This Post Was Successfully Typed With One Space After The Full Stop

My dear old grumpy goat Bear has been having an issue with the pukes, in that he makes a lot of them. I fret that it is diabetes or renal failure or both! Whoopis was so easy to distract with a bowl of kibble when shooting insulin in to his hip, whereas Bear has always been a picky eater, and he isn’t going to be so easily fooled. Over all he seems happy enough. Accepting of pets to his cheeks and base of tail. He’s such a good fellow, and I fear for he is old, and already has to put up with the indignity of two kittens chasing him around night and day. I have off from work Friday and Monday, and I’ll see if the vet can run all sorts of expensive blood tests and diagnose this pukes problem. I just got a credit card with a ridiculous line of credit and no interest for 21 months to pay for whatever the poor fellow will need.

Such beautiful, perfect whiskers on him. Brekkie also has nice whiskers (or as Fat-Bottom Girl calls him, porcukitty).

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Another magnificent Chicken Day has passed. I paid dearly for the good times on Sunday, but it was worth it. CSP seemed genuinely touched by my gift—a mosaic representing our kittens.

That is total genius on my part. It’s almost a shame that this mosaic was my first present to him, because HOW THE HELL AM I GOING TO TOP THAT? Geez, I need to think of the larger picture. His birthday is in March, and argh, it’s not like I can rig it so he wins all his fantasy football games. Sigh.

There was Chicken Limbo, and even Baby Abalam made an appearance.

There was also that time where we asked Siri why Guamaniac was such a good lover, and she got all cheeky and asked him “Is that what you think?” She chided him with a “Now, now,” when he called her a stupid whore, and then she played innocent and claimed to not know what he meant when he demanded she lick his balls.

Yes, I bought myself a lovely present. The camera on this phone is amazing, and makes up for the fact that Siri is completely unhelpful at finding me late-night entertainment.

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This week has been a bit trying. My sinuses are pricking in the most unpleasant, painful manner. There was a bleary 4:45am ride to the airport to send CSP off to his Midwestern home for a week. I’ve stepped in Bear’s pukes so many times that I barely yelp now when I do. And then there is dear fucking Twit who is doing my payroll duties for the week to prove that she can do it all on her own when I am on vacation. She is failing miserably, and I’ve checked the personnel handbook, and it states clearly that I am not allowed to slap her. Thankfully tomorrow is my last day of work for the week, and next week I only have to work two days. Somehow I have to manage getting through a holiday lunch tomorrow with Ex-Cop and co, then I have four days to lounge pantsless in front of a space heater. I’m getting a free steak out of it. That should make it worth it, right? RIGHT?

Where Does One Find a Large, Blow-up Lawn Chicken Ornament?

Driving through CSP’s neighborhood, it’s disconcerting to see the deflated corpses of Christmas cheer. Why do people buy those huge blow-up Santas and Frosties to let them look like downed parachutes rippling in the breeze. The gray days have been stacking up for awhile now, and even these withered bits of color don’t lift my spirits as I speed through his streets averting my eyes.

Work has been sucking the life out of me (ha, maybe I should be out flailing about on CSP’s lawn—I’ll wear some red and green to blend in with the rest of the scenery), but I’ve logged enough miles to be able to afford a new iPhone for Chicken Day. I’m sure it will show up the day I leave for San Francisco, but so it goes. Twit hasn’t been around much lately; got herself approved for FMLA to take care of her mother, and she seems to think that gives her license to come and go as she pleases, which is even more annoying since I’ve been working so hard and she hasn’t. GROUSING! To make myself feel better today, I sent her an email advising that I’m sure it was just a mistake, an accidental misremembering, but she indicated that she came in at 8am when really it was 8:30am. I know this because I was already at the office, and was on my way to a meeting, and pulled out of the garage as she pulled in to it. Take that, lady!  It’s like I have nothing better to do with my time. 

Actually, what I’m really trying to do these days is quit my two-space-after-a-full-stop habit. It isn’t going well. If it looks like I’m doing a good job, please know that I have gone back through this post deleting all the extra spaces. I’m all about appearances around here. I feel like I need to start popping myself in the wrist with a rubber band every time I add an extra space, but sadly, I fret that I cannot remember to stay on task and just type one space, how will I ever remember to try some positive reinforcement on myself?

Yesterday I made my annual visit to the Blue Genie art bazaar. There was some good stuff there, but I managed to walk out empty-handed. If I can ever manage a back catalogue of mosaics, I can easily have a booth there. Glass is seriously underrepresented (but your squid plushy needs are covered thanks to the Ex’s girlfriend). There was a lovely display of painted grackles on large wooden plaques—it’s too bad the artist advertised them as “Grackes.”

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This just happened.

Wikus: Now I must eat, before I die.

Grumples: okay

Grumples: melodramatic

Wikus: Have you ridden 16 miles on only a bowl of oatmeal and two bananas?

Grumples: YES

Grumples: EVERY DAY

Grumples: but on ONE banana!

Wikus: How can you be so full of shit from only one nanner?

Grumples: i poop easily

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It’s time to work on my top-secret Chicken Day project.  I leave you with Clem in a small box.

Hippo Glass Will Kick Your Gorilla Glass’ Ass

It’s been a rainy and cold weekend, which means I spent entirely way too much time in bed, and not enough time working on my various projects.  However, Wikus and I did finish this year’s Chicken Day card.  He changed up the theme—moving away from the samurai chicken, and toward something that I’m sure most people won’t get (I certainly didn’t, but hey, he’s the designer, I’m just the nonpaid help).  If you’re interested in a card, send me your address.  As always, it’s a limited edition. 

I’m working on a top-secret Chicken Day project for CSP.  I’ve been high-fiving myself constantly since I was struck by my brilliant idea.  And I’ve had some good ones, but this one, oh man, I’m so damn jealous that I am giving it to him, and I don’t get to keep it.  I have two weeks to make this happen, so this dreary weather needs to fuck off already.

The boys here at CSP’s are talking about their fantasy football teams.  And there’s football on the television.  BBQ pizza has been ordered, and I’m the only sober person in the room.  The three dogs are all probably high.  I’m not sure how this ended up being my life on Sunday nights, but so it goes.  I’m not complaining, I’m just a bit puzzled how I could have avoided this most of my life, but here I am now.  When did I turn in to a jock-loving sorority girl?

Contrast this with my afternoon of assembling handmade cards, writing a haiku, and debating with Wikus why people have such intense anger toward bicyclists (sparked by this article’s commentators).  If you want to poke Wikus with a stick, just say something negative about a bicyclist in your way when you’re driving.  He’s primed and ready to punch you in the nuts over that one.  Considering how he has spent much of his life getting places on his bike in cities such as Boston, San Diego and Austin, he knows what it’s like to ride alongside some very violent, disgruntled drivers.  I fret for his safety all the time.  Whereas, sitting on this hideous turquoise couch at CSP’s, there’s not much to fret about or debate.  I’m sure going to enjoy the hell out of that pizza, though.

Will someone please explain to me what the heck Gorilla Glass is?  Sure, I read the Wikipedia entry, by why gorilla?  A hippo is so much more fucking tough.  CSP just claimed that hippos are more goofy looking, and not as majestic and tough-looking as gorillas.  Yes, that really explains it all.  I bet it’s the alliteration, and that people still don’t understand how savage cute hippos really are.  It really should be Hippo Glass, dammit.

Even a rhino with its double-horn threat knows not to fuck with a hippo:

I just feel Corning should have done some more research, that’s all. 

Also, CSP is suddenly winning his fantasy football game.  THANK GOD!

Where To Find 100%-Organic, Locally Grown Hookers in Austin

While dragging my feet to avoid heading to the grocery store, Wikus and I had the following exchange:

Grumples: i offered to pick some hookers up at the store for him (CSP)

Grumples: he has not replied

Wikus: You should probably leave the hookers at the store then.

Grumples: guess so

Grumples: also, i'm pretty sure the HEB only sells dead hookers

Grumples: i don't think he wants those

Grumples: you have to go to Whole Foods for live ones

Wikus: Are they near the lobsters?

Wikus: Do they have lobster hookers?!

Grumples: should i call and ask? do i ask for the seafood department or the hooker dept?

Wikus: There are probably more perverts in Seafoods; I'd ask them.

A Stiff Drink May Be Necessary

It’s that depressing point on a Sunday night where it’s nothing but a swift slide downhill to bedtime then work in the morning.  Most Sunday nights I spend at CSP’s, languishing on his roommate’s hideous turquoise couch (I’m not going to even bother describing it—I just need to post a photo at some point), but with the 4-day weekend coming up, it seemed prudent to send him on home alone to get his fill of football without me.  Thus when we are exposed to each other over the long holiday weekend, we won’t suffer the effects of the dreaded oversaturation illness. 

This weekend I’ve been entertaining my brain with Army Wives, Twin Peaks and Game of Thrones.  Judge as you will.  I’m also doing my damndest to finish John Irving’s latest book, which I’ve been reading for a number of months now, which, for me, is really embarrassing.  I used to read a book a week, and now I can’t even finish one in a month, or two, and quite possibly three.  Sigh.  Damn you Netflix! 

Despite its popularity, my octopus did not win any awards on Friday night, and that was a bit of a downer, but the evening wasn’t a complete waste.  CSP and I had a lovely dinner at Blue’s brother’s place, and we played a few rounds of Fluxx, which reignited my love of the game.  Today I ventured in to Great Hall of Games to get Pirate Fluxx for the game night we’re having Wednesday with Wikus and his lady friend.  Of course I expect some Settlers of Catan as well.  And if things really go my way, and everyone is sufficiently lubricated, there will be Quelf.  Hilarity will ensue.

CSP is thinking of having a Thanksgiving dinner.  This is totally outside of my normal way of thinking.  I don’t celebrate most things—just birthdays, anniversaries and Chicken Day (less than one month away!), and due to my awesome familial background, I don’t have cozy, warm memories of holiday dinners.  Though, I have had some lovely Thanksgiving dinners at friends over the past decade, they were not hosted by my partner.  That’s a level of stress that I’ve managed to avoid.  I’m sure nothing more than a dish will be expected of me, but I’m already starting to suffer a variety of host anxieties.  CSP is all calmly thinking about hosting a Thanksgiving dinner, while I’m going wherewilleveryonesitandwhenwillthegroceryshoppinghappenihateturkeyohmygodwillwegettohavesexlikenowtomakemefeelbetteraboutallthisscarystuffthatisn’treallyscarybutmybrainistellingmethatitis?

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My kind aunt just sent me an email saying she’s thinking of me, especially because of the Penn State horror.  She is wondering how it is affecting me.  That woman has such prescient capabilities.  The whole thing has been terribly hard on me, and it’s really frustrating because this will bring the tragedy of child sex abuse to the national forefront, but not for long.  It is such a sad, pathetic everyday occurrence.  Nothing will change.  People will keep finding out about it, and doing nothing, saying nothing.  Because it’s easier than actually having to deal with the reality of it.  In my twenties, I discovered that another aunt actually caught my dad abusing me, and she did nothing, said nothing.  She just kept her own children and grandchildren away from him.  When I lived in Alaska (10-11 years old), my Girl Scout troop leader knew.  She didn’t call the cops, and was actually pretty damn chummy with my father.  In middle school I was questioned by the principal and a cop, but I was scared shitless to say anything, and instead of flat-out denying it, I just didn’t say anything.  I still hate myself for that cowardliness.  As far as I’m aware the school and the authorities did nothing.  And of course my mother knew.  She found out over and over and over again.  In Oklahoma, a judge knew, he was a neighbor.  He did nothing either.  I have no idea how many other people knew.  And not a single person helped me.  I had to do it all, which was waiting until I was 18 and moving from Texas to Boston, and eventually, at 24, never speaking to my parents again. 

And my story is nothing compared to who knows how many children, and it is going to keep happening forever and ever.  And so I’ve been crying a lot these days.  I’ll send a positive email to my aunt when I can, because she has been through a lot in her own life, including completely dropping her sisters (my mom and the aunt who caught my dad all those years ago) from her life.  She made that sacrifice for me, because she is a good person, and that is the only trump card she had left in the deck of our shitty family history.  She never knew until I told her, and I believe she is the one and only person who if she had known when it was happening would have down something about it, but through no fault of her own, she found out too late.  But she has offered me unconditional love and support, and at least family-wise, I have not received much of that.

So, please, if you can in any way, donate your time and money to organizations that help abused children (sexually, physically, emotionally, you name it, just help those kids, because I am willing to bet there have been far too many people in their lives who have completely turned their backs on them).

Another Bloody Project Finished

Whew.  It’s done.  I finished my mosaic with a couple of days to spare.  I approximate that 40 back-breaking hours were spent on it, and then about $150 in glass and the frame (Nauticalina convinced me to spend $50 on the perfect frame, and while she was absolutely correct, it proved to be quite difficult for several reasons, including that it is not foot friendly—I recommend not walking in to the corner of it unless you enjoy bloody and bruised toes).  Overall, it was a lot easier than last year’s spider lily, but I still really pushed myself (I do not wish to ever cut out that many octopus’ suckers ever again).

It is off to the gallery tomorrow, where someone can feel free to buy it for $550, which will pay for my San Francisco vacation at the end of the year with enough left over to buy some food.  No boots this time.  Also, I don’t expect to win two years in a row, but I can certainly fantasize.

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Last week I suffered through an annoying cold while having Boston visitors in town, which prompted a lot of anxiety and guilt on my part.  I wanted to be a great host, but my energy level dictated that entertainment was mainly limited to the couch.  We did leave the house a few times, most notably on Halloween where I was asked to provide a quiet bar, which I thought was going to be hard since Austinites really like Halloween, but I guess no one was interested in going to the Violet Crown Social Club.  A foray to Taco Cabana proved there were plenty of people clogging the streets (I had a tense standoff with a car who refused to get out of the way), and Nauticalina fell in love with the driver of a rocking low-rider under the I35 underpass at 5th Street.  Alas, we were traveling in opposite directions, so only a longing look could be exchanged between the two.

There was one game of Settlers played where I won but not handily.  They were novices, too.  I blame my cold for preventing total domination and humiliation. 

Overall, I think everyone had a reasonably good time—even if I did stick them on a leaky queen-sized air mattress (borrowed from the kind CSP and his roommates).  I consider it a success based solely on the fact that I don’t believe any 3” cockroach came out to terrorize anyone (I’m thanking Clem’s Exterminating Services for that saving grace).

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Ex-Cop just had me fix a digital clock for him.  It continues to amaze me that he was allowed to carry and use a firearm.  This was not a complicated, fancy digital clock with crazy controls.  It was the type where you hold down Set then move the up/down arrows to set the time.  I told him that I would be ashamed if I was him.  He laughed, and said he is ashamed.  People who are actually ashamed don’t laugh, they run in to their offices and hide the burning tears running down their cheeks.  Jackass.

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Today I’ve been reading various things about the pros and cons of moving one’s financial matters to a credit union.  I’m not really going to weigh in on the political aspect of all that, but here’s the thing, I have not paid a single bank fee in all my life.  I’ve had a checking account since I was 15 (that’s 21 years of banking), and maybe it’s because I’m excessively conservative with my money, but I’ve never bounced a check or had my bank account below the free thresh-hold limit.  I do not have any benefactors (my parents never paid for a single thing for me once I left the house, and even before I did, pretty much anything that wasn’t deemed essential was all on me to buy), and I haven’t had cushy jobs keeping me rolling in the dough.  I’ve just lived very austerely for most of my life, and thus banking has always been free to me.  Frankly, it never occurred to me that people were having such a hard time with bank fees.  I only go to my bank’s ATM, I don’t make any transfers between accounts, I pay my one credit card in full each month (I’ve never paid interest on my card in my life), and gosh, I don’t know, what are people doing that is costing them so much to want to leave their banks?  Or is this one of those things where it is just bully for me for being so damn, boringly responsible with my money?  And if that is the case, then um, I don’t see how switching to a credit union is really going to save your irresponsible ass.  Now, as to the question of if banks are intrinsically evil for other reasons, I get that, I really do, but if it comes down to you incurring fees, that sounds more like a personal problem.

Ahem.  Stepping down now.

No Candy For You!

While I’m sitting here waiting for Wikus to arrive for his driving-lesson number two (he has a driving permit, his second one actually, the first being when he was 22 when we moved from Boston to San Diego, and now at 36, he’s really going to try and get a license), I thought I’d take a moment to let all of you know that I haven’t deliquesced on my couch.  I know that’s a real fear.  Rotting in to a puddle of Grumples snot on the couch. 

Yesterday Fink-Nottle asked if I wore a costume to work.  I assumed he was IM-ing in the wrong window.  The man knows I have never worn a costume in my adult life (not counting that time a year ago September when Guamaniac put a black wig on me and dressed me up in an emerald green Mexican dress, aviator sunglasses, red lipstick and shoved a pillow up under the dress—I didn’t leave house, not even his bedroom looking like that), and if I happened to change my mind about wearing costumes as an adult, I certainly wouldn’t start by wearing one to work.  I spend enough time dealing with unwanted stares and comments, I really can’t fathom wanting to wear a costume.  Beside, isn’t Monday Halloween?  Seems at Google Friday was he official Halloween-at-work day.  To be clear, Fink-Nottle did not wear a costume either.

Though all this does bring me to something I have been fretting over these past few weeks.  Yes, weeks.  I live a sad, fretful life.  I’m in a new place (okay, it’s been six months), and haven’t had a Halloween in this area, so I do not know what to expect kid-wise.  I do not participate in the whole giving-kids-candy thing.  I don’t have the money to just buy candy and give it away, nor am I particularly fond of getting up every few minutes to answer the door, compliment kids on their outfits, then give them candy.  Yawn.  Also, I will have guests in town, AND, more importantly, I have a mosaic due on November 10, and if I am going to finish on time, I can’t be handing out candy to stupid dressed-up kids.  Okay?  Good grief. 

Wikus just showed up wearing his new Wranglers from Sears.  They are black, and he is very proud of them.  He is  yammering on about how all Levi’s look acid-washed and like they’ve been soaked in rancid tea.  I’m still laughing that he is wearing Wranglers.  I give you permission to laugh, too.  Also, it appears that he is growing a beard.  He claims he is growing an “awesome mustache” again.  A Lemmy mustache.  I do recall this mustache on him, and it is awesome.

The end.

It’s Probably Because He’s So Darn Fat

It seems I can’t escape an awfully emotional week of animal sadness.  I’ve been suffering a bit, having trouble sleeping, seeing that dog crossing the street over and over again every time I blink or let my mind wander.  Then there were those exotic animals let go by their suicidal owner, and how the town had to kill most of them to save themselves, which just made me cry and cry.  Then I caught a segment on the news of a hawk caught in the grill of a truck, and even though that hawk lived, the image haunts me, makes me feel so ill.  Then something even closer to my heart—my rotund fatty P2 mysteriously broke his femur.  His dad is taking great care of him, and the day was spent worrying while he was in surgery.  He’s home now where he has to live in the bathroom for a week away from his brother Horchata and big brother Mattress.  He looks so morose, and I’m just sitting here crying, because he’s in pain, and because there is nothing I can do about it, and because I can’t go see him.  I’m invited, of course, but he is terrified of me, and it seems highly rude to watch a crippled cat run from me.

And the worst seems to be that he has decided to start wearing Uggs.  God. 

Stricken

Today I was going to write this excessively puke-inducing post listing all the things I adore about my sweetie.  Seriously.  I’ve been making bullet points in my head all week long, but I just can’t do that right now. 

It was never going to be a great day, what with getting up at 4:50am to take CSP to the airport, and having to say goodbye to him for a week, but then getting stuck in my room, blind and desperately needing to pee, due to the door sticking, and only some serious MacGyvering got my ass out of there (Wikus was prepared to come to my rescue, and only made fun of me a tiny bit by asking it we were in some sitcom).  Things were a bit better for awhile—it’s hard to have a bad time with Wikus and Nauticalina (and her little sister) hamming it up every few seconds.  Especially in Hobby Lobby.  There was large corn!  Afterward we were driving to Torchy’s Tacos, and then it happened.  No one in the car saw it but me, which is such a relief.  A large black dog came from nowhere, running with his tongue out, happily sprinting, and just went for it.  He was in front of me, but nowhere near me, so he made it through two lanes of traffic, and I’m shrieking and honking and slamming on my brakes for nothing, because he was already past me, and I watched him buckle under the tires of a white SUV.  There was nothing that poor driver could have done.  Nothing.  Everyone in the car missed it, so they had no idea why I was screaming and crying and just yelling unintelligible words.  Nauticalina had me pull over, and she held me while I just cried like I haven’t cried since Whoopis died.  I fear I’m  never going to get that image out of my head.  This is the sort of thing that absolutely breaks me.  I can’t even imagine how I would be right now if I was the driver of that white SUV.  I really don’t know.

Embracing Carrots Indeed!

This week in keyword searches:

• bottom mouth growths
• embracing carrots
• exostoses gums
• molly ringwald tits
• walking stick penis
• zombie dildo
• backside lying lady
• beautiful neck

Grumbling & Grousing

There were many hilarious things I wanted to report from last weekend, but I have forgotten almost all of them.  I blame my job, which is sucking the life out of me, and making me beyond disgruntled.  Since I do not want any of you to wither away and die, I am not going to go in to why I hate my job.  Though, it’s not about Twit.  I think I've come to accept her as part of my life, kind of like my allergies.  I’ll always complain about these things, but there’s just nothing that can be done about them. 

There was that time Sunday night where I was thinking my phone was vibrating with an expected call from CSP, and it took me forever to find my phone, and when I did there was no missed call but the vibrating noise was still happening.  I looked up to see both The Bear and Brekkie staring tensely at Clementine.  Ends up she had a live roach in her mouth, and she was growling at it through her bared teeth.  Then she let it go, watched it desperately try to escape, then catch it again, and growl some more.  At some point she got cocky, and it was able to escape under the fridge.  Today when I got home from work I had to pick up a decimated roach (in three parts) in the living room.  I guess Brekkie finally got around to finishing Clem’s business.

There was an earlier roach that I never saw alive.  CSP picked its carcass up bare-handed from the kitchen floor.  He should never be allowed to touch me again.  When I went to take a shower later that day, I found three roach legs in the tub.  Puke.  CSP picked those up bare-handed, too.  What the fuck is wrong with him?  He spent most of that day and evening watching his boy stories on my couch, and even though he had gross roach rabies, I still found myself wanting to make out with him.  I am obviously quite sick in the head.

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Remember how I used to be obsessed with playing online logic puzzles?  And then there were those intermittent months of Angry Birds addiction?  Well, now it is Settlers of Catan on my iPhone.  I’ve had the app for a few weeks now, and it tells me I have thrown the dice 4431 times, played a total of 30 hours and 51 minutes, and out of 68 games I have won 25 of them.  I have built 222 settlements, 132 cities, 532 roads, 2655 trades, earned 175 victory points, and purchased 193 development cards.

Stop calling me names.  Rude. 

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The morning glories are loving the cooler weather, and I suddenly have pale blues ones complimenting the pink ones.

What We Talk About After We Talk About How Old Martha Plimpton Looks These Days

Grumples: what have you been doing?

Wikus: I wandered into the other room and read part of a Brian Eno interview that's in the TapeOp I got today.

Grumples: i see

Grumples: i texted with CSP.  he ate tunafish from a can and i yelled at him for it since i specifically instructed him to save it for a nuclear winter

Wikus: That's the only time I could see eating it.

Grumples: i knew you'd agree

No, Kitty, Your Name Is Potpie

There is something magical when I am able to come home and gorge on hummus and garlic pita chips.  And that’s not all, there’s cake.  Motherfucking marble cake.  I didn’t even have to share it with anyone.  Score!  Though, I discovered that Brekkie enjoys hummus, or at least having it on the tip of his nose.  I warned him that it would probably give him the squirts, but he just looked at me with his large, round eyes and meeped. 

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Be prepared to puke in your hand after reading this—it probably reveals too much about who I am:

Me: Happy afternoon, sweetie.  Thank you for all the fun this morning, last night, this weekend…

CSP: Good afternoon to you.  I had a nice weekend too.  Thank you for everything.

Me: It was all my pleasure! I very much enjoy being with you.

CSP: Likewise.

Me: Even when I’m crying during a 60 Minute segment on South Park?  Because if so, when you go to brag about how awesome your girlfriend is, you may want to leave that part out. :) *

CSP: Your secret’s safe with me.

Me: That’s only because you’re a man of few words.  Perhaps you’ll fart my secret to everyone instead?

CSP: Keep it up and I’ll make sure everybody knows.

Me: No one knows what your farts are trying to say, so I’m not particularly worried.

* I had no idea that watching South Park would make me cry.  It came as quite a shock.  But here’s the thing.  Back in the way back when, in August of 1997, the first episode of South Park aired, and I just happened to be watching, and this scene changed my life:

Specifically, I immediately announced I am naming my kitten Potpie.  And so, Potpie was named.  He wasn’t born yet, that would happen two weeks later on September 1, and I wouldn’t bring my little Whoopis home until some time in November, but he was named Potpie, and he was the best little guy ever.  And so, I apparently cry when watching South Park now.  And that damn 60 Minutes segment even showed this damn clip.  Motherfuckers.

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The two sides of Clementine.

STDs of the Future

My little chickenmonkey is a fetching fiend.  He may not want me to pet him (he flinches and gives me big round eyes of terror when my hand gets anywhere near him), and he may not snuggle, but damn if he can’t get enough of bringing things for me to throw.  He particularly likes pipe cleaners and receipts.  The problem is I throw these items like they are bricks.  I hurl them with all my might, and can basically feel my elbow joint and tendons shredding.  Since I’m also an old lady, I get tired very quickly, and I end up asking him to fetch me a hotdog and a beer.  He looks at me with pity since evidently I don’t understand the concept of fetch—that being I have to throw the hotdog and beer first before he’d bring them to me.  Sigh.

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I just finished the last episode of Make It or Break It on Netflix.  Pleases, someone tell me, is there a third season, and how long must I wait?  Oh, thank goodness, Wikipedia informs me that the show was renewed just a week ago.  Damn, I have my fucking thumb on the pulse of hot teen action, don’t I?

What am I to watch now?  How about Life Unexpected?  With the less hot chick from Roswell (I know it must be hard to be her, and not be the hot one with the great rack who is in all those hipster movies and Grey’s Anatomy). 

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Last night CSP and I were watching Firefly.  It was the episode where they broke in to the hospital (Ariel), and I had a sudden realization: I’m pretty sure Doctor Horrible is wearing the doctor costume from this episode.  Those side buttons are just so lovely.  Sadly, this captain Nathan Fillion never proudly proclaims that the “hammer” is his penis, which is too bad since that just leaves us watching Summer Glau ooze her bad acting all over the screen.  A quick Google search confirms my shared-costume thought.

Somewhere between watching Firefly and getting all handsy, I asked CSP why there were no medical shows set in the future?  He didn’t have an answer, but thought I was on to something.  I don’t want some crazy, outlandish sci-fi show.  I just want your run-of-the-mill medical shows that just happens to be set about 500 years in the future.  I didn’t flesh out the whole concept other than inventing Nano-Crabs ™.  I’m so excited about them.  They are little robotic pubic lice that one infects people with on purpose.  Then you log on to your fancy future computer, and see exactly where your Nano-Crabs go by using GPS.  There will be all sorts of reporting capabilities—graphs in bright colors, for instance—and if you’re so inclined, the ability to send e-cards to the current owner of your crab-bots.  My Nano-Crabs can even fucking collect the DNA from the very vagina your dirty, cheating bastard is dipping in to.  I really like the idea of spy STDs. 

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Last weekend there was a spot of rain, and the weather has been significantly cooler at night, and hot damn my morning glories are in heaven.

(That’s wee little Meggles in my window.)

Skip To The End For a Kitten in a Bag

For the past two Sunday nights in a row, I have found myself on a pleasantly ratty and squishy loveseat watching football with CSP’s hand resting reassuringly on my leg (or he’s keeping me from escaping, I’m not entirely sure).  Because I care quite deeply for CSP, I actually do make an attempt to understand what is going on, and even put some serious thought in to it (for instance, a discussion point from last night centered around whether if replays should be studied to the point of assisting referees with their calls?  I think not because the game wasn’t designed with technology involved, and it just seems to take the point of having a referee at all if we’re just going to zoom in on the replay and dissect it from a digital standpoint).  It is absolutely adorable to me how much CSP wants me to enjoy this with him.  He gets animated, and talks as if we are really discussing various ways I could service him sexually.  Such sweet romance! 

I still dislike football and don’t give a crap about the game.  I spent the majority of last night rooting for someone to stamp on Michael Vick’s neck.  Seems someone received a somewhat garbled transmission, and he did manage to get injured, and hilariously bit his tongue, and had to be taken out of the game.  Jackass.

During these special times on the loveseat, I’m generally playing Settlers of Catan on my phone.  It’s a sick addiction, and I fear it will replace Angry Birds as a time-suck.  However, it has proven itself a very useful, and welcome, distraction.

It’s been three Saturdays since I lost my man to football, and it hasn’t been terrible.  We’ve managed to spend some extra time together Sunday nights, but that’s usually at his house where there’s a revolving door of visitors and late-night shenanigans.  Who in their right mind starts cooking sausage after 11pm on a Wednesday, and then calls you on your cell to come downstairs and eat it?  There also seems to be a contest on who can leave the most lights on, and have at least one device blaring noise to an empty room for as long as possible.  I’m not sure if the winner has to achieve both of these goals, or if there are separate awards.  I fear I’m making CSP lose since I keep turning off his light and stereo.  Sorry!  To understand what really goes on over there, I present the fact that they floated a keg in two-weeks’ time.  I had maybe half a pint.

Nauticalina and Wikus have proven to be truly wonderful Saturday play partners. 

---

Lately, I’ve had several very close friends do questionable things.  Things that have already caused them pain, and will probably continue to cause them varying levels of emotional hurt.  This frustrates me.  I love my friends.  I don’t like seeing them be so complicit in things that cause them such pain.  It’s vexing to me on so many levels, and probably because I know I do the same things all the time.  I talk big to my friends, and am pretty much a passive-aggressive supportive-nonsupportive asshole.  I want them to make (what I feel is) the right decision—one full of self-confidence and esteem, one that doesn’t let someone else dictate the terms of a relationship.  But obviously I’m just dictating, too.  So frustrating for me to stand aside, letting them figure this shit out on their own, but yet also having to be supportive when I completely disapprove, and be there when they cry without saying “I told you so,” because there is nothing more douchy than that.   

Today I let someone I love totally be a jerk to me.  I did protest a bit, but didn’t completely call him out on it either.  We make these exceptions for the people who matter the most, and I don’t know what to do about that.  And I don’t know how to help my friends who are making even larger, life-changing decisions that allow people to trample their self-worth.  Grrr.

---

Ahem. As promised, kittens!

Spayed Teens on Fire

Texas is on fire.  It’s less on fire than it was a few days ago, but it is still burning with a frightening, drought-fed force.  The closest wildfire to me is about 20 miles southeast, and thus I’m in no real danger—except the air quality is abysmal (all those chemicals in the air of things that were never meant to be burned are excruciating to my sinuses).  It’s been a mentally exhausting week for me.  I keep the Austin-American Statesman’s page open so I can constantly rubberneck the horror.  Even though there are plenty of hurricanes and tornadoes and earthquakes, and the resulting catastrophes of flooding, nuclear-reactor meltdowns, broken buildings, there is something about fire that scares me in a deeply primal way.  Maybe it is just my material ways, and how it is simply the loss of literally everything.  There really is nothing to be salvaged after a fire.  And I empathize too much with other people’s pain, and I feel at times paralyzed by what all these families have lost. 

Complicating things is constantly being subjected to jokes about Rick Perry’s day of prayer for rain, and being asked if that didn’t work?  Hmmm?  Look, the guy is an ass, and maybe someone should be making those jokes to him, not me.  It sucks enough to live in Texas and be the butt of so many jokes on a national level, but dammit, there is actual real suffering happening right now, and aiming an asinine Rick Perry joke at me is simply tiring, and makes me want to kick people in the teeth. 

---

Thursday Clem went from being a little girl to an old lady with a quick ripping out of her uterus.  Whomever shaved her at the clinic had a bit too much fun with the clippers, and exposed way too much of her underside.  Just like Brekkie, the surgery was only a little blip in her life, and has not held her back in anyway.  Though we should probably not be allowing it, and will be flamed by many people for being horrible parents, we are letting Clem and Brekkie enthusiastically roll around together on the floor biting and kicking each other with zeal.  So far her incision looks lovely, and she doesn’t seem to be in any pain (I mean, she hasn’t stopped jumping up on the counters).  Currently they are cute sleeping coins.  It’s exhausting being a kitten.

---

Even with all my fretting over the wildfires, I managed to have a busy week.  Finally saw Blue’s new place, and she made me tasty veggie tacos.  She’s working on a very large, purple spider piñata.  I’m a bit jealous of her crafting ways.  In my spare time, I’ve been watching an unhealthy amount of Make It or Break It.  I really cannot explain my obsession with crappy teen-oriented television shows.  Nor can I even get in to why it’s even better when it centers around gymnastics, cheerleading or ice skating.  I may hate sports, but there’s something alluring about watching 16-year-old girls working through love and back salto dismounts. There was also that lovely 90 minutes on Skype with Meggles and her two lovely new kittens.  Such fuzzy little love balls.  I so do wish I could fly to Seattle next week and just make out with all of them (Meggles included).  Will someone please give me the money to make that happen?  Also give me an extra $150 so I can see OMD in October and Morrissey in November. 

---

It’s my second day of football widowhood.  My grand plan is to sweep the floor.  I really know how to treat myself right.  Later, I hope to visit with Wikus and his super-fast racing bed (seriously, he got a bed with wheels, and there better be a racing stripe and flame decals).  The bed is also a couch.  It’s like he’s all grown-up now.  Maybe I can convince him to watch an episode of Make It or Break It.  Did I mention that Candace Cameron is on it, and the show has strong Christian themes, which makes it the trifecta of awesomeness (teens, sports and heavy-handed religion)?  Cameron is lecturing the gymnast about how the special bond between a man and a woman, for the Bible tells her so.  Don’t worry, she practices what she preaches—she’s a woman, and she is abstinent because she is actually very interested in sex.  It’s okay, I just puked in my hand, too.

---

Health update: I finally stopped bleeding during sex two weeks ago.  Hooray!  However, now my right ovary is angry, and thinks it is being menaced during intercourse.  And yes, my hair is still falling out.  Other than that, I am just lovely in all ways.  Well, I do have some hangnails, but look, my house isn’t on fire.  That’s something.

 

**Blog title courtesy of Wikus.  He should probably just write his own blog already since he is infinitely more interesting.

How To Pitch Perfect Woo

My man rescues baby squirrels!  That’s right, BABY SQUIRRELS!  Okay, so far he has only rescued one, but add that to the wee little baby Clementine he rescued back there in April, I think we can all agree that he is a fucking hero, and he’s all mine.  Hands off ladies!

Look how teeny and adorable it is?  You’re probably peeing yourself right now, and I totally understand.  I held it, after all.  But wait, it gets cuter!

It kept covering its itty-bitty nose with its tail.  I got to hold that cuteness!  In my hands!  CSP wouldn’t let me put it in my mouth, which I guess makes sense...I guess.  I would call him a cold, heartless bastard if he hadn’t shown up at work with a baby squirrel in his shirt pocket.  Yes, his shirt pocket! I was running late for a stupid meeting, so I was unable to hatch an elaborate plan to abscond with the squirrel, and I had to let CSP leave to take it to a wildlife-rescue organization.

If that wasn’t awesome enough, CSP is coming over tonight, and on his way he is swinging by the grocery store and getting us food.  People, this man brings me a baby squirrel and food.  Swoon.

Even Mimi Smartypants Likes Football!

Football is a mystery to me.  Growing up  I never watched sports except for maybe the Olympics when I was really young, and as I got older I’d probably put on gymnastics or figure skating if there really truly was nothing else to watch (and my idea of something else to watch remains pretty damn liberal in that I have a weakness for terrible TV shows [I spent last Thursday night watching all 10 episodes of Switched at Birth on Netflix]).  When I started dating, none of the boys sat around watching sports.  Or, if they did, they prioritized sex over watching a game.  Such wise boys of my youth. 

I do recall one time, on some boring weekend when I was all alone with too much time to kill, I watched some football-themed movie, and by the end of it, I kind of got it, for a moment, but I’m a sentimental fool, and can easily be awash with emotions that aren’t truly mine (yes, fine, I cry during commercials).  I don’t even remember the name of that movie, but it was years ago, and it didn’t ignite anything in me other than that momentary spark.  The one and only time I actually sat and watched a whole football game was over a decade ago when Wikus and I were in San Diego.  That was the longest afternoon of my life, and was only briefly made better by Bananas Foster and lots of beer.  (Side note: It just occurred to me that I can thank football for assisting me with losing my virginity, since as a teenager in Texas, saying I was at a football game was a completely plausible excuse, and it was just a short walk from the field to this dude’s house [a few weeks later he was kicked out of Texas for stealing an IROC-Z, and had to go live in Florida with his mother.])

All this to say that I am dating someone who really likes football to this unimaginable-by-me degree.  This has my anxiety spiking, and I’m fretting over losing my wonderful summer of Saturdays to a silly (to me) game.  A whole stretch of Saturdays for months and months.  Saturdays are these golden days of unfettered freedom—they are the only day of the week that don’t have work attached to them in some way.  Friday nights I’m tired because I had the burden of Twit and the Ex-Cops and my stupid job in general lying heavily across my shoulders.  Sundays are crap because the sinking dread of facing another work week is creeping up on me, making me cranky.  Of course Monday through Thursdays are just exercises in trying to convince myself not to take up arms and go on a killing spree (watching crap television helps with that).

When I got laid off in October of 2008, The Boy started scheduling band recordings and rehearsals on Saturdays, which made sense at the time since all my days became Saturdays, not having him around on the actual Saturday didn’t really matter.  But, when I landed my current job in February 2009, he didn’t change his schedule—his Saturdays stayed booked, and I was resentful.  Thus, these past few months of all-day all-night Saturday fun times have been a bit blissful even if we did nothing exciting, we were together.  That’s been incredibly important to me.  Now I feel like this closeness will unravel, which is silly, it’s just a day, and if anything, CSP will be happier because football is back in his life, and I may be many things, but apparently, I can’t compete with the feeling he gets watching a bunch of men run around with a ball. 

To be clear, I don’t want to change CSP, and I don’t think he wants me to suddenly be in love with football (though, I’m sure that would make things easier), I just wish this shit happened say on a Tuesday night or something.  Why does it have to be on Saturdays?  I’d even take a Friday night over Saturday.  I can easily spend my Friday nights eating popcorn, watching something really pathetically dumb, and going to bed early.  That is doable.  Whereas Saturday is such a long stretch of time to fill, and I’m incredibly bad at filling time once I’ve exhausted my popcorn, crappy TV and napping options.  Somehow, sitting around listening to my Pandora station, eating a late lunch, and having afternoon sex seems almost the same as how I would fill it up on my own, but damn, if it isn’t a really great time when doing it with CSP. 

Thankfully, the football watching won’t take place at my house.  Yet, I’m a bit torn, in that maybe it would be nice to have it at my place?  Good fuck, what the hell am I even saying?  This is how much I like this person—I’m contemplating if it would really be so bad to have football on in my living room.  Hell yes it would be bad.  Terrible.  Boring.  I’ll be demanding his attention, and I’d be annoyed that I’m not getting it, and he’d be annoyed that I kept getting naked and pressing myself up against the television screen blocking his view of the game.  I think I just vomited in my mouth a bit.

Gah.  I don’t know.  I’m sad.  I’m confused.  I’m anxious.  I’m also happy and giddy, but because my brain is so stupid, it thinks the worst, and jumps to conclusions, and I’m already reacting to them even though they haven’t happened yet.  Maybe I should just go adopt that awesome fluffy white and orange tabby kitten I saw in PetSmart yesterday afternoon.  He’ll surely solve all my problems.  Brekkie and Clementine totally need a playmate their age.  I should go do that, right?  I’m putting my pants on right now, and heading out the door…

Uterus, Thy Name is Steve McQueen

When I’m standing on the couch, I am not taller than CSP—I swear I am not abnormally short, and he doesn’t seem that abnormally tall to me, but I’d prefer it if we assume he’s the abnormal one in this equation.  I do have abnormally long legs for my height (my father is 6’3” and my mother is 5’2”, and I have his legs and her torso), so when standing on the couch, my crotch hits his stomach, so there really is no advantage to all this couch-standing I’ve been doing, other than it is fun to hug him and look him in the eyes.  Otherwise, without the couch’s help, I’m generally just making friendly with his sternum. 

Yesterday, during the final night of the Eight Days of JD (basically a really long birthday celebration, which I will indulge when it is someone’s 40th), I was stuck in between two separate, annoying, conversations.  To the right I had two ladies discussing kinesiology studies, and to the left I had three men discussing sports.  Unfortunately, because I am so desperately broke, I was not drinking, and sucking back water was not making the situation any better.  There’s only so many special places in my head I can visit to avoid dealing with the reality of the situation.

What wasn’t helping was how my uterus felt (and still feels) like it was planning its great escape through my vagina, and finding out that someone close to me has Parkinson’s. This revelation was weighing so heavily on me.  I was sitting there squeezing my brain in to all sorts of contortions to avoid hearing about rising before the sun to go running, and blah blah blah football blah blah blah, and all I could keep doing was bumping in to the fact that this person whom I care for so much has Parkinson’s, and what does that mean?  Five, ten years of a good life left?  That is pure motherfucking donkey-tit goat-sucking hairy horse balls bullshit.  So, I was a moody bitch at a restaurant last night, and could barely bring myself to play nice during dull conversations.  I ate the shit out of some chips and salsa, though.

Today my uterus came a bit closer to obtaining its freedom.  I spent most of the day clutching at my stomach and moaning.  Sometimes I clutched at my cheeks and moaned, since my allergies seem to be in collusion with my womb.  CSP and I finished Skins season four, and oh my god, what the fuck was that about?  Those last two episodes made me cringe, and seriously, what the fuck?  It was just so damn silly.  Then we made our way over to DJ M’s house for a Settlers of Catan smackdown.  It was an intense game with six of us and Earl, a spazzy Boston terrier who kept humping the menfolk, and eating various pieces of the game (including my Longest Road card).  Between desperate pleas for wood, there were boisterous demands to dominate Earl (this didn’t seem to work, and I suspect it just made his red rocket even harder).    I successfully won the game even with all the distractions (so much sandwich making kept happening!), and came home hoping my tampon sentry had done its job.  I said goodbye to CSP, and instantly set about doing chores (full of the joy of victory, I had the energy necessary to sweep and dye my hair, which was made more difficult than usual by an eager kitten helper).

Now to finish my night with some Parking Wars.  My teeth hurt.  All my body parts are rioting.  Bastards.

Ass Trumpet

On worrying that my dinner may taste like shit:

CSP: We can have a backup plan.

Grumples: Wendy’s!!

CSP: I believe that’s what it’s called, yes.

Grumples: Yes, it says so in all the commercials, “We’re Wendy’s, your back-up plan when your girlfriend makes a shitty, inedible dinner!”

Thankfully, the dinner was a success, and CSP was sent to work with the leftovers.  Hooray!

---

This morning, while I was lazing about in bed thinking of all the ways I could perhaps maybe get out of work, CSP was in the bathroom having his morning pee when a loud crash happened, followed by giggling.  Seems Brekkie really wanted to get on the sink, but is still unable to jump that high (Clementine can do this easily), and tried to take a shortcut by way of the toilet.  Since the toilet lid was up to accommodate CSP’s peeing, Brekkie had to make a quick turn to keep from landing in the toilet, and ended up smashing to the floor, upending the water bowl that sits between the counter and the toilet, and somehow knocking down the toilet lid in the process.  CSP was still peeing.  Now peeing all over a closed toilet.  He swears he didn’t walk away from it, but wiped it clean, but I have a feeling I’ll need to bleach down the bathroom when I get home from work.

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Last week I finally went and had my bits probed to see why I continue to bleed and bleed and bleed.  No polyps were discovered, but they took two vials of my blood to test for various fun things, including every venereal disease known to man (yes, every single last one, which is sort of impressive that they only needed two vials of my precious blood for that).  My doctor also looked at my head, grabbed her pearls and fainted dead away at my hideous, balding scalp.  When she came to, she said, “Yes, I can really see you’ve lost a lot of hair.”  She said it in a very calm voice so as not to alarm me with the obvious.

I was sent on home with a blue piece of paper detailing how in approximately seven days I would be able to check my results online.  That was a lie.  I eventually had to get a nurse to call me back, who patiently told me how there was nothing wrong with me, everything was normal, and while I could hear her waiting to hear me whoop for joy that I am not HIV positive, nor syphilitic, I did not give her that pleasure, since people, I’m still bleeding in a really not-so-cool way, and at least an eighth of my hair fell out on to the laptop just while typing this post.  (I believe the weight of which broke my “T” key.)  I asked the nurse what am I supposed to do next, and she was like, why, child, what’s wrong with you…do you have DISCHARGE?

Heavy sigh.

Why’s he looking so worried?  He has plenty of hair, and doesn’t even have a vagina.

---

When I’m not busy mopping up after myself, I have been taking advantage of my custody rights, and visiting my children.  The kittens are still shy brats, but I managed to corner Horchata, and forced him to submit to pets until he purred.  P2 just hid behind a curtain, and stared at me in terror.  He’s the size of a miniature pig, so I don’t know what his problem is. 

Here he is not bothering to even pretend that he’s been practicing the trumpet.  He begged and begged for us to let him take lessons, and look what we have here.

At least he lives with his father, because I simply would not be able to deal with that shit.  Do you know how much money we spent on that horn?  He doesn’t even have the mouthpiece facing the right way.  He’s been playing it with his ass to amuse his brother—I just know it.

Damn kids. 

My Patience is in Tatters

Listening to the A Clockwork Orange soundtrack in the car has always made me a bit of a reckless driver.  I just can’t help myself.  That little surly teenager surfaces.  This habit hasn’t caused any wrecks…yet.  I just go a little too fast given the road and traffic conditions—I’m too busy paying more attention to the music than I am my surroundings.  Listening to certain songs by the Wedding Present causes the same problems.  I blame CSP for playing this really great recording of Beethoven’s Ninth the other night when we went to bed.  So, if I die in some fiery crash this week, go arrest him.

Before getting in my car this morning to zip in and out of traffic on that whole one-mile commute I have (yes, I realize it is shameful to drive to work when I could walk or ride a bike, but have you seen that hill that sits between my place and the office?), I found myself, in my head, listing books I hate.  I think this stemmed from a friend’s call-out on Facebook to give him some reading recommendations, and someone suggested Banana Yoshimoto’s Kitchen.  I hate that book.  I hate that book so much that the person who gave it to me to read stopped talking to me, because I was that vehement in my hatred (so many angry red-inked notes in the margin!).  Thus, here is Grumples’ Reviled Book List:

• Kitchen, Banana Yoshimoto
• White Oleander, Janet Fitch
• Rubyfruit Jungle, Rita Mae Brown
• Glass Castle, Jeannette Walls
• Atonement, Ian McEwan
• The Lovely Bones, Alice Sebold
• Life of Pi, Yann Martel
• Water for Elephants, Sara Gruen
• The Pillars of the Earth, Ken Follett

These books were all recommended to me, and in most cases actually given as gifts.  I often give my favorite books to my friends as presents, and I’m well aware that there are books I adore, books that are as close to me as family and friends, that people despise (like The Time Traveler’s Wife and Master and Margarita).  That’s just the way it is; so, if you love the books on my list, eh well, we can still be friends, I will only make fun of you a little bit.  By which I mean, a lot, but only behind your back, and only a little to your face.

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Here we are, eight hours later.  It was a tiring day.  People kept calling, and annoying the snot out of me (I’m full of allergies, so only a small poke will get the snot flowing).  Here are three fine examples of who I have the pleasure of working with on a daily basis:

Employee: I was supposed to get a supplemental check.
Me: Okay. Did you get it?
Employee: I don't know.
Me: Have you checked your bank account?
Employee: No.
Me: How about you go do that, then call me if it's not there.
Employee: Okay.
Me: (silence)
Employee: Alright. Bye.
Me: Bye.

Employee: There are some changes being requested to the form you created for us.
Me: Cool.
Employee: I thought I could just go in and make the changes myself, but, um, the Excel form you created is far more advanced than my skill level.
Me: Uh huh.
Employee: Can I sit down with you and tell you what changes need to be made, and you make them for me?
Me: Fine (heavy sigh).
Employee: I guess we should do that at your desk.
Me: Obviously.                                                                                                      (This person makes $25.87/hr more than me.)

Employee: Oh, hey, here's something you'll be interested in!
Me: Hmmm?
Employee: I was at a Paul McCartney concert a few weeks ago in Chicago...
Me: (blink a few times)
Employee: And this woman next to me had each of the four Beetles tattooed on her forearm!
Me: That's disturbing.
Employee: No! It was beautifully done.
Me: All the same, that's creepy.

Lately, I’ve been so resentful at work.  All of the above really illustrates why.  There are many wonderful people at my job, but I rarely get the chance to interact with them.  Instead, I get the above fun good times.  The first one would have been amusing if the other two had not also happened.  The second one is the most frequent insult.  I work for an organization that prizes longevity over actual skills, and thus someone can make $25/hr more than me, and yet can’t manage to modify a form in Excel.  Pathetic.  The last one is the hardest in that I know people are just trying to be friendly, but fuck, I just don’t give a shit about your encounters with tattooed people.  Why would I possibly care about a stranger’s creepy portrait tattoos?  Sigh.

Thus, after extending the pain of my day a bit at the grocery store, I came home, made mac-n-cheese from a box (thanks to some fond reminiscing with Nauticalina over such orange delights), and started my first episode of Parking Wars, because it is important for me to watch other people with shitty jobs to validate my own life.

This shit is about to get all turned around with a Skype date with Meggles in seven minutes.  I can always count on her to make me feel warm and gooey on the inside.

Fishsicle and Chinese Fortune Fish

It’s been one of those days where I’ve been in such a fantastic mood that I have to keep checking to see if it is Friday, because I just feel so wonderful.  And, to prove how awesome my mood is, I don’t even get upset when I discover it isn’t Friday at all!  I have no explanation for this mood, especially since my allergies have been so bad that I am experiencing pain when I move my jaw due to my Eustachian tubes being so swollen (enough with the close-your-mouth-already jokes!).  There’s a lot of snot, sneezing and itchy, red eyes to make me grumpy, but it’s so not working.  Ha ha.  Fuck you, allergies! 

Last night, Nauticalina and her brother came over to play Settlers of Catan.  I have never met her brother, and he’s a swell fellow.  He’s in the army, and seriously, that’s too bad, because I grew quite fond of him rather quickly, and I would like to see more of him around these parts, but no, he’ll be headed somewhere at some point, and who knows when I’ll see him again.  He took amazingly quick to Settlers (he’s a smarty pants just like his older sis), which was a relief because I have played with certain people who still don’t really get the game.  Not ol’ Powder (I didn’t come up with that, he provided it, but it’s pretty apt), he won game three (I won games one and two, and Nauticalina got all snippy with me, and I swear at no point was I being condescending as she claimed).  Then we watched that really rad episode of Doctor Who season two with the Face of Bo (you want to hear true DW nerds talk, listen to those two discuss the plot of an episode instead of just watching the damn show). 

Later, when I was all sound asleep, I got a text from CSP, and I tried multiple times to respond, but I was too tired, and kept drifting off with phone in hand, only to wake up later with my fingers cramped and numb clutching the phone.  I finally was able to shoot a reply off at 5:30a; however, when I read what I wrote at 7a, I had a good laugh.  Oh auto-correct and sleepy-time texting!  All I’m going to tell you is that if you are half-asleep, and trying to write the word “goodnight,” it may come out as “goosing.” 

While at work, I made plans to see my dear friend Hepburn (I may have called her different things over the years, but every time I think of her name, I think of a discussion from long ago about how to pronounce her name, and I remember trying to do a throaty Hepburn impression of it) who has been missing from my life for several months now.  She’s going to come over and sweat her tits off in my concrete block of color.  She promises to bring beverages.  ERCOT is threatening rolling brownouts, so maybe I will convince her to strip down, and go pantsless for the environment—she may have to since I just set the thermostat on 90°.  She’ll be here any minute now.

When I walked through my gate (noting how dried-out the morning glories looked even though I’ve been watering them nightly), there was a package on my stoop.  Ivy Vyne has been promising some prezzies, and boy did she deliver.

Check this out:

Fishsicle and Chinese Fortune Fish pillows!  I have such awesomely creative friends. 

That look of worry on Brekkie’s face is not over the pillows, but rather he heard a rumor he is getting his balls chopped off on Saturday.  It’s totally true.  Shhh! 

Pantslessness Is The New Green Initiative

It’s 105° outside, and 91° inside.  I believe I just heard half of you wilting with tongues lolling and back of hand to forehead as you pass out on your fainting couches.  It truly doesn’t feel that hot in here—if I had some extra cash, I’d buy some fancy digital thermometer to independently verify my thermostat’s reading.  It probably isn’t wrong, and my body is insane.  This laptop on my thighs does feel excessively hot, however.  Anyway.  The point is it is broiling outside, and the power grid in Texas is struggling.  The Electric Reliability Council of Texas (ERCOT) has called for companies and residences to conserve power between 3-7p today.  I feel I’m already doing my part by having my air conditioner set to 87°, but to show that I am the type of generous person who always goes that extra mile, I plan to go pantsless the rest of the night. 

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Looking for a way to make me bawl whilst driving home?  Have me listen to a story on NPR about retired military service dogs.  I haven’t cried that hard in the car since going off my meds in January.  Those poor animals, and to think, they used to be euphemistically “retired” as a thank you for their years of actually serving in a war.  Ugh.  Though, I guess, considering the shell-shocked men and women who return from the front lines, and how difficult it is for many of them to fully cope with every day life, maybe it is better to euthanize the dogs.  That makes me puke in my mouth a bit to think that way, but perhaps it is a kindness.  I don’t know.  It’s so hard to know how much an animal can process what’s happened to it.  The military is giving these dogs more options like adoption, but the priority still isn’t the dog per se—the story cites, “The adoption priority process is to first use the dog as a training aid for other handlers. Law enforcement agencies are second in line. Then, families who have lost a loved one in combat, followed by former handlers, and the general public.”  I would think adoption by a former handler would be the most beneficial for the dog and service person.   I know these dogs really enjoy being workers, so maybe staying in a program as a training aid is not as awful as it seems to me.  I do think it is cruel to put the former handlers at the bottom of the priority list. 

Yesterday, at work, there was this lil’ lady, a 7-week-old toy Chihuahua. 

She’s a wee thing, a pure bred with a tail that doesn’t curl, so the breeders were going to put her down because no one would pay the $50 for her.  Imagine, killing this puppy because her tail is fantastically crooked instead of curled.  I hate people.  I really, truly hate people.  Luckily, a woman I work with rescued her, and is basically fostering her until she can find a really loving home.  She leaned hard on me.  I almost caved.  Almost.

Unfortunately, I cannot adopt her.  It would be so foolish to do so.  Even though she obviously loves me, and wants me to be her mother.  I am basically living paycheck to paycheck right now, and there’s just no way I can support a dog.  I know her and Brekkie would have had magnificent times rolling around on the floor together, licking each other, and playing Scrabble.  Sigh.  Damn my poorness.  The Bear isn’t even aware that he just dodged a bullet.  He would have been so angry.  He already bleats his disapproval at Brekkie and Clementine.  He’s like a curmudgeonly uncle—always bopping them on the head, and shaking a meaty paw at them. 

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Bootie emergency today.  I’ve plain worn out my Fluevog booties, and the bottom rubber bit of the heel came off this afternoon at work.  I spent the rest of the day having a minor freak out, fretting that I would lose the piece before I managed to make it home.  Thankfully, I was able to keep it in place, and used the awesome, multipurpose, magical Weldbond glue.  The surgery was a success.  I highly recommend always having a bottle of this stuff at your disposal.

The day is saved.  And I’m still pantsless. 

Avoiding the Inevitable Weekend Chores

Seventeen days of George.  Do you know what that’s like?  We always complain about how little control we have over our bodies—how they break down, expand and contract, wrinkle and crunch and blemish, but this daily leaking without end is insulting.  And tiring.  Just when I think my uterus has shed its last bit of lining (there is, after all, a drought happening, triple-digit heat for days on end, my body should get the hint, and follow suit), there will be a new tint of pink or orange besmirching my clothes and toilet paper. 

Is it some combination of being a sterilized female who is suddenly having more sex than she has had in years?  I’ve been avoiding asking that question directly, and refuse to turn to Google.  What if the answer is yes?  How exactly would I proceed?

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Getting to know each other:

Me: We can visit the house I lived at on Wanda Lane.

CSP: Wanda Lane! That’s your porn name right there.  The whole name, first and last.

Me: Yes, my life has been a series of embarrassments.

I did live in Flower Mound after all.

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Another Saturday spent in the sun has left me tanner than I have been since I was a child.  I can’t keep applying the sunblock fast enough, and thus, my shoulders are brown, and my arms have taken on a dirty pall.  There are several reasons I don’t tan, mostly having to do with wanting to look pretty until the day I die, and I find that I do not darken in a pleasing, rich way like most people.  I just look dusty, like I’ve been rolling around in barren fields, like I need to be taken out back and beaten with a stick to release the dirt to the wind.  Yet, I’m having such a great time out on the water, that I’m going to let my vanity take a bit of a knocking.  At least I don’t look like CSP who is so painfully red that the heat coming off his body kept waking me up last night.  He does not complain and whine as I would, and even lets me touch him, where I would be demanding he keep his bloody paws off of me, thank you very much.  He also brought me a hot dog last night.  That, and in so many other ways, I adore this man. 

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Yesterday Brekkie received his last round of vaccinations.  At one point, the vet reached down, felt his balls, and exclaimed, “He can be fixed at any time now!”

No, really?!

Breaking the Heat Record

All this fun in the sun I’ve had this weekend has left me as a drained husk with an upset stomach.  That could also be the allergies talking.  Or, it’s the bbq plate I had at a benefit event I attended this afternoon .  Either way, CSP and I took a poorly timed nap, and suddenly it was 8pm, and the weekend was over.  Sigh.  It was time for CSP and Clementine to head southbound home. 

This past week I was on special assignment, which I am not at liberty to discuss (damn those confidentiality agreements), and it left me beyond exhausted.  It involved a lot of walking—walking that included stairs, with free carb-loaded lunches that had everyone feeling sluggish in the afternoons.  By Thursday night, I was in bed by 6:30pm, and when it was over at the end of Friday, the best I could do was shuffle along side CSP at the grocery store lightly whining as he picked out a dinner for us (hot dogs!). 

Yesterday, after much sleeping and frolicking, we drove out to Kingsland, TX where we hung out on Lake LBJ with some of CSP’s friends (including the daughter of one of them, and her two friends—lounging around with three gorgeous 16-year-old girls in our bikinis is a humbling experience).  The lake was very shallow where the pontoon boat anchored, and so there wasn’t really any swimming—more like kneeling on my knees on the sandy bottom (that sounded wicked dirty, but there was next to no sexy times out there in the water—there were teenagers watching after all) letting the water lap about my body in the most soothing, cooling way.  I rode my first wave runner (which, if I understand correctly, is the wimpy little brother to the jet ski), but I didn’t drive it.  I’m just not that brave. 

Last night, we hauled our sun-dazzled asses over to our friends, where we watched Goonies out on their porch.  We brought a bucket of fried chicken, ate tons of popcorn (after several months of popping corn by hand on the stove, microwave popcorn tastes nasty to me), and thoroughly enjoying ourselves.  We ran home, got all handsy, and passed out surrounded by some kittens. 

Then there was today, which was mostly good (for reasons I won’t go in to because it will just sound all mushy, and then all of us will be puking in our hands at how soft I’ve become).  There was a particularly low, low point, and while it was happening, I thought of all the different ways I would write about it.  It was so thoroughly upsetting, but really, after such a fantastic weekend otherwise, I think I should just get over it, and let it go.  It’s the old complaint of strangers feeling they have the right to touch me, grab at me, simply because I have tattoos. It makes me so angry. 

Ahem.

The benefit was for Julie Ann Gonzalez, who went missing on 3/26/10.  I know this blog doesn’t exactly have the largest audience, but please do hit the link for further information.  It’s a sad story, and the case is basically cold.  Typical police bullshit, and all that.  Repost as you see fit.  Thank you!

John Malkovich’s Eyelashes

There’s a kitten sleeping behind my ass.  I’m drinking Newcastle, and have a kitten sleeping behind my ass.  That is what you call a perfect moment.  It was a very long day—one that involved entirely too much stairs, and a lot of sitting and waiting.  In a high school.  I spent my damn day in a high school.  There was a lunch break, and when I walked in to that cafeteria, I completely panicked for a second, and thought I was actually a teenager at a new school on my first day.  God.  What a horrific thought.  I got over it quickly, and found myself the cool-kids’ table, and ate a breadstick (it’s all I had time for).  I get to do this for another four days.  I’m bringing a book the rest of the week (and it won’t be no damn Ken Follett, I’ll tell you that). 

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Yesterday I had my first visitation rights with the children at the Ex’s.  Wikus is taking care of them What’s His Butt is out of the country.  Don’t worry, I received permission to actually be in the house, and I didn’t do anything obscene like poop in the bed, or stow some stinky cheese in the blankets in his bass drum (Frijole: Are these items on your list?).  I took off my shoes, and was militant in my coaster usage. I didn’t snoop, but I did look at his “purple” studio, which is quite neat and tidy, but really more of a pinky-lavender than a purple, but hey, if he’s happy, then good for him.  The kittens actually came out to see me, which was a bit shocking, but more so was how they are no longer kittens, but actually very fat cats.  Who are these chunky beasts?

And of course, their gay mommy, the one who must have taught them all that he knows (which is basically to consume kibble as if each bit is the last he’ll ever receive).

I actually cried when Mattress came up and head-butted me on the leg.  He climbed in my arms purring and drooling.  I miss him so very much.  It’s so unfair that I can’t see him daily.  Sure, seeing the kittens was nice, but I don’t miss them exactly.  They spent most of their time under the bed, and I got to grab Horchata’s tail as he sped by me in completely terror.  Such skittish creatures—especially considering that I think they could easily tackle me, knock my homework to the ground, twist my nipples, and make fun of my mother. 

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I just put on The Sheltering Sky, and my first thoughts are, “Damn, did John Malkovich always have such lovely long, curled eyelashes?”  Or is it just the African sunlight?