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
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.
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.
The two sides of Clementine.
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.
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).
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.
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.)
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!
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.
