Off Buying Stock in ABCFamily

Hello there my little chickens and goats. It’s 103° and I’m snuggling with the Grey Fuzz under a blanket. Don’t judge. I’m also watching the new season of Make It or Break It. Look, I told you not to judge. I would read, but I made an agreement with Fink-Nottle to stay my progress in our re-reading of Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell. (Wow, this episode of MIoBI has a bunny in it for no apparent reason, which just proves how great this show is.) We decided to re-read it after I raved about The Night Circus, and how I am eagerly awaiting the release of Shadow of Night (second in the All Souls Trilogy by Deborah Harkness, releasing on July 10). Thus, I had time to dose myself with even more magic, and Fink-Nottle and I agreed that re-reading JS&MR was the perfect solution, and he would read it, too. We needed to work out a schedule to stay somewhat on track with each other, so I can’t read until tomorrow. How bored are you by those details?

Would it be more amusing to hear about how I gave ET a bath yesterday? NO? Look at that face!

What about if I told you the Grey Fuzz decided to jump in the tub to hang with ET? Which necessitated me giving him a bath to get all of ET’s poopy bits off of him. Surprisingly, he really didn’t mind my holding him in the sink under running water, but he sure does put on a good sad face.

Okay, look, I’m obviously distracted by the awesomeness that is MIoBI, and am doing a piss-poor job on this post. I apologize. The best I can do is provide you a link to my friend Aimee’s blog. You’ll remember her as the one a lot of you so generously donated money to after she was hit by a car a couple weeks ago (she goes into details, click and read it!).

Thank you to all of you who responded to my plea to donate. It was amazing and beautiful. I wish I could have you all over to snuggle with me. We could watch MIoBI or maybe Switched at Birth. I’ll even let you guys choose what teenaged trash we watch! Because I want to be as giving as each of you are. You can even rub the Grey Fuzz all over your body, because he is amazingly soft and open to such intimacies. Though, his butt often stinks. I’m sorry about that.

Addendum

Seems like they have also set up a PayPal donation account:

Use PayPal account: weloveaimeejohnston@gmail.com
NOTE: Please email this address with your contribution details.
This will allow us to keep track of the funds, unless you wish to be anonymous.

Directions for PayPal:
Log into PayPal
Click on "Send Money", which is at the top, second from the left
Enter the email weloveaimeejohnston@gmail.com
At the bottom there are two tabs: "Purchase" or "Personal"
Click on "Personal"
Click on "Gift"
Then fill out the dollar amount, click Continue and go from there.

Apparently the Go Fund Me Account has fees associated with it, which I didn't know when I wrote my previous post. But hey, all donations are appreciated even if they come with crappy fees.

Thank you to each and everyone of you who has already donated, and contacted me asking how else you can help. You are all such wonderful, magical unicorns. I want to run around the world finding each one of you to hug and kiss.

She’s Always Going to Win the “My Life Is Worse Than Yours” Contest

This will not be a very funny post.

There was this wonderful girl I knew in college, though, really, honestly, at the time I didn’t know how awesome she was. She was quiet with an impish smile, and I liked how she’d occasionally exchange conspiratorial glances with me, but I never bothered to really get to know her. I was a bit of a self-centered jerk back then (or at least, more so than I am now). At this point I couldn’t even tell you how many classes we had together; though, I’m pretty sure we were in at least one writing class together, because I can picture her in one of those musty old classrooms with the grey winter light seeping sleepily through the windows. She had such astoundingly awesomely round cheeks. I’m not sure we’ve ever even touched hands, give each other a hug or a friendly arm squeeze.

Yet, I have spent the past day crying for her. As with many people I kind of sort of knew from college, we reconnected through Facebook. We’ve exchanged some delightfully raunchy emails that I won’t give anyone the pleasure of reading, because they are so honest and trashy. She is someone I would definitely enjoy getting to know better, and getting drunk with, and I’m pretty sure she knows how to have a thousand times more fun than I am capable of mustering. She is, if this is even possible, a bigger animal lover than I am. She is sweet and a badass, which is a fairly rare combination. And her life motherfucking sucks.

You don’t even know what a bad day is until you know her story. Yet, I’m willing to bet she is still grinning and giving people shit. My friend suffers from Crohn’s disease (go ahead, click that link if you don’t know what that means, and then weep that this is just the first thing I’m telling you). For over a year now she has been fighting an aggressive form of breast cancer…in her mid-30s. She kicked that fucking cancer’s ass, and just got her port removed (oh, you don’t know what that is either, go ahead, imagine living with that). She’s looking awesome, and having a kickass time with friends. While she was busy going through the grueling chemotherapy, and doing her best to not die from cancer, her husband was cheating on her. Yes, you read that right. They got divorced while she was still going through treatment, and their two-year anniversary would have been last week, and he had the fucking nerve to text her, and start up shit that he had no business starting.

And if that wasn’t enough, seriously, if that wasn’t fucking enough, she was hit by a car as she crossed the street in front of her house last Thursday. I had been absent from FB for a couple of days, so didn’t even know until Sunday afternoon. And shit, it’s not pretty. Both her legs are broken, and so is her pelvis, and she has some facial injuries (I honestly don’t know how bad). She’s going to be in recovery for months, and due to her other illnesses, it’s going to be even more complicated. Why can’t this woman win already? I was sitting around yesterday all bitchy about something extraordinarily stupid, and this was one hell of a reality check.

Obviously she’s been only able to work a very limited amount due to the cancer, and just when things were starting to get better, she is knocked about as far down as someone can be knocked before being declared officially dead. She doesn’t have a lot of money, and had been walking dogs as a part-time gig. That’s going to be really hard to do from a hospital bed when her lower half is broken.

This is the sort of thing I have a really hard time handling. My mind just kind of skitters around it. I want to be able to go visit her, but she’s in Boston, she’s in ICU, I’ve never visited her before, etc. Thus, this post is the best I can do to honor her. I know this is extremely weird to ask, but if you have some extra money, and don’t mind donating it to an amazing person, would you consider donating to help her pay for her always-increasing medical expenses, and to take care of her animals, and her other bills? Anything will help. Or, if you don’t want to do money, will you make her something? A card, a piece of art, something that is surprising and fun, that will remind her that while her life really does suck that even strangers can offer love. That’s so damn cheesy, but really, imagine if that was your life? I know I would need many people rooting for me, because I would have wanted to kill myself way before getting to this point.

Either contact me, or go to her donation site. Please and thank you.

PS: Any details I did not get 100% correct, I’m sorry—it’s not like I could do fact-checking with her at the moment while she is laid up all swollen and woozy.

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This is a bit more cheerful.

On the List of Things Your Boyfriend Should Refrain From Pointing Out to You

Me: Shit, I’m still really hungry, why am I so hungry?

CSP: ….

Me: Oh, I know! I haven’t had any cheese today!

CSP: (laughing snottily) Really? You’ve had no cheese today? REALLY?

Me: (slightly puzzled, but not letting it deter my enthusiasm for cheese) Really! No cheese!

I merrily skip joyfully to the fridge to get the fixings for a cheese quesadilla.

CSP: Um, what about those queso fries you had at the movie theater today?

Me: (crestfallen) Oh, those.

CSP: A whole bowl of queso with fries in it.

Me: (undeterred) Doesn’t count. It was liquid cheese.

I proceed to make and happily eat my quesadilla firm in the believe that it was my first time having cheese that day.

The Grey Fuzz

As the grumpy writer of this blog, I do not believe I need to give a good reason to explain why I’ve been so absent recently, but I actually have a fantastic reason for it. If you have an easy gag reflex to insanely cute, you may want to scroll down quickly.

Thank you, I knew you’d understand that a teeny tiny grey kitten is more important than writing, NO, even breathing! He’s so fuzzy, and is very sweet in that he actually likes me touching him (ahem, looking at you Brekkie and Clementine). He is fearless, and I’m pretty sure there is a kernel of evil in all that cuteness. I just know he’s going to break every last thing in this place with his manic running and climbing and chewing.

He’s also a terror on my fancy all-wood Catan board that Frijole and Fink-Nottle gave me for my birthday. They are two of the best people I know, and I would have said that even if they hadn’t given me a special-edition WOOD Catan box of wonderful.

He’s also an aggressive toe biter. I realize he looks very sweet and innocent, but he’s not. I just want to warn you that he will eat your toes, too, when you come to meet him. Please come meet him. We’ll eat some hot dogs, drink some beer, and play some soccer with The Grey Fuzz (he’s English, and thus demands the Anglicized spelling).

Goodbye, Chocodile, My Love

The bad: I had to put Bear down a week ago today. He was the grumpiest, handsomest cat with beautiful thick white whisker and little white toes. It hurts.

Here’s a picture of him plotting something evil. Like murdering baby bunnies by throwing them off of highway bridges. That shit is evil, but he would look so dashing doing it.

I’m pretty sure he’s belting out a pretty ballad about the bloody stool he’d like to squeeze out on my mosaic. He was punk rock like that.

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The good: Seeing Jeff Mangum Sunday night at ACL’s Moody Theater. Sure, I literally cried through almost the whole thing (except a Daniel Johnston cover song—I felt no emotion for that), and sang those well-loved Neutral Milk Hotel songs through some serious blubbering. It was a bit of much needed magic in my life.

I don’t have any pictures to share, because I got in trouble just using my phone to check the time. Since almost everyone there was so in love with Jeff Mangum, everyone obeyed the no-photos edict. We wouldn’t dare disappoint our beloved recluse.

Instead, here’s the first of two sangrias I had before the show (which forced me to pee during Naomi, but thankfully I made it through Ghost first—I would have gladly peed myself to avoid missing that song).

When Past Injustices Are Repeated But With an Adult-Oriented Theme

When I was a child living in Alaska, I had a really hard time fitting in with the rough and tumble lives of the kids. They were mean little shits. Lots of rubbing my face in pretty fluffy snow that just happened to have a hard layer of ice and rocks underneath the surface. On the playground, a boy showed me his penis when we were sitting on the jungle gym—he told me a pea would come out of it. It was years before I realized he meant urine. I cannot even say how many times I imagined a small green pea coming out of his urethra. That cold place was where I learned to curse in the spectacular way that I still do to this day, it’s also where I learned a harsh lesson about gift exchanges that still rankles.

It was sixth grade—I’d find out in just a couple months that we’d be moving to Texas. We had moved so often that even though I was miserable in Alaska, it was still a known quantity of suckitude. Thus I was still a relatively happy nerd child in December eagerly looking forward to my class’ Christmas gift exchange. I don’t remember what my contribution was, because the gift I drew from the pile was earrings. Oh woe is me.

One of my mother’s crazy parenting edicts was no pierced ears until first menses. WHY? I have no fucking clue. Because you know, first George totally means you’re a lady worthy of having baubles dangling from your ears. It makes perfect sense. Do you know how many kids get their ears pierced either as babies (which I do think is wrong because the kid has no say in the matter) or in elementary school? A large majority, that’s how many. Or so it seemed to my 11-year-old non-menstruating self. So, I had a pair of earrings, and no pierced ears.

I should mention there were parents there at this gift exchange, because what happened next is a fucking travesty of bad parenting. The child who brought the earrings, plucked them out of my hand, saying something like, “Oh, you don’t have pierced ears! Ha ha!” Chortled with a snicker and way too much glee. The mom of this child, clucked her tongue at me, and said what a shame, and told the girl to keep the earrings for herself, and then they both walked away leaving me presentless! Fucking bitch. I still hate her for it. I have no idea who you are, you twat, but you owe me a motherfucking gift, and I’m expecting it to have seriously appreciated in value after twenty-five years.

Fast forward to this past Saturday. It was Urban Family Get-Together Zombie Jebus style. We were instructed to bring plastic eggs filled with anything but candy. I hopped on over to Toy Joy, and purchased many delightful items (plastic babies, cute zodiac animal pins, unicorn poop, zombie glow-in-the-dark figurines!), and what do I get in the eggs I collected? Marijuana and pills (I’m pretty sure one is an Ambien, but I’m not sure what the other is). Sigh. I also got a mustard packet. I don’t do drugs and I hate mustard. So it goes, people. I left the mustard packet behind, and gave CSP the drugs. I did get some lavender argyle ankle socks, so I didn’t have a total angsty meltdown where I yelled, “Where are my motherfucking earrings, you twat, my ears are pierced now goddamitt!”

Four Days of the Wedding Present & Eleven Other Excuses Plus One Thing I Hate

SXSW has rolled out of town on this great big gust of wind that we are experiencing right now. Unfortunately all the trash that is left behind is plastered up against fences and in our creeks. I really hate how much waste SXSW produces. It’s disgusting. Today all of Austin is recovering from the sticky, noise hangover, and I’m trying to find someone who still wants to leave the house to go see TC Boyle with me. I’m not having any luck, and even my body thinks I’m crazy for wanting to get off the couch for I have not really been spending the lovey-dovey time with it as I should be.

To recap my life of late:

Wednesday, March 7: The day before CSP’s birthday, much spazzing but playing it cool in his presence—I’m not even sure what we did that night because I was in a panic-induced fog.

Thursday, March 8: CSP’s 40th birthday. Meat on swords! Men in puffy pirate pants. Mass quantities of meat and Pão de Queijo consumed (will someone please bake these daily for the rest of my life, PLEASE?). I almost vomited at the table. Some smuggling of the bread was involved—but not with my vomit, that was eating too much meat, not bread.

Friday, March 9: Drunken happy hour with friends. CSP ability to read a map after at least 10 drinks is (not surprisingly) significantly impaired. He was able to proudly show me how his Android and my iPhone had the exact same map on them! Wonderful, now tell me if I need to make a fucking right or left turn up here. Also learned that he is a fan of declaring himself not drunk while holding on to the fridge for dear life.

Saturday, March 10: CSP’s family arrives in town from Iowa. My first time meeting them, and under the inauspicious timing of a surprise birthday dinner for CSP arranged by a friend of his and CSP’s mom (a delightful women except when it comes to birthday planning). The original plan, or my marching orders, was to drive CSP around in the country, and do this bait-and-switch restaurant thing, which would involve me missing a turn and driving for at least 10 more minutes while somehow convincing him I wasn’t insane. Plan was amended to him driving us out to the restaurant with his family, and the surprise being his friends were there (which was actually really nice of them since it was far out in the country on a rainy night). For future reference, I hate surprise parties, and I am severely night-blind, and would never drive at night where there is limited light and lots of deer. I’m no fun at all, I know.

Sunday, March 11: Play with the family.

Monday, March 12: Work, come home and clean the joint like I will be arrested if there is a speck of dirt. The family comes over for about ten minutes, thus making my maniacal cleaning frenzy so worth it. We go eat barbecue, which also was worth all my efforts.

Tuesday, March 13: Was treated to a lovely dinner by Cowhide. Then she introduced me to House of Lies. I wish I could spend more time with her. I will gladly cheat on my couch with her couch.

Wednesday, March 14: Day one of seeing the Wedding Present.

Thursday, March 15: Day two of seeing the Wedding Present, but missed the Magnetic Fields.

Friday, March 16: Day three of seeing the Wedding Present, and managed to see the Magnetic Fields at their official SXSW showcase at the ACL Moody Theater. That was two very long, agonizing hours of waiting in line having no idea if we’d get in or not. We did, and I only cried twice.

Saturday, March 17: Day four of seeing the Wedding Present. And a lot of morons wearing green. What percentage of those people have any actual Irish heritage? Why the shamrock knee-highs and plastic beads, and tiny, plastic Leprechaun hats? Have some dignity, and shut up while the Wedding Present is playing.

Sunday, March 18: If I had been paying attention, I could have seen WP for a fifth time, but sadly, I was too busy having sexy times. Okay, not sadly at all. Those were good sexy times. The rest of the day was spent doing errands, like finding CSP new glasses. While not a rocking good time, it was very nice to spend the day doing something a bit mundane and necessary, and didn’t involve beer at 2pm.

Thus, I am home even when my favorite living writer is just a couple miles down the road. I just can’t bring myself to mill about a bookstore alone.

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Other reasons (beside seeing the Wedding Present four times in a row) why I have not blogged in so long:

• It’s been raining a lot, thus I’m cranky and pretend my fingers are water-logged and incapable of typing
• Watermelon Sour Patch Kids
• Angry Birds’ Cherry Blossom (I never stop playing Angry Birds until I have 3 stars on all levels)
• Friday Night Lights (I’m pretty sure I’m reliving my own Texas high-school days, but there were no attractive football players on our team—actually, I’m pretty sure one of the players was 40 years old by the look of his paunch and bald spot, and our coach taught history and health)
• Various game nights where I triumphed at least once each evening (that’s the most important thing, right?)
• Work, oh, god, work, how it tires me, and makes it so I can only fathom coming home to watch FNL or make out with CSP
• There was that really sucky week where my car died, and Ex-Cop had to jump me (he was impressed I knew how, and I had to work on not being snarky to the man whose help I desperately needed in the moment), and I had to replace the battery (hybrid batteries are more expensive, but it’s a three-paycheck month, so I guess it could have been worse)
• Weed eating the yard, and ruining my One Stars since I didn’t realize, as the privileged allergy-sufferer that I am, that grass turns the whites green, how incredibly fucking lame
• Contemplating how and when Brekkie’s nose went from black to dark orange…this takes up a lot of my brain space, really
• Then there’s the whole problem of America going mad and hating women; that’s really wearing me down, too
• Also, someone is a little worried about the owls in the tub—it’s very upsetting

• I’m sure there’s other stuff, but Frijole will be calling at any moment, and last Thursday was her birthday, so send her some love!

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So help me, I want to kill the next person I see wearing peep-toed boots. I’m in no way exaggerating.

The Benefits of Semen Recycling

I've been caught up in the ensnaring clutches of The United States of Tara. I swear I'll start writing again at some point.

If you feel you must have something to tide you over until I am back to writing my usual snarky commentary on my life, here's an IM exchange Blue and I had on her birthday last Friday. This is what we talk about when we are ostensibly working.

Blue:      a little humor for you - http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/natural-harvest---a-collection-of-semen-based-recipes/5198959

Grumples:           Ew. Is B contributing his semen?

Blue:      the reviews crack me up. Hmmm that's a great idea!

Grumples:           Just let me know which one is yours, so I can avoid it

Blue:      hahahahaha! this part of the review is my favorite

“It's a shame when semen is wasted by people just flushing it down the toilet or throw in the garbage. Throw it in the sauce!”

Grumples:           Should I scoop it out of my vagina? Is there a special spoon for semen recovery?

Blue:      hahahahaa! There should be!

Grumples:           I'm sure a teeny coke spoon will work. Where does one buy those?

Blue:      yes that would work. there may be a way to suction it out with a little hose

Grumples:           I don't think I'd like that

Blue:      into a little jar to keep above the stove. you could use your muscles to squeeze it out. Oh man, i want to write a review about semen recovery

Grumples:           Do it!

Blue:      Its a topic that has not been covered

Grumples:           And thus, really needs to be. I mean, I can always go for my post-sex pee and let it drip in to a cup. Might be hard to keep it from getting contaminated by my urine

Blue:      some people can recycle it from their asshole too. i don't think a little urine ever hurt anyone

Grumples:           So true, but they really better have douched/used an enema before sex if they plan on cooking with that semen later

Blue:      i agree. what about using it out of a condom?

Grumples:           Perfect!

Blue:      :) safe and delicious'

Grumples:           So true. It promotes safe sex and tasty semen dishes

Blue:      It also promotes recycling

Grumples:           Well, that might be a harder sell since no one recycles the condom

Blue:      that's true.... but it can be stored in the condom... just put a twist tie on the end

and throw it in the fridge

Grumples:           How long can the semen sit in the fridge and still be good? Perhaps it is best to freeze it if not using same days

Anxiously Staring at the Wall

Help! Drowning in snot over here. I have been for weeks. Longest way to die ever. I wish there was a way I could be more optimistic about dying from allergies, but a quick Google search tells me that unless it’s a peanut allergy, I just have to deal with it, and whine to anyone who is able to extend a modicum of pity toward me.

Clementine is NOT helping my mood.

One sip of water, and bam, she puts it on the floor on its top. Thanks, lady. I refuse to clean it up. That’s right. This is what I’m taking a stand over, and I don’t care what any of you have to say. I may have shrieked in frustration, making all the cats stand in frozen terror.

There were so many things that have made today terrible in so many ways, and I fear George is giggling behind some corner ready to ambush me, and it is making me very sensitive, and whiny (see above). I’m going to shut his mouth with two Benadryl and a beer very shortly. However, there was this (finally) waiting for me this afternoon:

Limited edition 7” single from the Magnetic Fields’ forthcoming album. A chicken on the front! And a free digital download. A very lovely package of happiness.

I also purchased a really cute turquoise spring dress on eBay. For $13. I felt it was the right thing to do. One day it will stop raining, and I can wear it with my awesome red Fluevog booties. Also, one day, I will stop sneezing. If all goes well, this will coincide with the rain stopping. Fingers crossed.

Before I succumb to allergy death, I’m going to wax on in a nauseating way about how much I adore CSP, brace yourselves—specifically how he didn’t make fun of me at all when I woke up screaming during a thunderstorm. Nothing like an anxiety disorder to make for some potentially embarrassing moments. For the record, it was one magnificently loud clap of thunder. I completely thought for a moment that glass was shattering, and somehow that I was being smote by lightning. I may also suffer from an overactive imagination. So, CSP, squeezes me, and assures me that everything is fine, and nothing is broken, and there’s nothing for me to be embarrassed about, and oh, swoon. The way he cares for me makes me out myself online for being scared of thunderstorms. What an asshole!

And with that, I really need to go to bed. I’m going to read some, and then tomorrow, see if I remember any of it. That’s a fun game I like to play when I’m suffocating on my own mucus. Raise your hand if you think I’m sexy.

PS: I caved and cleaned up the water that Clem spilled. My cheap IKEA coffee table was swimming in it, and I had visions of the legs crumbling in to a soggy wet mess. I rewarded myself with a Newcastle, and two hot-pink pills of guaranteed-sleep bliss.

PPS: I caught this guy knocking over Fernando the chicken, then staring at the wall all innocently, but he can’t disguise the anxiety propping open those large eyes.

Too Much Navel Gazing

The kittens make bathing both cute and impossible. Clem spends most of her time trying to catch, and eat, the bubbles. She also becomes inordinately angry with my toes peeking above the water line, and bats at them testily. Brekkie stands worriedly on the edge of the tub staring at me with his large, round eyes. He’s always uncomfortable when I’m near water. He becomes friendlier, and cries pitifully, like I’m going to drown and deprive him of all the attention he never wants when I’m not near water. He likes to be rubbed through the shower curtain. A full-body prophylactic is the only way he’ll tolerate the pets. They both swat my razor, taking turns sending it tumbling in to the soapy water. Both getting shaving cream on their noses and whiskers, which is adorable, and probably tastes just awful. Afterward, they both run to their kibble bowls and wolf down whatever is left, as if they had just finished something really exhausting, and need more fuel to make it through the rest of the day.

It has been ages since I shaved, and by that I mean probably two weeks. I’ve been so cold. The heat works sporadically, and seemingly never at all on the coldest mornings, and even when it is working just fine, I can’t shake the chill that is in my bones. I don’t know if it is my allergies, or how I’ve been on and off Georging for two weeks now, but I can’t seem to ever be warm enough to be able to shave without cutting off all my goosebumps first. Today at Target, I fingered lovingly some plushy blankets wondering if I should buy them, thinking that I cannot have too many blankets, can I? It was probably 75° outside when I was having that thought.

Lately, I feel so old. My conversations with Frijole are filled with the aches and pains of an old person. I swear I’m peri-menopausal, and I have a suspicion I brought this dreaded condition upon myself by getting fixed. There’s not a lot of literature on the correlation between tubal ligation and early onset menopause, but there’s enough to make me think that I am not making this shit up. The misery of George—how he weighs in my stomach, bloating my abdomen and making me feel like my uterus is trying to give birth to itself, but the blood just doesn’t appear. Then it suddenly will, flowing so fast and hard that I am exhausted and shaky; other times it trickles like something old and ancient visiting me from a long time ago, leaving me confused and demanding it to leave me alone already. There are the night sweats and fuzzy memory, like I’m back on my mood stabilizers, but I’m not! This just won’t do, but there it is. My old-lady problems.

Even my house sounds old. The clicking of the clocks in my living room and my bathroom ticking off the seconds ever so slightly out of synch with each other. It reminds me of dimly lit summer days spent indoors at various relatives’ houses of my youth. Time spinning out slowly as the dust motes drifted in the shaft of sun coming through barely parted blinds. Why were my relatives’ houses always so dark? My sister and I were the in-between generation—all our cousins ten years older or younger than us, leaving us to fiend for ourselves in musty spare rooms, sitting on polyester comforters watching Star Trek from the 60s, and listening to the clocks punctuating the silence. That’s how my house sounds to me. Even when I’m in bed with CSP, his strong arms around me, a hand cupping my hip, and I feel content even as my body is rebelling against me, I hear those damn clocks, and fret.

None of this is helped by my current reading material. A Visit From the Goon Squad is making me feel like I should keep looking behind me to see if I can make out the shadows of the ravages of time upon my body, my mind, my friends. Or, perhaps it was the mistake of going to see Shame last night. Though, my mind keeps skittering over the actual point of the movie, and landing on that huge cock of Michael Fassbender (who, shockingly, is two years younger than me—which is not helping me feel any younger, but the lines in his face do remind me that my face is aging slower than my stupid womb would suggest).

Oh, well, fuck it. I’m not alone, and there’s a lot to be said for that.

In Desperate Need of Clean Sheets

Let’s talk about Tebow! Ha. Just kidding. I have zero interest in talking about some dude (with his amazing Roman god profile), who has an astonishing ability to drop to one knee whenever a camera suddenly swings his way. I did sit with CSP yesterday watching some football game while babysitting the sweetest little Siamese cat, Cricket. Sweet, that is, until you try to trim her nails. She’ll go straight to slitting your wrists, as CSP can attest to. As punishment, Cricket is being made to snuggle against me and watch World’s Strictest Parents. That’ll teach her.

Today was an unpleasant jolt back to reality. I’ve been on vacation. I had a wonderful time playing in San Francisco with Frijole and Fink-Nottle for a week, then spent a fantastic three days making out with CSP. It’s important that all of you know that.

The day I left for San Fran, the heat went out of my place, which wasn’t a huge deal since the weather was gorgeous in Austin while I was away (and damp and cold in SF). ET is holidaying at the ex’s, so there was no worry about his little cold-blooded self getting too chilly. When I got back I just used CSP as a blanket (heh heh). Of course all the good times had to end, and I was forced to get the repair guys out today. Which meant I had to leave work two hours early, and watch some very friendly but overweight dudes squeeze themselves in to the attic. They first had to witness the disgusting vomit that The Bear kindly left on my bed. One guy was totally puking in his hand as I was clearing out my closet so they could access the attic entrance. Thanks, dude, for judging me.

Ends up that there was a blown capacitor, and chances are it has been dying all summer. My electric-bill problems may be somewhat alleviated now. Maybe. I’m a bit miffed that I have gas, but my HVAC is electric, but I love my little cement–block home, so I don’t have any plans to move when my lease is up at the end of March. If I wasn’t so cheap, I’d totally crank that heat up to 85, and sit around pantsless tonight.

At work I had to deal with the mess Twit had made over the past seven work days. She came over to my desk, and blinked at me with her rodent eyes, and tried to explain why she was unable to open a document and do a “save as.” Life is very hard, very very hard. She’ll happily let you know how hard her life is. You’ll have to sit through a long jeremiad about her sad, pathetic life, and how we should all just be grateful that she comes to work, never mind the fact that she can’t actually work when at work. That is not the point! She’s at work, is that not good enough? Focus!

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As to that puke on my bed, my handsome Bear has lymphoma of the kidneys and other internal organs. He’s not immediately dying, but he’s on the steep decline. I was prepared for the vet to tell me it was kidney failure, and he is in kidney failure, I just didn’t think it would be because of cancer.

Friday was the two-year anniversary of the Orange Lover’s death, and Whoopis just over a month ago. I’m completely devastated at the idea of losing a third cat in less than three years. There is hope that The Bear will respond well to a special canned-food diet (and that he gets to eat such tasty vittles pisses the kittens off to no end), but we won’t know until a couple months have passed to compare his blood-work results. I’m not going to put him through any extraordinary measures. It’s just not right for him. I cannot be argued out of this decision. What I did for the Orange Lover and Whoopis isn’t right for him. My plan is to spoil him until it is time to put him to sleep (or please, pretty damn please, he goes in his own sleep).

I did explain to the heating repair guys that the puke on the bed was due to The Bear having lymphoma. Sympathy points for the win!

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Enough sadness. Enjoy some jellyfish from the California Academy of Sciences.

Then there are the haikubes that proved I am as immature as always, and probably need more adult supervision.

Saturday Clementine sat around being a sexually ambiguous hipster.