12 July 2011

Sweltering

Life has been a bit aggravating over the past few days.  Namely my air conditioner decided that it was too hot outside, and it was high time for a strike; George came nine days early, and announced himself during an intimate moment; and now Netflix is separating out its streaming and mail service, and thus effectively raising the cost by $6/month (60%!).  Each of these items would cause me to be grumpy, and taken together as a lump-sum insult has left me feeling drained, and ill-prepared to deal with life.  Sure doesn’t take much to knock me down, does it?

The AC is now fixed, and my house has gone from 100° (I am not exaggerating) last night to 85° this morning (a temperature I purposefully set my thermostat at).  I did not stick around for the great cool down, and chose to spend the night at CSP’s—all the while feeling terribly guilty that the cats were becoming sticky, hairy puddles on the floor (I left them a huge bowl of ice water).  I’m sure ET wasn’t too happy either even if he does spend a majority of his day outside in extremely hot weather; he often has shade and a breeze to enjoy, which his terrarium sadly does not emulate. 

Two nights at CSP’s has left me feeling a bit adrift, and almost staggeringly exhausted.  I’ve obviously become spoiled to living by myself.  To be clear, I am not pooping on CSP’s generosity in having me stay over while my place melted—he is awesomely sweet and kind, and I hope I can abuse him some more in the future (I have a text message that pretty much gives me an open invitation to stay at his place as needed—I’m just not sure our definitions of “as needed” are the same).  It’s just that I’ve grown quite used to a) going to bed at some preposterously early time for someone who does not have children, and b) going to bed in complete silence.  Neither of these conditions can be met at CSP’s.  Heck, we didn’t even have dinner until after 10pm the first night, and 9pm the second night.  I’m generally fed by 6pm, and contemplating bed by 8pm (even if I don’t actually go to bed until around 11pm, I’ve still spent 3 hours seriously considering it, and letting my body relax in such a way that it pretty much already assumes I am asleep). 

While CSP made my head drum a bit with dub beats, his roommate and friend were playing with their Kinect, and listening to who knows what, which was pretty much like sitting in a bowling alley at a dance club.  Even before I wanted to be sleeping, it was still just so loud, and busy.  The most action that happens at my place is Brekkie chasing around some paper on the floor, or trying to land on the Bear’s back by performing a flying-squirrel maneuver off of the table. 

Don’t even get me started on how I felt when the Magic: The Gathering cards were pulled out, and discussed at length.  I pretty much had to catch my eyes from rolling on to the floor.  Have I mentioned there was also a bong involved during all of this?  No, I did not stumble in to a frat house.  I know how it sounds.  This is why I do not have roommates.  I just can’t make myself put up with this to save a few hundred a month.  However, I will gladly put up with it for a couple of nights to escape heat exhaustion, and to play with CSP.  He’s a good one.  And apparently, he was only a smidge tired of me after four straight nights of being around me.  Score!


Before this unfortunate series of events, I had Ivy Vyne in town, and the closest we came to death was sweltering in the heat while shopping on South Congress.  That was quickly rectified by swimming in Barton Springs.  Though, we did almost lose our eyesight when we were subjected to an old man and his banana hammock (which at one point he actually pulled aside and check in on his junk, as if he was worried it had scampered off when he wasn’t paying attention; later, he just removed the small strip of cloth all together and draped it over his penis—I’m sure to avoid pesky tan lines). 

There was a lot of drinking involved, and DJ M and CSP were around for most of her visit.  We all had such a smashing time, especially that one midnight in the kiddie pool in the backyard eating cherries, drinking beer, and listening to Young Marble Giants.  How the four of us didn’t end up making out under such perfect conditions will forever remain a mystery. 

We also had a geeky girls’ night at Cowhide’s for Settlers of Catan (I pretty much lost, and for once, was not bratty about it).  Then there was that night of playing pool at Barfly’s where CSP showed us how he knew his way around a table (I texted with Cattleboy to whine a bit about how no one was letting me win), Ivy Vyne got hit on by a man named Sonny (we held his betting money in our bras, but declined his offer of drinks—except CSP who won a free beer when Sonny sunk the 8 ball way too soon), and managed to find 15 songs on the jukebox that we wanted to hear, but ended up being too drunk to sit all the way through.

Her last day was spent in San Antonio at the zoo.  It was crazy hot, and most of the animals were having none of it, and hid indoors.  This zoo is particularly heavy on birds, and boy did we see a lot of birds.  However, I’ll be kind and only provide one bird photo.

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2011-7-5, San Antonio Zoo 194

07 July 2011

Clementine: Roach Slayer

Clementine finally earned her keep this weekend, and it all happened while I was passed out from alcohol and heat exhaustion.  Ivy Vyne and Wikus were up late having probably their longest conversation to date (they’ve known each other for at least 15+ years), and there was a kerfuffle in the bathroom, and roach legs everywhere.  That little Clem was pulling the legs off of a rather large roach (I’m not sure if I would be happier if it was a new roach, or if it was the same roach living with me all this time!), and rolling him around in her mouth.  Wikus, in a rare evil turn for him, tossed the poor, legless thing outside to fend for itself (there’s a happy, lazy grackle out there full of roach guts).


This post may seem like it ended suddenly, and that is because Blue came over with beers and cider, and we sat in the kiddie pool drinking, and talking about boys and life.  I love that lady.  Now it is time for bed.

30 June 2011

Such Drinking May Make You Feel Bold and Fearless

The past two weeks I’ve been assisting various work groups with interviewing employees.  This is something I honestly love doing.  I most prefer it to my regular job.  However, what I do not like is interviewing a person when there is a 2” cockroach roaming around on the floor behind him (the interviews were taking place in an industrial setting).  I find that extremely distracting, and am more worried about finding the closest points of egress than listening to Mr. Applicant discuss his qualifications.  Sitting on my legs through a whole interview also makes me cranky, but what if that roach decides to crawl up my pants leg?  Then where would we be?  Out the motherfucking door, I’ll tell you that much.

It makes me cry a bit on the inside knowing how terribly infantile and girly that makes me to lose my cool during an interview.  Especially when I get all pissy when an applicant made a crack about having his boss pay for my pedicure when he was demonstrating a mechanical skill as part of his interview (it involved him teaching me how to replace belts on a piece of machinery).  Hi! I scream at the sight of a roach, but don’t you dare get all sexist on me when it comes to my goddamn fingernails!  He did not get offered the position—I swear it had nothing to do with his comment.  I’m a professional!


After work yesterday, I visited with EM.  It’s been a long time.  I bet you forgot she existed.  That’s what happens when someone improves her station in life—she makes more money and is busier.  Bitch.  After catching her up on almost three months of happenings, we hugged and I ran home to put ET outside so he could get some sun on his back. 

Driving home, I thought of Blue.  I didn’t get to chat with her all day, which left me feeling a bit dreary.  I thought about how she has twice brought me flowers.  I love her for that.  I know no other person who brings flowers for no reason at all.  She’s brilliantly sweet like that.  I get to see her tonight.  Perhaps I’ll think of something lovely to bring her—if I knew how, and had a few more hours left to fritter away, I’d make her a thousand origami cranes, and shower her with them when she opened the door.  I think that would express my love quite nicely.

Or I can just answer the door sans pants. 


The AC in my car is intermittently working.  It’s been in the triple digits and I own a black car.  I may complain all the time about how cold buildings are, and that my thermostat is currently set on 86, but no AC in the car is even a bit much for me to bear. 

Ivy Vyne is coming for a visit (YES!), and she told me she is fine with this situation.  I think it might be better if she reserved judgment.  I’m worried that her delicate New England skin is going to melt right off her, and I’ll be driving her bones around town this weekend.  At least I won’t have to worry about accidental drowning, if she’s already dead before I get her in to a river.

CSP kindly came over last night and mucked around behind my glovebox (that is not a euphemism…in this case) where there is some filter, which he cleaned for me (Side story: Last week I ate some crackers I had stored in my glovebox, and I almost fainted from the foul taste of exhaust, and now knowing there is this filter existing directly behind the glovebox certainly explains a lot).  The filter was barely dirty, just a couple leaves and seeds; thus, we both agreed it probably wasn’t causing the problem.  All the same, it was really cute watching him grapple with the glovebox. 


Last week saw the successful passing of another birthday for Wikus.  He was feted in style, by which I mean he was given many fine gifts (Blue’s being the best since she picked items up from an Asian grocery store like squid crackers and a blue drink that warned, “A white poeder at the bottom is not a default.  Please agitate slowly.”), and all the alcohol he could swallow (always an impressive amount).  Sadly, this liquor consumption left Wikus quite hung-over on Saturday and he could not make it to the Urban Family Get-Together at C&L’s, which was a shame because it was very well attended.

The theme was food cooked with booze, which is harder than cheese themed, but obviously very popular with our group of friends.  I left the cooking up to CSP (my role in the kitchen is to stand around looking pretty, which everyone agrees I do quite well), and he did a magnificent job with a scotch-maple chicken (the recipe couldn’t be easier, yet, I bet I’ll never make it on my own).  At the party people kept exclaiming how wonderful the chicken was, and asking who brought it.  And yes, that was my hand that shot up in the air—not my fault that CSP was too busy watching soccer in the other room to lay claim to his accomplishments. 

I got drunk too quickly (who do I blame for this, because I really felt kind of cheated?), and had to go home early.  Thankfully I had a ride, and actually, it all ended quite well considering that there are so many fuzzy bits to my memory.  There may have been a bit of pot-valour involved, which was just a matter of being honest about my feelings.  Luckily, they weren’t squashed, and I went to bed a very happy, and tipsy, lady.

22 June 2011

Ways to Avoid Reading Pillars of the Earth

Let’s do things the easy way tonight, and go for a list:

  • Eating sage derby cheese is an intense pleasure reserved for evenings home alone.  Though, I must be slightly allergic to it, if the flush spreading across my cheeks is any indication. 
  • Finally getting What’s His Butt’s movie selections off of my Netflix queue.  He really liked documentaries…a lot.
  • The last thing I wrote on Facebook, “What he says is true. I don't understand what all the fuss is about. It's just a little death among friends.”
  • The water in the kiddie pool has turned gray-green.  That’s not indicative of cholera or anything.  Right?  Or, just a breeding ground for dengue fever? 
  • Having concrete floors means when I spill my can of water, I don’t have to bother actually getting off my ass to clean it.
  • Last night, I fell asleep on Wikus’ couch while watching George Gently, mostly because my allergies were kicking, but also because it was too tiring to understand what the pig farmers were saying.
  • Brekkie seems to be slightly cross-eyed, which is cute (see Kristin Bell, who has a very similar look).
  • Fink-Nottle saved the day by helping me with some Netflix privacy concerns.  That’s really boring, but a very important shout-out nonetheless.  Also, seriously, remove those old devices off your Netflix account if it makes you feel really weird on the inside at the thought of an ex being able to see everything you’ve been watching post break-up (lesbian porn, obviously).
  • Hey, speaking of Fink-Nottle, it seems this Saturday, he will have literally been with Frijole for half his life.  Isn’t that fantastic?  I plan to drink a lot of alcohol in salute to them (that and it’s Urban Family Get-Together at C&L’s where all foods will be made with liquor, and all leftover liquor will be used for cocktails [I’ve appointed CSP to take care of cooking our dish for UFGT, so I can concentrate on drinking the alcohol and looking pretty]).
  • Someone sleeps really fucking hard and has the cutest wee mouth ever.

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  • The condensation pool from the air conditioner is my little toad friend’s kiddie pool.

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  • And, of course, true love.

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17 June 2011

Maxillary Sinus, My New Band

Time for an anatomy lesson!  Today we’re going to discuss the maxillary sinuses, and how much they can ruin my day.  Here’s an illustration to give you an idea of where they are located (this is for those of you who’d rather not use your wee brains on a Friday to suss out what “maxillary” means):

sinusanatomy

(No, that is not me.  Though, those eyebrows could have been mine in high school before I learned of the magic of plucking.)

Even though the evil folks at pollen.com say it is a “low” pollen day, I can only assume they are implying that those of us who feel the way I do are paranoid hypochondriac types who just like to complain. I swear to you, there is nothing low about today’s levels.  I don’t know what is out there, but it is making my teeth ache in a pitiful way.  That deep valley of the maxillary sinus sits right on my upper teeth, and when the sinus is all swollen, my face not only feels like I’ve been hit with a bag of bricks (ala Heavenly Creatures!), but my teeth, oh god, my teeth feel as if someone is ever so slowly extracting them for no good damn reason at all.  Feel sorry for me.  Thank you.


Speaking of hideous high-school eyebrows, my lovely aunt sent me a fatty stack of family photos.  She asked me first if I wanted them, knowing that they could dredge up unwanted emotions.  Which, so true, but yes, I wanted to see them.  And, oh, man.  There were so many I had never seen before—like of my mother as a child and young adult (wow, I never realized how much I do look like that mousy, plain woman—quick, more mascara and cleavage!), but a lot of them were ones I knew well, and had hoped had magically disintegrated over time.  I was such a cute sausage baby, then around 10 years of age, shit went wrong, really really really wrong.  For seven terrible years I suffered as an ugly duckling.  What an unfortunate mess of features!  And the hair!  At one point I was going for a comb-over, except I was the opposite of bald and had tight kinky hair.  The hair is parted about an inch above my left ear.  My sexy, large-framed rose-tinted plastic glasses really give the look some panache that I’m not sure most 12 year olds can pull off like I apparently could.  The braces gave me a special twinkle, and oh, my skinny legs and blousy boxy shirts.  Even in later years when I had my hair somewhat under control, why was I not plucking?  How was I getting laid?  Thank you gentlemen of my teens for looking past all that.  Oh, you just wanted to stick in in to anything, and I could have had a bag over my head for all you cared?  Huh. 

Anyway.  There’s a lot of adorableness to be had like my sister and I as toddlers.  My mom was apparently obsessed with handmade, matching outfits, even though we were not twins.  She also liked my hair in pigtails composed of one very long, thick curl on each side, tied up with a thick, furry yarn ribbon.  As a newborn, I looked like a vaguely Asian troll, which is to say, I looked like most newborns but I boasted a black 3” mohawk.  I was born awesome.

There are very few pictures of my father, but he’s lurking in a some of them.  He looks like a hitman from the ‘70s with his penchant for ugly browns, evil moustache and thick black glasses.  As far as I am aware, he has never killed anyone (for hire or otherwise); he’s just a different sort of monster—hide your women and children when he’s around.  Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Also, it seems my mom has sported the same hairstyle since she was a preteen.  Some years it was just a bit poofier than others.  Imagine, decades upon decades of the exact same cut.


It’s been a bad week for many of my friends.  A lot of my energy has gone toward doling out tough-love advice, driving them hither and yonder, loaning money, listening, hugging, and in general, just being there for them.  Some of their stories are juicy (car crashes, felonies, alcoholism, rehab, rejection rejection rejection!), they are not mine to tell.  That’s about all I’ve done this week.  I kind of sort of started a mosaic (if you count just pulling out two shards of glass from my shards-of-glass bucket as starting a mosaic), and managed to cut my foot in the process (pantsless mosaicing is safer than barefoot mosaicing it seems).  I finally put my desktop computer together and discovered all my missing music files.  Hooray!  There hasn’t been a lick of work to do at the office, so it’s been a painfully long week. 

Whoopis died half a year ago, and I’m ready to get his paddy paw print tattooed on me tonight.  My grief is still so deep for that little furry one.  How can it really have been six months ago?  It’s still such a sharp pain within me when I think about him.  So far Brekkie has Whoopis’ sweet disposition.  Such a little, gentle dear.  He never uses his claws, even when he does a flying tackle at my knees. Oh, children.

Today is supposed to be 104.  Even I melt in such heat.  Time to lounge in the kiddie pool.  Remind me to get a pool boy to skim the dead skeeters off the surface.

12 June 2011

All Smiles

There’s a kiddie pool in my backyard!  Ostensibly it is for ET, but Nauticalina and I felt that it would be much better served by us.  We wouldn’t sully it with fatty tortoise poops; at least I wouldn’t.  I shouldn’t be speaking for Nauticalina like that. 

We got ourselves some tacos, made virgin strawberry daiquiris, and listened to music.  We took sexy photos and rubbed each others feet.  It’s magnificent to have such a wonderful girl friend. 

kiddie-pool fun

Before the backyard play date, there was work.  Which is lame and boring.  One way to make work more fun is to nip home for a moment, and bring a rambunctious kitten back with me.  I’m sure this would totally be frowned upon by those in charge, but come on, who can say no to a small, furry funbun?

brekkie at work

Here he is in Who-Wee’s office.  He had a good romp with the plant. He nommed on it, and tried to stand on the leaves.  He’s the silliest chickenmonkey.

The weekend was spent in various forms of repose.  It was all very lovely, actually.  A rare weekend of no complaints, just good times.  Clementine came for a visit.  I went to my first stand-up comedy act, which was a bit nerve-wracking for me (I have this sensitivity where I get so embarrassed for people, and feel it keenly, as if it is my own humiliation—it’s amazing how quickly I can get over something when I’ve had two shots of vodka on an empty stomach).  There were a couple laughs, but really, I’m just dead inside.  I am a laugh snob.  However, there were new friends to chat with, and many drinks.  There was also Heavenly Creatures and Skins (UK) with CSP.  There was a party, and some all-night shenanigans.  There were so many things really.  And then there was that very good person who rewound my weed wacker, and if that wasn’t enough, he then proceeded to cut down the tall grasses in my front yard.  I must figure out new ways to say thank you to him.

There was an accidental four-hour nap this afternoon, and I rounded out the evening with a trip to the grocery store, which usually makes me gnash and shake my fist at the sky, but the cherries were on sale for $2.98/pound, and I got some delicious sage derby cheese.  There was also a Freebirds burrito as a reward.

It is high time I go to bed, so I can get up in the morning and grouse about work for the next five days.  So it goes.

08 June 2011

One Way to Piss Off Your Boss

Yesterday, during an excruciatingly long (as in all-day) meeting, my boss chose to liven things up by making fun of some hippies.  Hooray, making fun of hippies!  That’s why I like my boss.  However, she was being a tad bit scornful of some woo-woo crap that these certain individuals believed in—like the healing power of crystals and rocks—and she asked if they believed that these items can make the world better, why aren’t they using them to break our drought?  Which I thought was an excellent question, but a better one was, “Well, boss lady, I could ask the same thing of you and your belief in god.” 

Silence.

Brahahahahahaha.

Grumples: one.  Boss: zero.

Don’t worry, I didn’t get fired.  She still likes me.  She just doesn’t always appreciate what I have to say.  Even if it is perfectly legit. 

05 June 2011

No Need For Butter & Syrup

Thursday was one of those epically bad days that had a breath-taking bright spot in the middle.  One moment I was crying in a bathroom stall at the office, and the next I was staring at my phone in silent disbelief, smacked upside the head by my first look at this little lover.

 


Swoon!  More pics were texted to me, but I was already sold.  Sure, I was in a very vulnerable place, but come on, look at those eyes!  Who could say no to this baby?  I’m very weak in so many ways—this is just one of those ways.  I went home already brainstorming names.  Then I had an incredibly shitty evening.  So it goes.

But Friday dawned, and by the end of it I had this mister mister in my arms, and Nauticalina by my side.  These are lessons I will seemingly always fail to remember, but am always grateful for when they happen. 

Who-Wee was my adoption broker (she is very crafty), and this is Brekkie (as he will be called here).  Due to an unflagging sense of adventure, Brekkie was discovered in an engine block.  After the vehicle had been driven.  He’s a little miracle kitten.  The only thing he suffered was a fractured tail (it doesn’t hurt him one bit, and you can’t see it, just feel the knot—we had an Irish Setter growing up whose tail felt exactly the same after he exuberantly thumped it too hard on the coffee table).  The vet estimated his age to be between 7-10 weeks, and I’ve decided his birthday is April 1, which makes Clem older by 9 days.


Look how even the robot on my shirt wants to hold Brekkie! 
The Bear is handling this new intrusion in his life with amazing aplomb.  There’s a bit of fussing when Brekkie steals his food, or gets in the way of one-on-one attention from me, but other than that, he doesn’t really seem bothered by him.  They even shared a plate of disgusting canned kibble.  Barf.

Yesterday, was a bit of a nail biter when I took him to the clinic to get tested for the nasty kitty diseases.  CSP was with me, and did his best to distract me, and as always, he did a pretty good job.  Brekkie was deemed so awesome by the clinic staff, that they took his picture for Kitten of the Week.  That’s my boy, already winning awards (sorry, Clem!).  He was proclaimed clean, and we packed the kids off to Camp Grumples where they spent the next several hours rough-housing.  They are totally in love, and I really should just start planning their wedding now (though, CSP as the bride’s mom, might want to work on his budget; it’s going to be spectacular, and therefore, quite expensive). 
Here’s what their love affair looks like:

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They’re obviously in that stage where they express their feelings by hitting each other.  It’s very romantic.  Today he’s been a bit listless—wandering around the house morosely.  He misses his girlfriend. 

When he feels like sleeping, he manages to squeeze himself under my dresser, then climbs up in to one of the drawers.  At least there’s no moving parts that can chop him in to little kitten bits; though, I worry about accidentally decapitating him (there’s six drawers, and he hasn’t picked a favorite one yet).  He has not figured out how to get back out of the dresser, thus there was a dramatic 4:30am rescue this morning.  Dramatic in that I was blind and was almost drunk with exhaustion. 

More adorableness:

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Yes, it’s perfectly understandable to be jealous.  Also, I realize that this blog is pretty much a record of me sinking in to the depths of the crazy, cat-lady realms.  Whatev.


Since I just groused about at attempted to be inappropriately touched by a grocery-store check-out girl, here’s an interesting paper on the prevalence and thoughts behind heavily tattooed women being felt-up by strangers.  I wish I had been able to participate in her study. 

There’s was this one time in Boston, when I was leaving my favorite bar, and some large drunken man grabbed my arm as I was walking by his booth, and said something skeevy to me—it was pointedly sexual and referenced my tattoos.  I felt so sick and helpless.  I froze and managed to choke out, “Take your hand off of me now!”  He didn’t.  There were other men at his table who said nothing, did nothing.  I was with other women, who said nothing, did nothing.  He finally let me go, calling me a “lesbian bitch.”  Something he obviously meant to be highly insulting.  I wanted to cry, but didn’t dare for fear of looking weak in front of him and his friends, and sadly, I didn’t want my friends to see how much he had affected me either.  That is so fucked up.  How is it that I was the one left feeling so ashamed?

Read the article.  It’s good.  Thank you Irina for researching and writing it.

03 June 2011

More Days Like This, Please

 

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On Sunday, Blue, Wikus and I took a short road trip to Krause Springs, where I actually managed to make it through almost the whole afternoon in my bikini without someone commenting on my tattoos.  It was wonderful.  So was our picnic of sangria, roasted-tomato-and-asiago-cheese sandwiches, brie and fresh French bread, grapes, and other tasty items.  We did our best to play Fluxx, which was difficult due to the strong winds, but that’s what grapes are for!  I managed to cut my leg on a sharp rock, but nothing too serious. 

I have spent the past several summers discussing the fun adventures I should be having—this time around I’m going to make it happen.  What’s His Butt (formerly The Boy) always talked about wanting to go do fun things out in the sun and water, but he rarely had the time or inclination.  I have a feeling my ladies (I’m looking at you Blue and Nauticalina) will be more than willing to spend lazy days lounging around in our bathing suits at various scenic locations in the greater Austin area.  And Wikus.  We’ll always invite Wikus to join us—especially since he tends to provide such tasty victuals.

Any suggestions on where I should visit are highly appreciated.


Random Interaction With Strangers

  1. Young, tattooed check-out girl at grocery store basically prostrated herself across the conveyor belt so she could touch one of my passion-flower tattoos without permission.  I jerked my arm away from her before she could actually get her fingers on me, and she got very offended.  Awkward.
  2. At work, some guy was replacing a broken door, and having an extremely animated conversation with a coworker, and when I walked by he stopped talking in mid-word, mouth open, hand hung limply in the air, and stared at me.  I’m assuming it was my skinny jeans.  My ass has some serious power.


What’s His Butt is dating someone.  I’m still sorting out my feelings on that.  I’ll report back when I’m ready to discuss.  On the face of it, she seems really cool, and is a super-talented illustrator and artist.  Bully for him!

28 May 2011

Camp Grumples: Now Accepting Applications

 

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My super-secret roach-killing machine was Clementine!  However, I am not aware of her actually doing any slaying during her 24-hour stay at Camp Grumples (sister camp to Camp Guam where all the doggies in town go to stay).  She took some flying leaps off of the coffee table on to The Bear’s back, which caused him significant displeasure, and loads of giggles from me.  She slept under my chin, on my chest and in my hand.  She bit and clawed at me in the most adorable, mostly harmless way; she hung off of my arm by her teeth, and grabbed my toes every chance she had; she performed sneaky attacks from underneath pillows, and courageously climbed the ribbon belts hanging off of my dresses in the closet.  She’s perfect in every way.  Even The Bear tolerated her—sat in the same chair with her!  (That is really only to his own detriment, since it’s only my current financial situation that is keeping me from running out and getting a kitten for the second Memorial holiday weekend in a row.)

Last night, as CSP was breaking my heart and getting ready to take her away from me, we discovered that she had attempted to abscond with The Bear’s catnip toys.  She had stowed them in her carrier, which was discovered at the same time we realized she had been using her carrier as a litterbox (oops). 

This morning, The Bear seems to be under the impression that the lack of kitten in the house is because he must have eaten her, and doesn’t remember it since he got really high sniffing a fabulous pork taco I ate last night.  Wikus doesn’t believe me that a cat can get high off of sniffing a pork taco, but I’m pretty sure that is exactly what happened.  The Bear fell over, lazed on his side like the beached whale that he is, and stared cross-eyed at the ceiling for an inappropriate length of time.  That is stoned.  I think we can all agree to that.


The best thing said to me so far today comes from Dirty Boy (DB):

yeah the european deluxe sausage kitchen in beverly hills

Living in LA must be so much fun at times!  Though, since I now live alone, I’m sure I can open up a sausage kitchen right here in my own home.  I’m taking applications now.  Please indicate length and girth.  The short essay discussing your skills and how they will be applied in relation to me should be checked over for spelling and grammatical errors, because I will still need to respect you regardless of how technically proficient you are in other areas.

26 May 2011

Exterminating Services Needed

This past Sunday I had a house full of people for Urban Family Get-Together.  They drank a lot of beer and wine, and ate tons of cheese and cheese-based dishes.  Guamaniac showed up with a sack full of McDonald's double-cheeseburgers.  By the end of the night, our colons were full, and we were sated in that soporific, Sunday eve way.  Wikus tarried long enough to help me clean up, and I was in bed probably before 9pm.  I did not take out the trash.

And I blame this oversight or what happened to me on Monday night.  After the longest day ever at work (as in I had no work to do, the wifi wasn't cooperating, and I neglected to bring my book*), I was doing some late-night dish-washing, all proud of myself for not sitting on them for days, when I turned around to throw something away and was confronted by a very large monstrosity.  A 3” cockroach was staring at me, it’s antennae quivering disgustingly.  He was hanging out by the trashcan full of cheesy goodness. 

What happened next, I am not proud of, and some of my closer friends won’t even be shocked by.  In fact, Wikus describes it as me “acting like a crazed infant.”  To which I responded, “Infants can’t run, asshole!”  He’s used to this behavior from our time we leaved together in our top-floor apartment with a flat roof.  There were a lot of these 3” mofos flying around that place, especially in the middle of the night in the bathroom.  I stopped going to the bathroom at night—a very reasonable solution, I feel.

I’m a squealer.  I see a roach, and I am heading in the opposite direction while shrieking incomprehensible gibberish, which is kind of similar to what I do when I see a kitten, but the tone is of terror instead of joy.  The sensible thing would be to thwack the damn thing with a shoe, and be done with it—at least that is what my friends tell me (72 comments follow my Facebook plea for assistance on disposing of this evil).  However, every time I tried to get near it, this primal fear took control, and I started babbling something like, “Oh, fuck me, get out, get out, go away, leave me alone, why are you doing this to me, please, please, please go away already, I hate you, be gone with you, leave me be, out, out, OUT!” and I’d find myself in the bedroom shaking with fear, and sending off a slew of hatred toward my online friends because I could totally hear them laughing at me.

Since it was late at night, no one had the energy to come save me.  I briefly considered sleeping in my car—no, I’m not being facetious, I really thought about it.  In the end, I decided that the roach would probably spend his night dining in, and wouldn’t venture all the way to the bedroom where no cheesy deliciousness existed.  My hope was that he would find his own way out in the morning, and we could agree to never talk again.

Tuesday night was going smashingly.  I was in my amazing purple-leather reading chair, reading the most amazing book*, when I see something out of the corner of my eye near my arm.  My initial thought was I was seeing the tip of The Bear’s tail, but no, that roach was on me.  ON ME!  It was walking on my arm.  Before I knew what I was doing, I threw my book, phone and blanket in the air, screamed in a way that suggested I was witnessing a thousand kittens being brutally murdered, and launched myself straight at the floor.  Why the floor?  I have no idea.  It’s where I went—barking my shin and racking my left breast something hard on the way down.  Then I crawled off, freaking out that I had no idea where the hell the thing had gone to.  It could be in my hair!  What if it was in my hair?  Frantically beat at my hair and screamed some more.  I dove in to the bedroom, and texted various people, crying about my nightmare.  Again, no one would come to help.  Though, those dear friends of mine are full of suggestions.  Really good ones like insect spray or use The Bear.  There were some really bad suggestions (in particular using a little person as a bludgeoning object).

Here’s the thing about The Bear.  He is gorgeous and content.  He does not get off his lazy, ungrateful ass to help his mother through her time of desperate need.  He won’t even flick his tail at an insect.  He won’t look at me either.  He knows my expectations, and he simply cannot be bothered.  He’s useless.  I still love him dearly.

Last night passed without event.  Tonight I have a secret weapon.  I don’t want to jinx anything so I am not going to say anything for now.  I really hope it works out, though.  For lots of reasons. 

 


* It has been quite some time since I’ve read a book that I wanted to shove in me as quickly as possible, but won’t because I want to savor each word lovingly.  If you haven’t read Karen Russell, then just walk away from the computer or whatever handheld device you have in hand right now, and go buy her books immediately.  This instant.  NOW.  Please don’t make me repeat myself.  It’s that important.  Don’t dally.  Her short-story collection St. Lucy’s Home for Girls Raised by Wolves is brilliant, but her debut novel Swamplandia! is genius. It is a pure pleasure to words placed in such succinctly perfect ways.  I don’t think I have felt this way about sentences since I read Lolita (the opening of which still makes me melt a bit, “Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.”).

I opened the book at random, and here is just a small sampling of what Karen gives to you:

I took a final breath and I was flying.  Water flooded my nostrils.  When I opened my eyes, I could see the Seths’ dim shapes from below, their great bellies that look like prehistoric pinecones and their dinosaur feet.  I could see the glint of a Seth’s claws, curled motionless at the mountains of its sides—an alligator’s tail does all the work of swimming.  Little starbursts of teeth, pebble over lips.  A three- or four-hundred-pound Seth sailed over my head, and I watched a thin jet of bubbles rising from my own nostrils.  Far above me peach ovals opened on the water—a column of milky illumination from the stadium lamps.  They seemed to gasp back their light as I swam for them, like good dreams on waking.

Sigh.  Amazing.  There’s fun and light in there that I want to trap, capture in my mind, and think back about those college days when I tried to write like this—sometimes succeeding but usually failing.  This is magical.  Go get yourself some.

19 May 2011

The Nightly Murder of Stuffed Animals

There’s this strange thing occurring in my yard.  Every day I go out there to drop ET off for his dinner of grass and weeds, and it seems every time I go outside there is a new clump of what I can only describe as fluff has appeared.  These are disturbing white fuzzies, like the innards of some stuffed animal were ripped out every night and strewn across my yard.  Where the hell is it all coming from?

fluff

See! What the fuck is that?  Why does it keep appearing?  Am I supposed to actually touch it?  Why can’t it melt in the rain like cotton-candy pubes?  Sigh.


On Monday, I finally got my car in to the shop to be fixed from when that asshole hit me back at the beginning of April.  When I dropped it off, the guy said he’d call me with an estimate, and I said, “Don’t bother, I’m not paying for it!”  How often does one get to be cavalier about such things?

The rental courtesy driver was so cute and dreamy, but I was too tired to flirt with him, but he seemed to manage on his own without my involvement.  It was a nice Monday-morning pick-me-up at least.  I’m driving around in a fancy Nissan Altima, and I say fancy because my Prius just doesn’t move like this car does.  It has a nice stereo system, too, which I am abusing with a compilation Wikus made me years ago, that is full of a lot of screamy punk music (and really, a bit of everything because he likes to mix it up like that). 

bush dildo

If you look closely, you’ll see that is a punk-rock George W. Bush with some dildos on his head.  That’s how you know you’re in for an excellent-listening experience (sample selection: Proud Scum, Men’s Recovery Project, GISM, Showcase Showdown, Hickey, Pere Ubu, Leftover Crack, Cock Sparrer, Jimmie Rodgers, Asta Kask, Hard Skin, The Mobs, Young Marble Giants, Television Personalities). My car’s stereo system is crap, and I started the year hoping I’d get a new one for my birthday, but it seems that is not possible when you break up with the one person who could have made that happen.  Curses!

I’m not sure when my car will be done, but as much as I like this car, I’d prefer to return it tomorrow, because I hate the responsibility of driving a car that isn’t mine.  Especially since it is all misty and slick outside, which is a very bad time to be driving in Austin.  Rain confuses the natives.  They want it so desperately, but then practically kill themselves every time they step out in to it.  Dumbasses.


The blessed celebration of my birth happened this week, and it was very pleasant in a low-key sort of way.  A lot of candy and Doctor Who during the day, and a small gathering of friends at a pizza place down the road from my new place.  It’s always nice to have an excuse to hang out with some really good people on a Tuesday night.  The night didn’t end with birthday bootie, but I have no complaints about what I did get (like crocheted jellyfish and conch shell, art from Blue made up of Flannery O’Connor quotes, maybe a kiss or two, and that bite on my nipple from Guamaniac…I’m obviously well loved). 

Tonight I’m headed over to Cowhide’s where she is treating me to some of my favorite foods that she makes (pasta with lemon-infused olive oil, asparagus, cherry lambic and peach buckle), watch Shameless, and catch up on at least a month’s worth of things.  Will I even be going to bed tonight?  Who knows.  I love being with this lady.  She knows exactly how to make me feel good, and she often does it without even using my birthday as an excuse. 

And I get to snuggle in the Tauntaun sleeping bag.  It’s completely understandable to be jealous of me.

16 May 2011

Victory. Should Be. NAKED!

A very guilty pleasure: listening to Vangelis’ Chariots of Fire.  I’ve loved this soundtrack since I was a child—I’d listen to it in the dark, totally get lost in it, anticipating each note but also being surprised over and over again by the melodratmaticness of the scales, and shivering and jumping with each new cymbal crash.  It’s the eve of my birthday, and I’m going to party how I want.  So there.  And if that means sitting on the couch, using cherry Twizzlers as flaccid conducting batons, so be it.  Nauticalina asked me if I was drunk, and while no, I am not, that is the power of this music over me.  It just makes me so damn giddy.
Then there’s the fact that Nauticalina shows up with a bag full of candy shortly after 10pm.  I’m not exaggerating.  A BAG FULL OF CANDY.  Cotton candy, Twizzlers, Swedish fish, Samoa cookies (that I guess we aren’t allowed to call Samoan anymore, which I get, but that’s a hard habit to break).  To balance all this out, she is cooking the asparagus that I bought for us last week.  That way there will be some green swimming around with all that red.  Yum!
candy and asparagus
Side note: The world would be a much better place if our pubes were made of cotton candy.  Nauticalina and I were able to come up with the following ideas to support our hypothesis in a matter of seconds:
  1. The guy/gal will ALWAYS go down on you.
  2. Not having to shave before swimming—they will immediately melt off your body.
  3. Watching DVDs with a readily available snack (plus the hirsute friend will suddenly be in demand for when you run out of your own cotton-candy pubes).

The weekend was spent painting pink, tons and tons of pink (Dragon Fruit pink!).  Wikus helped, did a good job playing Stabby McStabsters with the paint brush (Frijole did a similar good job on the bedroom in April) on Saturday, and I went it alone on Sunday.  My little bird arms are broken, and I woke this morning at 6am bemoaning the shipwreck of my body on the purple-sheeted shores of my bed.  The Bear bleated at me to feed him, the heartless thing. 
All the hard work culminated in this:
dragon fruit studio
Even The Bear is going to start mosaicing.  Probably something vile like fish tacos. 

CSP doesn’t know what Swedish fish are.  Huh.  That’s like when The Boy (seriously, find him a name already) didn’t know what the Oregon Trail is.  CSP thinks Swedish fish are pickled herring, and The Boy thinks the Oregon Trail is a real trail in Oregon.  Silly boys.  One is candy and one is a hilarious game where the children are often carried off by large eagles.

13 May 2011

Toad Juice

We got almost 3” of rain yesterday!  The shoots in Nauticalina’s garden started pushing through on Wednesday, but this morning they were waving at me as I left for work.  They are so robust and happy. 

ET is loving the wet dirt, and it seems he has made some friends out there in the yard.

IMG_3598

Or at least one friend.  This little orange guy made the cutest squeaks of terror as I held him.  Then he peed on me, which I guess I deserved. 

11 May 2011

The Newest Feminine Hygiene Product

Waking up to an annoying text message is bothersome; waking up feeling like complete and utter allergy ass is terrible; waking up knowing I can’t call in sick because I have a day of meetings is just plain unfortunate.  It was an overcast day, rain constantly threatened to spill over the clouds, and my eyes felt the same way.  In a moment of weakness I posted this status on Facebook:

I know we need the rain, I KNOW that, but damn, it makes me feel just horrible. I want to go home, go to bed, and have someone spoon me for hours on end, and whisper how much s/he loves me. Sigh.

My mercurial moods can be just as baffling to me as I am sure they are to everyone else.  I’m up, I’m down; I’m pink and light and bubbles; I’m grey and dismal and choppy.  It can be a bit exhausting. 

All week long I’ve been looking forward to this evening for movies in the park.  The Hudsucker Proxy!  You know, for kids!  But that motherfucking threatening rain got the city all scared, and they canceled it.  Here’s to hoping the weather is more cooperative next Wednesday.  Then it can be viewed as a post-birthday movie, and I really love this movie, and I love being outside, so if I must find a positive side, that would be it. 


Last night, at The Parlor, my ladies and I agreed to do fun things this summer, like camping IF a cabin was involved.  I don’t camp.  It’s a rule.  Like how no one should call me before 10am, and how incest jokes are never amusing.  Since we adore each other so much, we went past musing about lazy summer days splashing in a lake and reading to each other in the shade while sipping our beverage of choice, we thought bigger, better, and are now thinking of saving up for a summer 2012 trip to some exotic location like Greece or Barcelona or Rio, where more splashing, reading and drinking can take place, just sexier due to the power of a foreign locale.  We are all a bit poor, so yes, that wasn’t a typo when I typed 2012.  For the short term, we’re thinking maybe tubing for Memorial Day.  I’m sure the three of us can manage to make that pretty damn sexy. 


Yesterday I had the pleasure of visiting a new bathroom.  It wasn’t as cool as visiting the Google bathroom, but the handle is “coated to protect against germs!”  It’s coated with green!  What I disliked about this fancy toilet is it is harder to flush with my foot when I only want to flush one drop instead of three droplets.  Flushing down is way easier than flushing up especially if one has zero interest in bracing herself against the stall walls.  However, since I am concerned about the environment and remain committed to conserving water when and where I can (please don’t bother bringing up those 30-minute showers I take, I will just ignore you), I managed to hike my leg up and karate kick that mother up instead of down.

dual flush 


Wikus: What am I, some kind of party planner?

Grumples: that's what your business card says, yes

Wikus: Damn, I need to change those.

Grumples: they are a bit boring

Grumples: you should jazz them up

Grumples: put a pic of you and shamu on it

Grumples: offer some free shamu cheese with every order

Wikus: Shamu doesn't like pictures. He always bites the camera.

Grumples: shamu needs to learn some manners

Wikus: Good luck telling him that.

Grumples: are you kidding me? and risk amputation from shamu bite?

Wikus: He'll only bite you if you smell like seal meat, or if you have a camera.

Grumples: my phone is a camera

Wikus: Or if you're on the rag, because apparently that smells like seal meat to him.

Grumples: he's always trying to take some toes away from me

Wikus: He doesn't have any toes, so he doesn't think you should either.

Grumples: that's because my tampon is made from seal meat

Wikus: That doesn't sound very absorbent, nor very sterile.

Grumples: but it feels so good

Wikus: Could be an asset as well, if you fancy Eskimo men.

Grumples: who doesn't?

10 May 2011

Going It Without a Sticky Note

My hips hurt something terrible.  A few years ago, when I was unemployed and spent a large chunk of my time sitting on the futon that passed for The Boy’s couch (he needs a new name, since he isn’t The anymore but now simply a the, but it is uncharitable to call him The Ex or even the Ex, thus he should probably be something simpler, less heavy with capitalization meaning), and all that couch-sitting made my hips ache with a dull fever of pain.  This is a different type of hurt, and really, I think I just need an ass massage.  I’m not going to even bother asking if I have any takers—I know where that conversation will go.  All the crying due to rejection would just plum wear me out.  All the same, I would really enjoy a good deep tissue massage of my butt, and then a really good nap.  What happens between those two things is open for negotiation.


Saturday

clem iphone pillow

The good news: Clem tested negative for all those terrible kitty diseases.

The bad news: She still isn’t mine.

***

I had such a fantastic day.  It was heavy on Clem and CSP, and culminated in Echo & the Bunnymen with CSP, Wikus, Blue and Nauticalina.  I was surrounded by some of my favorite people, and I was happy.  Shit damn I was happy.  And that just feels damn good to say.

***

safe driver

CSP and I parked at City Hall for the Bunnymen show, and the car next to us had this sticky note taped to the steering wheel:

BE SAFE            

SEATBELT FIRST!

SLOWER!!

2 HANDS!!


Monday

moth

This is a white moth.  He has a furry head.  He was hanging out on my front door frame.

pink door

Having my own place means I can come home from work and paint the interior front door pink.  Take that!


Need more proof that I am happy?  This afternoon I was disappointed by someone, a small thing, a let-down, but I took it in stride.  I stuck to my original plan: I made short ribs and hung out on the couch.  I just did it alone, and honestly, I didn’t find it all that bad.

08 May 2011

Fish Thievery

Wikus: So, I went to the botanical garden this morning and only saw one koi! I just now looked it up to see if I could find out why and found this: http://www.statesman.com/news/local/koi-fish-stolen-from-zilker-gardens-799196.html

Grumples: oh, i thought you already knew about that

Wikus: Do either of you know where the fish are? I was a bit upset to see them all gone. I thought they'd all caught some fish disease and died.

Grumples: no, we don't know where they are

Grumples: we are just as upset about it as you are

Wikus: That sounds like something a fish thief would say.

Grumples: and that sounds even more like something a fish thief would say to deflect attention away from his fish thievery

Wikus: I wouldn't take those fish; the shamu I swiped from Sea World would totally eat them.

Grumples: he's greedy like that

Wikus: He eats way more seal meat than my cats do. I'm starting to think he was a bad investment.

Grumples: well, you did steal him, so you didn't lose much on the front end

Wikus: I was going to make orca cheese, but I can't even figure out where his milk comes out (he's a lady.)

Grumples: did you squeeze his nipples?

Wikus: That makes him bitey.

Grumples: wear those chain-mail shark suits

Grumples: is he in the apartment's swimming pool?

Wikus: Yes. He eats up the frat boys that come to play water volleyball.

Grumples: see, that proves he is a good investment

Grumples: he is doing the whole complex a favor

Wikus: Yes, we're all working on a folk song about him.

Grumples: any sample lyrics you can show me?

Wikus: Right now it's to the tune of John Henry, and the working title is "Shamu Was a Douche-Gobblin' Man".

05 May 2011

Bringing the Pornography to Sixth Graders

Saying goodbye to my 6th-grade students was as painful as I knew it would be.  They wrote such sweet cards to me (and I to them), and made me a large, four-leaf origami clover.  I wasn’t sure if they would want to finish (or at least try to finish) The Westing Game, or if they would rather play games like the rest of the class.  I brought Apples to Apples and You’ve Been Sentenced just in case.  I like to be prepared for all eventualities.  It’s why I came wearing heavy black eyeliner—it would keep me from crying, because vanity dictates that I can’t walk around with black streaks all over my face.  My kids are so fucking awesome that they eagerly asked to finish our book.  I wanted to just gather them to me for a great big hug.  My kids wanted to read!  Ha.  Job well done.

We started reading, and I noticed that CSP’s group seemed to lack some serious focus, and I called out his name, and then my kids started calling his name, and again I felt an overwhelming urge to hug them.  Once we finally got his attention, I offered him my Apples to Apples.  Obviously he gratefully took it (the guy only brought popcorn for everyone—as if that will entertain children for an hour…okay, that was a really nice gesture).

Trust me, this is leading to something.

Sadly, my group did not quite finish The Westing Game, but at least got to the big reveal, and mainly just missed the epilogue.  There were hugs all around, and they scooted out of the trailer quickly, while I pretended I had something in my eye, and kicked at the ground for a few seconds to gain composure.  Luckily, I was distracted quite quickly when CSP came over to thank me for my pornographic Apples to Apples.

Buh? That was my one-second reaction, and then I shook my head, because seriously, who am I kidding?  I am not surprised at all if there is something pornographic in my game.  Here is the card that one of the kid’s drew, and tried to decipher before CSP plucked it out of his hand, and gave him a new card.

big ol' titties

I have no memory associated with this card.  None.  The handwriting is similar to mine, but the capital I’s, T’s and E’s are all wrong, as well as the lower-case Z.  I’m sure there is a really good reason why I or one of my friends thought this was a good create your own card, but damn if I know what it is.  It’s really too bad that CSP snatched it away, I’m sure that 11-year-old boy would have been able to trump all other players’ cards with this bad boy.

Lastly, one of the kid’s wrote in her card that I am always right.  Damn that kid is smart.

04 May 2011

ET vs Cactus Flower

It’s been a long-suffering week of minor slights, mortifications and tediousness.  Most of them pretty much completely overhyped in that big bully pen called my brain.  I’ve been wearing more black eyeliner than usual, too—it helps with this melodramatic teenager state I find myself in these days. 

Not that it has all been terrible.  There were times of pantslessness, tattoo, platonic cuddling, tasty food and naughty convos. 

The yellow cactus flowers are in bloom in my new front yard, and ET goes crazy for them, and it is such fun to watch him bury his face in the petals in a spastic display of nomming pleasure.  Observe for yourself:

ET vs Cactus Flower

01 May 2011

On a Sunday Night Bath


[20:19] Grumples: i might take a bath
[20:19] Grumples: maybe
[20:22] Wikus: It's a big decision. Don't rush it.
[20:22] Grumples: trust me, i'm not
[20:23] Wikus: Last thing you want is to be naked, up to your neck in water, and realize you've made a horrible mistake.
[20:23] Grumples: that is so very true
[20:25] Wikus: That's why I always wear my trunks in the bath, and sometimes a tie as well.
[20:25] Grumples: i will bring my pet monkey
[20:25] Wikus: Gives it the ring of the familiar, not quite so damp and daunting.
[20:25] Grumples: you don't wear a tie
[20:25] Grumples: don't lie
[20:26] Grumples: you just wear your stinky socks
[20:26] Grumples: and call it multitasking
[20:26] Wikus: I put all of my dirty washing on (10 shirts on top of each other), and plop in with some detergent.
[20:27] Grumples: and you wonder why you have that genital rash
[20:27] Wikus: No, I never wonder why I have that genital rash.
[20:27] Grumples: you just wonder what a vulva is