex-cop who switched spaces with me?  Sure, I would have preferred building services to take care of the issue for me.  Except our building services are monkeyfuckergoatballlickers.  Yet, Ex-cop has sway over them--MFGBL's really look up to authority figures, even if they are retired and doofy.  So, I took the space.  I parked in it happily.  I acknowledge he is generally an idiot, but he did me a favor.  Therefore I must look at it as an altruistic gesture.

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After complaining about my strange mouth pains, it is slowly fading away.  I postulated to Kuk Sool Wan friend (I've mentioned him before in relation to martial arts, but I'm being precise today; thus, he will be hence known as KSW) that it might be my tori growing.  Then I offered to explain what that meant if he wasn't on top of his palate knowledge.  Of course he wasn't!  Who is really?

I realize I start to sound like I'm in terrible health, which is not really true; I just have a lot of issues that won't kill me, but will make me complain a lot.  However, tori are interesting even if bothersome at times.

Until I was 23 or so, I never really gave a thought to what the inside of anyone's mouth looked like.  I've kissed a lot of mouthes, so my tongue was the only thing acquainted with mouthes, and as far as I know, tori are exactly detectable by kissing (I'll do a test with The Boy instructing him to really kiss me hard to see if he can detect anything).  I'm not sure about that since I have no idea if I have kissed anyone with tori.  I digress.

I got my tongue pierced in college (I believe second semester of freshman year).  I had that post in there for many years.  I took it out when a dentist pointed out to me how it was causing the gum behind my bottom center teeth to erode.  And that my teeth were getting loose, and would eventually fall out.  MY WORST FEAR EVER!  This dentist did not investigate why a piercing that so many people have without dental damage, and I thought it was just the way my life goes.

It wasn't until I moved to Austin in 1998 that I found out the truth about my mouth.  The hygienist was doing her business and suddenly says, "Oh my, you have tori!"  Excuse me?  I have what, and stop sounding so cutesy with your fingers in my mouth.  After she told me about tori, I wondered why no other doctor and dentist who had ever looked in my mouth, never said something.

Basically I have bony outcroppings in my mouth, mandibular torus and buccal exostosis.  There are several theories about how and why they form.  The mandibular growths are on the inside bottom of my mouth.  The buccal ones are on the outside of my teeth, mostly on the uppers.  I luckily do not have any on the roof of my mouth.  The ones on the bottom inside are the worst, and the reason why my post was rubbing away my gumline was because I have these bones that almost touch each other and leave only a pinky's width of space to the bottom of my mouth.  The post had to sit against my bottom teeth because it had nowhere else to go.  Gah. 

One theory of why they grow is stress and a person's reaction to stress by clenching and grinding his/her teeth.  The agitation of the teeth makes the bone want to make sure those teeth stay in place so it grows more of itself.  Yes, I had a very stressful childhood, but there's one thing I can tell you, I did not clench or grind my teeth.  My allergies have always made me mostly a mouth breather.  Until lately.  Something changed a few months ago and I started being able to breathe through nose, and wouldn't you know it, I'm totally a clincher.  I wake up in the morning with my teeth aching and my tongue ridged by the edges of my teeth.  Lovely!

Thus I thought maybe my tori were growing and driving me nuts.  I'll probably never know.  Heretofore the worst part of tori is how thin the tissue is over the bones.  Almost anything can scratch the fuck out of it and leave my mouth irritated for a week.  And I hypostatised that my lisping as a child was probably because my tongue sits level with the top of my bottom teeth, instead of hanging out below them.  Let's blame the tori on my occasionally mumbling and slurring.  I'm not drunk, it's my tori!

(Image from Brian Palmer, DDS; Tori, Torus, Exostoses)

This is not my mouth, but it is very close to what the bottom of my mouth looks like except my tori are just as thick in the back as they are in the front.  I even used to have one of those permanent retainers, but I managed to worry that off in just a couple of years from receiving it.

The best advise the dentist has?  "Lips together, teeth apart."  Catchy, no?

A Day Without The Protected-Left Arrow

Post-up news: I look great and the pants were to make me feel more comfortable, and I should have been advised that they would be taken off in the OR.  I advised that no one likes waking up without their pants.  It is disconcerting.  She agreed. 

Today I was weighed twice, and there was a 2lbs difference between this morning and this afternoon.  All I did was drink 16oz of Coke.  What gives?  Also my blood pressure went from 124/86 to 100/68.  My blood glucose is 23--take that Whoopis.  Poor fellow.  We're going to get the vet out to check his levels.  I'm willing to bet they are over 200.  Anyway, fun health fair in the morning and post-up in the afternoon.  I did a smidge of work in-between.

I was totally in freak-out mode this morning because the bastard who decided to illegally park behind me barely gave me any room to maneuver my way out of the space.  This makes me so fucking mad.  It took me forever to get out of that fucker.  If I had a crappy car, I would just back it straight in to these assholes.  Then I was stuck at a very busy intersection where the lights had a space for the protected-left turn, and whomever is in charge of these things decided to not use it.  So it was one car per light cycle, and that was only if someone moved in to the intersection and took the left when the light turned yellow. For some reason, there are a lot of people in Austin who refuse to move out in to the intersection.  I HATE THAT.

After all the stress of running around today, an amazing thing happened.  A wonderful thing that will require a sacrifice on my part.  One that will require me to be nice, very nice for the next few months.  I decided to return to work after my doctor's appointment just so I wouldn't have to work nine hours tomorrow.  It was an amazingly good choice on my part.  Ex-cop was hanging about (otherwise the office was empty), and he mentioned that he had heard that I've been having trouble with my parking space.  Jebus, who has been talking about me to him, much less my parking issues?  Weird.  Since I do like a good grouse, I detailed my experiences with these jackmotherfucks parking behind me.  Then.  It happened.  There was insistence, too.  He made me trade parking spaces with him.  He felt that he had more options to handle these nucknutters (a new word!) than I did.  What's he going to do?  Wield his mighty Ex-cop sword?  I do hope I can be around for that.  Just watch, no one will even park behind me, and he'll start talking to people about how insane I am.  Or he already does that.  I don't know.  I tend not to inquire about these sort of things.
A new parking space.  A pretty healthy body.  A derma-scan that revealed that I am a total freckle face under the top layers of my skin.  Two bad patches that I already knew were forming, but otherwise I was declared to have the most amazingly healthy skin for a 35-year-old woman.  So, yeah, I rock.
Question for the day:

You know I tried to please ya, You're under anesthesia

Tomorrow is my post-op, where I get to have my doctor peer for two seconds at my incision after I have undoubtably waited for her for at least 45 minutes for the privilege of having her look at my lower bits. Since my wounds are healing quite nicely (you know, because I tore the glue right off of them, so, you know, they could breathe better), I really only have one important thing to ask her: Why was I not wearing pants when I went in with pants.

There is probably a very good reason for it, but the idea of someone (or more than one!) wriggling the hospital paper pants off of my basically dead body just creeps the fuck out of me. My therapist suggested they maybe cut them off instead of pulling them off of me. IS THAT ANY BETTER? If I didn't need pants on, couldn't I have just gone in with the gown, and leave with a modicum of dignity?

If that conversation goes well, I may (probably timidly) ask if I said anything totally embarrassing when I was in twilight before completely going under in to general anesthesia. The last thing I remember saying in the OR was, "No, they did not give me a pregnancy test this morning, but I can promise you I am NOT pregnant." And now I'll never be, brahahaha. But just think of all the stuff I could have said. Like maybe, "Hey, why are you taking off my pants?"
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We're on the fourth season of Homicide now after our brief detour in to the second season of True Blood.  This episode  has that weird bug-eyed girl that pops up every now and again, but the most memorable role (for me, at least) was her short-lived bit on Six Feet Under as a crazy mortician.  Right now her character is asking a detective "where's the strangest place [he] has had sex."

I only mention this because I have been thinking of these sort of things lately.  Going off birth control is already creating a positive glow within me.  So, I've been thinking of past locations.  And none of them particularly strange, but terribly public.  So very public.  Parks, parking lots, in a Jeep with the top off, under a bridge, in a field (good god my legs were EATEN out there), and on a picnic table (a metal one, left weird indents on my ass).  It just sounds so pedestrian, yet completely crazy because now I think, jebus, how many people saw me having sex?  Did I have no decency?  Oh, we're talking about me.  Right.  So there you go people, just a few of the non-strange places I have had sex.  Which brings me to another apology: I apologize to everyone out there who has ever had to unwillingly see my big, very white bum.  Don't worry, I'm in therapy now.
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The reason I know how to spell anesthesia without having to look it up or use spellcheck:

The Elevator Ass Rail

A few minutes ago, I was standing awkwardly with a white-haired middle-aged man who had a "visitor" sticker stuck to his shirt.  He remarked that my outfit was quite colorful, and I said, "Thank you," and leaned my ass against the rail that wraps around the interior of the elevator.  While studiously looking blankly at nothing, I started thinking about how that rail is at the perfect height for my ass to not only lean against it, but be propped up by it.  Just think how many other asses are doing the same as mine does when in the elevator.  I am acutely uncomfortable if I have to stand in the middle of the elevator.  It's not claustrophobic, it is just where the fuck am I supposed to lean?  Who said I had to support my own frame when at work?  I'm so thankful our elevator has an ass-railing.

 Now I must return to playing Words With Friends.  Yes, I have been sucked in by the evil dark side, and I have an iPhone.  Not the 4 (I couldn't wait...I bought the new phone on Sunday, the exact day my contract was up with my old phone).  I really can't keep my hands off of it.  I created my own case for it at getuncommon, and I should have it by tomorrow (it is of the grackles on the wires at the top of my blog--or at least the 2nd quadrant of it).  I've also been busy creating ringtones.  The Boy's is a snippet from TV Party by Black Flag.  He is extremely pleased.  For my everyday ringtone, I am using the Alloy Orchestra's Yoshiwara (From "Metropolis").

An Apologize Two Decades Too Late

Good god, The Mattress and P1 are going insane.  FUCKING INSANE.  Poor Mattress had been living with such old farts for so long, that he didn't have playmates to romp around with, since the geriatrics kept him to get off their couch and get a job, earn a living and grow up already.  Of course Mattress just slammed the door to his bedroom and listened to shoe-gazer bands until he fell asleep.  (Angsty punk was too aggressive for such a delicate gay flower as he.)

Now, his is the fucking happiest 6-year-old cat in town (okay, plus one or two on the age--I always forget).  He fucking frolics.  He is doing the least graceful leaps of any Siamese currently known to exist.  His flubby bits going flying all which way, and the kittens just love it.  I wouldn't be surprised if one day I look up to P1 and P2 riding his back like an elephant.  While Mattress lumbers along growling and doing that snorting thing he does trying to intimidate them not to ride his back.  Sure, he could just drop to the floor and roll over on them, but he never was the brightest of cats.  Poor happy thing.
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It's Saturday and I am up at an unholy hour because of this creepy dream, that involved a brutal man released from prison on a technicality.  For some reason I got a job with him that involved taking this crazy tram-train (blame last night's episode of X-files for the tram horror--combining heights and rickety cars on cables is not ever going to be my things).  The job was really to be his live-in parole officer, and I had to make sure he traveled in this weird wire cage when in public.  At his house he was free of it, and I had all five of my cats, and two more than we rescued off the street (I thought he was so sweet for that).  Stuff happens.  I get a bit sweaty in the bed from fear.  At some point I brought in two friends to join on what ever was going on at the end of the tram-train, and on the second day, I was freaking out (details unknown at this time), and secretly got off at the next stop and was desperately looking for trash bags to throw all my clothes in, and could only find shopping bags and roach bait.  Decided the clothes totally weren't worth it and grabbed all the cats (the two saved ones had morphed in to dogs), and my heart was just beating so hard that he got off at the next stop after I got off and was on his way back to catch me.  I woke up in complete freak-out mode and had to make sure all the cats were still here.  I guess no one wanted ET in the dream, but he's okay, too.

Really, I didn't mean to go on and on about that dream.  It just started pouring forth as I was typing.  I hope you skimmed some parts of it.

My main purpose in actually opening the blog this morning was to mention another dream where The Boy threw an unopened Coke can at me, hitting my head.  I was so upset and mad at him; my feelings all hurt and doing the normal crybaby things I do (have I mentioned that I am a pouter?).  That really doesn't sound like anything of note, nothing worth mentioning here, other than I have actually done the same thing to my sister!  And I thought she was so dumb for being a tattle-tell and going on and on about how her head hurt where I dinged her, etc.  So, to you, then 10-year-old sister, back there in our way distant past, I apologize.  Ok?  That was wrong of me to throw the Coke at your head.  I should have aimed for your stomach instead.

Fine. Yes. My Mother Was a Welcome Wagon Lady.

Hamster Hater had me befriend him on FB so he could make 100% sure that his 15-year-old daughter truly had her privacy setting on "only friends."  I assured him that I could not see a single thing about her other than her profile (shockingly boring) and the thumbnail pic (my god, how I wish I had sculpted eyebrows like that at 15).


Normally I wouldn't do something like this but since she was already friends with her father, I didn't see the harm.  If she doesn't want him to know something, she'll just put him on a filter that's even stricter.  He did not seem to enjoy that thought, but feels that his daughter probably is not as conniving as me.  Poor HH would not have been able to handle my 15-year-old self.  Nothing like sex in the back seat of a wanna-be Cadillac Pontiac Grande Prix to bring a smile to your father's face.  Right?

He went on to explain that he was worried that she was posting pics of herself in a bikini for the whole internet to see.  He frowned when I started laughing:

Grumples: You guys go to the lake almost every weekend in the summer right?
HH: Yes.
Grumples: Does she wear a bikini when she is out on the lake with you?
HH: Yes.
Grumples: Are there other people at the lake?
HH: Yes.
Grumples: Strangers?
HH: Yes.
Grumples: So why can't the world see her in a bikini online, when they can see her just fine on the lake?
HH: (Stuttering) Uh, because I can't control who sees her picture online.
Grumples: And you can at the lake?
HH: Well, no.  But I am there with her at the lake.
Grumples: Um, HH, do you think you have been with your daughter every time she happens to be in  her bikini?
HH: No.
HH: Okay, you've made a very good point.

[Exit right]

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Twit received some bad news.  The plan was her to have a lumpectomy and radiation.  Seems the cancer is more pervasive and chemo is now on the menu.  I don't know when she is going on leave, but she wasn't at work today since she was meeting with all her surgeons.  There are all these old ladies at work who keep going up to her desk and having these intense, whispered conversations with Twit.  It's a bit unnerving, until  I realize that the old ladies are not trying to talk to me.  I still have so many mixed feelings about this situation.  Obviously I need to spend more time with my therapist on this matter.


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I need to submit a new analogy question to the SAT board (do they still do analogies?).  The question is possibly for a more progressive audience, and may not work with all these weirdly conservative kids in their short-shorts and promise rings.

Birth control:renting as Sterilization:____?

Oh, oh, I know!  I'm waiving my hand above my head and jittering my ass across the hard seat of the desk, and I so desperately want the teacher to notice me.  Totally people.  Why is it taking you so long to answer?  It is so obvious!  Birth control is like renting, thus, sterilization is like buying a house!  Where's the Welcome Wagon Lady already?  No one has come to introduce me to the neighborhood.  And I really wanted that basket of cheap trinkets with local companies' names on them.  Though, honestly, one of the best tools I've used in my life came from a Welcome Wagon basket.  It was a simple, nibbly-textured rubber circle used to grip hard-to-open jars.  It lasted me a whole decade and I've never seen anything like it since.  If anyone can find me a replacement, I would be ever so grateful.  I'll give you like an extra $10 as a finder's fee.
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An amusing tidbit provided by Fink-Nottle kept me busy for the last few minutes of work:

Based on my last two blog entries and today's in-progress one, http://iwl.me/ thinks I write like Chuck Palahniuk (today's), David Foster Wallace (7/14/10) and Stephen King (7/12/10).  Funny enough, Wikus also got DFW and Mr. King, but instead of Chucky,  he got Arthur C. Clarke.

Obviously iwl.me has a very limited author database.

Can Tubal Ligation Cause Deafness?

Per my serious masochistic streak, I once again am watching a horrific movie.  There are countless reasons why I do this, but right now, I'll just say it is good background noise.  I'm not going to admit what it is.  However, I will report anything worth mentioning for eye-rolling amusement.  Okay, 30 minutes later, it is way too much for me to report on this movie.  I'm ashamed that I am watching it.

Kittens Update

1. P1 keeps pooing in the bathroom sink.  Thus creating a new house rule: Check the bathroom sink before guests are allowed through our door.  We agree there are worse places for him to poo, but still, it is not a good sight when you go in to brush your teeth.
2. Yes, the kittens did chew through Wii wire; as well as, a strap on some high heels, a cord to the answering machine (The Boy is old-school and must screen his calls).  Due to technology actually sometimes making life worse, the phones will not work unless the base unit/answering machine works.  We do not have an unlimited cellphone plan.
3. P1 is still suckling P2, and often falls asleep mid-suckle.
4. They have become small cats who have yet to grow in to their ears.
5. The Boy thinks that the kittens voices sound like Lisa and Bart Simpson asking "Are we there yet?"  I can only trust him on this because since my surgery, I seem to have lost some hearing.  Who knew that my Fallopian tubes were a direct route to my ears.

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Speaking of my surgery, I swear I will give a detailed account at some point.  Maybe this weekend.  I don't know.  I'm so tired.  I feel I may have gone back to work a day too early.  My abdomen hurts and it is either appendicitis or constipation.  Of course it is the latter due to the painkillers, but it is nice to think about getting an extra week off from work even if is at the cost of second surgery within one week.  It would be a Grumple's family tradition (or at least a second occurence to at least indicate the chance of it being a tradition). My sister broke her arm and had appendicitis in the same week.  When her arm was broken, she was with a group of people (including me), and we all thought she was saying she broke her nail.  To be fair, she was very enamoured of her nails.  For an 11-year-old girl, she really was too into her nails.

Another thought is my right ovary has exploded with glee.  Why it would be happier than the left, I don't know.  Really, I would think my uterus would be the most excited.  Maybe the right ovary is throwing a celebratory surprise party, and just can't keep its anxious anticipation in check.  Maybe my left ovary is as lazy as I am, and is thinking of the excuses he can use for skipping the event.

Note to self: Exploding Ovaries will make a good band name.

Anyway.  Yes.  My brain is still soaking in the painkiller gravy.  I cannot grasp things.  Like calendars.  I sat for a full five minutes this morning freaking out at work that my email only went to July 14th.  Pulling my hair and running up and down the hall screaming, "What happened to all my emails!"  When I finally calmed down and really thought about it, I realized today was July 14th.  So it goes.

Kittens Eat Wii Wire, Not Killed By Human

A friend of mine (FB bringing strangers together since 2004) kindly mailed some music to me (how terribly old-skool of him; oh, wait, he at least sent music files).  There's a lot to wade through, which is fine since I have a lot of time to dick around listening to music.  Since I am working from home on a truly frustrating PowerPoint project (it is aimed at executives so I am trying to go the McDonald's cash register route), I'm keeping that chatty part of my brain busy by listening to the music he sent.  However, I keep only partially paying attention, and end up hearing things like, "...beating like a Hamburglar..."  I am pretty sure that is not what Metric wrote.  Though, I feel inspired to put a Hamburglar on my PP.  Look at that Hamburglar stealing FTEs!  It makes FTEs so much more fun to write about when they are being stolen by a red-gloved, masked man in an old-timey jail costume with a burger tie.  Seriously.  I think it would totally get my point across to them.
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Grumples: Did you get a fancy alarm clock?
Wikus: No, I got the cheapest one they had, $7.99.
Wikus: It was also the smallest one they had, though still a bit bigger than my old one.
Wikus: Don't understand why so many alarm clocks are so flipping big.
Grumples: For blind people.
Wikus: Who can't see them anyway?
Grumples: Okay.
Grumples: Myopic people.
Wikus: Eh, whatever.  I just needed something small and cheap to make an obnoxious noise when it's time for me to start my obnoxious day.

That is going to be my sentiment tomorrow when I have to get up and go to work.  Though, I'm sure my day will  not be nearly as obnoxious as Wikus'.  He might not have a Twit in the office with him, but his job is definitely crappy, and he deserves our deepest sympathies.  And some encouragement to start the harrowing process of finding a new job.  Time and energy are in short supply around here.  Especially the energy. 

My Bellybutton is Filled with Glue

Remind me the next time I want someone to do something surgical inside my abdomen that the gas pain in the right shoulder and under my diaphragm is almost unbearable.  This incisions are nothing compared to that pain.  Then there's the matter of the surgical glue plugging up my bellybutton.  Whatever.  I can't get pregnant.  That is all I have to say to myself to make it all better.  Damn you Phrenic Nerve!

Had a wonderful couple hours this afternoon with C--she gave me ice cream and magazines (including People, which she had to lower her standards to buy--I've never purchased it, so I can only imagine how it must have felt at Walgreens to get it; though, she di get The Atlantic and The New Yorker, so she can always make up some lie and say that she is getting People for her drunken diabetic mother who refuses to drink anything other than a Big Gulp.).

Tomorrow I will work from home on a complicated project for my boss.  We'll see if my brain is up for the task.  Perhaps I will spend the day farting out gas instead.  We'll see.

Chocolate Milkshake with Fries

No babies ever!  EVER!  Unless I adopt one.  No babies from me!  Ever!  Unless I have someone implant a fertilized egg in me.  That sounds so dismaying.  I'm going to keep concentrating on the fact that I cannot conceive a little parasitic being within myself.  My womb will remain barren. 

My stomach was a bit swollen yesterday, and today it is a bit bloaty but almost normal.  All that stress about looking pregnant and having stretch marks was for not.  The incisions do hurt, but as long as I can keep Mattress from jumping on me, I'm pretty good (except when The Boy actually poked at one--instead of using his eyes, he used his finger, and that was just rude). 

My ribs feel cracked, and my sternum creaks when I breathe.  It's all that gas they pumped in me.  I'm having these amazing farts that are just air.  Breezy farts!  Not stinky at all (unlike what The Boy just unleashed a bit ago).  My throat hurts from the breathing tube, and my urethra hurts due to the catheter THAT NO ONE TOLD ME I WOULD HAVE!  Nor did anyone tell that I would see a ton of blood when I went to the bathroom.  Since I was so drugged, I didn't really freak out, but damn was I confused.  I wasn't on the rag before I went in here, so what gives?  Basically, all the internal bleeding from the surgery was in my uterus and it was finding its only way out that was available to it.  Obviously!  Why didn't I just use my brain and think about that?  Probably because I was too busy trying to stay awake and not start babbling about my nipples again. 

The Boy videotaped me.  He has proof.  I will share the convo at another time, but I refuse to post the video.  The lighting is horrible.  I can't stop rubbing my nose.  It's just not a pretty sight.

Seems when I came to I had one of those oxygen tubes in my nose, and I didn't like it.  The Boy reports that I said it was annoying, and then I pushed it  up on my head, and wore it like a headband until someone came and removed it.  There is no evidence of this.  But it sounds vaguely familiar.

Recovery food was a chocolate milkshake with fries.  The Boy certainly knows how to treat a girl just right.

Sterilization Here I Come

Wow, why did no one tell me about this Boston Med show?  People this is the shit I live for!  Ah, Mass General.  I do have some memories of you.  Like that time I got tested for every STD under the sun in a room that was ridiculously large, and I kept feeling like there should be bubbling colored potions in spherical glass containers, because it was so mad scientist!  It was stone and concrete and I didn't feel like I was in a hospital.  I can't even explain what the fuck that room was all about.  I just know the lady was really nice when she examined my bits and declared that most things were good but I did have some inflammation.  Antibiotics were distributed and she gave me a free tube of Vagisil (Damn antibiotics can really fuck with your pH balance). 

Speaking of Boston, DeLuca's on Charles & Beacon Street totally caught fire.  Four-alarm fire!  Seems likely to be related to faulty wiring.  That place has been there for over 100 years.  I have drunkenly PEED on their front stoop.  They made the tastiest muffins--huge and $1.  There was this cherry one that I still crave on a monthly basis even though I believe I had it in 1996.  That is how good it was.  I feel very sorry for the people who live above DeLuca's--the smoke damage, the water damage, the fucking displacement.  And no muffins!  No fast produce when they realize they are missing an ingredient in that fancy dinner they were making.  It's just so sad.

Two more hours to eat and drink as much as my tummy can hold.  Then nothing, not even water.  Though, I am allowed a very small sip of water to take my daily medications.  I take six pills and one of them is a huge-ass vitamin C pill.  One sip of water is not going to cut it.  We report to the surgery center at 8:30am, though I believe the surgery is two hours later.  They want me to dress in comfortable clothes, and I'm not sure what I am going to wear.  I don't have the comfortable clothes that they are thinking of--no yoga pants, no sweat pants, no baggy soft clothing of any kind.  Though, I do have a pair of bright pink and orange striped fleece jammie bottoms from Old Navy.  The thought of wearing those out of the house kind of horrifies me.  I am not the type of person who enjoys wearing my night pants in public.  The UT girls seem to love doing that at the grocery store.  Why is that? 

If I wasn't alone tonight, I would totally be opening a bottle of champagne and toasting the big day.  I'm so completely happy that this is happening.  I feel myself completely blushing with giddiness when ever I end up talking about it.  Though, one of my coworkers (whom I will call Fuzzy for no particular reason), did ask if I can really say I'm getting spayed since my uterus is not being removed.  What a fucking killjoy. 

P1 is trying to jump in to the tv and join the Boston Med medical team.  He thinks one of the nurses is really hot.  Seems P1 would rather jump in to wander the streets of Boston.  These guys are totally my kids.  The best not-from-my-body kids!  They both turned around when the obligatory shot of Fenway flashed across the screen.  Do you need any more proof of how perfect they are?

Okay, maybe P1 wasn't so perfect earlier this evening when he jumped on top of our floor lamp, making it and himself come crashing to the floor, shattering glass everywhere.  Then.  THEN he played with the glass shards like they were little catnip toy mice.  Luckily, no one was hurt, and I just had a really fun time sweeping out the livingroom and kitchen to ensure that I got every little sliver.  Thanks, P1.

Excuses

Reasons not to blog today:

1. I woke up with an intense headache that refused to go away
2. Late afternoon stomach joined forces with the headache
3. 10" poo
4. Little desire to eat the pizza The Boy so kindly made for me 
5. Forced pizza down
6. Couldn't connect to web pages for a couple of hours but could connect to Trillian
7. Spent a good portion of that time having Fink-Nottle assist me
8. Finally unplugged the router, and now the damn thing is working
9. Depressed that I might be getting sick and won't be allowed to be spayed on Friday
10. Took a Klonopin, obviously time to just call it a day and go to bed
11. The Bear won't let me pet him
12. Still have to go to work tomorrow
13. Hate that I am being a baby and will shut up now to save further embarrassment

One Office Revenge Nail Neeed

Ever since the kittens arrival (note to reader: kittens should be pronounced in your best Michigan accent), The Bear has felt insecure and unloved.  He will only accept pets when the kittens are locked in the bedroom.  Even then he is wary that we are thinking of the kittens while giving him our loving.  Today I gave him a pep talk. You are the most beautiful cat in this house. You have the prettiest whiskers and the whitest toes.  You are the champ of butthole displaying.  I sincerely hope he felt better after that little speech (does anyone else have the problem of wanting to spell speech as speach?).  Immediately after talking with him, I ran in to the bedroom to visit with the kittens.  Does that make me a bad mother?
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The Boy is on a work-related phone call, and he just mouthed something at me.  I'm pretty sure he just said, "You look like strap meat."  I'm not sure what to make of that.  I so hope strap meat is a really sexy part of an animal.
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Spent three-quarters of my day at a meeting off-site, and when I got back to the office at 2pm, someone was parked in my space.  Jackass SUV.  Some Mitsubishi Montero Sport XL in a really lame silvery-green color.  I know all these details because I wrote them down (plus license-plate number), because I park right up his ass.  Wanted to be prepared if s/he decided to ream my car (Ass! Ream!) or key it.  I left a note advising this rude jerkface that s/he was parked in my spot and left my office number.

Then I spent the rest of the afternoon away from my phone.  I was in my boss' office and a statistically almost-impossible thing happened.  I can see my car from her window, and I thought eh, while I am up here, I'll take a look to see if the person managed to get out of the space.  At the exact moment I parted the blinds, the driver was gesturing to someone in the parking lot to be his spotter to get out of the space.  They spent a good ten minutes trying.  Half-way through, I could see the guy fishing for where he threw my note, and use his cell phone.  I was five floors away from my desk.  Brahahaha.  So they had to keep working at getting an SUV out of a very tight space.  One of the managers in my group was there with me, and calling me evil while laughing heartily at what a hard time the driver was having.  At least I had a witness in case he backed in to it or go out and kicked my headlights in to smithereens (remember that band?).

That spotter was working very hard.  It's 95º out and this poor guy who may or  may not know the goat-fucker driver was sweating walking all around the SUV to figure out the best angles.  I started to worry that in the attempt to avoid hitting my car, they were going to hit the car parked to his right.  Somehow they did manage to get it out--the driver waved thank you and the spotter continued back on his original path to his car.

This is why you do not take my parking spot.  I will make it more inconvenient for you than if you had just parked on the street.

Hamster Hater also had someone in his parking space, but he is in the main garage, so if anyone parks behind him, they will be in the direct line of traffic; therefore, he couldn't pull any mean tricks.  Though, this did lead to a discussion of having a large nail just for our group, that we will use to puncture tires of the offenders.  We won't say anything to each other--we'll just march in, grab the nail, and set out with a determined look and a swift step.  Everyone will know exactly what happened and will applaud the revenge mightily.

Parking is limited in Austin.  We take our assigned slots seriously.  Got it?
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The Boy clarified that he said, "Have you come to strangle me?"  I was coiling a grosgrain ribbon around my fingers at the time (the kittens will literally eat ribbons).  The ribbon came around a box that contained an awesome necklace that I naughtily purchased this weekend (Bellina Designs has gorgeous jewelry).  Strangulation was not on my mind at all--who would make me dinner if I did that?

I Have Never Found Metal in My Arby's Curly Fries

Why is it that when ever I visit Walgreens, I have a different experience each time?  Today I got a raised eyebrow, and a, "I'm gonna have to see some I.D."  Damn, that sucks, because I stole these prescriptions from some psycho in front of your store just a minute ago, and was really hoping you could help me out here.  I promise to sell these drugs back to him, at an inflated price, of course.

My eyeballs itch and The Boy is laughing at me.  I'm going to throw some sand in his face the first chance I get.  Then I'll singe his eyelashes off just to show him that I am not to be trifled with, and that next time he better take my itchy eyes a little more seriously.  If he chooses to ignore my warning, I will  make sure his balls will itch to the point he wished he had the fortitude to cut them off with a shiny sharp knife.

For all you boys and girls with a yen for Glee and a major hard-on for Javier Bardem, he'll be guest starring next season.  Laroux74 gets all the good information in advance.  She blames Twitter for being the downfall of herself, as well as society.  It is a damn shame I can't play with her at least weekly.  I fear I took our time together for granted, and was probably way too drunk much of the time (do not misunderstand, so was she).  Laroux is one of the smartest, cleverest, adventurous people I know (she goes to see bands by herself, and is cooler for it--where as I'd be the lame crying girl in the corner).  Oh them memories.  The Jell-o shots.  Trying not to kill ourselves (and each other) as baristas (that woman can fake a smile like no one's business).  She's one sexy beast whom I only see ever few years.  Screw all you bitches who get to hang out with her on a regular basis.  At least I provided her real bbq.

Yes, that's all I got.  In addition to missing Laroux, I totally did not make it to the post office today to mail Meggles' package to her.  I did manage the grocery store (where some cute boys gave me the googly eyes when they saw my licence plate), a nap, and the ever-so-important PowerPoint presentation.  Now I just have to make sure I get up early to set-up the whole shebang at work before everyone shows up and witnesses me fumbling around and sputtering over why I can't get the network to connect or the projector won't talk with my boss' laptop (who will be out eating breakfast with some other executives, so I am going solo on this).  Blarg.

Three days of work this week, and maybe next.  Three days to the snipping of the Fallopian tubes.  Too bad I can't just sleep the next three days and read The Unnamed by Joshua Ferris.  Seriously, you should, too.
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Sadly, I did not make it out to Arby's today to grab my free Jr. Deluxe sandwich.   However, more importantly, someone found me using the keywords, "arbys complaints metal found in curly fries."  Damn, that is so fucking awesome.  I'm sure that poor bastard didn't get too far in his/her research on that matter by reading my blog.

A Family Friendly Fourth

Does anyone else find it funny when you get an event invite on FB from a person who lives 1500 miles away?  At first I feel flattered, like, ah, they really wish I was at their party and this is their way of telling me they miss me and love me and would like to have me in their pocket at all times and forever.  Then I go look at the guest list and notice how many people are invited, and it begins to dawn on me that the number looks awfully close to how many friends this person has on FB.  Since I always have to make sure I am right in my assumptions, I will go ahead and look at that person's friend count, and dammit if I am not right.

So, how am I supposed to feel about being mass invited to something 1500 miles away?

I'm doing laundry and cleaning out the shitboxes (in that order), and this is what I think about when I am doing mundane chores.
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Meet my new lover.

This year, instead of showing my big white ass in the name of freedom, I kept it family friendly with this cute little lady.  I am so lucky to have so many friends with dogs.  Now if only I could figure out how to steal one for the day, and act like one of those rich bitches with a dog in her purse.  Hmmm, besides the general no-no to absconding with a friend's dog, there's a large flaw in this fantasy: I don't own a purse (I don't care how hard the Amazon tries, I will not buy a purse).  Might need to rethink this.

The fifth of July is the day to celebrate.  No work!  However, I must do some work and create a PowerPoint presentation that I am to give at 8am Tuesday morning.  It'll be a bit embarrassing to show up and admit all I did on the all-holy red-white-and-blue July 5th, was laze on the couch and think really hard about Nutty Bars and how I do not have any.  Or that I went to the grocery store and sobbed a bit in front of the frozen pies.  Maybe the best thing to do would be to go to the PO and finally mail Meggles her birthday gift--for that birthday that happened at the end of Ap-cough-cough.  Is the USPS even working tomorrow?  Or did they take off, those recalcitrant bastards? 

Hungry, Hungry George

Words of advice: Sitting in the waiting room of a doctor's office for an hour in soaking wet skinny jeans, is not as fun as it might sound.  Same goes for soggy socks and sneakers.  It made me testy and fidgety.  Whomever sat in that chair after me had an unpleasant surprise--free wet asses given out here at this waiting-room chair.  I managed to not scream at the unattended two-year-old girl shrieking around the room, and I didn't get too snotty with the MA when I was finally collected to go to the back and sit for some time more in the examination room.  I was almost friendly.  Drugs work!

Considering the horrific downpour I got caught in on the way to my doctor's appointment (first got drenched getting to my car even with my seahorse slicker protecting me, then the streets were literally flooding and SUVs threatened to drown me in their wakes), it's a bit surprising I made it there alive.  However, that I did and my pre-op is over and my spaying is a go for one week from today.  I gave over a lot of pee and two vials of my blood.  In my wet clothes, I weighed 5lbs more than normally (I blame you, George) and my blood pressure was stellar at 115/60.  Take that all you people who think I consume way too much salt.  Ha!

I ate 4 cookies today: 3 chocolate chip and 1 oatmeal.  I do feel slightly guilty but not when I was eating them.  This is what happens when people retire--the food gets left at my desk (I cannot answer why that is).  Therefore I've been plagued with cookies, doughnuts and cake.  Threw out the doughnuts and cake yesterday, but still had to contend with those cookies.

Since I have personal and professional homework this weekend, I need to go to bed now.  First I will read though.  And if I stay up until 3am reading, I will still count that as going to bed at 10pm. 

Mistaking My Finger For a Carrot

Seriously Dodge?  SERIOUSLY? "Here's a couple of things America got right: cars and freedom."  Gross.  Don't even talk about that part where there were these guys dressed to look like they were prepared for a Red Coat invasion.  I can only assume this war would be trying to steal our cars and freedom.  Damn those British always coming over here and stabbing us with bayonets just so they can abscond with our hard-won overly large vehicles.

Yesterday I had the pleasure of jury duty at the municipal court three blocks from my office.  I caught up on some reading (The Little Stranger, Sarah Walters) and didn't bother with my laptop since it is the noisiest fucker and that waiting room was almost a vacuum of silence.  I'm sure most people wouldn't even think about how their laptop sounds like a broken fridge, but I get totally anxious over it.  As if everyone is staring hatred at me for having the audacity to be so distracting with all my noise. 

Texas is one of only three states that lets people being charged with a Class C misdemeanor choose if they want a bench judge or a jury trial.  Neat!  Why anyone would go for the jury is beyond me.  The defendant in this case was a lawyer and therefore did not bring representation and thought he could just charm his way through.  During voir dire he actually started arguing his case, and later when he asked us if there was any of us who were mad or annoyed by him, we should raise our hands.  Yes, I did.  I told him he was annoying.  That as a lawyer he should know better to start in on his case before the jury is even seated.  Dumbfuck.  Surprisingly, I was not chosen to serve.  I did stay through the whole trial, just to see that smarmy lawyer convicted.  He was so slimy and manipulative, but luckily the jury saw right through him, and convicted his ass within minutes.  Brahahaha.  It took a lot of effort to not clap.  Seriously, my hands were coming together and I had to scoot out the door before they started applauding.  No did I do fist pump in the air.  Or hoot.  I want to attend more trial.  It is a fascinating watch.

Hi, I'm a lawyer, I can't even win my own case.  Hire me!

I just stupidly sliced my finger open on the vegetable peeler I left on the coffee table from Saturday when I was making ET his vitamin-A salad.  Now I have vegetable and fruit germs in my system.  Will I wake up with my finger swollen and pussy?  Speaking of which, Wikus was possibly bitten by Mattress tonight (it happened so fast that it was hard to tell if it was a bite or a puncture from claws), and he completely ignored my pleas to go to urgent care.  He scoffed at my concern.  SCOFFED!  I'm not taking his ass in the morning if his hand has fallen off and is being chewed on by his cats.  Not. My. Problem.

Fun pictures!

P2 resting after reading all those boring music books.

P1 is a champ at playing in awkward positions.

Naughty!

This one just makes me laugh!