A Chance of Snot

Today it was 78 degrees in Austin.  I only bring this up, not to rub in how awesome Austin can be in January, but to relay an embarrassing typo goof of my boss'.  Tomorrow an arctic front will arrive in town, thus freezing all our smug asses, and part of my boss' job is to relay weather information to certain people.  Since most folks, especially those paid upward of seven figures, have trouble actually reading an email, she tends to summarize them.  Today she told some pretty important people that there is a chance of snot later in the week.  Poor thing will probably never be able to talk about the weather again without having to bear through tissue jokes.  We all agreed if it does snot on Friday, we are most definitely not going in to work. 

I have so much of my own snot that I don't really need it to rain down from above.  Saturday night at C&L's (Settlers of Catan--this time The Boy owned us), I sat there wrapped in a blanket playing a game called Sneeze, Blow, Toss, Grumble.  I am a champion nose blower and know how to really make a tissue last.  Can I list that under my KSA's on my resume?  I could even prove that I don't bullshit on my resume, and really knock an interview out of the park with my mad nose-blowing skillz.

It's probably good that the weather is dropping in to the teens over the next 24 hours--it'll prepare me for Boston, where I will be spending a few days with Ivy Vyne and friends.  Obviously the only way to get through it all is to be wicked drunk, and I mean to start as soon as the cold front hits tomorrow.  Don't tell my boss.  It is probably best to get through February soused.  Then I can't be held responsible for all that crying I find myself doing.  I can at least blame the alcohol.  Yesterday I cried over not having trash bags and litter.  Today I cried because I missed the Orange Lover.  So it goes.

Side note: On last week's Skins, why the hell do the lesbians spend all that time throwing their heads back, showing off their necks, and giggling during sex?  From my experience, girls spend more time you know, having sex, and not so much rolling around and laughing.  Maybe I only know the serious type.  The kind who are too busy pleasing each other with their mouths and such.  MTV obviously knows more than I do, so I'll just keep watching to see what *real* teenagers are like.

ET Knows What the Queers Are Doing to the Soil

The Boy texted me this picture yesterday.  (Please focus on ET, and not the state of the foundation of our house.)  He wrote, "Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick.  Don't you know that a burrow ET lives in the ground."

Hilarious!  But as a bigger Stuart fan (or at least someone who has sang it enough times to be able to quote it slightly more accurately), I knew we could do better.  Here is how it played out on FB:

Grumples: Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick! The burrow ET lives in a hole, in the ground! Why the hell do you think it's called a burrow ET anyway!

The Boy: You know what, ET? I like you!

Grumples: You're not like the other tortoises...here...in the trailer park.

Fink-Nottle: They found his shell over by the snow-cone concession!

I'm particularly pleased with Fink-Nottle's.  That ET, he was a daredevil, just like his old lady!  When ET visited with CSP on Tuesday, I'm pretty sure they discussed the big underground homosexual population of Des Moines, Iowa.  They both know all about those damn queers, and the landing strip they are building for gay Martians.

Say Goodbye, Moles

Yesterday The Boy and I did something so completely coupley it makes me cringe a bit--not necessarily in a bad way, but I am rolling my eyes nonetheless.  Once, when The Boy and I started dating, we visited a friend of his who owned a garage, and The Boy asked me to put some lippies on him, and I swear I thought his friend almost fell over with the force of his vomit as he watched me lovingly apply lip balm to my dear boy's amazing mouth.  What we did yesterday was not nearly as revolting.

We had a joint dermatology visit for a full-body skin check.  Unfortunately, we were made to sit in separate rooms, which just meant we texted each other the whole time.  The PA circled a few of my moles--more out of my annoyance with them than a true worry that they might be cancerous.  I asked her if removing them would be billed as cosmetic, and she told me that no, they send it to the insurance company as "an irritated mole."  This cracked my shit up something serious.  Yes, it is no surprise that someone as grumpy as myself has irritated moles.  I'm just shocked that someone is so willing to deal with them.  I would tell my moles to fuck off and get over themselves.  Irritated indeed.

Thus, I had three moles removed and The Boy had two.  He is so miffed that he didn't realize sooner that it really is just that easy to waltz in to a dermatologist's office and demand to be cleansed of irritated moles.  He had his thripple removed.  I can give no more details than that.  There was another one on his back that I think I may miss a bit.  It was really gross and squeezable.  (Boy: If you're reading this, stop crying, and remember that I love you very much.)  The first time we hooked up and I ran my hands down his back, I thought a small creature had taken up residence near the lumbar area of his spine.  My first instinct was to attempt a good flick to evict it.  It was only a momentary blip in an otherwise very sexy encounter.  I'm still with him seven years lo, so I obviously got over it.  But just think, I've been suffering with its intrusive presence for so long, I had really gotten used to it and accepted it as part of my loving relationship.  Not anymore--that's all gone now!

The mole removal was very easy--I played Angry Birds the whole time.  I did not pass the level, though.  Sad.  Stupid smell of burning skin was really throwing off my game.  The memory of which did not help the fact that I felt like someone was continuously putting out a cigarette between my shoulder blades for the rest of the day.  That sensation has thankfully abated. 

The good news (that I am taking as bad news) is that the spot on my forehead is not cancerous, and therefore does not need to be removed.  I know I should be saying thank my lucky stars, but seriously, this just means I can't get plastics in to fix me.  It's just a boring ol' sun spot.  I have spent the past 2.5 decades applying copious amounts of sunblock to my face and body.  I refused to swim in the ocean and frolic on the beach.  I was yelled at for swaddling myself in a towel and ruining the family vacation for not enjoying myself in the sun.  Seriously.  I'm not making that up at all.  I laughed at my sister who would cover herself in cooking oil and lay out in the driveway of our Texas house in the middle of summer.  She smelled so nasty.  Yet, strangely, I would get hungry.  Anyway.  Point being, I have taken great pains to avoid the sun most of my life (while still doing my best to spend time outside, because it was warm and felt good) to end up with fucking brown sun spots on my face in my mid-30s.  UNFAIR!  The PA was sympathetic, enough so that she totally sold me in to buying $130 of skincare products.  I'm such a sucker.  A vain sucker who wants to be pretty forever and ever.  Therefore I am to apply some fancy expensive sunscreen to my face every morning, and then some fancy expensive bleach-lightener stuff every morning and evening in hopes that my sun spots become less visible, and I become fabulously more beautiful with an even skin tone.  It's kind of like praying every night before going to bed: It probably won't do jack shit, but it doesn't hurt to try.  Other than it may make me go broke, and the last time I checked, praying was free.

A Heart-Warming Story of a Tortoise's Healthy Innards & the Humans and Cats Who Made It Possible

Once upon a time there was a little tortoise with large stones in his bladder and a blocked intestinal track. He didn't eat for months, and had to be force-fed with a tube, and hydrated with a fatty needle.  His innards were sad.

Then he took a visit to Houston and had a window cut out of his plastron to remove all the bad stuff.  His mother spent tons of money on the surgery, and his father on all the doctor visits, tests and medicines.  It was pretty touch-and-go, and there was little guarantee he would make it.  There were a lot of fingers crossed for some good solid poos.

It took one week, but he made his parents proud.

It took awhile before he wanted to eat with relish. He refused to ingest what was good for him--insisting that starving was better than eating hay.  His mother had to find a way to trick him in to eating his fiber (his mother being a person who hates being in the kitchen).  She got crafty and used a food processor to disguise the hay in tons of Romaine lettuce.  Sucker.

Then he fell in love with carrots.

The Bear was recruited to make sure ET ate a well-balanced meal.

The kittens were recruited to make sure that the heat lamp and UV light were always working.

Mattress refused to do anything beside looking really cute.

In the late fall, he enjoyed sunning himself in clumps of weeds.

Then came Take Your Reptile to Work Day, and ET visited his mom's work, and fought over who got to snuggle with the space heater (he won).

Take Your Reptile to Work Day just happened to coincide with a vet appointment.  Just a visit to make sure he was doing okay eight months after his surgery.  I guess you can say he is doing fantastic!

He has been given a 100% clean bill of health.  Only a few internal staples left, and not a single blockage.  Hooray ET!  May he live happily ever after for the next 65 years or so.

When To Start Dating Orcas

Poor Wikus just asked me why the hot girls from his past never track him down through Facebook.  This was prompted by the fact that an old roommate of ours did track him down to say that he has changed "about 100%."  I'm not sure if that kind of turnaround is possible.  Once, to prevent anyone entering his bedroom, he tied a plastic bag around his French doors.  That totally showed us!  I mean, before the really tight security, we were always hanging out in his room on his crusty punk clothes, and enjoying the smell of bong water.  I would have rather stood naked in a Boston blizzard in front of a snowplow than step foot in his room.  But thankfully, if I changed my mind, there was that plastic bag keeping me in check.  So, yes, Crusty Craig but no hot girls.  Poor Wikus.

I'll actually be doing the unthinkable--visiting Boston in February.  Since I can't afford an electric snowsuit (as Wikus recommended), I'll have to make do with a blubber suit.  Unfortunately, I'm not sure I can gain the amount of weight needed in such a short amount of time.  Especially if I keep exercising through laughing:

Wikus: You should get some kind of electric snowsuit.
Grumples: a blubber suit
Wikus: That might be stinky.
Grumples: eh, it's not like i'll be trying to score dates
Wikus: But I guess it'd be too cold to smell anything.
Wikus: You would get a date with an orca who would try to gnaw on you.
Grumples: do orcas now hang out in brookline?
Wikus: Only the russian jewish ones.
Grumples: those are the best kind
Wikus: They run fish markets.
Wikus: They're so big, they wear trashcan lids for yarmulkes.

There was also some assisting with moving a piano that I did earlier.  The Boy probably has a hernia now, but he won't admit it.  At one point, in his grunting and panting, he had the audacity to ask me, "Can you lift up just a bit on your side?"  Did he really ask me if I could lift up the piano?  Seriously?  My arms are brittle, pale, life-less twigs.  Only good for accomplishing a 30-second orgasm and lifting food to my mouth.

However, even though my limbs can barely carry the weight of my body, apparently they are very sexy.  Or at least according to a dingy boy at Target who could not have been more than 14.  He had a furry little friend living on his lip, and he stalked me in the hosiery section (I really wanted some white thigh-highs to wear while rollerskating, but I was denied).  He was very enamored with me, or at least the decorated part of me.  He did ask how much my artist would charge him for a sleeve.  I couldn't help it, I totally laughed.  Gently, I swear.

There's a certain addiction I always indulge in while at Target (and no, it isn't luring teenaged boys in to the dressing room--I only do that with college boys now): I love to buy underwear.  Not fancy underwear; just some plain old cotton knickers.  Though, Saturday's purchase was microfiber, so that's fancy, and bikini-cut.  Today I matched my shirt to my new pink panties.  I've already changed in to my muumuu, so I can't prove it.  Nauticalina can--I showed her.  She fed me when I was beyond hungry, so I paid her back with a peek at my undies.  Though, that isn't what she was charging for that chimichanga, banana ice pop and spicy hot chocolate.  Seems just being friends is pay back enough for her.  Just in case though, I felt it was prudent for her to look at my underwear. 
. 
Speaking of underwear, I really do not like MTV's version of Skins.  Why did it have to be an almost word-for-word reproduction?  It just makes me compare the two casts, and I'm sorry to say, the American one is seriously lacking and trying way too hard.  I'm embarrassed for them.  And okay, fine, I'm still going to watch it, but just so you know, I'm not enjoying it.  Damn it.

Ass to Couch

Whew, this old body of mine is sore.  Between the sneezing and rollerskating and maneuvering between black-clad hipsters at a bar's birthday party, my bones are feeling their age.  I'm exhausted and am finally ass-to-the-couch for the rest of the night.  Which may be like two hours considering I only got 3.5 hours of sleep last night.  I'm redefining sexy in my Hawaiian muumuu and snot-swollen face.  You know you can't resist me. 

Also, sexy?  Crying at the Jackalope while sitting on Nauticalina's lap as some wanna-be Pogues band played cover songs.  I made it almost 48 hours without tears.  I take that as progress.  I cried a bit this morning, and I had The Boy's arms comforting me, and that was really the best.  I needed that (and Nauticalina did a great job rubbing my back and making me feel normal in a fucked-up situation last night).  While the crying seems to be tapering off, my dreams are still so startling real that they stay with me all day--generally in a grip of deep grief and despair.  Thanks brain!

Last night I did get the pleasure of meeting Nauticalina's bestie, Dicktition.  That girl knows how to smuggle plastic bottles of liquor in her bra like no one else I have ever known.  She also wins the title for worse divorce story ever, but it isn't my story to share, so just know it is bad.  Very very bad. 

At some point I need to share a really gross story that isn't mine, but one I got permission to blab all over the internet.  However, I'm too tired to get in to it right now.  Just know that it involves pus and self-surgery.  Two of my favorite things!

This post is quite disjointed and I apologize.  Blame the Allegra and Zyrtec and the lack of sleep and the motherfucking hematoma I gave myself crashing in to a wall while rollerskating today.  Thus, it will probably be easier to sum up my last week in pictures.

P2

 

 

Grackles against a winter sky.

Buy this for me.

Through the car windshield; 28 degrees; Austin, TX.

 

 

Fish Cream in its new home.

Rollerskating

Exhausted

Sunday was not an aberration.  It wasn't as much about Whoopis as I thought.  I can't stop crying.  It's horrible, embarrassing, shameful, confusing.  I cry when good things happen.  I cry when vaguely annoying things happen.  I cry when I look at P2 because he doesn't want me to snuggle him, and I so miss the Orange Lover and how he snuggled me when I cried, so I am crying because I can't cry while snuggling an orange cat.  I struggle not to cry during a staff meeting, and did cry during a training class (oh, how terrible these allergies are!). 

Fink-Nottle asked me if achieving an orgasm in less than 30 seconds is worth all this.  I can't answer that.  The tears have only been here since Sunday, and I have a mile long steak of self-punishment within me.  I have to wait this out a bit longer, see if my body can level off, and live without prescription intervention.  This is harder than I ever thought it would be, but I'm not ready to give up.  I came home and cried on the couch.  Sat here and cried while The Boy got ready for work.  I cried as he puttered around gathering up this and that.  I cried as he left, and I cried as I emailed and texted my friends to let them know that I need them for no other reason than that I am an emotional mess for no good reason beside having a serious chemical imbalance at the moment.

Now I'm going to take out the trash and recycling, and hope that I won't be brought to tears on the front lawn.

Here's a reason not to cry:

Other reasons:

1. Rollerskating with my ladies
2. Monday night phone call with Frijole
3. Wednesday Skype with Meggles (or Sunday)
4. All my boys

Blow

I never thought it would be possible to cry this hard while listening to Cock Sparrer.  Yet, here I am, in the back yard, watching ET eat fresh shoots of vibrant green grass (it was in the 20s the other day, so I'm not sure what that grass is thinking), and bawling next to Whoopis' grave.  I've spent the last couple of hours sorting through some of my favorite songs, working on a mix for Nauticalina.  I enjoy spending afternoons alone wearing my headphones and hopelessly singing out of tune for no one but the cats and ET to judge me.  I had the television on mute, and I just happened to look up right when a shot of a dead cat half-buried amongst a pile of junk on Hoarders.  If that wasn't jarring enough, this cat looked so much like Whoopis.  Queue uncontrollable sobbing.  It's an hour later and I'm still crying.  I can't stop.  I'm screaming silently in the backyard and clenching my fists, my  hands white-knuckled with cold.

I didn't specifically set out to listen to Cock Sparrer--it was a random iPod choice.

So, I'm sitting here on a wet chair having a beer.  It is gray and cold.  But it isn't raining.  When ET stops eating, I will go inside and try to dry my tears.  I've decided to listen to the Bunnymen's All My Life on repeat until ET is ready.

Look! Over There! LOOK!

My mother was a pointer.  She pointed at every last thing in her line of sight.  It was an additional lesson in tedium in our already unbearable family vacations.  Even as a kid, I knew she did this out of desperation for someone to pay attention to her, any kind of attention to make herself seem relevant, more than just a mother, but as someone with independent thoughts and opinions outside of feeding and cleaning us.  Thus, pointing. 

"Look, a tree!  Two trees!  Three trees!  A whole row of trees in the median!  LOOK!"
"There's the library.  Right there.  See, that sign? It's for the library.  No, we're not going there."
"Would you just look at that...?" (No one looks up to see what she is pointing at, and resentful silence follows.)

From my nest of pillows and books in the backseat, I never bothered looking up to see what she was going on about.  I wasn't a child filled with much hope, and I knew better than to think that one day she'd point out a kitten riding a monkey riding a goat.  It was easier to just sleep and dream of such things, than think my mother may actually point out something of interest.  I read a lot books about magic and kids with ESP (oh, Willo Davis Roberts, you really got me through some hard times).

All this pointing has done a number on who I am as an adult.  Sure, we all point, and say really mundane things to each other that most of us can observe on our own without any outside assistance.  At least those of us who aren't blind, and have reasonably functioning cognitive skills.  Therefore, I do my best not to fall in to the habit of pointing at things no one could possibly care about without first expressing an interest in it.  If you're not looking for the grocery store, I'm not going to point out that we just passed one. You'd be surprised at how often people point out grocery stores.  Seriously. 

Unfortunately, my aversion to paying attention to other people's pointing, has made it so I don't always understand why someone may be pointing in the first place--that it may come from more than an emotional neediness for attention.  The Boy points at a certain building on Airport Blvd every single time we happen to drive by it.  And every single time I fail to understand what the fuck he is trying to get me to look at.  My first thought is either I'm about to hit someone or someone is about to hit me.  Of course by the time I realize what he was pointing at, I'm about a block down the road, and he is pouting.  There's a great memory associated with that building, and he is pointing to remind him, us, of this special event in our past.  I'm ignoring his positive pointing.  I'm ignoring something important to him, and I don't mean to, but that is just not how good memories work for me.  This drives him crazy, and at times  hurts his feelings, and I really don't mean for that to happen.  Yet, it does.  Every time.  Gah.

He's also very fond at pointing at things that we already own or have a mutual interest in, like a red wall!  We have a red livingroom, so I am forever being made to look at other red walls whether on television or in a store.  He just loves pointing out red walls.  Or couches that our similar to our couch but perhaps in a different color.   This is when I lose patience.  I feel guilty when I don't immediately recognize the place on Airport Blvd where we shared a meaningful evening, but I completely don't care about these other things.  Obviously I am a heartless bitch. I'd rather go home and look at our red walls and nice furniture together, than stand in a store tring to bond over something we bought in the past.

Ho hum.  This probably now means every time we are in the Target at 183 and Ohlen Road, I'll be subjected to him pointing at the dressing room.  And probably elbowing me in the ribs. 

Thus, I will probably continue to roll my eyes and be a really impatient jerk when something is pointed out to me.  Try not to be surprised, and definitely don't be hurt.  Also, I have a feeling I probably point all the time without realizing it.

The Party In My Pants

It's been cold and rainy for two days, and it is making me seriously cranky.  I hate this kind of weather.  My nose is red and runny.  My joints ache, and I obviously just sit around complaining a lot.  I spent the day with The Boy shopping for various things for the house.  This is always a risky undertaking for the two of us--he processes decisions very slowly, and I'm practically two states over by the time he decides if he's okay with something or not.  This makes me very impatient and not very kind.  I also just don't like shopping very much.  He's able to handle cluttered junk shops, where I would rather rip off my skin and play in heavy traffic than go in them.  However, in Target, after being particularly jerky with The Boy, I mollified him a bit in the dressing room.  This worked surprisingly well, but not for very long.  Unfortunately, there weren't many opportunities at other shops to do the same. 

We did manage to get a few things on our list, including a flatscreen television for the bedroom (with a wall mount, which is producing some really sweet noises from The Boy as he installs it, like, "Goddamnmotherfuckingcuntbitch."). 

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It is still too difficult for me to determine if all my testiness is due to quitting the mood meds, or if it is because I am still battling allergies, rain, dust, discombobulated house, and other personal annoyances that I can't really discuss.  I know the medications are completely out of my system though, due to one wonderful thing that I have really missed over the past 20 months or so: I can have an orgasm in under one minute.  Oh the joy.  I actually had a wet dream the other night where I had three orgasms in a row.  It was amazing (and totally lesbian hot).  There have been countless times over the past two years where I've not wanted to even bother my sleeping clit.  It was too much effort to even try to get it to respond.  The situation is definitely pretty bad when you can't get your own self off, so why bother having someone else give it a go?  Now I can practically walk and cream myself.  Who wants to be me?  Your face will constantly flow with snot, but you'll be really happy in your pants all day and night long.  Jealous?

(Nauticalina stop vomiting on my shoes.)

Granny's Pie & Mama's Cake

Good fuck, I want to write right now, but too many words keep crashing in to each other, and none of it will actually go in a straight line.  I need someone to direct the traffic, but my budget is too tight for such an extravagance. The solution here is to go to bed, but it is nice under this blanket on the couch with The Boy on the right and Mattress sniffing around at my elbow on the left.  I smell of woodsmoke, and am full of fancy doughnuts--Gourdough's was finally open, and my promise to Nauticalina has been fulfilled.  Maybe I should just leave it at that for the night.  It was a pretty good day--no manual labor, barely any *real* work, and some awesome ladies to complete the night.  There's only a bit of a black smudge, someone's being squirrely, and I'm not naming names--passive-aggressiveness rules!  Or at least it does when I haven't been left with much choice.  Le sigh.

Seven Things About Me: The Stupid School Years Version

My mood is on an upswing, and I feel a bit like popping out of my skin in a pleasant carbonated way. I feel fizz-tastic.  I've been completely off my meds for a few days now (though, not off all drugs since I've practically become an allergy-med addict), and it is hard to judge how I've been faring since I have been in an epic battle with my environment (with my person taking the majority of the heavy artillery), and thus I have been anxious and terribly peevish.  I hopped in the shower as soon as I got home last night--it was the only way to keep me from bombing everything in the house. It was a really good shower.

Yesterday, I gnashed my teeth a lot, and got really angry at some lady in Wikus' parking lot (just shut your driver's-side door when getting your mail while audaciously parked in the middle of the parking lot), and then cursed at the apparent closing of House Pizza (if that ends up not being the case, why haven't they been open the past 10 days?).  However, during small moments of calm, I did catch up on my Google Reader (stop mocking me with that 1000+ unread notice).  I often enjoy reading Kendi Everyday, she seems like such an intelligent, sweet girl.  I would seriously consider stalking and wooing her if she actually lived in Austin (she's near, but not near enough).  She had posted a hilarious meme recounting various snippets of her childhood--the not-so-flattering kind!

Thus, I spent a lot of yesterday thinking of the fleeting bits of my childhood that I can remember.  I've blacked out so many of my years, but there are still some memories that cling to these sodden brain walls of mine.  Writing these makes me want to cover my face with a blanket and giggle.  There's no taking them back, so I might as well put them out there for everyone else's enjoyment.  Cheers!

1.  While I did spend a lot of time in elementary school rollerskating to Cyndi Lauper and Madonna in the back of our 4-car garage, I also really enjoyed listening to David Lee Roth.  I lived in Anchorage, AK in the mid-'80s, if that helps excuse some of my early musical tastes.

2.  While in a McDonald's drive-through in Lewisville, TX, my mother told me that I have the type of "rear-end" that black guys would like, and she was okay with that.  This would have been a way less uncomfortable conversation if there wasn't a black guy handing us food at the moment.  For the record, my ass has an equal opportunity policy statement, where it does not discriminate against race, religion, color, national origin, sex, sexual preference, age or disability. 

3. Starting my freshman year in high school and extending in to my sophomore year, I wore XXXL t-shirts on my 100-pound frame, and I thought I looked really good.  The repercussion of that fashion statement was I spent many years believing I was flat-chested.

4. When I was 13 or so, I accidentally dyed a very conservative friend's hair bright, cotton-candy pink (I swear I was shooting for a very lovely shade of dark auburn).  She never spoke to me again, and I'm pretty sure her mother posted a warrant for my arrest that stated she preferred me dead to alive.

5.  My first job was at a car wash, where I was often made to sit in a small shack where some dude smoked copious amounts of pot.  I stole quarters from people's ashtrays to make myself feel better about my lot in life.

6.  In 4th grade I thought I won an art contest (I drew a fabulous cornucopia in crayon!), and told everyone I knew how it would be hanging in some bank building in downtown Edmund, OK.  I stood up and announced it to my class just to have my teacher stand up and tell me I had not actually won anything at all, and what I had received was a notice thanking me for competing.

7.  I wasn't properly kissed by a boy until I was 14.  It happened the day I got rubber bands to wear with my braces.  It was a very short-lived romance.

Fish Cream!!!

Saturday was one hell of an awful day.  Wishing for death seems a mild way to express how I felt.  I wanted death, craved death, asked repeatedly for death.  Fucking cedar, mold and dust.  There was a lot of sleeping that day, but I did accomplish one very important thing: Mailing Ivy Vyne her very belated Chicken Day prezzie.  There's a long complaint I could make about post offices not being open on Saturdays, and how USPS doesn't seem capable of updating their hours of operations on their website.  But I won't.  Because Ivy got her prezzie today, and I am filled with happiness over it.

Sit down.  Be prepared for the jealousy that is going to wash over you.  Because you can't have it.  It's an original, never to be duplicated, not even so I can have one of my own.  This isn't the best picture of it, but the house is in a bit of a disarray, so I am unable to download the photos off of my camera at this time.  This iPhone photo cannot do it justice, but still, I believe the beauty shines through.

Fish Cream, 12/17/10

 

 

 

May it have a happy home in Brookline, Mass.  If all goes well, it'll return to Austin this summer.  Fingers crossed that Ivy Vyne and Fish Cream are able to move here.  My life will be ever closer to completion with both of them by my side. 

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I'm thinking that if I really want my life to be complete, I need to get one of those Craftmatic beds, and put it in the livingroom instead of having a couch.  While our floors are being finished in the bedroom and office, we have our mattress on the futon.  It is piled high with pillows and blankets, and oh man, it is so fucking comfortable.  We're watching The Lost Boys in some serious style.  I kind of want this to be permanent.  Sure, almost everything we own is now towering over us in the livingroom, and the cats are having a little too much fun, but it may just be worth it.  Mattress (the fat Siamese cat) likes it so much he literally slept in my arms almost the whole night.  I don't want to give up this kind of good action.

"Are you freebasing? Inquiring minds want to know." 

Do I have to go back to work tomorrow?  Or, can I just keep watching all these movies I loved as a teenager?  Is all this regressing indicative of a mid-life crisis?  Can I not be an old lady on my Craftmatic AND watch Welcome Home Roxy Carmichael and Cry-Baby as I did when I was 15?  This truly is the best of both worlds.

"My own brother--A goddamn shit-sucking vampire."

I'd be very happy for Jason Patric to come suck my neck.  Right.  Now.  I have needs that need to be met.  Right.  Now.  I'm waiting right here on my wannabe Craftmatic, Jason.  I'm in my panties, if that helps at all.

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The office at 7:30am this morning:

The office at 4pm this afternoon:

I never realized how much our house looked like a Tex-Mex cantina.  I'm not complaining, just observing.  Margarita happy hour, The Boy & Grumple's office, tomorrow at 4:30pm.  I'll be the one passed out on the bed in the livingroom as you make your way to the back of the house.  Don't mind me--I'm too busy dreaming of making out with Jason Patric.  Enjoy the free drinks!

Take Me, I'm Yours

The Wedding Present is making me go deaf in the mornings.  Okay, perhaps it is not them, and it is more due to a refusal to turn down the volume.  I can't stop listening to Bizarro while driving (okay, it's just been since Tuesday night, and I've barely been in the car--stop contradicting me).  I've stopped listening to NPR so I can drive recklessly and loudly sing garbled lyrics to myself.  I find this all extremely satisfying.

Bizarro is an album I should have had as a teenager.  I would have copiously quoted from it in melancholy lovelorn letters to all those boys who never returned my affections.  Or, at least, never kept returning them.  Wikus introduced me to the Wedding Present when I was in college, and instead of taking a positive position of thank-goodness-I-am-listening-to-this-excellent-band-now, I take the why-the-fuck-did-I-not-listen-to-this-before-college. My glass is always close to empty.

Imagine being a 15-year-old listening to these lyrics in a car on a rainy night:

That must've been a knowing look
Oh when you moved to pass your friend his book
And oh that feeling
When your hand returns to mine
I think I might as well stay out here
Oh but, can you kiss me just once properly
Well of course I mean it! I think about you all the time

Oh won't you put that down and take me, I'm yours
When will we have this chance again
Oh please just put that down and take me, I'm yours
We might never have romance again

Warm hands and things you say
You get lovelier everyday
Warm hands and things you say
You get lovelier everyday

                                                                        --Take Me!

Alas, I am a 35-year-old and it is just silly for me to write those things these days.  However, I am crafty and put them here for nostalgia's sake.  Sure, the words are no longer applicable at this time in my life, but it doesn't mean I can't rock out to them, and think of times when one could get away passing lyrics (or a mix-tape) to a boy in hopes that he would finally, truly understand how you felt. 

I'm trying to find some suitable lyrics from Bizarro that I can dedicate to The Boy; sadly, David Gedge mainly writes about heartbreak.  I'm sure I could find something if I mined all his songs, and took bits out of context.  But I do have actual work to accomplish, and he knows how much I love him (even if the Ambien sometimes makes it so I  have no idea if we had sex or I had a really great dream).

Ahem.  Please don't ask me where I was going with that.  The cedar and mold have been kicking my ass, and I fear my brain has once again turned in to snot-jelly.  Yes, SNOT-JELLY!  Oh, you think that is really gross and an unfortunate combination of words?  THEN JUST THINK HOW I FEEL!

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The past three nights I have had the pleasure of being in C's presence (remind me to call her something like Cowhide from here on out).  I've also been in her attic (we both heard that fucking scratching and squawking, I swear!), and slept on her couch (when was the last time I stayed up to 4am, especially after a Christian Slater double-feature?).  We enjoyed ourselves immensely at IKEA (dude, they are actually selling cowhide there, and wouldn't you know that branding marks are an "inherent characteristic?"). 

OMG!  New Lower Price!

There was also all that making out that we did, but I swore to her that I wouldn't release the details because she is totally shy about it.  (Call me!)
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We had new windows put in this week.  The house is a disaster zone, and it makes me agitated just walking in the door.  It needs to be pulled more apart before we put it back together--hardwood floors are being installed in the bedroom and office on Monday.  The weekend will be spent going through my clothes, and moving furniture.  Who's coming over to help?  Or at least take my cast-off shirts and underwear?

PSA

"Watering my orchid" is not a euphemism.  Please keep that in mind.

Nasal Tampons Save Me Now

My banana is way too green.  My allergies are kicking my ass, and I have a way-too-green banana.  I'm wishing for death but don't want to die at work, because that is just frightfully embarrassing and pathetic.  Imagine Twit finding my soiled little body slumped in my chair, covered in snot and tears.  My fantasy right now is two Benadryls and my bed (I realize that my fantasies are generally much more exciting than this).  There is construction happening at the house, so there is no way to make it a reality.  New, energy-efficient windows are being installed, and those expensive fuckers (thanks, Boy!) better have some magical, allergen-repelling powers.  I'm so not kidding.

There was something that was said on KUT this afternoon that made me surly, but fuck if I can remember what that was.  I guess it is good that I don't hold on to my anger like I used to.  However, I miss ranting about trivial matters. 

I would like The Boy to make a recording of what I hear inside my head when I blow my nose.  I know it is audible--I've had him listen to my ears.  Squeaks and squelches.  It would be fantastic if it wasn't so awful.

Thursday I went roller-skating.  It was a mustache party with '70s costumes.  Nauticalina bought us pink mustaches, and she wore hers with pride--mine kept falling off due to my sweaty-lip syndrome.  I love my mouth, but not the skin above my upper lip.  Guamaniac drew a green mustache on me and Ms. V made it sparkle.  We were joined by Cattleboy who out skated us, but always promised to be there if we fell.  To laugh and point.  No really, he was great.  Nauticalina and I managed to defy gravity, and he skated with us almost the whole time, while everyone else drank and posed for pictures.  My ass still hurts from all that exercise.

Not to mention all the eating Nauticalina and I accomplished since Thursday night.  We spent three nights in a row driving all the way to south Austin for a fancy doughnut, but Gourdough's was a fail each time (if you aren't going to work your posted hours, please put a motherfucking sign up on your trailer--it can even be handwritten for all I care).  We were not thwarted for long, and found ourselves at Ken's Doughnuts, IHOP and Mrs. Johnson's Doughnuts (in that order).  We also visited Trudy's and Burger Tex in there.  We are beautiful women who know how to celebrate during a long weekend.  I adore Nauticalina.  She's the brightest of stars.  She's shiny and special in a good way.  She is 22, which is only to say that she makes me feel 22. 

I refuse to list my highs and lows of 2010.  It was a bad year.  The end.  So far this year I kicked some ass at C&L's playing Settlers of Catan Cities and Knight's expansion pack.  I slaughtered those poor people.  I was the USA, and The Boy was Ethiopia.  There was barely any sheep to make our wool, but naked savagery worked just fine for me.  Butt-naked savagery!