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!

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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.

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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.