The Zombie Dildo Is My Religious Boarding School's Mascot

There are times when I am innocently minding my own business, being a good person, not thinking dirty thoughts, not touching myself--you know, being a nice, chaste woman in her mid-30s.  Then Laroux goes and posts this

I ever so wanted to send this around to people at work today.  Unfortunately, work enjoys spying on all internet and email traffic, and as funny as these little zombie dildos are, it isn't worth getting fired over--even if it is almost impossible to get fired at my job.  I thought there was nothing better than a thicky, vieny cock--oh, so naive, so ignorant--a flayed penis is just so much better, more handsome, more robust!  I totally enjoy the herpes outbreak on top.  It just makes me want to wrap my mouth around it, give it a good long lick.  Or, perhaps, take it out to happy hour and emphasize each thing I say with a shake of my Necronomicox.  It would also bring much needed levity during those boring work meetings I keep getting dragged in to.

Then, this afternoon, I was perusing a religious boarding school's website.  What?  That is totally normal work behavior for most people.  Bored?  Look at religious boarding schools!  If I cannot look at dildos at work, then I think reading about religious boarding schools is a close second.  What makes these kind of websites so damn wonderful, is the inadvertently hilarious things they post. 

“I did miss my family at first, but you soon realize that love doesn’t rely on physical contact.”

What a confusing, uncomfortable sentence!  What does my family have to do with love from physical contact?  Ew!  Seriously religious school, think before you post.  Break that sentence down, the first part of the sentence does not belong with the second part.  Or did they do that on purpose?  Some kind of half-assed attempt at a subliminal message?  Do they have a savvy group of writers locked in some room with a cross and a picture of Jesus, thinking of ways to convince kids not to have sex when away at boarding school?  Why else would it be worded like that?  Who would string those two clauses together?  I'm pretty sure that a good portion of those kids are made to go their by their parents, and aren't too worried about physical contacts with their family, but more interested in some physical contact with their peers.  As we all know, those religious kids are a damn randy bunch.

One summer, I think I was 14 or so, I agreed to go to a religious sleep-away camp.  I wanted to go because my friend was going.  It was a creepy born-again Christian camp (not that born-again Christians are necessarily creepy, but this group was creepy in its nonstop insistence that I walk in front of 100 kids and proclaim myself saved by Christ).  My sole interest once I got to the camp was in a certain young man.  When I say young, he was probably 12, but fuck-o-mighty this kid was pretty.  I stalked this kid.  I harassed him.  I embarrassed him.  I talked about things he had no clue about until his pretty cheekies turned red.  While everyone was readying their souls for Christ entry in to their hearts, I was busy trying to figure out if this kid wanted to kiss me.  Not that I would kiss him, he was a little too young; but I wanted to at least know that he wanted to (but was too shy or intimidated by my utter fabulousness to attempt).

I was a twisted kid. 

Oh wait, I'm pretty sure I'm still interested in knowing if someone wants to kiss me (outside of The Boy--he has a very deep, every-ready well of kisses for me to draw from).  Some things never change.  I'm pretty sure I would have ended up looking for love through physical contact at a religious boarding school. 

Please please say that this religious boarding school I'm creating in my head has a zombie dildo for a mascot!  Please say it's true.

The Fun We Had

My candle burns at both ends
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends -
It gives a lovely light.

Edna St. Vincent Millay, "A Few Figs from Thistles", 1920

 

Today was probably the last time I will ever see a very dear friend of mine.  I spent the afternoon helping her pack her car, and watch her child while she tried to accomplish various tasks.  I danced with that kid, I swung her in the air, I tried to have adult conversations with her, I even let her try to scratch my tattoos off.  I have to be realistic about our friendship.  She is moving to New Hampshire.  Her life is going to be extremely hard.  She is brave and tough.  I believe she will be fine, and her kid will grow up to be some serious awesome shit.  Her blue eyes will break many hearts (as her mommy's often broke mine).  I can say I'll make it up to New Hampshire, and I will try.  My whole life I moved around, and have only been stable in the last decade.  I know we all say we'll try, but work and kids and money and relationships all get in the way.  Frijole and I are a success story of the long-distance friendship, but her life is not as complicated.  No kids and a husband with a well-paying job allows her the time to call me weekly and us make trips to see each other.  

Therefore, I dedicate this to JLM.  I think of  her when I read Edna St. Vincent Millay.  We had an intense summer a long time ago.  Only a summer.  It was too brief.  We drank and drank and flirted with the boys at Charlie's not caring one bit that every single one of them was gay.  It was $1 drinks and sweaty girl talk.  We dared each other and held our breath.  We cemented our relationship in a dirty bathroom where I'm pretty sure some guys were shooting heroin in the stall next to us.  We had our fights.  Oh, such terrible fights.  The fight of sisters--words used for maximum hurt.  I cried and wailed when alone after those fights.  I punched the couch and my heart broke just like when my first love at 16 broke up with me at my front door.  I fell to the floor and sobbed and grabbed his leg.  At 28, I was able to not grab at her leg, and managed to cry in private or on The Boy's lap.  We had more than one of these blow-outs.  Yet, we always came back to each other.  Sometimes it was days, and sometimes years.  No matter.  We get back together like nothing happened.  We need each other.  We understand each other.  We are extraordinarily strong yet entirely too weak for our tastes.  We are too passionate for our own good, and often confuse sex with love.  Our pussies are the boss of us, and we have such a hard time admitting that, but when talking with each other, we can acknowledge how bad we are, or at least how bad we are in our heads.  

 

She is a fierce lover and will not let anyone get in between her and her child.  She is moving back north to be with her family, because that is sanctuary for her.  She leaves behind two of the biggest douches known to man.  I want to kill both these men for what they have done to her.  I hate that she has been forced to leave town--literally forced.  By decree of divorce.  It was the only way to be the primary caregiver of her child.  Imagine that.  Seriously.  Some cunt of a man made her move out of state by leveraging their child against her.  Despicable.  I fantasize about beating him with my fists and screaming in his ears until they bleed.  Kicking and breaking his ribs until his lungs are punctured and he is gasping the most painful breaths. 

Today I was so angry on her behalf.  She had a great night--she got home at 7am.  Her soon-to-be ex had called her 35 fucking times when she texted him to say she was okay.  It was her last night out on the town.  The baby was safe with him, and he was pissed that she looked good and wouldn't stay home and fuck him.  The audacity.  The fucking pugnacious audacity to think that he can divorce her (without warning) and then expect her to sit at home, chaste, and taking care of their baby and not allowed to move on with her life.  He is a controlling dirty fuck who thinks he's the boss of her.  The only thing he has a say in is their daughter.  What she does from here on out is none of his business.  And if he keeps trying to fucking hold her under his thumb, I will find him.  He'll still be in Austin where I am, while she is safe in New Hampshire.  I hope he understands this.  

I have a talent.  It really isn't something to boast about, but it is handy when this kind of shit happens.  I can cut a person down with words.  I can size a person up in a split-second and know what that person's weakest point is.  I know how to hurt that person without ever really knowing him/her.  I can't explain how I do it.  It is terrible what I can do.  I've learned to control a lot of that raging anger inside me that allows me to hurt people with my words, but there is no way I am going to hold it back on this mothershitfuck

Goodbye JLM.  I hope our candles will burn together once again.  I love you.

Bad Romance Amongst Zombies

It was such a beautiful day in Austin.  I spent some quality time outside this morning with the Bear, Whoopis and ET.  More quality time was spent on the couch watching movies, eating pizza and having a beer.  Obviously that was followed with a nice long nap where the kiddens cuddled my legs and I cuddled Mattress.  Followed with Zombieland and a sudden very rude attack of my allergies.  Now I'm sitting here snorting snot and watching the most asinine movie, This Girl's Life.  I will give it credit for showing some cock and tits.  I'm pretty much watching now just to see more of the dirty bits.  Perhaps I should mute it.

Make the sneezing stop!  My tongue is swelling a bit.  Perhaps it will be a double Benadryl night.

Wikus, being a pretty big zombie-movie fan, tells me he was disappointed by Zombieland. Too much romance for his taste.  Now, since I have a sick enjoyment of this sort of thing, I didn't mind it at all.  And heck, it was just a silly movie with silly puppy love.  Wikus can have very high standards.  He'd probably break the television if he was made to watch what I have on right now.  The woman's dad has Parkinson's and she is a porn star who enjoys sex and never fakes her orgasms.  I know, right?  Brilliant!  Her and her friends smoke cigars and talk the normal cliches (you know the ones, a girl is a slut and a man is a stud--how can this possibly still be said in a movie or on television?).  All the ladies are hot and seem to have tons of money and free time.  Best movie ever.  "Aren't we all being exploited on some level?"  If only I could write like that. 

Seriously, Zombieland had an assload of live electricity for a pretty dead world, and this chick wears a fucking tiny diamond between her eyebrows.  Exactly what gives movies the right to pull this shit on us?

146!

My childhood was full of dogs.  English Cockers and Irish Setters.  At one point there were 10 dogs in a kennel in the back of our yard under mock-orange trees.  Every day I had to take the dreaded pooper-scooper and gather all that poop and dump it in a metal trashcan.  My sister must have helped, but all my memories of being out there are of being alone.  This was in Oklahoma, I was in elementary school, possibly 5th grade.  I was going through a patriotic-song phase.  My favorite was The Grand Ol' Flag.  I'm so not making this up at all.  I would go out there and sing with all the power my skinny little body could muster.  I don't even recall playing with the dogs, just singing.  Then there was that one time in winter when I stuck my tongue on one of the posts of the metal fence.  I had been warned not to do this, but when do I ever listen?  I must experience to believe.  I lost so many taste buds that day, and never said a word to anyone.  I've always had a strong sense of shame, and knew better when to out myself for doing something totally stupid.

I have no idea what happened to all those dogs.  My parents showed them--literally.  They would spend all this money on getting dogs and grooming them and keeping them happy, so they'd be nice pretty dogs in the ring.  Our hallways were lined with ribbons and pictures of the dogs.  Sometimes I can go for days without remembering this.  It still kind of horrifies me.  It is so damn odd.  However, those fucking dogs were awesome.  They were such a comfort.  The Irish Setters were big and let me sleep on them.  I miss those dogs. 

When we moved to Texas in 1987, we lost two of our dogs in quick succession.  One of them I was blamed for, and it still pains me to this day.  I know it isn't my fault, but it is so hard not to internalize a beloved pet's death.  I don't think I want to write about it right now.  It is too hard.  I only brought all this up because I was watching this dumb girlie movie and there was an Irish Setter on it.  Such beautiful loving dogs.  I miss you guys.

In other news, I discovered that Twit thinks her IQ is 146.  Go ahead and laugh.  It's really all one can do.  There is nothing better than having access to her hard drive.  146!  Oh my god, what a douchelord.

George Did It

What's even better than having to wake up at 4:30am?  Waking up at 3:30am to shit your brains out for a good thirty minutes.  Oh, yeah.  That really is the best.  So is having dull razorblades to slit my wrists with.

Now I'm left attempting to figure out what went so horribly wrong with my bowels this morning.  Was it the breakfast taco that CSP got for Emma's Mom and me when he was running late for our meeting (Yes, EM and I are cruel, and demand tacos for tardiness).  After all, there is an egg recall going on out there, and we did ask for breakfast tacos, which often come with eggs (though, I believe EM avoided this fate with a meat and bean taco).  Bravo for CSP for paying us back with salmonella.  Even if that meant poisoning himself, too. 

Or was it the Chipotle chicken burrito The Boy got me for dinner?  The chicken did taste a little funny, but not enough to make me stop eating the damn thing (and I have the last quarter to eat at work today--I'm suicidal like that [better than a dull razorblade?]).  I thought I wouldn't even be able to eat again after the breakfast taco.  CSP went to a taco truck (please say it was Triny's, because that is my favorite taco truck around town that I have never had the privilege of eating from), and those homemade, authentic tacos.  Dear lord it was so greasy delicious (Oh! Epiphany! Was it the grease from the taco and not the eggs?)  However, once someone introduces a burrito to me, I generally will want to eat it.  I'm rarely a glutton, but when it comes to burritos, I say "Please, may I have another?"

Then there's always George.  Good ol' faithful George.  This month as authentic as street food with all the punch and spice that goes along with it.  Thanks George for possibly making my body really really angry.  I'm going to go ahead and blame you even if it was the eggs or burrito (or both).  I hate you George, and I have to remind myself that the benefits of sterilization completely out way the negative of having you visit me every month, all bloody and needing a place to crash for a few days.  I know you really enjoy the amenities my uterus has to offer, but I truly wish you'd fuck off and die.  I know, I know.  I need to take it up with my ovaries.  Whatev. 

As I said, I'll keep blaming George until I have a good reason not to.

Vertical or Horizontal? Both Please!

Hormones!  Raging fucking hormones.  Who knew I still had them in me?  As acknowledged last week, getting sterilized had made me break out a bit.  I connected those dots.  However I did not connect all the other ones in--it's like I thought connecting two dots made a whole picture.  How dumb of me!

These past couple of weeks have been very trying on me.  I felt like a horny teenager ready to throw myself on any thing that walked and talked.  Okay, I would have accepted mutes.  I suddenly understood how Whoopis' sister felt when she was on heat--with her ass stuck up on the air all the time, practically yelling at us that she was open for business, and dammit if we weren't going to satisfy her, she'd just jump out of a two-story window if that is what it took to get some action.  We got her fixed good and proper before she actually harmed herself.  I've only been slightly fixed.  My uterus and ovaries are still intact, and obviously functioning just fine.  Apparently my hormones haven't been given the message that my reproductive organs have closed shop and moved to a tropical island where kids are not allowed.  My hormones have been practically lighting up signs in my brain that say, go crazy wild, fuck a lot, make a baby happen already!  You're getting old, need sperm posthaste. 

Am I going to go through this every month?  I won't be able to keep myself from making out with all vertical and horizontal surfaces.  Thanks hormones for making a crazy lady in to a dirty crazy lady.  I'm sure The Boy and my friends will still love me.  They are wonderful like that and don't seem to mind when I'm humping their legs.

Thanks everyone!

Happy Birthday, Leos

During the first week at college, there was all that mostly required freshmen orientation bullshit.  I managed to duck out of a lot of it, but in the interest of making friends (and seeming cool), I went on a very long boat cruise at night around the Charles River.  A girl on my floor gave me some crazy polyester disco thing to wear.  Basically a halter and some too-long-for-me bell-bottom pants.  My boobs looked great!  Who knew how fabulous I could look in a halter.  The pants made me cringe, but everyone else was basically wearing a similar get-up, so I tried to mash those feelings really far down (what fucking shoes did I wear?  I only had Converse and steel-toed Docs).  My only memories of that evening are singing The Cure's Just Like Heaven on the bus with everyone, that Boston is fucking cold in late August on the water, and that I was bored out of my mind.  I was so cold and bored that I think I went in to shock.  It was just awful.

I vowed to never go on a party boat again.  I broke that promise today.

My core friend group has many August birthdays, and this year they wanted to celebrate by a booze cruise on Lake Travis (ahem, the Colorado River to everyone else).  Since I am working on being more social, and I always celebrate birthdays, I went--dragging The Boy and Wikus along (Guamaniac invited all three of us as his guests).

There are several similarities between this boat ride and that one 17 years ago.  There are also differences.  Especially in weather.  I spent the day in my bikini and got to swim and lovely warm water.  There were drinks and snacks.  Other than that.  Same thing.  Loud music, loud people, not much to do but sit on the boat.  It wasn't as terrible, I do really like some of these people a lot.  But alcohol and 100-degree weather isn't exactly a good cocktail.  It's mainly my own fault and my anxieties.  I'm not a dancer, I didn't know a lot of people and I sweat more than the average human, and felt pretty ugly for it.

Now I am home, eating Cheez-Its and watching X-Files with The Boy.  I'm considering this unwinding.  It's been a relaxing weekend.  The best time was Friday night at Emma's Mom's.  Finally met her roommate (very sweet lady), and by 1am we were lying on the driveway staring at the sky and trying to get my iPhone to identify stars for us (most of the stargazing apps out there suck).  It pleases me greatly to get to know her more.  I hope there will be many more nights at her house.  I've also been promised a fabulous haircut--they seem to know someone that they feel I MUST get in to see.  Sounds fine by me. 

Goodnight kids.

Too Much Time Spent Talking With Myself

My coworker left a Coke Zero on my desk this morning.  She swore it would taste just like *real* Coke.  She lied.  I'm now choking it down to be nice.

Yesterday, one of my friends from high school responded to my blog post, saying, "Just read your blog and I wanted you to know that I always thought (and still do think) that you are amazingly gorgeous."  Which was really sweet considering a) I wasn't remotely expecting someone to compliment me, especially not someone who hasn't seen me in 17 years, and b) I never actually thought of myself that way when I was a teenager.

From an extremely early age I learned to become an expert compartmentalizer (so what, I made up a word--only I am allowed to do that, and I will do it when ever I want).  It was easier to store certain things in locked boxes in dark corners of my mind that I never needed to visit.  There were things that I didn't want to think about, and that I thought no one else wanted to know either.  Being able to do this has both harmed and helped me, even now.

Compartmentalizing is a coping skill.  It allows me to get over things quickly, and not be bogged down by things that are really upsetting.  Sometimes that can make me look like I don't care, when really I care so much that it is painful, and if I don't want fragile days like yesterday, I need to stuff all that shit in a box and look the other way when someone is watching me.

The importance of this skill was very important in high school.  If I opened up and was honest with someone about my home life, one of three things would happen: 1) not believe me, 2) distance themselves from me (friendly but no more hanging out), or 3) treated me like damaged goods to the point of not wanting to even look at me much less talk to me.  The girls generally fell in camp 2, and the boys in 1 and 3.  This does not go over well for an insecure teenager who had no idea that she was strong and could use her words to stand up for herself.  Instead, I'd tell someone whom I thought I was close to, that my father chased me around the house with a 2x4 yelling at me to get it over with and just punch him already if I was so insistent about being mad at him.  Or when he'd ask me for "some lovin,'" which was his charming way of saying, hey, let me molest you while your mother is busy cooking dinner! 

I understand how frightening this is for other teenagers to hear.  Yet, at that time, I was living with it and had been since elementary school (possibly earlier, I have completely blacked out most of early childhood), and wanted to be liked and needed people to know I wasn't this crazy shy girl.  It didn't get me too far, and it was easier just not to mention it, and let everyone think I was a weirdo.  Funny how that gave you more street cred--being an everyday sort of crazy versus a sexually molested, lonely one.  It's okay if you sit around cutting yourself if you're doing it to be cool, and not out of any other need to explore the various ways pain can be inflicted.  All those things I did, to know myself better, to know how far I could be pushed, I shoved somewhere else, and just pretended that part of me didn't exist.  It was out of shame, it was out of feeling like I was dirty and at fault.  It is the way people looked at me.  I got enough looks I didn't want coming my way at home, and I didn't need it at school either.

So I put it somewhere else in my mind.  With that, I also lost a bit of self-perspective.  I didn't look at myself.  I did not acknowledge the beauty of my teenage body.  I let other people touch it, and I received the normal teenage satisfaction that comes with having sex and feeling like that is love.  I didn't even stop to think that these people I was with even thought I was pretty.  I have no idea what I was thinking really.  I dressed in some serious baggy clothing.  My hair was down to my ass, and I hid behind it.  I was almost always completely covered in some ways; even in a dress.  Thigh-highs, tights, long skirts, tall boots, knee highs. 

I slowly got out of all this in college.  It was a rocky start, and I still played by my high-school rules.  I was  in some bad relationships (oh, the awesome sex, though!), and my clothing, if possible, was even worse than it was in high school.  I'm not sure when I truly started to look better, and stop hiding myself in boxes in my head.  At some point in the last decade I started appreciating more of who I am, and what I have been through, and that overall I am very competent and have gotten further in life than expected.  I even have a pretty good sense of style now, and know how to dress my body for ultimate affect.

Lately, my compartments have been popping open at unexpected times.  I'm not sure if it is because of the therapy, or that in general I tend to be happier these days.  My mind can be very mean to me.  Yesterday was just terrible.  So many things kept appearing in my head.  The Orange Lover, people I have loved deeply who are no longer in my life for whatever reason, other things that I won't mention here, a sadness for what I have lost, and failing to compare it to what I have gained.

It is good to know that people thought well of me in high school, and who know me now, even if it is just an FB connection, who can tell me that they always thought I was pretty. 

Also what helps is to have the Guamaniac take you out for drinks and dinner.  Sadly, I did not get to make out with any girls, but we did eye the boys and giggle a lot.  Then I had to dump him as a friend for continually singing The Cranberries horrible horrible hit "Zombie."  While I usually think my friends are awesome, that is some truly evil shit.  I texted many people last night with the horror that was being thrust upon me.  No one even came to my rescue.  I went home laughing and fell asleep quickly.

Happy birthday, Guamaniac and the Amazon!

Ian McCulloch Rescues the Day with His Lips

After almost two weeks of maniacal happiness, I have swung in to sadness.  I am so tired, and it just doesn't feel like a good day.  I cried on my way to work, thinking of the Orange Lover, and how much I miss him.  I hate drive and crying.  Then I remembered I didn't put on deodorant in my haste to get out of the house.  At work the fridge holding my leftovers from yesterday's lunch was making wonky noises, and it seems the compressor has died and my lunch is warm, and probably spoiled.  I only have yogurt to get me through the day.  Listening to Ian McCulloch to see if that will help things.

Urban Race comrade gave me deodorant.  I guess I can say that makes things a little better.  Guamaniac heard my plea for help, and we are going out together after work.  Please say I end up doing something totally reckless like getting shit drunk for a skool night and making out with girls.  C also made me feel better for being all defensive about getting emotional over Veronica Mars and Logan.  Then I made her day by saying we really are teenagers who know how to have all-balls-out fun.  My friends are good people.

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Yesterday I was really fretting about how going off birth control has really fucked with my face.  It is breaking out, and I can leave the house in the morning, and then come home with two lovely shiners saying hello to everyone within a five-mile radius.  I've never had perfect skin, but this is a little bit more than I want to handle right now.  While feeling terrible about myself, I just happened to read Sal's repost at Already Pretty, it was exactly what I needed right then.  The feeling did not last long, and here I am already in the doldrums; so, I thought it might help for me to attempt to write about myself in positive terms avoiding any negative languages and its partner in crime, qualifiers.

Ahem.

My eye color is like no other I have ever seen.  They are unusual and can take some people be surprise.  It happens often when someone I have known for months suddenly exclaims, "Wow, you're eyes are really green."  I'm not sure what color they read from afar, but up close, they are very nice, and I am quite happy they are in my face.  My eyelashes are long, and the only reason I own a lash-curler is because my naturally curled lashes will sometimes decided to curl in instead of out.  That is a problem I can live with.

I enjoy my arms.  They are long and slender.  I can touch my elbows behind my back, and reach almost any itch.  There is no flab bits between my shoulder and elbow, and that is with zero work on my part.  My wrist are small and look good peeking out from the end of sweaters.

My breast are beautiful, and I enjoy holding them when I am relaxing.  They are a good size for my body, and are small enough to not always have to wear a bra, but big enough to be noticeable.  They don't fall in to my armpits when I am on my back, and I enjoy admiring them in the mirror when I get out of the shower.

I have a waist that many women envy.  That both women and men have enjoyed encircling with loving arms.  It is 24" and could probably become 21" if I chose to wear a corset (I happen to enjoy breathing more).  My stomach is abnormally flat for how lazy I am.  I contribute it to all my sneezing, but it can't possibly be just that.  I can even see the outline of muscles under the skin.  Muscles from the couch doing all the support work?  What ever it is, I know it is something to be grateful for.

When ever I try on a new pair of shoes, I always check to see how my ankles look in them.  I really should only wear skirts and dresses and fancy shoes.  My ankles are dainty.  Motherfucking dainty ankles, and I am so proud of them.  They feel good in my hand between my index finger and thumb.  They make me look taller and creates dramatic effect between foot and leg.

My toes are my helper-monkeys.  I never have to exercise that lovely stomach of mine by bending down to pick something off the floor.  My toes will do it for me with way less effort.  I can pinch an ugly bruise in to a pale white thigh with my toes.  My toes will rip you a new one as necessary.

Overall, I know I am attractive.  I have many features to be proud of, and there is no reason to focus on my own perceived imperfections.  Many areas I hate about myself, other people love and compliment me for.  I need to start listening to that, especially when I am feeling fragile like today when I am not even obsessing over my body, but just feel like my body is yet another thing to add on to the pile of suckage.  It feels good to sometimes to step back and be proud to compliment yourself.  It is important to be happy for the good and not feel embarrassed for knowing it.  I'm sure there are other parts of me that I like and forgot--I'll make an addendum if necessary.

Perhaps I will try the even harder exercise of saying what I like about myself (e.g.: my enormous capability for helping those that I love before helping myself).  I probably should have done that today, but naming what I like about my body was a compromise.

To help with today's depression?  Alcohol with Guamaniac.  Thank you, kind friendliest gay friendly of all!

Shut Up You Damn Dandy Warhols

It should come as no surprise to anyone, I am not wearing pants.  I'm spending the evening on the couch in my boxers and zombie t-shirt.  I attempted to take CS Pumpkin out for a sort of condolence drink (all I can say is he is racking up a body count, and not in a cool bounty-hunter sort of way), but he had some things to do after work.  Totally cool, but it made me think if turning down a free drink is a measuring stick of the age group I find myself flailing around in.  While I was kind of looking forward to an unexpected after-work drink, it was equally as nice to know I could go home and take off my pants!  That's right, I'm old.  I'll take a drink at a bar or a night on the couch with the same equanimity.  Yet, Logan just broke up with Veronica in the quad, and it is so upsetting.  Maybe I'll need an alone-at-home drink.
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Last night was fantastic.  I swear Domingo (so dubbed because he has the beautiful eyelashes of a young gentleman who I met one night when I was very engrossed with making out with my then boyfriend outside of a movie theater that was holding up showing Rocky Horror just for me to get done playing grabby ass.  Domingo was so awesome, and gave me a rose when I finally sent my boyfriend on his way and met my friends inside.  I really wanted to get to know him better--unfortunately he came from a very strict Catholic family who were extremely upset that he was gay.  Guess they didn't understand that a fag-hag is pretty harmless) makes some of the best food.  I had two servings of his beef bourguignon.

My first serving was enjoyed over a private viewing of Two Girls in a Cup (does that little bit of internet trash deserve the italicized title?) with Domingo.  Our excited squeals of both laughter and "ewwwww, gross," excited some people who initially refused to watch it, and came running and  made us watch it again.  I say, hey, I don't think it is actual feces, looks to much like chocolate soft-serve, and even if it was, who cares?  As long as I don't have to actually participate in poop slurping , I'm just fine with it. I've done many a crazy thing during my two decades of sex, but there are a few lines even I won't cross.  Yet, I can still laugh at the idea of two girls going viral by shooting soft-serve up their asses.
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Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeh, Logan just purposefully got arrested so he could go beat up a rapist in VM's honor.  More swooning.  Shut up.  I'm not that girly; only right here.  See above where I talked about enjoying watching two girls pretending to shit in a cup and drink and lick it off of each others' faces. 

Once Again, Up To No Good

It's been an exhausting day.  I exercised so much that I'm sure my thigh muscles are going to kill me tomorrow.  All that time I spent going up and down a ladder, bending over and sitting up, and twisting until my ribs groaned.  I spent some time spotting Who-wee (formerly know as Urban Race coworker) as she did the same.  I was sweaty and smelly, and totally bemoaning my decision to do such hard work on a Monday afternoon.  I realize this doesn't sound like me at all--me who is loathe to get off the couch or help Ex-Cop with some small word-processing chore (seriously, I had to freaking rewrite a legal document he was trying to draft last Friday. Pathetic.).  And yet, this was 100% my idea.  Tomorrow I will know if it was totally worth it.

That's a 10' tall office door.  People really shouldn't take the day off to celebrate their birthdays.  I get really bored, and have to find something to do with myself.



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My sleeping sickness seems to have suddenly left me.  I was out until almost 1am last night, and got up after only two obnoxious calls from the alarm.  I was bright and perky today (see above).

I have a friend going through a second divorce.  She is moving back to New England, and I only have a couple more weeks to grab bits of her time.  We have been so close and so distant both in friendship and proximity, and I fear I will never see her again.  This lady has more spunk and sass than I could ever produce.  I have loved her fiercely and have shed many tears when we've been in fights.  There is no one else I know who I can be so honest with about my dirty thoughts, and she returns in kind.  There is nothing that we don't discuss.  She's seen my ass, I've seen her breast (seriously, they are so gorgeous that I don't think any other breast could compare, and they are burned in to my brain for my viewing pleasures for always).  We've gotten drunk so many times together, that our livers will probably fail at the same time.  There was that summer we spent every weekend at a gay bar drinking $1 cocktails and batting our eyelashes at each other.  Then there were those years of fighting--the saddest part being over a job that wasn't even worth coming between us.  Ho hum.  She had a child, I found myself in a long-term relationship.  We've been through a lot, and she is a damn fine person, and I just want to kick the asses of the men who have hurt her. 
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The Weeds season premiere is tonight, and the usual gang is meeting to watch it.  We have to skip the dinner part to give Whoopis his insulin shot.  However, I'm going to see these people again on Thursday for Guamaniac's birthday, and again on Sunday on the Birthday Boat for all the Leos in our group (there is a strange number of those late summer births).  This should be a good week.

Why Do I Keep Thinking I Am A Doctor?

Two awesome Friday nights in a row.  I don't even know what to do with myself!  I'm so pleased.  So pleased that I took a long nap late this afternoon, and am spending the right of the night watching Veronica Mars.  I'm so predictable.  I tried to psych myself up to dye my hair, but can only seem to eat these crazy "special coconut cookies," that Wikus brought over on Thursday.  They aren't special in the sense of having pot properties--it's just what the box says.  They are Vietnamese, and are called Bánh gai cốt đứa.  I really have no idea what that means, but the cookies look just like what hair looks like under a microscope.  A strange cookie shape to be sure, but oh so damn tasty.

ET is growing, and I thought I'd do a bit of home surgery on him tonight.  It didn't go as well as I had hoped, which I feel terrible about.  The wire they put in his shell to hold it together was getting stretched by his shell growing, and I worried that it could end up breaking off inside him.  I clipped one section, and pulled it out just fine, without any struggle from the little fella.  The second one wasn't as easy.  It just did not want to pull through, and then he started struggling and bleeding.  Jesus fuck, I'm such a bad mommy.  I folded the wire over and cleaned him up with some rubbing alcohol.  Band aids were applied and I bribed him with yams to love me again.  I'm not sure it worked.  I left the other two wires alone.  This probably would have happened at the vet, but they could have dealt with the guilt instead of me.  Tomorrow I will do my best to make it up to him with a bath. 

Last night was The Boy's summer choral performance.  He already knows this, so what I'm about to say won't be too shocking, but it was not one of my favorites.  Too campy for my tastes.  Then too dull.  The orchestra was magical, though.  As it should be since my favorite viola lady was playing her axe and watching me behave badly in the audience.  When I'm with the Amazon, I simply cannot contain the small child in me.  To make matters worse, CS Pumpkin came out to play.  Who's that with such a charming name?  Why, it's CS Pumpkin!  Ha.  Sure, it only makes me giggle, but when does that stop me?  He came with a genuine interest in choir music, and I can only hope he wasn't totally annoyed by our shenanigans.  Though, if you look at his program, his is the one with "taste my meat" underlined (from Love Bade Me Welcome by Vaughan Williams).  I surely would not do anything remotely immature as that.  Though, I guess there may be something written in my papers that mentions the supposition that someone must have been caught with a 13-year-old boy and destined to spend the rest of his life mimicking animals noises in songs. 

After the show, we all went to Trudy's (all being Amazon, CS Pumpkin, The Boy, viola lovely and her kick-ass man, and R&C, who always invite me out to do things, and I never do--so it was nice to actually be in their presence.  Watching R [or should it be B?] knock back those tequila shots leaves me all wiggly in the knees).  I had one beer and a portion of a brownie with ice cream (this was to make Amazon feel better about getting it in the first place).  By the time I got Amazon back to her vehicle, and drove all the way back north (what the hell you south Austin people?) it was almost 2am.  It's like I am 18 all over again.  I'm sure it is just a fluke--these two weekends of having a good fun time.  We'll see.  Today, I am happy.

Thick Enough to Congeal When Cooled

Holy crap!  There's this dude on Boston Med who was at Ruggles Station in Boston and fell on the third rail.  On his face.  On the third rail.  He lived!  His face basically vaporized.  He's already had 10 surgeries on it, and now he's getting a face transplant (second ever in the U.S.).  I'm assuming this was done in 2009.  Incredible.  How do people not watch this?

Maybe they are too busy reading about blood sausage like Wikus and I were doing earlier.  That is some gross shit that can literally be found in almost every corner of the world.  Pig snouts!  Bloody oatmeal.  Or perhaps you prefer yours made with horse meat and barley.  There is a blood sausage variation for everyone.

This week has been difficult.  I have some kind of sleeping sickness.  Tuesday evening the kittens were lazing on the bed, and I cuddled with them, and fell flat out the fuck to sleep.  Basically, I slept from 6pm to 6:45am.  Then to bed at 8pm on Wednesday night.  I managed to make it to 9pm last night, and it is already 9:30pm tonight, and I'm still awake.  Not for long, though.  I can't stop yawning.  It helped that Wikus was here catching up on Futurama with me.

I'm not sure if my sudden overwhelming need to sleep is my body's way of revenge for my weekend of heavy drinking.  If so, I don't care.  I had the best weekend ever.  Frijole is the fucking bomb.  So is Guamaniac.  Drinks, food, shopping, homosexuals!  Even that bitch at Austin's Museum of Modern Art (go ahead and snort, it should be ashamed of itself as a modern-art museum) who got all pissy when we tried to start a series of photos on How to Point at Art.  Then got even more pissy when I was being this rude asshole by leaning my shoulder against the edge of a wall.  I have some serious audacity, I know.  I hope she didn't notice that I rubbed my vagina the door handle to the gift shop (yes, she followed us in there, too).

Tomorrow I get to play with Amazon and see The Boy's summer choral performance.  Here's to hoping I can stay up to 11pm or so.  My adoration for the Amazon is immense, so I'm sure I'll manage.  Even if that slore didn't even get with me until last night on if she was going with me or not.  I believe her husband strong-armed her.  I appreciate that.  She claims I can't go with someone else, because she bought new underwear just for me.  Awww.  As if Amazon has ever had a single sexual thought about me in her life.  I'm still happy she can joke about such things.  I demanded this new underwear to be a lacy thong, but she demurred. 

It is time to start thinking of what I want to submit to this year's art contest.  It is a bit earlier this year.  Yet, I also know about it earlier.  I just don't have any ideas right now.  Can I mosaic sleep?  That is my mood, my inspiration.  Maybe a mosaic of just darkness?  Or I can get that Pegacorn mosaic going for Ivy Vyne, and just submit that.  Perhaps I can get my Bacons & Egg from Guamaniac.  Then I won't have to do any work!  I can submit two, so I guess I could submit an old one and a new one.

Must think of something.  Suggestions are welcomed.

One Stephen F. Austin Hotel Chair and One Hipstamatic iPhone App

Frijole came to town. It was the best weekend ever. Guamaniac brought the googly eyes, and I brought the Hipstamatic. Frijole brought the fun.

A Study of One Chair at the Stephen F. Austin Hotel

This is what constitutes as fun with one is in Austin for two days and three nights.  Especially when coming from San Francisco.

When Googly-Eye Guamaniac Attacks

 It was officially one of the best weekends ever.  It was very sad that it had to come to an end at 6:30am yesterday morning.  I slept away my sadness to the point that Sunday barely made an impression, and my whole day at work has been confusing since I keep thinking it is Sunday instead of Monday.

Also, a big thanks to Obama for blocking most of downtown traffic and making it extremely easy to get in to work this morning.  I needed that.

Fink-Nottle, Designated Saturday Blogger

Grumples has asked me to serve for a day as designated diarist. It’s similar to the role of designated driver, in that it is generally the sort of thing that a responsible person does when they are going to get totally, completely, unapologetically, apocalyptically drunk.

And if you only had one adjective to describe Grumples, it would have to be “responsible”. “Strange” might come a very close second, running neck-and-neck with “whimsical”, but I’m fairly certain that “responsible” would win going away.

The reason she’s drunk is that my wife, whom she has inexplicably nicknamed “Frijole”, is burning some frequent flyer miles to visit her in Austin. She offered to provide an authentic Austin experience to her old friend. However, Frijole is only in town for three days, and thus does not have enough time to get hired and subsequently laid off by Dell.

So, since my wife is out of town and thus unable to keep me company, Grumples offered to let me write a guest blog post. She figured that I would be pleasantly diverted and thus less lonely. What she does not realize is that I’m going to use this opportunity to extract revenge for an ancient wrong.

When Frijole and Grumples worked together at the World’s Shittiest Job, I would give them a ride to work. We talked on the way to work, a crappy crawl up Mopac to a soulless managed office building. And inevitably, movies came up. I’m a very passionate movie-goer, and I hate bad movies nearly as much as I love great ones.

And in 2001, Britney Spears, at the apex of her pre-Federline fame, starred in a semi-biographical film called “Crossroads”. In one casual conversation shortly before its opening date, I took some cheap shot at bubblegum pop music and cookie-cutter films, and said something derisive about the film.

I’ll never know what inspired her to do it. I think it’s indicative of the fact that she’s pure evil, like Cathy Ames in “East of Eden”, a monster without any conscience at all. But even still, she said that she liked Britney, and the movie appealed, and that the three of us should go see it on opening day.

I laughed it off, but I must have betrayed some sort of credulity. And like a cheetah stalking a gazelle with a limp, she pounced. She and Frijole conspired at work that day, and then stepped up an elaborate campaign that lasted nearly a week and a half, pretending that we were doing just that. They went through the entire planning process, and they insisted, every morning on our commute, that we’d be seeing “Crossroads”, in all of its horror, on opening night.

I, being the good spouse that I am, was told by my wife that seeing this film was important to her, and I agreed to go. As my spouse has in no way, before or since, betrayed my love and trust in this fashion, I ascribe it solely to the malice of Grumples. And she reveled in it, as I begged and pleaded for mercy, suggesting alternative movies, possibly feigning illness.

They did not reveal the deception until the very last minute, as I was set to drive to the theater and suffer through the movie. And they laughed -- oh how they laughed! I still remember the burning dread.

They think I have forgiven. They think I have forgotten. But they are wrong.

And so, ten years on, I will have my revenge. It is movie-related, so it is indeed justice.

I will use this opportunity to reveal a dark secret about Grumples.

One of her favorite movies is “Harold and Maude”. Is it because of the bleak, existential themes? Because of the black comedy? Because of the brilliant cinematography? Because of the resonant contrasting themes of alienation and hope? Ruth Gordon’s brilliant, understated performance as Maude? No.

She had an affair with a 79-year-old woman who taught her to play Cat Stevens songs on the banjo.

Now you know. And now I have my revenge.

Bifurcated By Suddenly Appearing Walls

Reading about people's dreams is often very tedious, and I tend to scan over such things unless they are hilarious or particularly well-written. Here's the thing, though, I am a hypocrite. Here's what I was dreaming when the alarm finally convinced me that I must leave the bed. (I blame Inception, Dark City, Veronica Mars, and my own twisted brain for the following.)

I find myself in an unfamiliar city, standing on a sidewalk outside of what appears to be a large office building with ground-floor parking. Across the street a band is setting up to perform. Their side of the street looks just like mine. It's more of a side street with the major road to my left. The band ends up being Siouxsie and the Banshees. She sings about 20' away from her band like they casted her out but still need her to sing. I rocked for awhile until I noticed that my friend Double N was standing next to me.

He pulled me toward the major road and told me he had something to tell me. I hadn't seen Double N in so long, that I was just really excited that he was there. He had to calm down my puppy reaction (probably relieved I didn't pee on his leg). He was serious (Double N is rarely serious), and sat me down and told me all about the arson he has been committing with other friends. He had to unburden himself to someone, and he chose me. He hoped I still loved him. Then he walked across the major street, and it was suddenly very hot and a practical desert wasteland, and he walked off in to it.

At that point I noticed Reed Diamond (of Homicide: Life on the Street and Dollhouse fame) standing in my shadow. He was a cop and had just overheard Double N's confession. I went running to the parking garage on the ground floor of the office building, and found my red truck (Ex-Cop drives a red truck, and I really hope this is not where my brain was taking me), and was about to get in it to drive maniacally out into nowhere land to grab Double N. Right as I was about to get in to the truck, reality shifted.

It was the same scene and situation, but everything had twisted a quarter turn around me. Thus my truck was pinned up against another truck. Someone appeared and helped me push the truck through a small opening (ha, my parking situations manifested in my dream). I have no idea who this person was, but he said we had to drive to this other place if we wanted to rescue Double N.

He directs me to a church. Just as I am admiring its very sleek modern design, the shift happens again, and I am in some kind of bar. More people have joined me to find Double N. The shifting is happening more often now. We have to envision each move before we make it just in case the rooms shift on us. There were a lot of low ceilings causing dimly lit hallways and there was a red and green cast to everything.

The shifting, though not fun, was pretty easy to deal with until it started going wrong. Wrong in the sense that before we never had to worry about where we were when the shifting happened. Suddenly you had to know exactly where the new walls would appear because you could be split in half by them. This made things very stressful. Added to that was the distinct feeling that I was causing the disaster. The shifting also caused me to get separated from my friends, and I ended up in a totally new place with a bartender trying to tell me how I wouldn't find them again, and should probably go back outside to catch the end of the Echo & the Bunnymen show.

Which made me a bit pissy that I was running through this mad-house shifting world and missing Echo. Double N's troubles be damned!

Then I woke up and missed seeing Ian McCulloch shooting out the stage lighting with his fingers.

Breaking News

That damn bone/tooth-like item growing out of the bottom of my gums inside my mouth just fell out as my tongue was probing it. It totally looks like a piece of tooth. But how? Where'd it come from and why did it suddenly fall out in to my mouth? My gums were finally starting to grow over the stupid little piece of foreign matter, and now I have some serious swollen tissue with a hole in the middle. Bleck. I have put this tiny piece of whatever in a plastic baggy. I will carry it with me until whenever my next dentist appointment is. Then I will ask if they can identify it.

That is all.

If Only Veronica Mars Was Real and My Friend

The past week I have been consumed with watching Veronica Mars. Usually I can write and watch television, but I love VM so much, that I am unwilling to be distracted even for a few moments at a time. The first time I watched VM was a combination of DVD and television. Netflix is streaming it now, so I can watch all three seasons with minimal breaks (trips to the fridge and the bathroom are pretty much it). I stayed home yesterday (allergies, apathy toward working, etc.) and watched 16 episodes (season 2, episodes 2-17). It was glorious. I hate how Logan and Veronica aren't in love right now. I was all swoony teenaged girl when they finally hooked up during the last few episodes of season two. Now I have to suffer through Duncan, who is so damn bland. Good thing he goes and kidnaps his dead girlfriend's baby and runs away. Thank you, Duncan!

Ho hum. Now I am back at work. Missing a day did nothing to alleviate the boredom around here.

On Monday I was very pissy with work. Or rather, with my boss and her complete inability to deal with difficult situations; therefore exacerbating the problems. Sure, she is open for to me telling her all my thoughts, but she doesn't act on any of them, even when they are completely legitimate. Like how she agreed to let Twit work from home until her surgery. That was fine when her surgery was supposed to be during the week she was working from home, but her surgery got moved. She is now working from home 3.75 weeks. Lucky her.

Deciding it was time for a "Crucial Conversation" with my boss, I went to her, did my best to get her to look at me for maximum attention (she gets easily distracted) and told her that I was bothered by the Twit situation, and I didn't want to talk about it until I could suss out if it was more than pettiness. And it came down to the fact that she is administrative support, and can only do a small number of tasks from home, and leaving me to do all her priority responsibilities for her. She is not convalescing yet--she is taking advantage of a situation. She chooses to do tasks that she is not even assigned, and goes to other buildings to ostensibly help them with work, but she won't come here to do her "real" job. I feel it is wrong that there is this expectation that I do her work when she could easily be doing it herself right now.

My boss gave a vague look, and said some vague words of sympathy for Twit, and that yes, she thinks the situation is being exploited but there isn't really anything she can do about it now. NO? Really? You can't call her up and say hey, this isn't what I actually had in mind. Please come back to work and do your job until you have to go out on leave. Her FMLA doesn't even excuse her until August 12th. My boss had NOTHING.

Though, she did mention Twit's abusive relationship with her baby daddy (I do not ask for details, because it is none of my business and absolutely aggrieved me that my boss feels this stuff is even appropriate to bring up with me). That Twit still wants to leave him (she's been saying this since March of 2009 when she started here), and that my boss feels it just isn't doable considering Twit has a newborn and is getting a double mastectomy.

So, what did the lady choose to say to me? Not, thank you Grumples, I really appreciate you filling in during this completely unfair, sucky situation. Not, hey, I know this is problematic, and I promise to make it up to you at some point with admin leave or something. No. She says this, "I was thinking that I have room for her and the baby..." Eliciting a blank stare from me, trying to think where Twit would work in the office with the baby. "Room in my house for her..." My face must have told her to SHUT THE FUCK UP! I will start looking for a job immediately if Twit moves in with my boss. Un-fucking-accepatable.

See why I had to stay home yesterday? Fucking bend over backward for a dumb bitch who makes the shittiest life decisions and who sucks at her job and in the end just has me do it for her. Sure, keep telling me how you will talk to he about the problems in her work, the fines that she has caused our company to pay, and then keep not doing that at all. Don't give her the reviews she is supposed to get. Twit has no idea that she sucks because my boss can't bring herself to tell her. You know, because she's 43 and has a baby. And now she has breast cancer.

Having cancer sucks. I know that. I have gone through breast cancer with people. I fully know what that means. Yet, she sucked before this; she sucked before she was pregnant; she has sucked since day one. I have talked with my therapist and Fink-Nottle about this, about how untouchable she is and how I feel like I am expected to just suck it up and deal because Twit has cancer. Both pointed out that I can feel empathy toward her having cancer, but not her as an employee. And that is the best I can do. I am going to cover her job because there is no one else to do it--it is easy, not time-consuming for the most part, and there really isn't reason for me not to do it other than the complete violation of equality among employees.

Must think of the positive, the best positive there is: She is not here. She is not here fucking opening her piehole every two seconds. That is a relief. There isn't even a return date scheduled. I'm willing to bet she won't be back in the office until December or even January. Because really, do we really think my boss will make her come back in, or will she always be in a state of recovery and allowed to work from home on these minor projects for a different group who she wasn't hired to assist and for Ex-Cop (also not hired as his assistant)?

Grrr.

Therefore, calling in sick yesterday totally made me feel better in a passive-aggressive way.