So She Shall Be Named

Driving home from the Guided by Voices show, the opening notes of The Smiths "How Soon is Now" came tinnily out of my car stereo. It made me think of that time in the '90s where you never knew if it was really going to be The Smiths, or if it was a terrible trick where you'd spend the next few minutes cursing, shaking your first in the air and saying damn you "Hippy Chick." Then you'd find yourself in the unfortunate position if actually humming "Hippy Chick" to yourself. Fuck I hated the 90s.

All I'm going to say about GBV is they definitely did not blow my mind. I'm so very glad I have an iPhone and several games of Words With Friends going.

I've been saying silly things today--they just erupt out of me without thinking first. One of those things was "nautical items of novelty" (I swear it was apropos to to the convo at the time). It occurred to me the perfect name for my new, young friend is Nautical. She's a bit naughty, a bit sex-kitten mermaid, and I like the idea of her being a bit of seaside whimsy.

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Gratutious Pics of (Some of) My Children

Seems the Pavement show was very excellent according to the boys.  Tomorrow night I'll be at Guided by Voices where I am assured my life as I know it will be changed forever.  Considering I'm not really all that familiar with their discography, and I don't plan on drinking, I have a bit of skepticism toward that assertion.

There is something stuck in my left pointer finger.  It feels like a shard of glass, but I have not been mosaicing.  Though, I really need to start making that happen.  Soon. I have ideas, and I'm just about ready to put them in to action.  The weather is changing.  It's almost cold when the sun goes down. The garage is calling out to me, and I am running out of reasons to deny him.

After the sun set, I went outside to grab ET, and heard a lot of rustling and saw a blurry body hurtling up the tree.  At first I feared one of the kittens had gotten his first taste of freedom.  After a quick check inside, all cats were accounted for, so I grabbed the camera and started taking pictures of my new backyard friend.  I couldn't see a damn thing--I just shot blindly at the tree.  I've decided he is a monkey-possum.  Look at those lovely orange patches and his black ears.  And his strangely pinky, genital-looking nose.

I hadn't downloaded the camera's pictures in a long time, and The Boy has taken some amazing pictures of the cats.  Working from home has so many advantages.  I obviously hate him.  Horchata is absolutely in love with him, and won't tolerate sitting on my lap (except when I'm on the toilet--damn perv), and will get up and walk over to The Boy and flop down on his legs.  Asshole.  P1 puts up with me, but you can tell he'd rather have his daddy petting him.  Ahem.  Yes, many pictures of cats (sadly The Bear and Whoopis are under represented).  Enjoy!

Intimate, Inappropriate Details

While both my boys are at the Pavement show, I held a little Red Dwarf party at my house, which was equal parts eating, chatting and Red Dwarf.  A very successful evening.  I'm full of H's stew, and chips and crackers.  It's just terrible what I do to myself when I have people over for fun times.  Sure we only made it through two episodes, but we committed to doing this again next Tuesday.  My young friend I met at H's party Saturday, was just as lovely tonight--though, I should stop pointing out how young she is, because I recall all too painfully how insulting and demeaning I found those sort of comments when I was 22; as if someone who is 35 had these really big, important life experiences that they thought I had not been through, and that wasn't true.  She probably has a lot to tell me, and things to teach me, and her own dark matters that are different from mine, and a mystery to me.  She's also going to the Guided by Voices show on Thursday, so we obviously travel in the same tight circles.  Obviously.

Today did not start as swell as it ended, but I think I successfully made up for all that tiredness.  CSP described my conversation with him this morning as "whiny."  Gah.  I just wasn't in a good place, and I should have listened to that high-pitch eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee in my voice.  Grrr.  Then I found myself in a heavy conversation with a friend, and while I don't regret a single word I said, I do regret my poor choice of timing, and doing it over IM.  I should have been there to look him in the eye, give hugs and squeeze his thigh.  I need him to know I love him very much, and everything I said was because of that love. 

I also offered to give C&L a ride home from the airport.  They have just spent the last three weeks in Europe, and common sense tells me I should hate them for that.  Yet, I'm happy for them, and therefore gladly offered to bring them home.  Of course they missed their flight while hanging out in customs, and I had to shift plans around to accommodate the change in schedule.  This ended up being okay because I made an abbreviated grocery trip, which was a relief because I hate that damn place.  Since I had no idea how much luggage they had with them, I thought it was better not to fill up the car with all the bullshit we haven't bought in months but really really need (like laundry detergent!).

At the grocery store, the women in front of me at the check-in line, told the cashier, "Don't worry, I don't have hemorrhoids anymore!"  The cashier was very polite upon learning such news.  Unfortunately, all I had to follow that up with was, "May I please have a sticker to place over this hole in the litter bag?"  I'm just not good at sharing those intimate, inappropriate details about myself.  Or at least not in person.  Hello, internet!



Perhaps my allergies won't be as cruel tomorrow, and I'll be able to get out of bed in a timely manner, and feel good about myself.  Who knows.  Please just say I won't be such a whiny, crybaby.

Best news today?  Peelander-Z has a show in town next Thursday.  Must be there to lust after the drummer.  Yum.

Please Leave It in the 1980s

Wikus' last words (approximation) to me this morning, a bit after 2am, "eating now would cause weird farts while sleeping."  We probably both went home and had some food--I don't recall any weird farts, but then again I took Ambien at 3:30am and was passed out for quite some time.  I ended up on the couch due to the most obnoxious assholes who live in the house behind us, who thought starting up band practice at 3am was a fantastic idea.  They are very fond of their amp, bass and drums.  It seems ever so louder in the bedroom, thus I took to the couch, got 11 minutes in to "The Guild," and off I went.  The Boy corralled me back to bed around 7am, but my memory of that moment is hazy. 

My friends H&J had a very successful house-warming party last night welcoming J to the fold.  It was a Prohibition party (in that we are against it, so it was more of a Speakeasy party).  I rarely go for a costume party, but my face and body are well-suited for the 1920s, so it was actually enjoyable getting pretty for the night.  Ends up, it had morphed in to a 20th century party, so there were a lot of different styles of dress (including J in acid-washed gray jeans that just made me feel uncomfortable, and compelling Wikus to observe if you were old enough to have lived through acid-washed jeans the first time, you should know better than to do it a second time). 

This party had 19-year-olds at it.  When did I become 16 years older than kids at a party?  Even this very nice young lady I and met and immediately befriended on FB is in her very early 20s (and was a luscious in her 1940s garb).  People were making out on the couch.  I don't even know the last time I was at a party where people were that drunk and open with their lust.  At what age do we start sneaking off to do our dirty business in private versus putting on a humping, open-mouthed groping show in full display of all guests?

The party yielded plans for a Red Dwarf viewing part on Tuesday, and a Quelf night on Friday.  Then there is always Guided by Voices on Thursday.  I should probably go to sleep now and wake up on Tuesday afternoon to find the energy for all that.  Sadly, I have to do timesheets in the morning, and people seem to expect to get paid, so it isn't something I can actually skip.  Lame.

Vocab Sunday

• philtrum
• frenulum
• slimikin
• prandicle
• jecorory
• aquabib
• somandric

One word for each day of the week.  Please use one in a sentence every hour.   Make your coworkers hate you.  When I was a kid, I lost control of my bike on a downhill driveway and split my upper-lip frenulum when my face smashed in to a pine tree.  It was not pleasant.  That's my one sentence for this hour.  It's also a completely true story.

Not Showing My Tits for a Free Drink

Oh, yesterday, how fucked up you were.  It was an extreme mix of good and bad.  As a result of yesterday's fiasco of mind-breaks, I decided to dial down my Celexa back to 60mg.  If that doesn't make my mind act better, then I am at a loss of what else to do with myself. 

I finished a large project at work right at the last minute (I actually had permission to turn it in on Monday or Tuesday, but I was damn committed to getting that fucker done on time).  There was a group lunch to recognize our "hard work" over the year, and I got eight hours of recognition leave (must spend that day drunk).  Had some awesome cheesy goodness and some doable coworker small talk.  I never turned on the lights on my side of the office, and Ex-cop was only around for maybe an hour--the rest of the day was spent totally by myself.  I rocked out to my music (singing, ass bouncing, etc.).  That kind of day is just unheard of for me.

Then it all kind of went wrong for a bit.  My taillights stopped working, I lost my security badge, and the worse, oh fucking man, the worse.  I went to get some beer for CSP and me, ordered it, made fun chats with the bartender ("Hell no that pale ale isn't for me!"), avoided looking at the creepy dude sitting near the bar who kept making eyes at me, started grabbing my card from my pocket to pay for the beers, and I didn't have it!  No, I had nothing.  No driver's license, no card, no cash.  I vaguely remembered putting these items back in my wallet at work.  Then dropping my bag off in the car. 

I had just ordered beer and had no way to pay for it!  Mortifying.  Humiliating.  Shameful.  CSP had to pay for it, and that was so not my plan.  I swear it was not my plan to get free drinks by pretending to be that ditzy girl who just happened to forget her money.  I generally don't have to go through such machinations to get a free drink; I can usually just get away with, "Hey, buy me a drink, please!"  If I did have to convince someone to get me a drink, I'd prefer to show my breast than pretending to be a total idiot.  Poor CSP didn't get to see my tits, and had to pay for my drink.  All I can say for the zillionth time, I am so damn sorry.

The badge turned up and my taillights are magically working (I take this to mean my car is more sentient than I give it credit for since it was desperate for an oil change, tire rotation and air-pressure check, and having no taillights certainly did get me to the garage to do all that).  I even found $2 to give to CSP.  Must find more cash. I even saw a rainbow. 

Hooray for it all ending well.

Check Another Off the List

How did premiere week of television sneak up on me?  I really had no idea it was here until Monday night.  I had to scramble to get my DVR configured (we got a new one over the summer, so didn't have our regular recording schedule programmed).  I missed half of House, but Fink-Nottle tells me it was meh.  I'm currently watching Bones and am guessing I'm going to laugh at how ridiculous squared it has become.  Yet I still watch.  Judge as you will.

Last night was amazing.  Sweaty and amazing.  The Pixies show was sold out, which means there were 3,000 people swimming in a miasma of spilt beer, noxious body odors, marijuana, dry ice, and god knows what else.  My skin was absolutely slick, and I'm pretty sure my red leather boots had permanently melded to my legs.  Yet, the Pixies were on stage and they actually looked happy to be up there.  They were faking friendship pretty well, or at least not letting personal acrimony get in the way of rock.  Kim talked a lot, but I have no idea what she was saying.  It appeared that she thought she was telling hilarious jokes.   She mugged a lot for the crowd.  It is unbelievable to me how soft her voice still is.  Frank can still bellow something fierce, and Joey looks like he's been lifting weights.  David looks like a square middle-age man who worked in middle-management at an insurance firm.  Wikus pointed out that David always looked old.  The dude is a magician, so I guess his look is really not that surprising. 

They put on a loud, amazing show.  I knew all the songs (which kind of sounds weird to me, because generally there are at least one or two songs that bands do on stage that are more for them than the audience--the Pixies were obviously playing this totally for the audience).  At times I was completely distracted by all the people around me, how so many of them talked (rather shouted) through the whole show.  The constant moving and shifting of the crowd made me a bit dizzy.  For the most part I could not see the band--I am too short to enjoy visuals in a crowded place.  Watching them didn't really matter, since the lights and dry ice kept them pretty obscured.  It was about the music after all. 

After seeing them at ACL a few years ago where they did the fastest, rushed gig and sounded like shit and seemed to hate being anywhere near each other, I was a bit worried.  However, they owned that show.  Thank you Boy for that lovely gift.
__________________________________________________________________

Look, this is how we found Horchata sleeping this afternoon.

Glee in the Rosemary Bushes

Normally I'm so busy bitching about work to actually do any work, but this week is the week of deadlines.  Agonizing work in that it is so boring and hard on the eyes, that I just want to throw myself off the roof of the parking garage.  Then there's all that shit I have to do while Twit is on leave (seems she was originally going to come back to work this week, but the shocker is that didn't! No return date given--it's too bad I didn't make bets on how long she'd be out of the office). 

Tomorrow The Boy, Wikus and I are going to see the Pixies.  They are also playing tonight, but to be clear, they did that douchy thing where they add a second date to play the night before the original date that all of us scrambled to get tickets for.  So all those people who weren't fast enough to get tickets, get the pleasure of seeing the band first.  I have problems with this.  It disrupts my sense of what is right and wrong.

Also, it seems Wikus didn't even know he was going.  The Boy and him had worked out some exchange where Wikus helps The Boy with some guitar pedals (building them from scratch), and The Boy would pay with a ticket to the Pixies.  Wikus claims to have only turned a "trimpot" and didn't realize that his debt was paid.  I told him he's going and to shut up.  It's a free ticket--who cares if he did the tiniest smidge of work to get it.

This afternoon there was a chance of seeing CSP for a moment or two, but it got late, and he didn't show, and I left to drive home in the rain (yes, I see myself as too cool to wait; or rather, perhaps, too insecure to actually sit waiting for anyone when I'm not 100% sure that person is actually going to show).  Ends up he was gabbing with some lady on the fifth floor about "baby gender parties" and "daddy diaper parties."  Or was that "daddy dirty diaper parties?"  I was too appalled to be paying close attention.  There was a lot of "EXCUSE ME?" coming out of my mouth (all this was relayed to me via phone).

Apparently, people have a party just to reveal the gender of their baby to their friends and family.  I feel he must be lying to me.  It just sounds so ridiculous.  There was something about a cake where the middle layer of icing is pink or blue, and that everyone shouts with joy at finding out...finally...the gender of that damn baby.  What do they do in the case of boy-girl twins?  Or multiples in general?  What do they do if what the technician thought was a cheeseburger was just an ample butt cheek hiding the willy?  Is it not enough to just have a fucking baby shower?  Now we have to get excited over the gender of your baby to the extent that we must attend a surprise party to find out if the baby is going to have a winky or not?

The daddy diaper party is as sexist as it sounds.  Those pathetic men, look how funny they are not knowing how to handle babies and their excrement.  Therefore, let's all gather together and make them sniff at melted candy bars in diapers.  It's so realistic and fun.  Babies poop candy!  Candy with nuts and nougat.  Tasty.  Who participates in this bullshit?  Erm, yes, if any of my friends have done something like this, please know I'm just trying to understand the appeal.  Why debase the fathers like that?  I'm pretty confident there are plenty of men who are way more capable of changing a diaper than I am.  And they certainly wouldn't confuse chocolate with shit. 

Side note: What songs are these on Glee?  Is this a sign of me being seriously out of touch with today's music?  DOES THIS MEAN I'M OLD?

Now that CSP has enlightened me on how awesome having a baby is, I'm totally upset that I severed my Fallopian tubes.  I am such an idiot.  Is there anyway I can throw one of these parties by faking a pregnancy? I want a Baby Ruth in a diaper!

That CSP ruining my life like that.  Well, so all of you know, I have it on good authority that he goes around picking rosemary out of people's yard.  That sounds innocent enough, being that rosemary grows easily and no one will miss a sprig here and there.  However, picking rosemary is a euphemism.  He is totally standing in rosemary bushes with his pants around his ankles.  Just so you know.

Where to Go From Here

There's a manager at work whom I quite like.  There are actually more than one manager who is pretty damn cool there, but there's a particular one who trusts me and calls me for advice.  Of course that flatters me.  It's like I am somehow important.  Those kind of lies make my job a smidge less tedious.

The other day he came by my desk to drop off some paperwork and he got to chatting.  Often, I'm not really paying attention.  I like him, but he has a wife, kids, middle-aged man problems, nothing really exciting for me to truly listen.  This time he said something about how he thought he was going to spend his whole life in Texas, and now he's not so sure.  I'm thinking who would want to spend his whole life in Texas, but that is generally just my response around here.  Thus, it was a curious thing for him to say.  It didn't take much prodding to get him to tell me why.  Now I don't like him so much.

Manager: I don't like where Texas is heading.
Grumples: Hmmm?  Where's it going?
Manager: I wouldn't say this to just anyone, but I feel I can be honest with you.
Grumples: ... (blink, blink)
Manager: Texas is turning in to Mexico.

This led to me being a bit baffled and gently entering in to a debate on what the fuck was he talking about.  We didn't get too far.  He had this wistful look in his eye, like he missed being 9 years old and playing cowboys and Indians with his school chums in the vast dusty fields of Texas.  Now it is swarming with all those damn Mexicans!  Lousy with Mexicans.  It's not like he said anything like that, but it was there.  Mexico eating Texas up and shitting it out as a mostly Mexico substance.  The horrors!

It is something I can't understand.  There are so much politics surrounding whether Mexicans should or should not be here, legally or illegally.  Much like everything else I believe, if you shove all the bullshit out of the way, you're left with people.  Just people.  Humans.  Needing food, shelter, companionship.  The primal part of the brain insisting on living, and doing anything to keep the heart beating.  Crossing invisible borders means nothing to that dark drive.  I innately respect that. I've had to do a lot of that myself in life.

It sounds so naive, I know.  Of course there are practical problems, but it never seems to be about the logistics and more about not wanting them here.  Do Canadians get this much shit in the northern states?  I don't recall Alaskans complaining about all those damn Canucks coming over to pop out babies and live tax-free.  I was young then, perhaps it happened all the time. 

Wikus and I lived in San Diego for a very short period of time.  There was so much there for us to hate.  It was a miserable seven months.  Yes, seven months.  That is all we could stand, and we're both individuals who put up with a lot of crap before quitting. 

Day after day I traveled the train north to work.  I joined throngs of Hispanics making the same commute, getting on in Tijuana and stepping off at various stops in San Diego.  They talked the same boring talk that manager of mine talks.  Boring jobs, stress, children, neighbors, work, lovers.  They were quiet and polite.  They generally kept their eyes down and ducked their heads when they laughed.  Spending the past five years in Boston traveling the T, I wasn't prepared for such solemnity.  They mainly deboarded at stops where there were hotels and large office buildings.  They were the maids and janitors, public works like sewage and pipes, lawn and pest services.  The grunts.  The worker bees.  Dirty hands and dirty knees.  They came up from Mexico to clean our toilets and dump out our trash.  To work in all weather conditions with little pay and no benefits.  No one around me at work and in malls complained about them being employed in those jobs--about them taking jobs that hard-working Americans should have.  It was okay for them to work for us, just not live among us.  Their attitude on the train was the same at their jobs.  Quiet obsequiousness.  It was sickening, disheartening.  All the while aging rich white people ran around the city in their plush track suit with a multitude of gold necklaces hanging off of tanned wrinkled necks.  Saying hateful racist things snappily to one another in cafes and office hallways.  Like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

And here I am in Texas sitting with someone I like who's telling me he doesn't like where Texas is heading.  Neither do I buddy.  It's even more depressing that he obviously thought I would agree with what he was saying.  He knew he couldn't say what he thought to just anyone, but he trusted me with it.  Why?

Today I am wearing a shirt Frijole sent me, "No human being is illegal."  It is written three times.  First in Spanish, then in Farsi and lastly in English.  I like the smiles it can illicit. 

Addendum & Other Items

I forgot two very important items on yesterday's list. 

Between psychiatrist and hanging with boy, I cut my hair and dyed it black (a soft black, not a gothic jet black).  This all came about from the wig fun time.  I never knew how good I would look with black hair.  Now I know.  Since I had such a bad haircut when Frijole was in town, I figured I couldn't make it any worse.  It came our really well actually.  I'm proud.

Oh, call with Frijole should be added between psychiatrist and hang with boy.  How could I make these mistakes?  I'm blaming the 25% increase in Celexa.  I apologize.

Currently I am full of food and a Heath Bar Blizzard.  Life is good this evening.  The day was very stressful and full of bouts of hot anger.  Now I'm going to watch the last episode of season three of Skins.  And play with The Boy.  Yay, boy! 

Sarcastic Moistness

Whew. Hot damn, I've been absent for awhile.  I apologize.

The weekend was a blur of activity.  At this point, I wouldn't be able to do it justice by writing about it.  How about a short list instead?

• tapas (damn, what was the name of that place?)
• Drinking
• Metropolis
• Drinking
• Rain
• Drinking
• Drinking
• Oilcan Harry's
• Drinking
• Some other bar, name of which I was too drunk to understand what the boys were saying
• Drinking
• Magnolia's
• Drag Queen Brunch at M2
• Shopping for wigs
• Wig party at some tiny salon
• work
• psychiatrist*
• hang with boy
• work
• stress 
• stress
• stress
• Dining for Life 2010 at Sago
• terrible sleep
• fucked-up alarm clock
• stress
• class on FILING**
• work
• stress
• stress
• stress
• meeting
• decompress by blogging

How's that?  Most of the "fun" stuff was with Guamaniac.  He has a deep well of energy that I can barely tap in to.  I don't know how he does it.  From something Wikus said, I'm pretty sure Guamaniac is at the  movies tonight.  Stamina! 

* It's a new lady, and she seems very disturbed by the fact that I can practically fall asleep anywhere and any situation, but am completely unable to stay asleep, and thus I nap all the time.  Therefore she wants me to start taking Ambien.  I am very skeptical of this.  Why?  Because I can barely get out of bed as is, what the fuck am I going to do when I'm on some crazy-ass sleeping pill?  I haven't even filled the prescription yet.  I felt that it would probably be best to take it Friday night.

**Please prepare yourself for a rant: I wish I could explain why the fuck I was in this class in the first place, but I cannot.  The only thing positive I can say is I was flanked by CSP and EM.  Filing!  A 2-hour class on how to file.  It was pretty much what one would expect...if it was 1980.  I had to sit and listen to this old lady sing the praises of paper.  She was wet for paper.  Her panties were damp at the thought of file cabinets.  What makes her quake with fear at night, leaving her in a cold sweat?  It's such a dirty thing to say, I can't believe I am going to type this--I'll type it in a small font so it will seem less offensive: technology.  She only trusts microfilm--told us how it was still the favorite archival medium.  Those electronic files are just not safe.  Nor cheap!  Technology is always advancing, and it takes time and money to transfer all those old files over to the new medium.  Paper is timeless!  All those filing systems that are so difficult to transfer over to electronic files...oh, wait.  What's that?  Why can't I?  WHAT THE FUCK IS SHE TALKING ABOUT?  I was forced to actually write on the class evaluation the National Archives and Records Administration's website, so she can reference, when ever she can have someone print it out for her, that they are SCANNING their archives.  Gasp!  Say it isn't so.  Sacrilege.  Who will keep those microfilm people in business now? 

Obviously, when I got back to work, I printed out every email, and started a new filing system just for my paper emails.  It was glorious.  It felt so right.

My panties got wet.

A Matter of Busy and Tired

I have not died.  I've just been really busy, which then makes me very sleepy.  Perhaps tomorrow I can make some time to babble on here.

Where's My Golden Fembot Outfit?

Last night I dreamed that I rocked some serious Betty Page bangs.  Which is completely laughable on so many levels.  I blamed the twins on the 3rd season of Skins for putting the idea in my head.  The other night I dreamed that I made the humiliating mistake of answering the phone at work by saying, "I love you," instead of my normal business-like greeting (which, I get made fun on nonstop for having a professional phone greeting instead of the terse, "This is Grumples.").  If I was a braver person, I would dare myself to spend a whole day answering the phone at work with a statement of love.  Not even a "Hello! I love you."  Just a "I love you."  Statement.  Fact. Love.

Yesterday was a bit of a mental-health fail, but with some wonderful support from JM, and half a Klonopin, I managed to make it through the day.  Many things culminated at the same time and left me in a state of insane anxiety that made no logical sense.  I was practically ready to pass out at one point.  That or vomit in my lap and cry in shame.  The 3-hour meeting in the afternoon would have been unbearable if CSP wasn't there.  Though, he probably thinks I'm a total crazy dingnut, he managed to put up with my insanity (though, I'm probably not giving him enough credit--he may actually understand more than I could possibly know, and I should appreciate that). 

Beside the horror of seeing a whole room of adults willingly doing calisthenics as part of some hackneyed idea to motivate us (my butt didn't leave the chair, and I had to punch CSP on the ass for his flagrant excitement of attempting to touch his toes), I did manage to walk away with a Mexican plum tree sampling.  How that came to be, I really can't explain, but that's the kind of thing that does motivate me--free trees!  Afterward, CSP and I spent a sweaty hour walking through the botanical gardens, which I expected the flowers to be pulverized by the rains we got this week, but were their normal near-death selves from the summer heat.  Some margaritas at Chuy's and then I was home before 7pm, my anxiety completely gone, but I was drained.  Adrenaline is very hard on the body, especially when there was no reason to be full of it in the first place.  I was in bed by 9pm. 

Which has left me well-rested for my very exciting evening.  Dinner, drinks and Metropolis at the defunct Seaholm Power Plant with Guamaniac.  The perfect art-deco place to see an art-deco 1920's movie's idea of the future.  I love Metropolis so fucking much.  Thank you high-school German teacher for being so fucking awesome.  Tonight's performance is being scored by the Golden Hornet Project, which I'm sure will be a fucking great treat.  Though, honestly, I will be spending some of the time comparing their performance to the Alloy Orchestra's in Boston.  If you are in Boston, and you see Metropolis playing with the Alloy Orchestra doing the music, you must drop whatever you are doing and go see them.  I promise, you will not regret my advice.

The Boy neglected to get a comp ticket, and is seeing the dress rehearsal right now as a consolatory prize. Therefore, he is forced to have a night alone.  I'm sure it will just be terrible for him with all that free time to watch movies, play video games, muck around in his studio, etc.  I'm sure he'll just miss me painfully.  Such a cutie.

My One True Love is Benadryl

It rained over 10" the other night.  Leaving me in a state of death by mold.  Funny how Austin always freaks out over hurricanes that  never manifest, and a tropical storm comes and slaps us up side the head.  There's plenty of water in the stores, for fuck's sake--that's how you know we were unprepared.  I spent yesterday in bed groaning, "I'm blind, I'm blind!"  Blinded by mucus.  I took so many Benadryls that I'm surprised that my liver is still functioning.

Thus I don't have much to report.  We started the third season of Skins with its new cast.  I want to make out with that show.  I know Laroux, Wikus and The Boy agree with me.  We'll have a group orgy with the television.  It will be terribly filthy fun.

Tonight, while The Boy is recording, I am doing my normal watch a horrible romance movie and browse around online.  It's going well so far.  Mattress and Horchata are snuggling.  I am all alone.  Sigh.  It seems that these damn kittens only like The Boy.  Those bastards.  Don't they realize I am the whole reason they are in this house getting an obscene amount of love?

How about a dialogue between Ex-Cop and me?

Ex-Cop: Hi.  Are you in a good mood today?
Grumples: I'm sick, wasn't here yesterday, and have a lot to catch up on.
Ex-Cop: Well, okay, but that doesn't tell me if you're in a good mood.
Grumples: Yes, I was anticipating what you were going to ask after I answered if I was in a good mood, and my answer still is I am busy.
Ex-Cop: You got me.
Grumples: I'm in a bad mood.
Ex-Cop: I need this scanned.
Grumples: Too bad you didn't take notes the last time I showed you how to scan.
Ex-Cop: I took notes.
Grumples: Uh huh.
Ex-Cop: They're in my head.
Grumples: Obviously not since you are standing here asking me to scan something.
Ex-Cop: (gets angry and stomps off)

**Later**

Ex-Cop: Do I give this packet to you?

Grumples: No, you scan it and email it to me.

Ex-Cop: I don't want to scan it.

Grumples: That's too bad since I do not accept paper, and the policy is for it to be scanned.

Ex-Cop: (gets angry and stomps off)

My therapist has advised me to start standing up for myself more when at work, and who better to start with than Ex-Cop trying to treat me as his personal slavebuttmonkey?

The day was a bit brighter when CSP swung by.  It's always nice to see him.  Though, I forgot to give him the Magnetic Fields cd I had made for him.  Blame my damn allergies for having me completely lost right now.   Therefore, yes, my post is all over the place.  I apologize.  Does a melting liver cause psychosis?

Sex Orgasm Survey for Labor Day

The bottom of an Amazon box I broke down for recycling had an inventory tracking sticker that said, "NO READ."  Was it a simple coincidence of random letters coming together for an unfortunate sentence on a box that carried books, or is someone trying to tell the public something?

Most of my day has been spent telling myself that after X activity, I will get up and clean.  I missed Frijole's weekly call due to a 2.5-hour nap, and then, out of guilt, I finally dragged myself out of bed (but my face was so comfortable under that pillow), and cleaned.  It took less than an hour.

ET had a gigantic poop today.  A lovely, gut-cleansing poop.  It was the perfect consistency.  He seemed quite happy, and I let him wander around the yard eating the leaves of weeds as a reward for his efforts.  That made my tender, loving care of him yesterday even more worthwhile.  I will glad pull poop out of his ass daily if it kept him well.
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I stumbled across this website today.  I'm not sure how I got there, but its pink, splashiness had me stay a bit longer than I normally would when landing on a site by accident.  The way the site looks kind of makes my eyes explode, but it is worth a scroll through for the links.  There are a couple of nice graphics detailing different sexually-related facts of the American public.  However, I cannot find the exact source of the information.  One of the graphics does have "American Sex Survey Abcnews.com, Kinsey Institute," but plugging that in to Google comes up with many things, but not these exact graphics.  So, take that as you will.  The other graphic seems to come from The National Orgasm Survey, which (obviously) looks fascinating.  I'm taking the survey right now.  It appears I am pretty normal compared to the other survey takers.

There's nothing really shocking about the information in these graphics.  I'm a little skeptical about how it says that 70% of men think about sex daily, but only 34% of women do.  I don't know these women.  Most of my lady friends think of sex daily (whether in a positive or negative way, it's still being thought about).  A rather sad statistic is that only 27% of men and 19% of women have had oral sex in the last year (and does that include receiving and giving or just one or the other?).

For my age group (30-39), I should be having sex 71.9 times a year.  The Boy is going to start nagging me if he reads that one.  Maybe I should set up a calendar reminder to be sure to hit that stat.  It states the average American has 13.5 sexual partners during their adult life--with men having 20.8, and women having 6.3.  Yes! I'm a total overachiever for both genders.  Ha.  I knew I'd win at some point during this survey.  Oh, it's not a contest?  I'm apologize.  But, I still win...right?

Then on to the female orgasm--75% of women need clitoral stimulation, and are unable to achieve orgasm through intercourse alone.  No shit.  It is sad that this still has to be repeated every three seconds, but it's good that it is, since I cannot count how many men and women I have talked to who don't seem to know that.  Women sit around worrying something is wrong with them, and men are just blithely ignorant. It doesn't help that women, in thinking something is wrong with them, spend more time faking orgasms than showing a partner how to make it happen.

I've been guilty of that.  I spent a lot of time faking orgasms as a teenager and in college.  I'm sure there are plenty of people out there who are totally proud of their prowess in their getting-Grumples-off talent.  So not true!  Most of the time I faked it just so it could end already, because goodness, it is so tiring to keep getting pounded and prodded by clumsy lovers.  That was bad for me, and for them too, since I sent them off to other partners who probably suffered from their lack of skills as well.

At some point, I finally realized that I was going to have more fun, if I stopped with the charade of orgasm, and actually helped my partner to work with me.  Sex has been much better since that point. I recommend this attitude.  I shake my head at all those poor people out there who think they are doing a great job and so aren't.  I'd rather know I'm not doing it right for someone, then find out later that I totally was not.  Ugh.

Only once have I had an orgasm during penetrative penis-vaginal sex.  Once!  And it wasn't a good one.  It totally fizzed out as I peaked.  Lame.  Which is to say that I have had much more enjoyable orgasms, and don't worry about how I can't seem to make it happen with penetrative penis-vaginal sex.  Instead of constantly working toward something my body has a hard time achieving, it is better to go with what I know will work almost 100% of the time.

Who wants to go have sex now?  Let's do it!

Abalam Gutch, Our Demon Baby

Accidentally went to bed with my contacts in last night (or, um, 3am, since I stayed up to finish Mockingjay).  This was a startling find when I woke up--startling in that I was freaking out that I could see clearly.  A miracle had happened in six hours and I woke up with 20/20 vision.  Well, maybe not 20/20 since my eyes were a bit glued together, which should have been my second clue that I had my contacts in and that no miracle had occurred.  I could see the wonderful day out side the window, and to my dismay, the horrible messy room (mostly my fault).  At some point I started paying attention to how my actual eyes felt, and realized that this gooey miracle was just me being stupid.  That my eyes are still at -5.5, and now very red and sad. 

I left my contacts in when I got up, because I'm lazy like that and will suffer for beauty at home, alone, pulling shit out of ET's butt in the backyard.  Yes, I haven't mentioned it due to the horrible stress of it, and wishing that silence would make it not exist, but ET has been constipated for over a week now.  Maybe two weeks.  I need to keep a chart of how often he poos, so I won't be guessing like that.  We were really starting to fret and were talking about getting x-rays, but then this morning, when I finally dragged my crusty-eyed, tired body out of bed, I saw a poo sticking out of his ass.  He was totally working it out, lifting his back legs so his body was very far off the ground while lowering his front legs so his fact was in a pile of hay.  He strained, he farted, he ate hay to pass the time.  I finally took him outside and just pulled that poo right out of him.  It was the width of my finger and 5-6" long.  All hay and grass, so it is none of the old stuff still in him.  It wasn't particular hard, but not very soft either.  It was pretty much like one of the cats' hairballs. 

To reward him for being such a good patient, I let him wander around the backyard, feeding freely on our grass that has to be at least a foot long and dead.  It is a perfect 85 outside.  It was very pleasant to sit out there and watch him walk around happily munching on bits of leaves and grasses.  Next up was a bath in hopes to relax his cloaca from all that poo pulling I did, and to see if anymore needed some softening to get out of him.  My guess is he's going to have bouts of constipation for the rest of his life, and the key as his mom is to figure out how often it happens and do some trial and error to see what will shorten the duration of it.

I pulled a poo from my tortoise's ass!  That's some seriously exciting stuff to add to my already jam-packed weekend.  In all seriousness, it has been a busy weekend.

Friday
Guamaniac had free tickets to a Cinemark movie theater.  He wanted to go see The Last Exorcism.  As much fun as it was to have him shriek a couple of times and fall into my shoulder like a well-muscled gay puddle, the movie sucked some serious hairy goat balls.  Though, it did leave us with some funny quotes for each other.  A new song has been born as well, where we try to spell Abalam to the Oscar Mayer wiener song.  Guamaniac just can't do it.  Our demon has a first name, it's A-B-A-L-A-M...(the "lam" part has to be spelled very quickly, which is fine if he stops calling our baby Ablamalam).

The theater was practically empty except for a group of seriously annoying teenage girls, whom Guamaniac had to tell more than one to shut the fuck up, except for he said it extremely politely, whereas I was about to say, "Tits Magee and friends, I am going to slap you about the face with the arms I tear off your bodies if you don't shut up already."  Then a couple came in late with a fucking newborn.  What the hell people?  You have a baby, you stay home.  You don't go to shitty horror movies and nurse that baby a mere three chairs away from me.  During the last half of the movie, the baby was getting a little fussy (because it was fucking shoved up against its mother's body being squashed to be quiet), and the mom left for a good 15 mins or so.  Then the husband left.  Then they both came back SANS BABY!

Where the fuck did they take that baby?  I found it really upsetting but didn't know what to do.  We followed them out after the movie, and my plan was to follow them to the car to see if that's where they stashed it.  Sadly, they went in to the ice cream store near the theater.  Ice cream is more important than a missing baby.  We finally gave up, and I looked in the paper yesterday morning but there was no news of a dead baby being found anywhere, so I guess it ended up fine.  I hope.

We hit up Charlie's next for $1 drinks and possible gay booty dancing.  That didn't happen considering I wasn't wasted and do not dance unless I am guaranteed not to remember it in the morning.  We ended the night stuffing our faces with McDonald's and watching a couple episodes of The Simpsons.  It was marvelous.  Got home at 2am.

Saturday
A day and night of Wikus.  He wanted to go see at the Alamo.  I stuffed my face with a hotdog and fries, and did my best to enjoy it while sitting in the fucking front row because we underestimated how popular this movie still was a few weeks after its release at a Saturday matinee.  It was better than Friday's movie, but nothing I'll be recommending to anyone.

That lovely salty meal left me in a state of stupor that a nap was required.  After spending some time struggling to wake and having a hard time putting Mockingjay down, I finally left the house, got Wikus and attended the Stereo Total at the Mohawk.  It was a pretty good show, except at the end when one asshole started mauling Francois Cactus' left ear.  His friends actually had to pull them off of her.  During the finale they pull people on stage to dance with them, and this is what she gets for it.  I was so angry, and felt terrible that she had to play it off like it was no big deal.  She was gracious even though when it was happening you could tell she wasn't pleased at all.  That is such crap, and no one should have to put up with that.  I wanted to kill him.  I was on the upper deck, so there was no way for me to get to him and yank his cock off his body.  I should have just dived down in to the audience and trusted that they would crowd surf me to him.  I am a coward.

Sunday
See above.  Tonight I'll be joining Emma's Mom and Whiskey to a horror-movie night.  They are kindly picking me up because there is no way I'll drive to a stranger's house.  What if I beat my friends there?  What the fuck would I do but go cry in the bathroom in terror?  Or sit there stiffly and act like I'm totally cool with knowing no one, and internally cursing my friends for not being there yet.

Between now and then, I plan to be as lazy as possible.  Starting now.

Penultimate

Grumples: Boy?

The Boy: Yes?

Grumples: You have a beautiful mouth.

The Boy: Ah, thanks, honey.

Grumples: I was in a meeting the other day staring at every one's mouth in an attempt to look like I was understanding the highly technical stuff they were discussing, and I realized that not a single person in there had a pretty mouth.  They either had completely average, nondescript mouths, or they had these sad thin lines for lips.

The Boy: ... (big goofy grin on face)

Grumples: Your lips are wonderful.  I love your lips.  You have the best mouth ever.

The Boy: Thanks, sweetie!

(Few moments of comfortable silence passes.)

Grumples: Okay, um, wait, I need to retract that.  Ian McCulloch actually wins for best mouth.  I'm sorry, but I have to be honest about that.

The Boy: He does have a very nice mouth.

Grumples: Is it okay if you come in second?

The Boy: Yes, that's fine.

It's Made of Real Fake Gold

The most amazing lightning is streaking from sky to ground, and I probably shouldn't even be sitting on the computer, nor watching tv (I'm watching Notes on a Scandal, which is just as excellent when The Boy, Guamaniac and I saw it in the theater).  Driving home from hanging out with Emma's Mom and her excellent roommate, Whiskey, the lightning lit up Mo-Pac, a bright white jagged stripe.  I get a bit freaked out by thunderstorms, and wanted to get home before the rain hit.  We're still waiting for that downpour.  I'll be both annoyed and happy if it doesn't storm.  Annoyed that I left EM's house for nothing, and happy that I don't have to sit for the next few hours stressing and worrying that the house will be flattened and the cats dead (ET always survives in my what-if weather fantasies).

I've been freaking out over natural disasters since 7th grade.  That earth science class really fucked over my brain.  Even though I had just spent two years living in Anchorage, I became obsessively scared of earthquakes.  In Texas.  I knew it was crazy, and that I had lived through earthquakes just fine, but still, knowing the mechanics of it, the plates shifting, the way they make mountains and crevices.  Oh, god, even now it makes me shake a bit to think of it.

Earthquakes don't bother me so much now (except when I'm visiting Frijole and San Fran, and really, just having her in San Francisco freaks me out on this mothering-protective level).  My main focus is tornadoes.  The worst weather always hits when The Boy is not home, and I'm left running around trying to round up cats, putting them in carriers, gaining substantial scratches, and bunking down in his studio (it has a mattress for sound-proofing against the window, so it seems like the best option).  The Boy is home tonight, and it looks like we're only going to get a lighting show.  I should be able to sleep well.
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A good portion of my day was devoted to taking care of personal business while on the clock, and silently yelling in rage at my laptop which was just refusing to burn a CD I had made for CSP.  I hadn't burned a disc in quite some time, and it seems when I installed Windows 7 that it totally fucked up iTunes on some level where it wouldn't recognize the driver.  Bastard--didn't even know who to yell at first: Microsoft, Dell, Apple, my shitty luck in life?  I had to uninstall iTunes then reinstall it.  Such a pain.  However, CD is burned but CSP was a no-show today (eh, it's the way it goes at work--he'll get it at some point, and he just better enjoy it, dammit). 

The best news is I received Mockingjay and Freedom in the mail today.  I'm currently reading three books, but I'm going to put them down and start Mockingjay tonight.  I can't help myself.  I'm just hoping I can put it down, and won't end up staying up all night and dragging my ass in to work tomorrow morning on no sleep.  It may happen--I generally don't have any self-control when it comes to books.

Grumple's Panty-Dropping Blog

Hung out with Wikus after work.  He wanted his sunblock back that he had left in the backseat of my car (I swear he was using it for the boat party--or, at least that is what he claims).  While there I sang Happy Birthday to Whoopis' sister (of course I sang it to Whoopis, as well, when I got home), and tiptoed around trying to get a glimpse of his other beasty.  No such luck there.  She's so pretty but I never get to see her.

Wikus entertained me, and told me how at work today they made a banner that said, "Uncle Buck's Panty-Droppin' Chili."  Since I am not really that familiar with the phrase "panty-dropping" (or the charming accented "panty-droppin'"), he had to explain to me what its usual context is.  Once I was enlightened, I asked an obvious question, "What the fuck could possibly be panty-dropping about chili?  Does that mean you crap your pants while eating it?  Because I don't understand how it could be used in a sexy sense."  Wikus agreed.  We then laughed a bit.  Then, because I am completely maniacal these days, I looked up Uncle Buck's (Wikus gave an east coast state for a reference point--otherwise I would have just gotten a lot of Uncle Buck the movie hits [which, incidentally, is one of Wikus' favorite movies]), and I found one restaurant in that whole state called Uncle Buck's.  Naturally I called and asked them about their panty-dropping chili.  The lady who answered the phone kept asking me to repeat myself.  Each time I repeated myself I said it louder and slower.  Wikus was impressed that I kept a straight face through the whole thing.  I'm 35 years old and making prank phone calls.  She finally told me they have rattlesnake stew, which is what they call their chili.  She either willfully ignored me or her brain could not wrap around the fact that I was actually saying panty-dropping, but she refused to address if the chili would in fact make my panties drop.
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At the end of every month, I check my blog's stats.  The only thing I truly pay attention to is the the keyword searches that landed people on my site.  I found August's words particularly amusing.  Highlights being:

• dolphin sperm
• drilling expressions
• hard long pinch or bruises or bruise "with my * toes"
• inappropriate facial expressions
• picture richard the service monkey
• stop pigs blood congealing
• truth be told discovery health monkey
• zombie dildo

This blog is nine days short of being a year old.  Those keyword searches make me damn proud of my baby.  Why do you think someone was searching "stop pigs blood congealing."  Obviously the person doesn't have a hemophiliac pig. Maybe worried about a porcine stroke?  And yes, if someone discovers a health monkey, may I have one, too?