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.

This Post Was Successfully Typed With One Space After The Full Stop

My dear old grumpy goat Bear has been having an issue with the pukes, in that he makes a lot of them. I fret that it is diabetes or renal failure or both! Whoopis was so easy to distract with a bowl of kibble when shooting insulin in to his hip, whereas Bear has always been a picky eater, and he isn’t going to be so easily fooled. Over all he seems happy enough. Accepting of pets to his cheeks and base of tail. He’s such a good fellow, and I fear for he is old, and already has to put up with the indignity of two kittens chasing him around night and day. I have off from work Friday and Monday, and I’ll see if the vet can run all sorts of expensive blood tests and diagnose this pukes problem. I just got a credit card with a ridiculous line of credit and no interest for 21 months to pay for whatever the poor fellow will need.

Such beautiful, perfect whiskers on him. Brekkie also has nice whiskers (or as Fat-Bottom Girl calls him, porcukitty).

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Another magnificent Chicken Day has passed. I paid dearly for the good times on Sunday, but it was worth it. CSP seemed genuinely touched by my gift—a mosaic representing our kittens.

That is total genius on my part. It’s almost a shame that this mosaic was my first present to him, because HOW THE HELL AM I GOING TO TOP THAT? Geez, I need to think of the larger picture. His birthday is in March, and argh, it’s not like I can rig it so he wins all his fantasy football games. Sigh.

There was Chicken Limbo, and even Baby Abalam made an appearance.

There was also that time where we asked Siri why Guamaniac was such a good lover, and she got all cheeky and asked him “Is that what you think?” She chided him with a “Now, now,” when he called her a stupid whore, and then she played innocent and claimed to not know what he meant when he demanded she lick his balls.

Yes, I bought myself a lovely present. The camera on this phone is amazing, and makes up for the fact that Siri is completely unhelpful at finding me late-night entertainment.

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This week has been a bit trying. My sinuses are pricking in the most unpleasant, painful manner. There was a bleary 4:45am ride to the airport to send CSP off to his Midwestern home for a week. I’ve stepped in Bear’s pukes so many times that I barely yelp now when I do. And then there is dear fucking Twit who is doing my payroll duties for the week to prove that she can do it all on her own when I am on vacation. She is failing miserably, and I’ve checked the personnel handbook, and it states clearly that I am not allowed to slap her. Thankfully tomorrow is my last day of work for the week, and next week I only have to work two days. Somehow I have to manage getting through a holiday lunch tomorrow with Ex-Cop and co, then I have four days to lounge pantsless in front of a space heater. I’m getting a free steak out of it. That should make it worth it, right? RIGHT?

Where Does One Find a Large, Blow-up Lawn Chicken Ornament?

Driving through CSP’s neighborhood, it’s disconcerting to see the deflated corpses of Christmas cheer. Why do people buy those huge blow-up Santas and Frosties to let them look like downed parachutes rippling in the breeze. The gray days have been stacking up for awhile now, and even these withered bits of color don’t lift my spirits as I speed through his streets averting my eyes.

Work has been sucking the life out of me (ha, maybe I should be out flailing about on CSP’s lawn—I’ll wear some red and green to blend in with the rest of the scenery), but I’ve logged enough miles to be able to afford a new iPhone for Chicken Day. I’m sure it will show up the day I leave for San Francisco, but so it goes. Twit hasn’t been around much lately; got herself approved for FMLA to take care of her mother, and she seems to think that gives her license to come and go as she pleases, which is even more annoying since I’ve been working so hard and she hasn’t. GROUSING! To make myself feel better today, I sent her an email advising that I’m sure it was just a mistake, an accidental misremembering, but she indicated that she came in at 8am when really it was 8:30am. I know this because I was already at the office, and was on my way to a meeting, and pulled out of the garage as she pulled in to it. Take that, lady!  It’s like I have nothing better to do with my time. 

Actually, what I’m really trying to do these days is quit my two-space-after-a-full-stop habit. It isn’t going well. If it looks like I’m doing a good job, please know that I have gone back through this post deleting all the extra spaces. I’m all about appearances around here. I feel like I need to start popping myself in the wrist with a rubber band every time I add an extra space, but sadly, I fret that I cannot remember to stay on task and just type one space, how will I ever remember to try some positive reinforcement on myself?

Yesterday I made my annual visit to the Blue Genie art bazaar. There was some good stuff there, but I managed to walk out empty-handed. If I can ever manage a back catalogue of mosaics, I can easily have a booth there. Glass is seriously underrepresented (but your squid plushy needs are covered thanks to the Ex’s girlfriend). There was a lovely display of painted grackles on large wooden plaques—it’s too bad the artist advertised them as “Grackes.”

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This just happened.

Wikus: Now I must eat, before I die.

Grumples: okay

Grumples: melodramatic

Wikus: Have you ridden 16 miles on only a bowl of oatmeal and two bananas?

Grumples: YES

Grumples: EVERY DAY

Grumples: but on ONE banana!

Wikus: How can you be so full of shit from only one nanner?

Grumples: i poop easily

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It’s time to work on my top-secret Chicken Day project.  I leave you with Clem in a small box.

Hippo Glass Will Kick Your Gorilla Glass’ Ass

It’s been a rainy and cold weekend, which means I spent entirely way too much time in bed, and not enough time working on my various projects.  However, Wikus and I did finish this year’s Chicken Day card.  He changed up the theme—moving away from the samurai chicken, and toward something that I’m sure most people won’t get (I certainly didn’t, but hey, he’s the designer, I’m just the nonpaid help).  If you’re interested in a card, send me your address.  As always, it’s a limited edition. 

I’m working on a top-secret Chicken Day project for CSP.  I’ve been high-fiving myself constantly since I was struck by my brilliant idea.  And I’ve had some good ones, but this one, oh man, I’m so damn jealous that I am giving it to him, and I don’t get to keep it.  I have two weeks to make this happen, so this dreary weather needs to fuck off already.

The boys here at CSP’s are talking about their fantasy football teams.  And there’s football on the television.  BBQ pizza has been ordered, and I’m the only sober person in the room.  The three dogs are all probably high.  I’m not sure how this ended up being my life on Sunday nights, but so it goes.  I’m not complaining, I’m just a bit puzzled how I could have avoided this most of my life, but here I am now.  When did I turn in to a jock-loving sorority girl?

Contrast this with my afternoon of assembling handmade cards, writing a haiku, and debating with Wikus why people have such intense anger toward bicyclists (sparked by this article’s commentators).  If you want to poke Wikus with a stick, just say something negative about a bicyclist in your way when you’re driving.  He’s primed and ready to punch you in the nuts over that one.  Considering how he has spent much of his life getting places on his bike in cities such as Boston, San Diego and Austin, he knows what it’s like to ride alongside some very violent, disgruntled drivers.  I fret for his safety all the time.  Whereas, sitting on this hideous turquoise couch at CSP’s, there’s not much to fret about or debate.  I’m sure going to enjoy the hell out of that pizza, though.

Will someone please explain to me what the heck Gorilla Glass is?  Sure, I read the Wikipedia entry, by why gorilla?  A hippo is so much more fucking tough.  CSP just claimed that hippos are more goofy looking, and not as majestic and tough-looking as gorillas.  Yes, that really explains it all.  I bet it’s the alliteration, and that people still don’t understand how savage cute hippos really are.  It really should be Hippo Glass, dammit.

Even a rhino with its double-horn threat knows not to fuck with a hippo:

I just feel Corning should have done some more research, that’s all. 

Also, CSP is suddenly winning his fantasy football game.  THANK GOD!

Where To Find 100%-Organic, Locally Grown Hookers in Austin

While dragging my feet to avoid heading to the grocery store, Wikus and I had the following exchange:

Grumples: i offered to pick some hookers up at the store for him (CSP)

Grumples: he has not replied

Wikus: You should probably leave the hookers at the store then.

Grumples: guess so

Grumples: also, i'm pretty sure the HEB only sells dead hookers

Grumples: i don't think he wants those

Grumples: you have to go to Whole Foods for live ones

Wikus: Are they near the lobsters?

Wikus: Do they have lobster hookers?!

Grumples: should i call and ask? do i ask for the seafood department or the hooker dept?

Wikus: There are probably more perverts in Seafoods; I'd ask them.

A Stiff Drink May Be Necessary

It’s that depressing point on a Sunday night where it’s nothing but a swift slide downhill to bedtime then work in the morning.  Most Sunday nights I spend at CSP’s, languishing on his roommate’s hideous turquoise couch (I’m not going to even bother describing it—I just need to post a photo at some point), but with the 4-day weekend coming up, it seemed prudent to send him on home alone to get his fill of football without me.  Thus when we are exposed to each other over the long holiday weekend, we won’t suffer the effects of the dreaded oversaturation illness. 

This weekend I’ve been entertaining my brain with Army Wives, Twin Peaks and Game of Thrones.  Judge as you will.  I’m also doing my damndest to finish John Irving’s latest book, which I’ve been reading for a number of months now, which, for me, is really embarrassing.  I used to read a book a week, and now I can’t even finish one in a month, or two, and quite possibly three.  Sigh.  Damn you Netflix! 

Despite its popularity, my octopus did not win any awards on Friday night, and that was a bit of a downer, but the evening wasn’t a complete waste.  CSP and I had a lovely dinner at Blue’s brother’s place, and we played a few rounds of Fluxx, which reignited my love of the game.  Today I ventured in to Great Hall of Games to get Pirate Fluxx for the game night we’re having Wednesday with Wikus and his lady friend.  Of course I expect some Settlers of Catan as well.  And if things really go my way, and everyone is sufficiently lubricated, there will be Quelf.  Hilarity will ensue.

CSP is thinking of having a Thanksgiving dinner.  This is totally outside of my normal way of thinking.  I don’t celebrate most things—just birthdays, anniversaries and Chicken Day (less than one month away!), and due to my awesome familial background, I don’t have cozy, warm memories of holiday dinners.  Though, I have had some lovely Thanksgiving dinners at friends over the past decade, they were not hosted by my partner.  That’s a level of stress that I’ve managed to avoid.  I’m sure nothing more than a dish will be expected of me, but I’m already starting to suffer a variety of host anxieties.  CSP is all calmly thinking about hosting a Thanksgiving dinner, while I’m going wherewilleveryonesitandwhenwillthegroceryshoppinghappenihateturkeyohmygodwillwegettohavesexlikenowtomakemefeelbetteraboutallthisscarystuffthatisn’treallyscarybutmybrainistellingmethatitis?

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My kind aunt just sent me an email saying she’s thinking of me, especially because of the Penn State horror.  She is wondering how it is affecting me.  That woman has such prescient capabilities.  The whole thing has been terribly hard on me, and it’s really frustrating because this will bring the tragedy of child sex abuse to the national forefront, but not for long.  It is such a sad, pathetic everyday occurrence.  Nothing will change.  People will keep finding out about it, and doing nothing, saying nothing.  Because it’s easier than actually having to deal with the reality of it.  In my twenties, I discovered that another aunt actually caught my dad abusing me, and she did nothing, said nothing.  She just kept her own children and grandchildren away from him.  When I lived in Alaska (10-11 years old), my Girl Scout troop leader knew.  She didn’t call the cops, and was actually pretty damn chummy with my father.  In middle school I was questioned by the principal and a cop, but I was scared shitless to say anything, and instead of flat-out denying it, I just didn’t say anything.  I still hate myself for that cowardliness.  As far as I’m aware the school and the authorities did nothing.  And of course my mother knew.  She found out over and over and over again.  In Oklahoma, a judge knew, he was a neighbor.  He did nothing either.  I have no idea how many other people knew.  And not a single person helped me.  I had to do it all, which was waiting until I was 18 and moving from Texas to Boston, and eventually, at 24, never speaking to my parents again. 

And my story is nothing compared to who knows how many children, and it is going to keep happening forever and ever.  And so I’ve been crying a lot these days.  I’ll send a positive email to my aunt when I can, because she has been through a lot in her own life, including completely dropping her sisters (my mom and the aunt who caught my dad all those years ago) from her life.  She made that sacrifice for me, because she is a good person, and that is the only trump card she had left in the deck of our shitty family history.  She never knew until I told her, and I believe she is the one and only person who if she had known when it was happening would have down something about it, but through no fault of her own, she found out too late.  But she has offered me unconditional love and support, and at least family-wise, I have not received much of that.

So, please, if you can in any way, donate your time and money to organizations that help abused children (sexually, physically, emotionally, you name it, just help those kids, because I am willing to bet there have been far too many people in their lives who have completely turned their backs on them).

Another Bloody Project Finished

Whew.  It’s done.  I finished my mosaic with a couple of days to spare.  I approximate that 40 back-breaking hours were spent on it, and then about $150 in glass and the frame (Nauticalina convinced me to spend $50 on the perfect frame, and while she was absolutely correct, it proved to be quite difficult for several reasons, including that it is not foot friendly—I recommend not walking in to the corner of it unless you enjoy bloody and bruised toes).  Overall, it was a lot easier than last year’s spider lily, but I still really pushed myself (I do not wish to ever cut out that many octopus’ suckers ever again).

It is off to the gallery tomorrow, where someone can feel free to buy it for $550, which will pay for my San Francisco vacation at the end of the year with enough left over to buy some food.  No boots this time.  Also, I don’t expect to win two years in a row, but I can certainly fantasize.

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Last week I suffered through an annoying cold while having Boston visitors in town, which prompted a lot of anxiety and guilt on my part.  I wanted to be a great host, but my energy level dictated that entertainment was mainly limited to the couch.  We did leave the house a few times, most notably on Halloween where I was asked to provide a quiet bar, which I thought was going to be hard since Austinites really like Halloween, but I guess no one was interested in going to the Violet Crown Social Club.  A foray to Taco Cabana proved there were plenty of people clogging the streets (I had a tense standoff with a car who refused to get out of the way), and Nauticalina fell in love with the driver of a rocking low-rider under the I35 underpass at 5th Street.  Alas, we were traveling in opposite directions, so only a longing look could be exchanged between the two.

There was one game of Settlers played where I won but not handily.  They were novices, too.  I blame my cold for preventing total domination and humiliation. 

Overall, I think everyone had a reasonably good time—even if I did stick them on a leaky queen-sized air mattress (borrowed from the kind CSP and his roommates).  I consider it a success based solely on the fact that I don’t believe any 3” cockroach came out to terrorize anyone (I’m thanking Clem’s Exterminating Services for that saving grace).

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Ex-Cop just had me fix a digital clock for him.  It continues to amaze me that he was allowed to carry and use a firearm.  This was not a complicated, fancy digital clock with crazy controls.  It was the type where you hold down Set then move the up/down arrows to set the time.  I told him that I would be ashamed if I was him.  He laughed, and said he is ashamed.  People who are actually ashamed don’t laugh, they run in to their offices and hide the burning tears running down their cheeks.  Jackass.

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Today I’ve been reading various things about the pros and cons of moving one’s financial matters to a credit union.  I’m not really going to weigh in on the political aspect of all that, but here’s the thing, I have not paid a single bank fee in all my life.  I’ve had a checking account since I was 15 (that’s 21 years of banking), and maybe it’s because I’m excessively conservative with my money, but I’ve never bounced a check or had my bank account below the free thresh-hold limit.  I do not have any benefactors (my parents never paid for a single thing for me once I left the house, and even before I did, pretty much anything that wasn’t deemed essential was all on me to buy), and I haven’t had cushy jobs keeping me rolling in the dough.  I’ve just lived very austerely for most of my life, and thus banking has always been free to me.  Frankly, it never occurred to me that people were having such a hard time with bank fees.  I only go to my bank’s ATM, I don’t make any transfers between accounts, I pay my one credit card in full each month (I’ve never paid interest on my card in my life), and gosh, I don’t know, what are people doing that is costing them so much to want to leave their banks?  Or is this one of those things where it is just bully for me for being so damn, boringly responsible with my money?  And if that is the case, then um, I don’t see how switching to a credit union is really going to save your irresponsible ass.  Now, as to the question of if banks are intrinsically evil for other reasons, I get that, I really do, but if it comes down to you incurring fees, that sounds more like a personal problem.

Ahem.  Stepping down now.

No Candy For You!

While I’m sitting here waiting for Wikus to arrive for his driving-lesson number two (he has a driving permit, his second one actually, the first being when he was 22 when we moved from Boston to San Diego, and now at 36, he’s really going to try and get a license), I thought I’d take a moment to let all of you know that I haven’t deliquesced on my couch.  I know that’s a real fear.  Rotting in to a puddle of Grumples snot on the couch. 

Yesterday Fink-Nottle asked if I wore a costume to work.  I assumed he was IM-ing in the wrong window.  The man knows I have never worn a costume in my adult life (not counting that time a year ago September when Guamaniac put a black wig on me and dressed me up in an emerald green Mexican dress, aviator sunglasses, red lipstick and shoved a pillow up under the dress—I didn’t leave house, not even his bedroom looking like that), and if I happened to change my mind about wearing costumes as an adult, I certainly wouldn’t start by wearing one to work.  I spend enough time dealing with unwanted stares and comments, I really can’t fathom wanting to wear a costume.  Beside, isn’t Monday Halloween?  Seems at Google Friday was he official Halloween-at-work day.  To be clear, Fink-Nottle did not wear a costume either.

Though all this does bring me to something I have been fretting over these past few weeks.  Yes, weeks.  I live a sad, fretful life.  I’m in a new place (okay, it’s been six months), and haven’t had a Halloween in this area, so I do not know what to expect kid-wise.  I do not participate in the whole giving-kids-candy thing.  I don’t have the money to just buy candy and give it away, nor am I particularly fond of getting up every few minutes to answer the door, compliment kids on their outfits, then give them candy.  Yawn.  Also, I will have guests in town, AND, more importantly, I have a mosaic due on November 10, and if I am going to finish on time, I can’t be handing out candy to stupid dressed-up kids.  Okay?  Good grief. 

Wikus just showed up wearing his new Wranglers from Sears.  They are black, and he is very proud of them.  He is  yammering on about how all Levi’s look acid-washed and like they’ve been soaked in rancid tea.  I’m still laughing that he is wearing Wranglers.  I give you permission to laugh, too.  Also, it appears that he is growing a beard.  He claims he is growing an “awesome mustache” again.  A Lemmy mustache.  I do recall this mustache on him, and it is awesome.

The end.

It’s Probably Because He’s So Darn Fat

It seems I can’t escape an awfully emotional week of animal sadness.  I’ve been suffering a bit, having trouble sleeping, seeing that dog crossing the street over and over again every time I blink or let my mind wander.  Then there were those exotic animals let go by their suicidal owner, and how the town had to kill most of them to save themselves, which just made me cry and cry.  Then I caught a segment on the news of a hawk caught in the grill of a truck, and even though that hawk lived, the image haunts me, makes me feel so ill.  Then something even closer to my heart—my rotund fatty P2 mysteriously broke his femur.  His dad is taking great care of him, and the day was spent worrying while he was in surgery.  He’s home now where he has to live in the bathroom for a week away from his brother Horchata and big brother Mattress.  He looks so morose, and I’m just sitting here crying, because he’s in pain, and because there is nothing I can do about it, and because I can’t go see him.  I’m invited, of course, but he is terrified of me, and it seems highly rude to watch a crippled cat run from me.

And the worst seems to be that he has decided to start wearing Uggs.  God.