Such Drinking May Make You Feel Bold and Fearless

The past two weeks I’ve been assisting various work groups with interviewing employees.  This is something I honestly love doing.  I most prefer it to my regular job.  However, what I do not like is interviewing a person when there is a 2” cockroach roaming around on the floor behind him (the interviews were taking place in an industrial setting).  I find that extremely distracting, and am more worried about finding the closest points of egress than listening to Mr. Applicant discuss his qualifications.  Sitting on my legs through a whole interview also makes me cranky, but what if that roach decides to crawl up my pants leg?  Then where would we be?  Out the motherfucking door, I’ll tell you that much.

It makes me cry a bit on the inside knowing how terribly infantile and girly that makes me to lose my cool during an interview.  Especially when I get all pissy when an applicant made a crack about having his boss pay for my pedicure when he was demonstrating a mechanical skill as part of his interview (it involved him teaching me how to replace belts on a piece of machinery).  Hi! I scream at the sight of a roach, but don’t you dare get all sexist on me when it comes to my goddamn fingernails!  He did not get offered the position—I swear it had nothing to do with his comment.  I’m a professional!

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After work yesterday, I visited with EM.  It’s been a long time.  I bet you forgot she existed.  That’s what happens when someone improves her station in life—she makes more money and is busier.  Bitch.  After catching her up on almost three months of happenings, we hugged and I ran home to put ET outside so he could get some sun on his back. 

Driving home, I thought of Blue.  I didn’t get to chat with her all day, which left me feeling a bit dreary.  I thought about how she has twice brought me flowers.  I love her for that.  I know no other person who brings flowers for no reason at all.  She’s brilliantly sweet like that.  I get to see her tonight.  Perhaps I’ll think of something lovely to bring her—if I knew how, and had a few more hours left to fritter away, I’d make her a thousand origami cranes, and shower her with them when she opened the door.  I think that would express my love quite nicely.

Or I can just answer the door sans pants. 

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The AC in my car is intermittently working.  It’s been in the triple digits and I own a black car.  I may complain all the time about how cold buildings are, and that my thermostat is currently set on 86, but no AC in the car is even a bit much for me to bear. 

Ivy Vyne is coming for a visit (YES!), and she told me she is fine with this situation.  I think it might be better if she reserved judgment.  I’m worried that her delicate New England skin is going to melt right off her, and I’ll be driving her bones around town this weekend.  At least I won’t have to worry about accidental drowning, if she’s already dead before I get her in to a river.

CSP kindly came over last night and mucked around behind my glovebox (that is not a euphemism…in this case) where there is some filter, which he cleaned for me (Side story: Last week I ate some crackers I had stored in my glovebox, and I almost fainted from the foul taste of exhaust, and now knowing there is this filter existing directly behind the glovebox certainly explains a lot).  The filter was barely dirty, just a couple leaves and seeds; thus, we both agreed it probably wasn’t causing the problem.  All the same, it was really cute watching him grapple with the glovebox. 

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Last week saw the successful passing of another birthday for Wikus.  He was feted in style, by which I mean he was given many fine gifts (Blue’s being the best since she picked items up from an Asian grocery store like squid crackers and a blue drink that warned, “A white poeder at the bottom is not a default.  Please agitate slowly.”), and all the alcohol he could swallow (always an impressive amount).  Sadly, this liquor consumption left Wikus quite hung-over on Saturday and he could not make it to the Urban Family Get-Together at C&L’s, which was a shame because it was very well attended.

The theme was food cooked with booze, which is harder than cheese themed, but obviously very popular with our group of friends.  I left the cooking up to CSP (my role in the kitchen is to stand around looking pretty, which everyone agrees I do quite well), and he did a magnificent job with a scotch-maple chicken (the recipe couldn’t be easier, yet, I bet I’ll never make it on my own).  At the party people kept exclaiming how wonderful the chicken was, and asking who brought it.  And yes, that was my hand that shot up in the air—not my fault that CSP was too busy watching soccer in the other room to lay claim to his accomplishments. 

I got drunk too quickly (who do I blame for this, because I really felt kind of cheated?), and had to go home early.  Thankfully I had a ride, and actually, it all ended quite well considering that there are so many fuzzy bits to my memory.  There may have been a bit of pot-valour involved, which was just a matter of being honest about my feelings.  Luckily, they weren’t squashed, and I went to bed a very happy, and tipsy, lady.

Ways to Avoid Reading Pillars of the Earth

Let’s do things the easy way tonight, and go for a list:

• Eating sage derby cheese is an intense pleasure reserved for evenings home alone.  Though, I must be slightly allergic to it, if the flush spreading across my cheeks is any indication. 
• Finally getting What’s His Butt’s movie selections off of my Netflix queue.  He really liked documentaries…a lot.
• The last thing I wrote on Facebook, “What he says is true. I don't understand what all the fuss is about. It's just a little death among friends.”
• The water in the kiddie pool has turned gray-green.  That’s not indicative of cholera or anything.  Right?  Or, just a breeding ground for dengue fever? 
• Having concrete floors means when I spill my can of water, I don’t have to bother actually getting off my ass to clean it.
• Last night, I fell asleep on Wikus’ couch while watching George Gently, mostly because my allergies were kicking, but also because it was too tiring to understand what the pig farmers were saying.
• Brekkie seems to be slightly cross-eyed, which is cute (see Kristin Bell, who has a very similar look).
• Fink-Nottle saved the day by helping me with some Netflix privacy concerns.  That’s really boring, but a very important shout-out nonetheless.  Also, seriously, remove those old devices off your Netflix account if it makes you feel really weird on the inside at the thought of an ex being able to see everything you’ve been watching post break-up (lesbian porn, obviously).
• Hey, speaking of Fink-Nottle, it seems this Saturday, he will have literally been with Frijole for half his life.  Isn’t that fantastic?  I plan to drink a lot of alcohol in salute to them (that and it’s Urban Family Get-Together at C&L’s where all foods will be made with liquor, and all leftover liquor will be used for cocktails [I’ve appointed CSP to take care of cooking our dish for UFGT, so I can concentrate on drinking the alcohol and looking pretty]).
• Someone sleeps really fucking hard and has the cutest wee mouth ever.

• The condensation pool from the air conditioner is my little toad friend’s kiddie pool.

• And, of course, true love.

Maxillary Sinus, My New Band

Time for an anatomy lesson!  Today we’re going to discuss the maxillary sinuses, and how much they can ruin my day.  Here’s an illustration to give you an idea of where they are located (this is for those of you who’d rather not use your wee brains on a Friday to suss out what “maxillary” means):

(No, that is not me.  Though, those eyebrows could have been mine in high school before I learned of the magic of plucking.)

Even though the evil folks at pollen.com say it is a “low” pollen day, I can only assume they are implying that those of us who feel the way I do are paranoid hypochondriac types who just like to complain. I swear to you, there is nothing low about today’s levels.  I don’t know what is out there, but it is making my teeth ache in a pitiful way.  That deep valley of the maxillary sinus sits right on my upper teeth, and when the sinus is all swollen, my face not only feels like I’ve been hit with a bag of bricks (ala Heavenly Creatures!), but my teeth, oh god, my teeth feel as if someone is ever so slowly extracting them for no good damn reason at all.  Feel sorry for me.  Thank you.

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Speaking of hideous high-school eyebrows, my lovely aunt sent me a fatty stack of family photos.  She asked me first if I wanted them, knowing that they could dredge up unwanted emotions.  Which, so true, but yes, I wanted to see them.  And, oh, man.  There were so many I had never seen before—like of my mother as a child and young adult (wow, I never realized how much I do look like that mousy, plain woman—quick, more mascara and cleavage!), but a lot of them were ones I knew well, and had hoped had magically disintegrated over time.  I was such a cute sausage baby, then around 10 years of age, shit went wrong, really really really wrong.  For seven terrible years I suffered as an ugly duckling.  What an unfortunate mess of features!  And the hair!  At one point I was going for a comb-over, except I was the opposite of bald and had tight kinky hair.  The hair is parted about an inch above my left ear.  My sexy, large-framed rose-tinted plastic glasses really give the look some panache that I’m not sure most 12 year olds can pull off like I apparently could.  The braces gave me a special twinkle, and oh, my skinny legs and blousy boxy shirts.  Even in later years when I had my hair somewhat under control, why was I not plucking?  How was I getting laid?  Thank you gentlemen of my teens for looking past all that.  Oh, you just wanted to stick in in to anything, and I could have had a bag over my head for all you cared?  Huh. 

Anyway.  There’s a lot of adorableness to be had like my sister and I as toddlers.  My mom was apparently obsessed with handmade, matching outfits, even though we were not twins.  She also liked my hair in pigtails composed of one very long, thick curl on each side, tied up with a thick, furry yarn ribbon.  As a newborn, I looked like a vaguely Asian troll, which is to say, I looked like most newborns but I boasted a black 3” mohawk.  I was born awesome.

There are very few pictures of my father, but he’s lurking in a some of them.  He looks like a hitman from the ‘70s with his penchant for ugly browns, evil moustache and thick black glasses.  As far as I am aware, he has never killed anyone (for hire or otherwise); he’s just a different sort of monster—hide your women and children when he’s around.  Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Also, it seems my mom has sported the same hairstyle since she was a preteen.  Some years it was just a bit poofier than others.  Imagine, decades upon decades of the exact same cut.

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It’s been a bad week for many of my friends.  A lot of my energy has gone toward doling out tough-love advice, driving them hither and yonder, loaning money, listening, hugging, and in general, just being there for them.  Some of their stories are juicy (car crashes, felonies, alcoholism, rehab, rejection rejection rejection!), they are not mine to tell.  That’s about all I’ve done this week.  I kind of sort of started a mosaic (if you count just pulling out two shards of glass from my shards-of-glass bucket as starting a mosaic), and managed to cut my foot in the process (pantsless mosaicing is safer than barefoot mosaicing it seems).  I finally put my desktop computer together and discovered all my missing music files.  Hooray!  There hasn’t been a lick of work to do at the office, so it’s been a painfully long week. 

Whoopis died half a year ago, and I’m ready to get his paddy paw print tattooed on me tonight.  My grief is still so deep for that little furry one.  How can it really have been six months ago?  It’s still such a sharp pain within me when I think about him.  So far Brekkie has Whoopis’ sweet disposition.  Such a little, gentle dear.  He never uses his claws, even when he does a flying tackle at my knees. Oh, children.

Today is supposed to be 104.  Even I melt in such heat.  Time to lounge in the kiddie pool.  Remind me to get a pool boy to skim the dead skeeters off the surface.

All Smiles

There’s a kiddie pool in my backyard!  Ostensibly it is for ET, but Nauticalina and I felt that it would be much better served by us.  We wouldn’t sully it with fatty tortoise poops; at least I wouldn’t.  I shouldn’t be speaking for Nauticalina like that. 

We got ourselves some tacos, made virgin strawberry daiquiris, and listened to music.  We took sexy photos and rubbed each others feet.  It’s magnificent to have such a wonderful girl friend. 

Before the backyard play date, there was work.  Which is lame and boring.  One way to make work more fun is to nip home for a moment, and bring a rambunctious kitten back with me.  I’m sure this would totally be frowned upon by those in charge, but come on, who can say no to a small, furry funbun?

Here he is in Who-Wee’s office.  He had a good romp with the plant. He nommed on it, and tried to stand on the leaves.  He’s the silliest chickenmonkey.

The weekend was spent in various forms of repose.  It was all very lovely, actually.  A rare weekend of no complaints, just good times.  Clementine came for a visit.  I went to my first stand-up comedy act, which was a bit nerve-wracking for me (I have this sensitivity where I get so embarrassed for people, and feel it keenly, as if it is my own humiliation—it’s amazing how quickly I can get over something when I’ve had two shots of vodka on an empty stomach).  There were a couple laughs, but really, I’m just dead inside.  I am a laugh snob.  However, there were new friends to chat with, and many drinks.  There was also Heavenly Creatures and Skins (UK) with CSP.  There was a party, and some all-night shenanigans.  There were so many things really.  And then there was that very good person who rewound my weed wacker, and if that wasn’t enough, he then proceeded to cut down the tall grasses in my front yard.  I must figure out new ways to say thank you to him.

There was an accidental four-hour nap this afternoon, and I rounded out the evening with a trip to the grocery store, which usually makes me gnash and shake my fist at the sky, but the cherries were on sale for $2.98/pound, and I got some delicious sage derby cheese.  There was also a Freebirds burrito as a reward.

It is high time I go to bed, so I can get up in the morning and grouse about work for the next five days.  So it goes.

One Way to Piss Off Your Boss

Yesterday, during an excruciatingly long (as in all-day) meeting, my boss chose to liven things up by making fun of some hippies.  Hooray, making fun of hippies!  That’s why I like my boss.  However, she was being a tad bit scornful of some woo-woo crap that these certain individuals believed in—like the healing power of crystals and rocks—and she asked if they believed that these items can make the world better, why aren’t they using them to break our drought?  Which I thought was an excellent question, but a better one was, “Well, boss lady, I could ask the same thing of you and your belief in god.” 

Silence.

Brahahahahahaha.

Grumples: one.  Boss: zero.

Don’t worry, I didn’t get fired.  She still likes me.  She just doesn’t always appreciate what I have to say.  Even if it is perfectly legit. 

No Need For Butter & Syrup

Thursday was one of those epically bad days that had a breath-taking bright spot in the middle.  One moment I was crying in a bathroom stall at the office, and the next I was staring at my phone in silent disbelief, smacked upside the head by my first look at this little lover.

 

Swoon!  More pics were texted to me, but I was already sold.  Sure, I was in a very vulnerable place, but come on, look at those eyes!  Who could say no to this baby?  I’m very weak in so many ways—this is just one of those ways.  I went home already brainstorming names.  Then I had an incredibly shitty evening.  So it goes.

But Friday dawned, and by the end of it I had this mister mister in my arms, and Nauticalina by my side.  These are lessons I will seemingly always fail to remember, but am always grateful for when they happen. 

Who-Wee was my adoption broker (she is very crafty), and this is Brekkie (as he will be called here).  Due to an unflagging sense of adventure, Brekkie was discovered in an engine block.  After the vehicle had been driven.  He’s a little miracle kitten.  The only thing he suffered was a fractured tail (it doesn’t hurt him one bit, and you can’t see it, just feel the knot—we had an Irish Setter growing up whose tail felt exactly the same after he exuberantly thumped it too hard on the coffee table).  The vet estimated his age to be between 7-10 weeks, and I’ve decided his birthday is April 1, which makes Clem older by 9 days.

Look how even the robot on my shirt wants to hold Brekkie! 
The Bear is handling this new intrusion in his life with amazing aplomb.  There’s a bit of fussing when Brekkie steals his food, or gets in the way of one-on-one attention from me, but other than that, he doesn’t really seem bothered by him.  They even shared a plate of disgusting canned kibble.  Barf.

Yesterday, was a bit of a nail biter when I took him to the clinic to get tested for the nasty kitty diseases.  CSP was with me, and did his best to distract me, and as always, he did a pretty good job.  Brekkie was deemed so awesome by the clinic staff, that they took his picture for Kitten of the Week.  That’s my boy, already winning awards (sorry, Clem!).  He was proclaimed clean, and we packed the kids off to Camp Grumples where they spent the next several hours rough-housing.  They are totally in love, and I really should just start planning their wedding now (though, CSP as the bride’s mom, might want to work on his budget; it’s going to be spectacular, and therefore, quite expensive). 
Here’s what their love affair looks like:

They’re obviously in that stage where they express their feelings by hitting each other.  It’s very romantic.  Today he’s been a bit listless—wandering around the house morosely.  He misses his girlfriend. 

When he feels like sleeping, he manages to squeeze himself under my dresser, then climbs up in to one of the drawers.  At least there’s no moving parts that can chop him in to little kitten bits; though, I worry about accidentally decapitating him (there’s six drawers, and he hasn’t picked a favorite one yet).  He has not figured out how to get back out of the dresser, thus there was a dramatic 4:30am rescue this morning.  Dramatic in that I was blind and was almost drunk with exhaustion. 

More adorableness:

Yes, it’s perfectly understandable to be jealous.  Also, I realize that this blog is pretty much a record of me sinking in to the depths of the crazy, cat-lady realms.  Whatev.

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Since I just groused about at attempted to be inappropriately touched by a grocery-store check-out girl, here’s an interesting paper on the prevalence and thoughts behind heavily tattooed women being felt-up by strangers.  I wish I had been able to participate in her study. 

There’s was this one time in Boston, when I was leaving my favorite bar, and some large drunken man grabbed my arm as I was walking by his booth, and said something skeevy to me—it was pointedly sexual and referenced my tattoos.  I felt so sick and helpless.  I froze and managed to choke out, “Take your hand off of me now!”  He didn’t.  There were other men at his table who said nothing, did nothing.  I was with other women, who said nothing, did nothing.  He finally let me go, calling me a “lesbian bitch.”  Something he obviously meant to be highly insulting.  I wanted to cry, but didn’t dare for fear of looking weak in front of him and his friends, and sadly, I didn’t want my friends to see how much he had affected me either.  That is so fucked up.  How is it that I was the one left feeling so ashamed?

Read the article.  It’s good.  Thank you Irina for researching and writing it.

More Days Like This, Please

 

On Sunday, Blue, Wikus and I took a short road trip to Krause Springs, where I actually managed to make it through almost the whole afternoon in my bikini without someone commenting on my tattoos.  It was wonderful.  So was our picnic of sangria, roasted-tomato-and-asiago-cheese sandwiches, brie and fresh French bread, grapes, and other tasty items.  We did our best to play Fluxx, which was difficult due to the strong winds, but that’s what grapes are for!  I managed to cut my leg on a sharp rock, but nothing too serious. 

I have spent the past several summers discussing the fun adventures I should be having—this time around I’m going to make it happen.  What’s His Butt (formerly The Boy) always talked about wanting to go do fun things out in the sun and water, but he rarely had the time or inclination.  I have a feeling my ladies (I’m looking at you Blue and Nauticalina) will be more than willing to spend lazy days lounging around in our bathing suits at various scenic locations in the greater Austin area.  And Wikus.  We’ll always invite Wikus to join us—especially since he tends to provide such tasty victuals.

Any suggestions on where I should visit are highly appreciated.

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Random Interaction With Strangers

1. Young, tattooed check-out girl at grocery store basically prostrated herself across the conveyor belt so she could touch one of my passion-flower tattoos without permission.  I jerked my arm away from her before she could actually get her fingers on me, and she got very offended.  Awkward.
2. At work, some guy was replacing a broken door, and having an extremely animated conversation with a coworker, and when I walked by he stopped talking in mid-word, mouth open, hand hung limply in the air, and stared at me.  I’m assuming it was my skinny jeans.  My ass has some serious power.

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What’s His Butt is dating someone.  I’m still sorting out my feelings on that.  I’ll report back when I’m ready to discuss.  On the face of it, she seems really cool, and is a super-talented illustrator and artist.  Bully for him!