Still Owing My Gratitude to Planned Parenthood 21 Years and Counting

When I was 15, my mom told me to get in the car, and she drove me to a Planned Parenthood in Dallas.  It was in an office park, and the decor was bland, like some mid-level motel--all beige and adult contemporary.  I was sexually active; my mother and I had not discussed one word about it.  Yet, she knew enough to drag my ass in for a pap smear and STD testing.  And there we sat.  I don't remember anyone else in that room--I was so narrowly focused on my anxiety, and thinking "How can she possibly fucking know?!"  My body vibrated with nerves, and I still remember the near-impossible task of completing the forms.  Those questions that were asked!  How could I answer them at all, much less with my mother right next to me, probably reading over my shoulder?  Man, I still feel sick to my stomach thinking about it.  Imagine what a shy, nervous 15-year-old girl thought when she read, "Have you had anal sex?" Oh. My. God. People were going to read that form!  Jesus.

After that, I pretty much blacked out the rest.  It was my first pap smear.  My first time having sex was less anxiety-inducing than having to scoot my naked ass to the end of a table, and being told to relax my legs as some old man breathed noisily between my thighs.  It felt abusive, but I know it wasn't.  Just standard gynecological procedure.  I'm sure it was over very quickly.  I was given a prescription for oral contraceptive, and my mother and I were sent on our way.

As scary as that experience was for me, I was always grateful for the existence of Planned Parenthood.  Over the next 12 years or so, I went to them for my annual physical and birth-control needs.  I can also thank them for free HIV testing.  I did not have steady medical insurance until my late 20s--none of my friends did.  We had no idea how else to maintain good vaginal health other than visit PP.

Every time I hear about the proposed federal cuts, in fact complete stripping, to Planned Parenthood, I want to go cut someone really deep and leave them bleeding on the side of the road.  My life has not remotely been what one calls easy, but having access to PP definitely made my life what it is now, which is pretty darn easy: disease- and child-free.  Without having access to birth control and pap smears, I would probably have had several abortions and many raging diseases before I was 22.  I was not a smart kid when it came to sex--I was passionate, eager and didn't know how to stand up for myself.  I had a lot of sex without condoms.  A LOT.  I know I wasn't the only lady out there keeping her mouth shut when it came to asking to wrap it up (mostly out of fear of rejection).

Thus, there was all this awesome sex, having our crushes, breaking hearts and having our hearts broken, and there were a zillion chances to get pregnant, and even more to be passing around god knows what.  Yet, we were able to go to PP and get our birth control and meds.  Did PP encourage me to have sex?  Heck, no.  In fact, it always felt a bit embarrassing to go in there and list how many partners I had had in the last year, and they often frowned and condescended toward me when I was frank about my sexual habits.  They were there to keep me alive and free of unwanted babies, and they did that job well.

Do you know what most Planned Parenthood do not provide?  An abortion.  They could give you a reference to a private clinic, but most of them did not have the resources to actually provide such a procedure.  They provided the same services that your "normal" gynecologist provided.  Also, PP was never free.  There was a sliding scale, and I always had to pay something for the privilege of having my cervix poked, and $10-$20 for a pack of pills per month (that's a crapload of money for someone making $8/hr).  I have been working since I was 15, and so I was able to pay for all of this, for the luxury of my easy ways.

I don't think attitudes have changed all that much for teenagers.  There's a lot of talk about using condoms or not having sex at all, but it is just talk.  In the moment, when the sex is imminent, there is no talking (other than maybe some goofy pillow talk), just doing.  I very much fear that these federal cuts will shutter most, if not all, of these types of clinics, and it won't just be abortion rates that will soar, but women's medical health in general will suffer a devastating blow.  Even if you put the abortion issue aside (which I'm loathe to do, because it is an important issue to me, and more importantly, PP has not been able to use federal money for abortions in years upon years), Planned Parenthood is about access to being a healthy woman for those who do not have affordable health care.  Why would we want to take that away?  Seriously.  This is going to devolve in to something akin to my union rant: the need for Planned Parenthood is so obvious (to me).



I'm very lucky to have a job right now that provides excellent medical insurance.  I pay a $20 premium once a year for a well-woman exam.  Before I got a tubal ligation this past summer, I paid $30 a month for birth control.  That is a pretty damn good deal.  Without my job, I would have easily paid $1000 a year for my pap and monthly birth control.  I may not always have such benefits; I may not always have a job.  I am in a privileged class of people right now.  Having a job and having benefits is almost rare right now.  I don't even want to think what life would be like without those two things, and just think I could be jobless, benefit-less and have nowhere to turn for the most basic women's health care.  That is just horrifyingly sad.

Please help take a stand against this outrage to women's health.  Go to Planned Parenthood's website, and help spread the word: http://www.ppaction.org/IStandWithPP.

Still Passing the Open Windows

First I put my dress on inside out this morning (I only figured out the problem when I went to fasten the buttons down the front), then I came within millimeters of popping an Ambien in my mouth instead of my Allegra.  Sure, they both start with the letter "A," but the generic doesn't (Zolpidem is kind of hard to mistake for Fexofenadine).  Not that I think anyone would have really noticed if I was passed out drooling on my desk.  My reputation is so solid here, they'd just assume that I was already over in my hours (I am!), and that I was just taking a nap off the clock.  The next thing I grabbed was my Klonopin.  Should I continue to ignore my subconscious queues that I should not be at work, or do I flagrantly flout my body's wishes and keep plugging away and hope I don't decide to do anything stupid like throw myself off the top of the building?

It is time to buy a new toilet seat.  There's something I need to admit.  It's a bit humiliating, and I don't have a very good explanation for why this happens to me.  I am constantly breaking the toilet seat off its hinges.  It starts with one side, and eventually the other side breaks due to the stress.  This only happens at the house (thank goodness), and it obviously is not due to my weight.  All I know is I am the common denominator in this situation, and maybe I can blame the cats, but I don't think I can.  Perhaps it is my lack of grace--flopping down on the seat as if my knees can no longer support my weight.  Either way, the current one is obviously broken, and toilet seats are not as cheap as one would hope.  Oh, hey, wait a minute, Ivy Vyne's toilet seat is also broken...maybe it isn't just me after all.

The Thoroughbred of Sin Rings For Me

Thanks to Fink-Nottle, I now have an instrumental Bad Horse ringtone.  Which then inspired me to take the Bad Horse Chorus and make it my general ringtone since it is a perfect 35 seconds long.  I assigned Fink-Nottle the instrumental (we don't ever talk on the phone--we can only understand each other through the written word; I'm not sure we could even fill up more than two minutes on the phone without lapsing in to embarrassed silence), and my general ringtone will now sing out how Bad Horse is the Thoroughbred of Sin.  Call me as much as possible, so we can get the message out to the masses.

Yesterday I started my passion-flower half-sleeve.  It is really complicated, and my amazingly talented tattoo artist gnashed good-heartedly under her breath at me the whole time.  Wikus did an excellent job with the tedious design process.  I have three more appointments set up over March and April, and it'll be quite the undertaking.  I'm very pleased so far.

Those are Nauticalina's dishes.  She is killing me right now for ratting her out like that.  However, I would like to take the opportunity to remind her how I took her out for pancakes, broccoli and roasted potatoes.  Sure, the pancakes ended up being free, but the point is I was planning on paying for them before I found out it was Free Pancakes Day at IHOP. 

Now, there's some logic puzzles for me to grumble over and solve.  Nauticalina can be blamed for this, too.  Man, she's such a jerk. 

Queso, My Friend, My Love, My Life

The Boy's mother is visiting, and we took her to Trudy's tonight, where she was a bit confounded by queso.  She wanted to know what it was (CHEESE, my god lady, it is MELTED CHEESE!), and then wanted to make sure she was doing it right.  Is there a wrong way to do queso?  I find that licking the bowl is perfectly acceptable.  Though, to be clear, only I am allowed to lick the bowl.  Your tongue may come nowhere near my queso.  We can always tongue kiss after I eat my queso; I suppose I am open to that. 
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I know I promised to discuss my Boston trip, but it seems so far away now.  My little fantasy bubble has popped, and I'm back to being my typical curmudgeonly self, which mainly consists of being resentful at work, and grumpy at home.  They don't call me Grumples for nothing. 

Basically, I had tons of fun with Ivy Vyne, Double-N and Laroux.  I ate way too much food, steadily drank alcohol, froze my ass off and then mysteriously got it back while sleeping, did some accidental trick-shots during a few games of pool, and fired my first gun (where I am so terrible at it, that instead of shooting the target, I actually shot an overhead light out...no really, that's exactly what I did.  I think I almost cried in embarrassment, but The Boy texted me to say it's okay, because it's exactly what Ian McCulloch would have done).  There was the night of Settlers of Catan where I kicked ass and built the longest road known to Catanians.  Double-N's roommate drunkenly felt up my arm while everyone else was discussing some Disney DVDs on the shelf.  This only happens to me, I swear. 

It was an amazing trip.  I will be back in the late summer to fetch Ivy Vyne, and bring her back to Austin, permanently (mwuhuhuhuh-huh).  Oh, and I was bit by her dog my first night there.  Loup bit me.  That rascally, over-protective bitch.  She's going to be a medium-small ball of angry fun in the car during our roadtrip.  I look forward to her biting my cheek and making me go deaf with her incessant barking.  Joy!
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I blame this banana for making me such a bad shot.

Though, I guess this gun made me a little jittery, too.

Sadly, I have no picture of the light I shot out--I was too busy crying on the inside, and avoiding eye contact with everyone.  I didn't take many pictures while I was there--I was too preoccupied with it not being my real life.  Or I was too drunk, possibly too cold, and definitely really sleepy (I always end up having a cold when I go to New England--it is beyond a coincidence now, my body must be trying to tell me something).  And, my dear bowls of melted cheese, that, that was Boston.

Did We Win While I Wasn't Looking?

Despite having some serious misanthropic tendencies, I am a fierce believer in human rights.  While I may tell everyone to shut the fuck up and die out of one side of my mouth, I will turn around and help people even if it means hurting my own self in the process.  A long time ago, Wikus advised that I should probably stop taking care of everyone else, and start taking care of myself.  I'm a mother hen without the peeps.  I may not want to actually have to deal with people, but I am thoroughly invested in making sure people are treated equitably.  It seems so simple to me.  Yet, obviously, it isn't.

Yesterday, I let myself get very annoyed by some anti-union sentiments on FB.  This emotional tangle of nerves I have been in for the past months made me want to knock some heads together.  Which is not exactly an appropriate response, except it does seem like the easiest thing to do.  It is easy to dis on unions, and I think even easier for people my age who have never had to work a hazardous, back-breaking job.  Jobs where you are easily replaceable by someone else who is desperate and willing to put his/her life literally on the line.  Or work a job where you are responsible for the actual well-being of other humans (like teachers).  In every job, there is a bottom line, a profit margin that must be met, and quite often, that is at the expense of the workers. 

This is so frustrating to me--I don't even want to be writing this.  It is so innate to me.  I am having a hard time believing there is even a need to write this.  If we don't fight for our rights, we won't have any.  Whether that be at work, reproductive rights (and shit, reproductive health for fuck's sake), sexuality, race, religion, you fucking name it.  Sure, you can say unions are not relevant today, but can that possibly be true?  Is there really nothing else to fight for?  Did we win when I wasn't looking?  Has sexual harassment been eliminated?  Do all employers gladly provide affordable health insurance and contribute to retirement funds?  Are employees no longer encouraged to work more for less money?  Is there a clear path for advancement whether it be through promotion or education?  Are we all as employer and employee invested in doing what is best for the company and the individual?  Can we answer yes to all those questions?  Hell no. 

There's this idea that if you don't like your job, you don't like your boss, you don't like how you are being treated at work, you can feel free to go find a different job.  Sure, yes, that is true, but why is that an acceptable attitude?  It makes me vomit on myself a bit.  No need to hold an employer accountable, just find a different job!  Oh, you were abused as a worker?  Stop your bitching, find another job!  Never mind the fact that finding a new job is next to impossible these days, why would you ever accept any individual or group degrading you in some way?  In general, if I am feeling used, I don't walk away from it. 

Complacency is evil.  Please stand up for what you deserve as a human, as a person, even if you aren't in a union (I'm not), appreciate what they have fought for and what they still are fighting for.  Employers only make concessions because we not only asked for rights, but we have demanded them.  We are not dollars, and should not be treated as if that is all we have to contribute in life. 

Now, don't make me go knock your naive, stupid heads together.  Educate yourself.  Talk to people who work in a service industry of some type.  Talk to the public and private sectors.  See if you can shadow someone on a job to really understand what his/her day is like (like a treatment plant worker or an EMT).  Perhaps read some federal laws to understand that some basic assumptions you probably have are not mandated--for instance, there is no federal law that employers have to provide rest breaks.  It is left up to the states to decide if they want to pass those sort of employee-right laws.  Guess what?  Texas doesn't give a fuck if you don't get a break.  If you are a little crabby that your employer doesn't let you take a lunch during an 8-hour period, and you work in Texas, you have zero recourse.  But oh, right, you can just get another job.  I forgot.

Wanted: One New Liver

Hello there, did you miss me?  I've certainly missed all of you--there's something about the combination of being on vacation, stuck on a plane, and reading a short-story anthology that makes me really want to start writing again.  Serious writing.  Short-story writing.  Yet, because that combination rarely happens, I don't see me sitting down and doing it.  I had so many great thoughts on the plane yesterday, but they are lost to my exhausted Swiss-cheese brain.  I swear I should just go back on my meds for all the good my brain is doing me off of them.  Blogging will just have to suffice.

At some point I'll detail my vacation, but I just can't right now.  I am so damn tired.  My liver hates me.  I'm pretty sure he has packed his bags and is going to move out no matter how much I beg him not to.  He's muttering something fierce about booze and fatty foods.  I must take some care of myself and get some quality sleep.  First some Grey's Anatomy, though, you know, to dull the senses.  Then maybe America's Next Top Model to really really make sure.  It is The Boy's birthday, so I can't become too desensitized.  He's not going to want to watch those shows...or any shows for that matter.  There are birthday expectations!

To give a taste of my vacation, here are some pics:

Are Those Your Pants!

Here in Boston, it's okay to leave your cords lying at the foot of the stairs. Thus they are always readily accessible for those quick trips out in to the blustery winds when you are pantless, and provides a handy place to wipe dirty snow off your feet when you return.

Posted from Blogium for iPhone

Body-Scanner Fretting and Several Text Convos with Nauticalina

Soon, a matter of six hours in fact, I will be leaving for Boston.  The nice thing about flying out of Austin is I don't need to fret about people getting a free looksies at my bits.  The Austin-Bergstrom airport is a nice, compact airport.  I love it for its simplicity.  There's just one, long, gently curved area that all traffic arrives and departs from.  If you are inclined to always run late, this is the airport suited for your needs.  The nicest part is it being a second-floor terminal, the floor cannot support the weight of the full-body scanners.  Brahahahaha!  It's a relatively new airport (opened in 1999), and its fancy, modern design is getting in the way of asinine terrorist-prevention efforts.  Score for people like me who cannot stand the idea of scanners. 

On a recent return trip from Florida, Meggles was forced to not only endure the scanner, but also a pat-down, because apparently, the scanner isn't enough to detect if a woman wearing a tank-top, leggings and a wrap-around skirt is smuggling something underneath her clothing.  Her husband had to go through the same thing, and even had his wallet rifled through (he was holding it above his head during the full-body scan just as he was instructed to do).  So my lovely got a dose of radiation and a pat-down.  Please prepare to see me on the national news Tuesday evening.  I will cause a scene if this happens to me.  I will be opting out of the body scan at Logan, and going straight to the pat-down; thus, chances for a scene are slightly decreased.  I refuse to get upset thinking about it right now. 

I'll send out a note if I am about to get arrested.  Then I'll send out another one when I escape from the handcuffs (Note of full disclosure: I kind of want to get arrested just to see if I can actually slip out of the handcuffs--the bones in my hand are practically collapsible).  The only thing left to determine is if I will go running around the airport trying to evade the cops.  Which will entirely depend on how terrible my allergies are that day--my death wish being directly proportional to the amount of snot in my body.
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Texting with Nauticalina:

Our Thoughts on A Boy
N:...Annoying.  Oh, well.  He's probably bad in bed...Too bony and self-conscious.
G:...I bet he doesn't go down on a girl.  Or, if he does, he surfaces within a minute all proud of himself.

Our Thoughts on My Ass' Cash-Value When Determining Oral-Sex Pricing
N:...That's good.  You don't want to freeze off your massive donk.
G: No kidding.  How would I bring all the boys to the schoolyard without it?
N: Offer them your world-famous $5 BJ
G: I can charge $10, though, with this ass.
N: Yeah, but $15 would be pushing it.
G: I know. Sniffs.

Our Thoughts on Days-Gone-By
N: I picked up a few tricks during my short film-making days.
G: Of course. While I just picked up tricks.

Our Thoughts on the Necessity and Direct Availability of Rubber Sheets
G:...I'm pretty confident he'll be really awesome and a good house guest.  Unlike you and all that peeing in the bed you do.
N: I do it on purpose.
G: It never occurred to me that it could have been accidental.
N: You are wise to lay out the rubber sheets.
G: I'll just borrow them from your bed.
N: You can't.  I've currently got your mother handcuffed to the bed posts.
G: I'll just take the sheets out from underneath her.  It'll be no trouble at all.

My Parsimonious Ways

Holy Bejus, I'm being subjected to hearing the most boring, work-related phone conversation ever.  The Boy, for reasons that are unfathomable to me, is going over line by line some score (I'm assuming it's Haydn's The Seasons)...reading each word...slowly...sometimes repeating it.  The world of choir and sheet music is just baffling to me.  It seems to me, in my naivete I'm sure, that one would just email a PDF of the score, and be done with it.  Tell those singers to print and highlight their parts, or feel the wrath of my impatience.  Obviously I would make a very mean choir master (that's what he asks me to call him in bed...or what I know he wishes I'd call him in bed).  I'm sure there is a very good reason why he's doing what he's doing. 

To spice up my evening, I modified my preferred-channel list on the DVR in both the livingroom and bedroom.  I realize how jealous all of you are of me right now.  My life is the epitome of exciting.  Then I folded laundry.  Dripping, wet excitement.

Last Friday, I did get out of the house, and had a good time with the gang at this place called Pinballz.  It was a wet dream for the boys, who could make two quarters last for over 30 minutes.  However, I could only make them last an average of 3 minutes.  I found I had a slight knack for skee ball, but not enough to overcome the nagging feeling that I would have done just as well throwing coins in PVC pipes.  Seems pinball and arcade games tap in to a deep vein of anxiety in me.  I hate sucking at something, and I hate sucking even more when I'm having to pay for it.  I'm totally a flat-rate type of girl.  I'll pay $7.50 for a night of rollerskating, and I can be terrible but pretend I'm totally awesome, and because I'm not having to dump quarters in a slot every time I stumble, I can keep the fantasy alive. 

Thus, since I am such a controlling, sore-loser cheapskate, my evenings will remain being all about programming the DVR.  Hold me back, I'm out of control. 

Mouth Skins

Every thing about today was geared toward getting ready for Boston.  Even when I was up on a ladder wiring a light to our slanted ceiling, I was preparing for Boston.  Same goes when The Boy and I finally fixed the light in our breakfast nook (somehow a wire got disconnected a year ago February when the fixture was jostled when we did our first round of hardwood-floor installation).  Thus, our house is full of light, and I can leave for a long vacation knowing that there is nothing else I really have to do home improvement-wise.  Yay!  I also went to Target, Sally's and Walgreens.  I cut and dyed my hair.  I did a mass ton of laundry, and even folded it.  I started packing my pink suitcase, which the cats will all take turns sleeping in until I take it away from them on Thursday.

Am I excited or what?

Now this post has to end now, before I've said anything remotely exciting, because I am off to Nauticalina's to watch Torchwood.  She's been gone all weekend, and misses my face like I miss her mouth skins with lemons and limes.  What?  That' doesn't make a lick of sense.  It does to us.

Do You Deserve It, Though?

Hey, if you're in or near Seattle (or just really desperate) and would enjoy some free beer and sausage, send my friend Meggles a message detailing why you are deserving of her generosity.  It will be completely at her discretion to determine if you are good enough to receive her free stuff.  She's way nicer than me, so chances are you will get what you ask for (in the food and libation department only, people!).

Ghost in the Mirror

Sometimes, when I slip in to the driver seat of my car, I catch my reflection in the rear-view mirror, and realize how much I'm starting to look like my mother.  The way the light hits my cheek shows a certain softness and slight sag.  No one knows my mother.  There's no way for me to know if I'm seeing things, but it has to be glimpses of an older me.  An almost imperceptible slackness that will eventually lead to jowls like my granny's.  I haven't seen my mother in almost 15 years.  I have a hard time imagining what she must look like now.  Probably sad and tired. 

It's startling to see glimpses of my mother.  I inherited her pale skin and plump thighs, but my face has always been all my own.  Neither my mother or father can be found there.  Yet, here she is, and I suppose she will probably emerge more quickly now, stop being a ghost in the mirror and settle more permanently in the lines around my mouth and the shadows under my eyes.  My vanity is suffering enough with this whole growing old business--I didn't really need to be reminded of my mother while it's happening.

As a child, I always hoped I was adopted. Yet, looking at photos of my paternal grandmother as a teenager, I obviously was not adopted.  The only consolation being that she was a serious knock-out as a young lady.  Sadly she married a mean man, and was the first of my grandparents to die.  I loved her dearly, and have never been as close to another relative as I was to her.  She made the best scrambled eggs, and let me play with her arm flab (oh, yes, I am completely horrified now by her generosity--letting me tug and slap around her flesh like that).  I rarely got to see her since my family only lived near her for the first four years of my life, but I remember how I felt when she held me. 

My granny had jowls, and one day I will, too.  My fat cheeks have kept me looking much younger than I really am, so it is only fair that one day they will give away my true age. If only my mother didn't have to be a part of that image.  So it goes.

Therefore, I'll just have to keep rocking the sexy-red-tights-striped-socks look.

Wintry Rant Number Two

So, where was I? Bitching about Texans and wintry weather?  Why yes, yes I was, and I am going to do a bit more of it. 

After that TERRIFYING three-quarters of an inch of snow on Friday that closed down the city and left the majority of town driving 25mph on completely dry roads, the weekend was beautiful--sunny and in the 70s.  So amazing.  But of course another coldfront is on its way--I haven't received any notice if it is another ACF (tm)--and the good, moronic fucktards of this town, who spend an excessive portion of the year whining that Texas doesn't have seasons, and oh my, wouldn't it be most excellent if it snowed, are asking me to cancel my quarterly meeting on Wednesday because there is a 50% chance of sleet.  Never mind the fact that there is no way a single bit of frozen precipitation could possibly stick to the ground.  White stuff is going to fall from the sky...again!  How will we survive?  Shouldn't I be at the grocery store right this very second buying water and band-aids and Spaghetti-O's? 

Of course I hate that it is cold, and have taken to lazing in a hot bath every night instead of making love to the couch.  Okay, sure, I took a bath when it was warm out, too, but I blame Nauticalina and Bath Junkie.  Who doesn't want to luxuriate in cotton-candy smells?  Therefore, I don't plan on stopping this behavior any time soon. 

This afternoon, I was buying a small bag of very expensive catfood at one of those cute family-owned pet stores where they go out of their way to look as anti-big box store as possible by employing a general sense of disarray and rustic charm.  They also let a few animals freely roam, and sass you in a bossy-yet-pleasant way.  A green parrot was hanging out on the counter. He tried to steal my pen as I signed the credit-card slip.  It was really odd to have this bright green bird within inches of my hand.  I could have grabbed that little dude.  It was a bit unnerving--I realized that most of us are so used to birds flying away any time we get within feet of them, to have a bird not only stay put, but get closer and tried to take something I was holding, was a bit surreal.  And I really did want to grab it, but felt that was unwise.  So I walked away and admired a Maine coon kitten, while an extremely obese tuxedo cat demanded food.  Sadly, I have no picture of the parrot.  I apologize.

Naivete Revealed Through Caps

While my friends in Chicago are digging out from 22" of snow, and my Boston friends have practically already died a long, tragic, snow-filled death, there are flurries here in Austin.  OH. MY. GOD.  The end is nigh.  This morning, when there was nary a flake, they were already talking about closing down the city tomorrow.  The mere mention of snow send paroxysms of fear through the dear, dear people of this town. Never mind the fact that they are talking less than an inch of accumulation (to be fair, the worse-case scenario is three inches).  We're in an Arctic Cold Front (ACF), people! (On Tuesday, our building manager sent us a warning about the Arctic Cold Front, and all those caps made me realize how naive I was being about the situation.)  Thus, if you feel I haven't been blogging as much as I should, please remember I am suffering first-world problems like fretting about rolling black-outs and if it is okay to make love to my space heater at 10am or if I should wait for later in the afternoon.  The highs have been in the 20s, and our small little Texas minds are shattering.

I just see it as a great practice run for my Boston visit in two weeks.  I've lived in snow and ice and sub-zero temperatures.  I think I can handle a week of this awfulness.  Am I happy about it?  Fuck no!  However, it's going to be 60 on Saturday.  Therefore I'll just keep wearing lots of clothes, and kindly reminding my boss that it's her fault for saying there would be a chance of snot later in the week.

A Chance of Snot

Today it was 78 degrees in Austin.  I only bring this up, not to rub in how awesome Austin can be in January, but to relay an embarrassing typo goof of my boss'.  Tomorrow an arctic front will arrive in town, thus freezing all our smug asses, and part of my boss' job is to relay weather information to certain people.  Since most folks, especially those paid upward of seven figures, have trouble actually reading an email, she tends to summarize them.  Today she told some pretty important people that there is a chance of snot later in the week.  Poor thing will probably never be able to talk about the weather again without having to bear through tissue jokes.  We all agreed if it does snot on Friday, we are most definitely not going in to work. 

I have so much of my own snot that I don't really need it to rain down from above.  Saturday night at C&L's (Settlers of Catan--this time The Boy owned us), I sat there wrapped in a blanket playing a game called Sneeze, Blow, Toss, Grumble.  I am a champion nose blower and know how to really make a tissue last.  Can I list that under my KSA's on my resume?  I could even prove that I don't bullshit on my resume, and really knock an interview out of the park with my mad nose-blowing skillz.

It's probably good that the weather is dropping in to the teens over the next 24 hours--it'll prepare me for Boston, where I will be spending a few days with Ivy Vyne and friends.  Obviously the only way to get through it all is to be wicked drunk, and I mean to start as soon as the cold front hits tomorrow.  Don't tell my boss.  It is probably best to get through February soused.  Then I can't be held responsible for all that crying I find myself doing.  I can at least blame the alcohol.  Yesterday I cried over not having trash bags and litter.  Today I cried because I missed the Orange Lover.  So it goes.

Side note: On last week's Skins, why the hell do the lesbians spend all that time throwing their heads back, showing off their necks, and giggling during sex?  From my experience, girls spend more time you know, having sex, and not so much rolling around and laughing.  Maybe I only know the serious type.  The kind who are too busy pleasing each other with their mouths and such.  MTV obviously knows more than I do, so I'll just keep watching to see what *real* teenagers are like.

ET Knows What the Queers Are Doing to the Soil

The Boy texted me this picture yesterday.  (Please focus on ET, and not the state of the foundation of our house.)  He wrote, "Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick.  Don't you know that a burrow ET lives in the ground."

Hilarious!  But as a bigger Stuart fan (or at least someone who has sang it enough times to be able to quote it slightly more accurately), I knew we could do better.  Here is how it played out on FB:

Grumples: Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick! The burrow ET lives in a hole, in the ground! Why the hell do you think it's called a burrow ET anyway!

The Boy: You know what, ET? I like you!

Grumples: You're not like the other tortoises...here...in the trailer park.

Fink-Nottle: They found his shell over by the snow-cone concession!

I'm particularly pleased with Fink-Nottle's.  That ET, he was a daredevil, just like his old lady!  When ET visited with CSP on Tuesday, I'm pretty sure they discussed the big underground homosexual population of Des Moines, Iowa.  They both know all about those damn queers, and the landing strip they are building for gay Martians.

Say Goodbye, Moles

Yesterday The Boy and I did something so completely coupley it makes me cringe a bit--not necessarily in a bad way, but I am rolling my eyes nonetheless.  Once, when The Boy and I started dating, we visited a friend of his who owned a garage, and The Boy asked me to put some lippies on him, and I swear I thought his friend almost fell over with the force of his vomit as he watched me lovingly apply lip balm to my dear boy's amazing mouth.  What we did yesterday was not nearly as revolting.

We had a joint dermatology visit for a full-body skin check.  Unfortunately, we were made to sit in separate rooms, which just meant we texted each other the whole time.  The PA circled a few of my moles--more out of my annoyance with them than a true worry that they might be cancerous.  I asked her if removing them would be billed as cosmetic, and she told me that no, they send it to the insurance company as "an irritated mole."  This cracked my shit up something serious.  Yes, it is no surprise that someone as grumpy as myself has irritated moles.  I'm just shocked that someone is so willing to deal with them.  I would tell my moles to fuck off and get over themselves.  Irritated indeed.

Thus, I had three moles removed and The Boy had two.  He is so miffed that he didn't realize sooner that it really is just that easy to waltz in to a dermatologist's office and demand to be cleansed of irritated moles.  He had his thripple removed.  I can give no more details than that.  There was another one on his back that I think I may miss a bit.  It was really gross and squeezable.  (Boy: If you're reading this, stop crying, and remember that I love you very much.)  The first time we hooked up and I ran my hands down his back, I thought a small creature had taken up residence near the lumbar area of his spine.  My first instinct was to attempt a good flick to evict it.  It was only a momentary blip in an otherwise very sexy encounter.  I'm still with him seven years lo, so I obviously got over it.  But just think, I've been suffering with its intrusive presence for so long, I had really gotten used to it and accepted it as part of my loving relationship.  Not anymore--that's all gone now!

The mole removal was very easy--I played Angry Birds the whole time.  I did not pass the level, though.  Sad.  Stupid smell of burning skin was really throwing off my game.  The memory of which did not help the fact that I felt like someone was continuously putting out a cigarette between my shoulder blades for the rest of the day.  That sensation has thankfully abated. 

The good news (that I am taking as bad news) is that the spot on my forehead is not cancerous, and therefore does not need to be removed.  I know I should be saying thank my lucky stars, but seriously, this just means I can't get plastics in to fix me.  It's just a boring ol' sun spot.  I have spent the past 2.5 decades applying copious amounts of sunblock to my face and body.  I refused to swim in the ocean and frolic on the beach.  I was yelled at for swaddling myself in a towel and ruining the family vacation for not enjoying myself in the sun.  Seriously.  I'm not making that up at all.  I laughed at my sister who would cover herself in cooking oil and lay out in the driveway of our Texas house in the middle of summer.  She smelled so nasty.  Yet, strangely, I would get hungry.  Anyway.  Point being, I have taken great pains to avoid the sun most of my life (while still doing my best to spend time outside, because it was warm and felt good) to end up with fucking brown sun spots on my face in my mid-30s.  UNFAIR!  The PA was sympathetic, enough so that she totally sold me in to buying $130 of skincare products.  I'm such a sucker.  A vain sucker who wants to be pretty forever and ever.  Therefore I am to apply some fancy expensive sunscreen to my face every morning, and then some fancy expensive bleach-lightener stuff every morning and evening in hopes that my sun spots become less visible, and I become fabulously more beautiful with an even skin tone.  It's kind of like praying every night before going to bed: It probably won't do jack shit, but it doesn't hurt to try.  Other than it may make me go broke, and the last time I checked, praying was free.

A Heart-Warming Story of a Tortoise's Healthy Innards & the Humans and Cats Who Made It Possible

Once upon a time there was a little tortoise with large stones in his bladder and a blocked intestinal track. He didn't eat for months, and had to be force-fed with a tube, and hydrated with a fatty needle.  His innards were sad.

Then he took a visit to Houston and had a window cut out of his plastron to remove all the bad stuff.  His mother spent tons of money on the surgery, and his father on all the doctor visits, tests and medicines.  It was pretty touch-and-go, and there was little guarantee he would make it.  There were a lot of fingers crossed for some good solid poos.

It took one week, but he made his parents proud.

It took awhile before he wanted to eat with relish. He refused to ingest what was good for him--insisting that starving was better than eating hay.  His mother had to find a way to trick him in to eating his fiber (his mother being a person who hates being in the kitchen).  She got crafty and used a food processor to disguise the hay in tons of Romaine lettuce.  Sucker.

Then he fell in love with carrots.

The Bear was recruited to make sure ET ate a well-balanced meal.

The kittens were recruited to make sure that the heat lamp and UV light were always working.

Mattress refused to do anything beside looking really cute.

In the late fall, he enjoyed sunning himself in clumps of weeds.

Then came Take Your Reptile to Work Day, and ET visited his mom's work, and fought over who got to snuggle with the space heater (he won).

Take Your Reptile to Work Day just happened to coincide with a vet appointment.  Just a visit to make sure he was doing okay eight months after his surgery.  I guess you can say he is doing fantastic!

He has been given a 100% clean bill of health.  Only a few internal staples left, and not a single blockage.  Hooray ET!  May he live happily ever after for the next 65 years or so.

When To Start Dating Orcas

Poor Wikus just asked me why the hot girls from his past never track him down through Facebook.  This was prompted by the fact that an old roommate of ours did track him down to say that he has changed "about 100%."  I'm not sure if that kind of turnaround is possible.  Once, to prevent anyone entering his bedroom, he tied a plastic bag around his French doors.  That totally showed us!  I mean, before the really tight security, we were always hanging out in his room on his crusty punk clothes, and enjoying the smell of bong water.  I would have rather stood naked in a Boston blizzard in front of a snowplow than step foot in his room.  But thankfully, if I changed my mind, there was that plastic bag keeping me in check.  So, yes, Crusty Craig but no hot girls.  Poor Wikus.

I'll actually be doing the unthinkable--visiting Boston in February.  Since I can't afford an electric snowsuit (as Wikus recommended), I'll have to make do with a blubber suit.  Unfortunately, I'm not sure I can gain the amount of weight needed in such a short amount of time.  Especially if I keep exercising through laughing:

Wikus: You should get some kind of electric snowsuit.
Grumples: a blubber suit
Wikus: That might be stinky.
Grumples: eh, it's not like i'll be trying to score dates
Wikus: But I guess it'd be too cold to smell anything.
Wikus: You would get a date with an orca who would try to gnaw on you.
Grumples: do orcas now hang out in brookline?
Wikus: Only the russian jewish ones.
Grumples: those are the best kind
Wikus: They run fish markets.
Wikus: They're so big, they wear trashcan lids for yarmulkes.

There was also some assisting with moving a piano that I did earlier.  The Boy probably has a hernia now, but he won't admit it.  At one point, in his grunting and panting, he had the audacity to ask me, "Can you lift up just a bit on your side?"  Did he really ask me if I could lift up the piano?  Seriously?  My arms are brittle, pale, life-less twigs.  Only good for accomplishing a 30-second orgasm and lifting food to my mouth.

However, even though my limbs can barely carry the weight of my body, apparently they are very sexy.  Or at least according to a dingy boy at Target who could not have been more than 14.  He had a furry little friend living on his lip, and he stalked me in the hosiery section (I really wanted some white thigh-highs to wear while rollerskating, but I was denied).  He was very enamored with me, or at least the decorated part of me.  He did ask how much my artist would charge him for a sleeve.  I couldn't help it, I totally laughed.  Gently, I swear.

There's a certain addiction I always indulge in while at Target (and no, it isn't luring teenaged boys in to the dressing room--I only do that with college boys now): I love to buy underwear.  Not fancy underwear; just some plain old cotton knickers.  Though, Saturday's purchase was microfiber, so that's fancy, and bikini-cut.  Today I matched my shirt to my new pink panties.  I've already changed in to my muumuu, so I can't prove it.  Nauticalina can--I showed her.  She fed me when I was beyond hungry, so I paid her back with a peek at my undies.  Though, that isn't what she was charging for that chimichanga, banana ice pop and spicy hot chocolate.  Seems just being friends is pay back enough for her.  Just in case though, I felt it was prudent for her to look at my underwear. 
. 
Speaking of underwear, I really do not like MTV's version of Skins.  Why did it have to be an almost word-for-word reproduction?  It just makes me compare the two casts, and I'm sorry to say, the American one is seriously lacking and trying way too hard.  I'm embarrassed for them.  And okay, fine, I'm still going to watch it, but just so you know, I'm not enjoying it.  Damn it.

Ass to Couch

Whew, this old body of mine is sore.  Between the sneezing and rollerskating and maneuvering between black-clad hipsters at a bar's birthday party, my bones are feeling their age.  I'm exhausted and am finally ass-to-the-couch for the rest of the night.  Which may be like two hours considering I only got 3.5 hours of sleep last night.  I'm redefining sexy in my Hawaiian muumuu and snot-swollen face.  You know you can't resist me. 

Also, sexy?  Crying at the Jackalope while sitting on Nauticalina's lap as some wanna-be Pogues band played cover songs.  I made it almost 48 hours without tears.  I take that as progress.  I cried a bit this morning, and I had The Boy's arms comforting me, and that was really the best.  I needed that (and Nauticalina did a great job rubbing my back and making me feel normal in a fucked-up situation last night).  While the crying seems to be tapering off, my dreams are still so startling real that they stay with me all day--generally in a grip of deep grief and despair.  Thanks brain!

Last night I did get the pleasure of meeting Nauticalina's bestie, Dicktition.  That girl knows how to smuggle plastic bottles of liquor in her bra like no one else I have ever known.  She also wins the title for worse divorce story ever, but it isn't my story to share, so just know it is bad.  Very very bad. 

At some point I need to share a really gross story that isn't mine, but one I got permission to blab all over the internet.  However, I'm too tired to get in to it right now.  Just know that it involves pus and self-surgery.  Two of my favorite things!

This post is quite disjointed and I apologize.  Blame the Allegra and Zyrtec and the lack of sleep and the motherfucking hematoma I gave myself crashing in to a wall while rollerskating today.  Thus, it will probably be easier to sum up my last week in pictures.

P2

 

 

Grackles against a winter sky.

Buy this for me.

Through the car windshield; 28 degrees; Austin, TX.

 

 

Fish Cream in its new home.

Rollerskating

Exhausted

Sunday was not an aberration.  It wasn't as much about Whoopis as I thought.  I can't stop crying.  It's horrible, embarrassing, shameful, confusing.  I cry when good things happen.  I cry when vaguely annoying things happen.  I cry when I look at P2 because he doesn't want me to snuggle him, and I so miss the Orange Lover and how he snuggled me when I cried, so I am crying because I can't cry while snuggling an orange cat.  I struggle not to cry during a staff meeting, and did cry during a training class (oh, how terrible these allergies are!). 

Fink-Nottle asked me if achieving an orgasm in less than 30 seconds is worth all this.  I can't answer that.  The tears have only been here since Sunday, and I have a mile long steak of self-punishment within me.  I have to wait this out a bit longer, see if my body can level off, and live without prescription intervention.  This is harder than I ever thought it would be, but I'm not ready to give up.  I came home and cried on the couch.  Sat here and cried while The Boy got ready for work.  I cried as he puttered around gathering up this and that.  I cried as he left, and I cried as I emailed and texted my friends to let them know that I need them for no other reason than that I am an emotional mess for no good reason beside having a serious chemical imbalance at the moment.

Now I'm going to take out the trash and recycling, and hope that I won't be brought to tears on the front lawn.

Here's a reason not to cry:

Other reasons:

1. Rollerskating with my ladies
2. Monday night phone call with Frijole
3. Wednesday Skype with Meggles (or Sunday)
4. All my boys

Blow

I never thought it would be possible to cry this hard while listening to Cock Sparrer.  Yet, here I am, in the back yard, watching ET eat fresh shoots of vibrant green grass (it was in the 20s the other day, so I'm not sure what that grass is thinking), and bawling next to Whoopis' grave.  I've spent the last couple of hours sorting through some of my favorite songs, working on a mix for Nauticalina.  I enjoy spending afternoons alone wearing my headphones and hopelessly singing out of tune for no one but the cats and ET to judge me.  I had the television on mute, and I just happened to look up right when a shot of a dead cat half-buried amongst a pile of junk on Hoarders.  If that wasn't jarring enough, this cat looked so much like Whoopis.  Queue uncontrollable sobbing.  It's an hour later and I'm still crying.  I can't stop.  I'm screaming silently in the backyard and clenching my fists, my  hands white-knuckled with cold.

I didn't specifically set out to listen to Cock Sparrer--it was a random iPod choice.

So, I'm sitting here on a wet chair having a beer.  It is gray and cold.  But it isn't raining.  When ET stops eating, I will go inside and try to dry my tears.  I've decided to listen to the Bunnymen's All My Life on repeat until ET is ready.

Look! Over There! LOOK!

My mother was a pointer.  She pointed at every last thing in her line of sight.  It was an additional lesson in tedium in our already unbearable family vacations.  Even as a kid, I knew she did this out of desperation for someone to pay attention to her, any kind of attention to make herself seem relevant, more than just a mother, but as someone with independent thoughts and opinions outside of feeding and cleaning us.  Thus, pointing. 

"Look, a tree!  Two trees!  Three trees!  A whole row of trees in the median!  LOOK!"
"There's the library.  Right there.  See, that sign? It's for the library.  No, we're not going there."
"Would you just look at that...?" (No one looks up to see what she is pointing at, and resentful silence follows.)

From my nest of pillows and books in the backseat, I never bothered looking up to see what she was going on about.  I wasn't a child filled with much hope, and I knew better than to think that one day she'd point out a kitten riding a monkey riding a goat.  It was easier to just sleep and dream of such things, than think my mother may actually point out something of interest.  I read a lot books about magic and kids with ESP (oh, Willo Davis Roberts, you really got me through some hard times).

All this pointing has done a number on who I am as an adult.  Sure, we all point, and say really mundane things to each other that most of us can observe on our own without any outside assistance.  At least those of us who aren't blind, and have reasonably functioning cognitive skills.  Therefore, I do my best not to fall in to the habit of pointing at things no one could possibly care about without first expressing an interest in it.  If you're not looking for the grocery store, I'm not going to point out that we just passed one. You'd be surprised at how often people point out grocery stores.  Seriously. 

Unfortunately, my aversion to paying attention to other people's pointing, has made it so I don't always understand why someone may be pointing in the first place--that it may come from more than an emotional neediness for attention.  The Boy points at a certain building on Airport Blvd every single time we happen to drive by it.  And every single time I fail to understand what the fuck he is trying to get me to look at.  My first thought is either I'm about to hit someone or someone is about to hit me.  Of course by the time I realize what he was pointing at, I'm about a block down the road, and he is pouting.  There's a great memory associated with that building, and he is pointing to remind him, us, of this special event in our past.  I'm ignoring his positive pointing.  I'm ignoring something important to him, and I don't mean to, but that is just not how good memories work for me.  This drives him crazy, and at times  hurts his feelings, and I really don't mean for that to happen.  Yet, it does.  Every time.  Gah.

He's also very fond at pointing at things that we already own or have a mutual interest in, like a red wall!  We have a red livingroom, so I am forever being made to look at other red walls whether on television or in a store.  He just loves pointing out red walls.  Or couches that our similar to our couch but perhaps in a different color.   This is when I lose patience.  I feel guilty when I don't immediately recognize the place on Airport Blvd where we shared a meaningful evening, but I completely don't care about these other things.  Obviously I am a heartless bitch. I'd rather go home and look at our red walls and nice furniture together, than stand in a store tring to bond over something we bought in the past.

Ho hum.  This probably now means every time we are in the Target at 183 and Ohlen Road, I'll be subjected to him pointing at the dressing room.  And probably elbowing me in the ribs. 

Thus, I will probably continue to roll my eyes and be a really impatient jerk when something is pointed out to me.  Try not to be surprised, and definitely don't be hurt.  Also, I have a feeling I probably point all the time without realizing it.

The Party In My Pants

It's been cold and rainy for two days, and it is making me seriously cranky.  I hate this kind of weather.  My nose is red and runny.  My joints ache, and I obviously just sit around complaining a lot.  I spent the day with The Boy shopping for various things for the house.  This is always a risky undertaking for the two of us--he processes decisions very slowly, and I'm practically two states over by the time he decides if he's okay with something or not.  This makes me very impatient and not very kind.  I also just don't like shopping very much.  He's able to handle cluttered junk shops, where I would rather rip off my skin and play in heavy traffic than go in them.  However, in Target, after being particularly jerky with The Boy, I mollified him a bit in the dressing room.  This worked surprisingly well, but not for very long.  Unfortunately, there weren't many opportunities at other shops to do the same. 

We did manage to get a few things on our list, including a flatscreen television for the bedroom (with a wall mount, which is producing some really sweet noises from The Boy as he installs it, like, "Goddamnmotherfuckingcuntbitch."). 

______________________________________________________________

It is still too difficult for me to determine if all my testiness is due to quitting the mood meds, or if it is because I am still battling allergies, rain, dust, discombobulated house, and other personal annoyances that I can't really discuss.  I know the medications are completely out of my system though, due to one wonderful thing that I have really missed over the past 20 months or so: I can have an orgasm in under one minute.  Oh the joy.  I actually had a wet dream the other night where I had three orgasms in a row.  It was amazing (and totally lesbian hot).  There have been countless times over the past two years where I've not wanted to even bother my sleeping clit.  It was too much effort to even try to get it to respond.  The situation is definitely pretty bad when you can't get your own self off, so why bother having someone else give it a go?  Now I can practically walk and cream myself.  Who wants to be me?  Your face will constantly flow with snot, but you'll be really happy in your pants all day and night long.  Jealous?

(Nauticalina stop vomiting on my shoes.)

Granny's Pie & Mama's Cake

Good fuck, I want to write right now, but too many words keep crashing in to each other, and none of it will actually go in a straight line.  I need someone to direct the traffic, but my budget is too tight for such an extravagance. The solution here is to go to bed, but it is nice under this blanket on the couch with The Boy on the right and Mattress sniffing around at my elbow on the left.  I smell of woodsmoke, and am full of fancy doughnuts--Gourdough's was finally open, and my promise to Nauticalina has been fulfilled.  Maybe I should just leave it at that for the night.  It was a pretty good day--no manual labor, barely any *real* work, and some awesome ladies to complete the night.  There's only a bit of a black smudge, someone's being squirrely, and I'm not naming names--passive-aggressiveness rules!  Or at least it does when I haven't been left with much choice.  Le sigh.

Seven Things About Me: The Stupid School Years Version

My mood is on an upswing, and I feel a bit like popping out of my skin in a pleasant carbonated way. I feel fizz-tastic.  I've been completely off my meds for a few days now (though, not off all drugs since I've practically become an allergy-med addict), and it is hard to judge how I've been faring since I have been in an epic battle with my environment (with my person taking the majority of the heavy artillery), and thus I have been anxious and terribly peevish.  I hopped in the shower as soon as I got home last night--it was the only way to keep me from bombing everything in the house. It was a really good shower.

Yesterday, I gnashed my teeth a lot, and got really angry at some lady in Wikus' parking lot (just shut your driver's-side door when getting your mail while audaciously parked in the middle of the parking lot), and then cursed at the apparent closing of House Pizza (if that ends up not being the case, why haven't they been open the past 10 days?).  However, during small moments of calm, I did catch up on my Google Reader (stop mocking me with that 1000+ unread notice).  I often enjoy reading Kendi Everyday, she seems like such an intelligent, sweet girl.  I would seriously consider stalking and wooing her if she actually lived in Austin (she's near, but not near enough).  She had posted a hilarious meme recounting various snippets of her childhood--the not-so-flattering kind!

Thus, I spent a lot of yesterday thinking of the fleeting bits of my childhood that I can remember.  I've blacked out so many of my years, but there are still some memories that cling to these sodden brain walls of mine.  Writing these makes me want to cover my face with a blanket and giggle.  There's no taking them back, so I might as well put them out there for everyone else's enjoyment.  Cheers!

1.  While I did spend a lot of time in elementary school rollerskating to Cyndi Lauper and Madonna in the back of our 4-car garage, I also really enjoyed listening to David Lee Roth.  I lived in Anchorage, AK in the mid-'80s, if that helps excuse some of my early musical tastes.

2.  While in a McDonald's drive-through in Lewisville, TX, my mother told me that I have the type of "rear-end" that black guys would like, and she was okay with that.  This would have been a way less uncomfortable conversation if there wasn't a black guy handing us food at the moment.  For the record, my ass has an equal opportunity policy statement, where it does not discriminate against race, religion, color, national origin, sex, sexual preference, age or disability. 

3. Starting my freshman year in high school and extending in to my sophomore year, I wore XXXL t-shirts on my 100-pound frame, and I thought I looked really good.  The repercussion of that fashion statement was I spent many years believing I was flat-chested.

4. When I was 13 or so, I accidentally dyed a very conservative friend's hair bright, cotton-candy pink (I swear I was shooting for a very lovely shade of dark auburn).  She never spoke to me again, and I'm pretty sure her mother posted a warrant for my arrest that stated she preferred me dead to alive.

5.  My first job was at a car wash, where I was often made to sit in a small shack where some dude smoked copious amounts of pot.  I stole quarters from people's ashtrays to make myself feel better about my lot in life.

6.  In 4th grade I thought I won an art contest (I drew a fabulous cornucopia in crayon!), and told everyone I knew how it would be hanging in some bank building in downtown Edmund, OK.  I stood up and announced it to my class just to have my teacher stand up and tell me I had not actually won anything at all, and what I had received was a notice thanking me for competing.

7.  I wasn't properly kissed by a boy until I was 14.  It happened the day I got rubber bands to wear with my braces.  It was a very short-lived romance.

Fish Cream!!!

Saturday was one hell of an awful day.  Wishing for death seems a mild way to express how I felt.  I wanted death, craved death, asked repeatedly for death.  Fucking cedar, mold and dust.  There was a lot of sleeping that day, but I did accomplish one very important thing: Mailing Ivy Vyne her very belated Chicken Day prezzie.  There's a long complaint I could make about post offices not being open on Saturdays, and how USPS doesn't seem capable of updating their hours of operations on their website.  But I won't.  Because Ivy got her prezzie today, and I am filled with happiness over it.

Sit down.  Be prepared for the jealousy that is going to wash over you.  Because you can't have it.  It's an original, never to be duplicated, not even so I can have one of my own.  This isn't the best picture of it, but the house is in a bit of a disarray, so I am unable to download the photos off of my camera at this time.  This iPhone photo cannot do it justice, but still, I believe the beauty shines through.

Fish Cream, 12/17/10

 

 

 

May it have a happy home in Brookline, Mass.  If all goes well, it'll return to Austin this summer.  Fingers crossed that Ivy Vyne and Fish Cream are able to move here.  My life will be ever closer to completion with both of them by my side. 

_____________________________________________________________

I'm thinking that if I really want my life to be complete, I need to get one of those Craftmatic beds, and put it in the livingroom instead of having a couch.  While our floors are being finished in the bedroom and office, we have our mattress on the futon.  It is piled high with pillows and blankets, and oh man, it is so fucking comfortable.  We're watching The Lost Boys in some serious style.  I kind of want this to be permanent.  Sure, almost everything we own is now towering over us in the livingroom, and the cats are having a little too much fun, but it may just be worth it.  Mattress (the fat Siamese cat) likes it so much he literally slept in my arms almost the whole night.  I don't want to give up this kind of good action.

"Are you freebasing? Inquiring minds want to know." 

Do I have to go back to work tomorrow?  Or, can I just keep watching all these movies I loved as a teenager?  Is all this regressing indicative of a mid-life crisis?  Can I not be an old lady on my Craftmatic AND watch Welcome Home Roxy Carmichael and Cry-Baby as I did when I was 15?  This truly is the best of both worlds.

"My own brother--A goddamn shit-sucking vampire."

I'd be very happy for Jason Patric to come suck my neck.  Right.  Now.  I have needs that need to be met.  Right.  Now.  I'm waiting right here on my wannabe Craftmatic, Jason.  I'm in my panties, if that helps at all.

_____________________________________________________________

The office at 7:30am this morning:

The office at 4pm this afternoon:

I never realized how much our house looked like a Tex-Mex cantina.  I'm not complaining, just observing.  Margarita happy hour, The Boy & Grumple's office, tomorrow at 4:30pm.  I'll be the one passed out on the bed in the livingroom as you make your way to the back of the house.  Don't mind me--I'm too busy dreaming of making out with Jason Patric.  Enjoy the free drinks!

Take Me, I'm Yours

The Wedding Present is making me go deaf in the mornings.  Okay, perhaps it is not them, and it is more due to a refusal to turn down the volume.  I can't stop listening to Bizarro while driving (okay, it's just been since Tuesday night, and I've barely been in the car--stop contradicting me).  I've stopped listening to NPR so I can drive recklessly and loudly sing garbled lyrics to myself.  I find this all extremely satisfying.

Bizarro is an album I should have had as a teenager.  I would have copiously quoted from it in melancholy lovelorn letters to all those boys who never returned my affections.  Or, at least, never kept returning them.  Wikus introduced me to the Wedding Present when I was in college, and instead of taking a positive position of thank-goodness-I-am-listening-to-this-excellent-band-now, I take the why-the-fuck-did-I-not-listen-to-this-before-college. My glass is always close to empty.

Imagine being a 15-year-old listening to these lyrics in a car on a rainy night:

That must've been a knowing look
Oh when you moved to pass your friend his book
And oh that feeling
When your hand returns to mine
I think I might as well stay out here
Oh but, can you kiss me just once properly
Well of course I mean it! I think about you all the time

Oh won't you put that down and take me, I'm yours
When will we have this chance again
Oh please just put that down and take me, I'm yours
We might never have romance again

Warm hands and things you say
You get lovelier everyday
Warm hands and things you say
You get lovelier everyday

                                                                        --Take Me!

Alas, I am a 35-year-old and it is just silly for me to write those things these days.  However, I am crafty and put them here for nostalgia's sake.  Sure, the words are no longer applicable at this time in my life, but it doesn't mean I can't rock out to them, and think of times when one could get away passing lyrics (or a mix-tape) to a boy in hopes that he would finally, truly understand how you felt. 

I'm trying to find some suitable lyrics from Bizarro that I can dedicate to The Boy; sadly, David Gedge mainly writes about heartbreak.  I'm sure I could find something if I mined all his songs, and took bits out of context.  But I do have actual work to accomplish, and he knows how much I love him (even if the Ambien sometimes makes it so I  have no idea if we had sex or I had a really great dream).

Ahem.  Please don't ask me where I was going with that.  The cedar and mold have been kicking my ass, and I fear my brain has once again turned in to snot-jelly.  Yes, SNOT-JELLY!  Oh, you think that is really gross and an unfortunate combination of words?  THEN JUST THINK HOW I FEEL!

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The past three nights I have had the pleasure of being in C's presence (remind me to call her something like Cowhide from here on out).  I've also been in her attic (we both heard that fucking scratching and squawking, I swear!), and slept on her couch (when was the last time I stayed up to 4am, especially after a Christian Slater double-feature?).  We enjoyed ourselves immensely at IKEA (dude, they are actually selling cowhide there, and wouldn't you know that branding marks are an "inherent characteristic?"). 

OMG!  New Lower Price!

There was also all that making out that we did, but I swore to her that I wouldn't release the details because she is totally shy about it.  (Call me!)
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We had new windows put in this week.  The house is a disaster zone, and it makes me agitated just walking in the door.  It needs to be pulled more apart before we put it back together--hardwood floors are being installed in the bedroom and office on Monday.  The weekend will be spent going through my clothes, and moving furniture.  Who's coming over to help?  Or at least take my cast-off shirts and underwear?

PSA

"Watering my orchid" is not a euphemism.  Please keep that in mind.

Nasal Tampons Save Me Now

My banana is way too green.  My allergies are kicking my ass, and I have a way-too-green banana.  I'm wishing for death but don't want to die at work, because that is just frightfully embarrassing and pathetic.  Imagine Twit finding my soiled little body slumped in my chair, covered in snot and tears.  My fantasy right now is two Benadryls and my bed (I realize that my fantasies are generally much more exciting than this).  There is construction happening at the house, so there is no way to make it a reality.  New, energy-efficient windows are being installed, and those expensive fuckers (thanks, Boy!) better have some magical, allergen-repelling powers.  I'm so not kidding.

There was something that was said on KUT this afternoon that made me surly, but fuck if I can remember what that was.  I guess it is good that I don't hold on to my anger like I used to.  However, I miss ranting about trivial matters. 

I would like The Boy to make a recording of what I hear inside my head when I blow my nose.  I know it is audible--I've had him listen to my ears.  Squeaks and squelches.  It would be fantastic if it wasn't so awful.

Thursday I went roller-skating.  It was a mustache party with '70s costumes.  Nauticalina bought us pink mustaches, and she wore hers with pride--mine kept falling off due to my sweaty-lip syndrome.  I love my mouth, but not the skin above my upper lip.  Guamaniac drew a green mustache on me and Ms. V made it sparkle.  We were joined by Cattleboy who out skated us, but always promised to be there if we fell.  To laugh and point.  No really, he was great.  Nauticalina and I managed to defy gravity, and he skated with us almost the whole time, while everyone else drank and posed for pictures.  My ass still hurts from all that exercise.

Not to mention all the eating Nauticalina and I accomplished since Thursday night.  We spent three nights in a row driving all the way to south Austin for a fancy doughnut, but Gourdough's was a fail each time (if you aren't going to work your posted hours, please put a motherfucking sign up on your trailer--it can even be handwritten for all I care).  We were not thwarted for long, and found ourselves at Ken's Doughnuts, IHOP and Mrs. Johnson's Doughnuts (in that order).  We also visited Trudy's and Burger Tex in there.  We are beautiful women who know how to celebrate during a long weekend.  I adore Nauticalina.  She's the brightest of stars.  She's shiny and special in a good way.  She is 22, which is only to say that she makes me feel 22. 

I refuse to list my highs and lows of 2010.  It was a bad year.  The end.  So far this year I kicked some ass at C&L's playing Settlers of Catan Cities and Knight's expansion pack.  I slaughtered those poor people.  I was the USA, and The Boy was Ethiopia.  There was barely any sheep to make our wool, but naked savagery worked just fine for me.  Butt-naked savagery!