Not you guys.

That title was directed to the charming creature who left a comment containing unsolicited criticism about how bad my post titles are, adding, “I’m not trying to tell you how to run your blog …”

Bitch, please. You so are. And I’ve taken your advice. Now go bugger.

Anyway, to the rest of you who show up for the content, as opposed to the title, hi.

I didn’t want to do another meme-thing straight off, since I walloped you with that shit for five weeks, but, like Inigo Montoya after he killed the six-fingered man, I’m a bit at loose ends right now.

I have no news to report, other than that I finally got off my arse and called my sweet babboo Andy, after several years of only talking to him on Facebook for no reason other than sheer laziness.

Okay, I was busy, but I wasn’t that busy. I just suck, is all.

Fortunately, Andy is well aware of my suckosity, and has forgiven me. Pray gourd I don’t let this friendship fall to the wayside, again.

The only other news, and I am grasping at straws, here, is that I took the Bing Challenge and Google won. Sorry, Bing. The only round Bing wound up taking was the one where I searched for Liam Neeson, and only because the first return was a picture, and he is hot.

Sorry, what was I talking about?

Right. Nothing at all.

Oh, have you seen the Audi commercial with Leonard Nimoy and Zachary Quinto? So cute.

And I think that’s all I have, thus making the title of this post way better than the content, as per my critic’s wishes.

Tags: meme

drinking: ice water
listening to: Evanescence, Good Enough
next week: oh, all right then. more badly-titled memes

You will never need to know whether I am an innie or an outie. That’s just the scar from when I used to be attached to the Mom, and I am a grown-up now, and I don’t wear midriff tops.

Oh, fine. Innie.

For those of you outies who take Dr. Seuss a bit too seriously, don’t segregate me just ‘cos I’m not a Star-Bellied Sneetch like you.

I have never written a proper song. I have written parodies, sort of like Weird Al Yankovic, only broke. My best one was a takeoff on Debbie Gibson, about The Friend Formerly Known as Boyfriend, W, and his horrific driving skills.

It was called Only In My Spleen.

I can’t remember all of it, and I imagine he no longer has it, since I have been The Friend Formerly Known as Girlfriend for about a bazillion years, now.

Can I make change for a dollar right now? Well, yes — I’ve got two change jars on the kitchen counter: one with silver, and one with just pennies.

Oh, you mean, based on what I’m currently carrying on my person. Lemme see. Two quarters and six pennies. So, unless the American government decides to start accepting store receipts, lint, and breath mints as legal tender, no.

I went into the Boys’ Room by mistake when I was in kindergarten. (I have no sense of direction.) I was jealous. The Girls’ Room didn’t have showers.

Here is a poem what I wrote once:

Susan’s Lament

When I was a child,
I knew a Lion;
He loved me full well
Though he never was tame.

I knew this, and smiled
Serenity mine;
Yet who could foretell
It would not stay the same?

Adulthood beguiled;
I longed for the wine,
So I said farewell
And stopped playing the “game”.

The Lion was wild,
But with justice divine
He tried to dispel;
Still I stayed, to my shame.

Now, for my denial
I’ve been left behind,
Awaiting my hell,
And I am to blame.

Copyright © 2003, Letters from the Soul Series

ISBN 0-7951-5160-8

It’s not a particularly good poem, and if you don’t know anything about Narnia and Susan Pevensie, it won’t mean a thing to you. But I liked the rhyme scheme, and it got published, so shut up.

I like to dunk my fries in ketchup. However, if I’m having chips (British, that is, not Frito-Lay), I don’t use “catsup,” I use vinegar … and I don’t dunk, I sprinkle over the top. You’re just going to have to accept that about me.

I’ve learned plenty of useful skills in real life, that never come up in Girl Scouts. If I need a merit badge now, I’ll make my own. Scouts aren’t allowed to do that. It’s better to be a Golfwidowist.

I don’t just have published poetry on my résumé. Oh, no. I have written a whole book. I will not copy and paste it here. You can buy it on Amazon. http://www.amazon.com/Getting-My-Think-Sondra-Harris/dp/1847283039. It makes a swell gift.

I have never broken a mirror. Not even by accident. I have no idea how I’ve dodged that bullet and still manage to have cycle after cycle of seven years’ bad luck.

I am not, however, superstitious; knock wood.

My biggest peeve is that, if something makes me peevish, people automatically expect me to adopt it as my pet. Screw that. I’m sending my peeves to the shelter. You can rescue one if you feel like it. I’m sure you’ll get along well with my second biggest peeve: bad grammar by people who ought to know better.

I am ashamed to admit that I am a slurper. I have, in fact, been known to stick a hollow coffee stirrer into my coffee cup and drink the dregs with it, so as not to waste any. I am aware that it’s rude to make slurping noises in the United States, but it’s considered polite in Italy. If you don’t like it, vaffanculo.

If you blow bubbles in any liquid that contains protein, they grow outside your glass. This includes egg whites, but I don’t drink egg whites. I don’t mind telling you that I have blown bubbles in my vanilla soy chai, just ‘cos I can.

I prefer the sandwich of a Big Mac^® (two all-beef patties et cetera et cetera), but the flame-broiled taste of the Whopper^® burger. To split the difference, I go to Carl’s Junior and get the Big Carl^®. Any one of the above, and you can add in Fatburger^® and In-N-Out^®, not to mention Five Guys^®, are guaranteed to give me heartburn^®.

I don’t understand why memes are so interested in whether or not I, a middle-aged (I am, I have to admit; I’ll be forty-two in a few days) woman with somewhat less-than-six-pack-abs (see innie and outie question, above), have ever skinny-dipped. In case you weren’t paying attention any of the other times I have discussed this, I have skinny-dipped, but mostly because I had the convenience of a lake without the convenience of having brought a bathing suit.

I don’t think I would ever parachute out of a plane, but I like to think I would think that I would, and that I would even go so far as to get onto the plane and go up. I’m just fairly sure I’d punk out at the last second.

The most daring thing I’ve ever done wasn’t by choice. I packed up my whole life and dragged it from Connecticut to Las Vegas, without knowing if I was making a terrible mistake. So far, so good, though.

When I’m at the grocery store with That Man of Mine, we get plastic bags. Tons of them. However, when I go into the store by myself, I bring my tote bag. It’s sturdy, it’s cute, and it zips. For someone who has been known to drop grocery bags, a zip means not having to pick everything up off the ground, which is useful, and far less embarrassing.

They ask a question: “True or False — you would rather eat steak than pizza.” Actually, it’s half-true. For me, I would rather eat steak, then pizza.

I had a baby blanket. It was white, with satin ribbon trim, and a poodle appliquéd to the corner. We called it the Joyce Blanket because it had been a gift from the Mom’s friend, Suzanne. (Kidding. Of course her name was Joyce. I was just seeing if you were paying attention.) I liked to be tucked in with my Joyce Blanket, and I liked to put it over my head and read with a flashlight, but I didn’t drag it everywhere like Linus.

I’ve lost interest, for now. There are eighty more questions to this meme, and I’ll do twenty more some other time.

Tags: meme

drinking: ice water
listening to: P!nk, Try
plan today: manicure

I once wrote my autobiography in six words: I sing rock music into spoons.

I might publish that someday. If I do, I’m going to make the title more than six words, just to fuck with people.

And that should tell you all you need to know about me.

Which does not mean I intend to shut up. Sorry.

Or, you’re welcome. It depends, as does everything, rather hugely upon your point of view.

Anyway.

The three most important things everyone ought to know about me are: if you want me to do a job for you, it’s going to get done really well, because I don’t want to disappoint you; I am supremely lazy but I work extra hard so no one will find out; and I am trying to be a writer, but I’m not getting any younger and I’ve only published the one book, and I’m worried that’s going to be it.

I know that looks like more than three, but I used semicolons, just to be sure.

Semicolons are the writer’s equivalent of getting into the express lane at the supermarket and explaining that, if I can count an entire bunch of grapes as one item even though they’re all the same thing, I ought also to be able to count five packages of hot dogs as one item.

When I’m not working, sleeping, or going to yet another doctor, I’m usually writing, reading, watching TV, or fucking round on Facebook. All of these activities exercise my imagination pretty well, so I’m more boring to others than I am to myself.

When I was in school, my favorite classes were English and music. My least favorite was anything to do with maths. I recognize that I couldn’t possibly get through my life today without numbers, but I was thoroughly annoyed by them in school.

My main goal this year is to be as healthy as possible. I don’t want to set anything too lofty for myself. As it is, I’m already in far better shape than I have been since the ’90s, so yay me.

In five years, if I haven’t died or gone to jail for killing anyone else, I hope to be famous enough that they invite me to do a spot on Sesame Street. Preferably with Grover. The GolfBrother would be so thrilled.

I’m not sure what I want to be famous for. Pretty much anything that isn’t like the way Snooki got famous, or the Kardashians, or Jodi Arias.

I am middle-aged, but I still think of myself as a kid. I think I’m a pretty cool girl, as opposed to thinking of myself as a lady, or a woman. I’m still appalled whenever someone calls me “ma’am.”

I am extremely childlike. I like bright colors and junk food and sparkly stuff and cartoons and cupcakes. However, I can behave in a mature manner if the occasion calls for it, I’m responsible, and I try not to whine. You can say I’m as childlike as you please, but I doubt you’d call me childish.

I think the last thing I said out loud was, “HELL YES,” because I was watching Lord of the Rings: Return of the King, and Aragorn had just kissed the hell out of Arwen, which wasn’t in the books, but I can live with that, because it is just awesome. That Man of Mine is at work, incidentally, which is why the only talking I’m doing at the moment is either to myself or to the telly.

Mind you, when he’s home, it’s essentially the same because, although I talk to him, he doesn’t listen particularly well.

The song that comes closest to how I feel about my life right now is Coffee by Josh Woodward. “My life is grounded in a firm routine of coffee, sleep, and work. I am not boring. I just stick to what I know.”

Heh. “Grounded” in a routine including coffee. What a drip. Makes you want to sit and brewed.

I have only ever been to one martial arts class in my entire life. It was judo, and the reason I only went to one class was that the first class was free and I couldn’t afford to pay for subsequent classes.

I am not worried, though. I read a thing in Reader’s Digest about a woman who took martial arts classes because she worked in a dangerous neighborhood, and after she had gotten her black belt, she was accosted on the street … and she hit the assailant with her umbrella.

While I rarely have a need to carry an umbrella in the desert, I do have a really big tote bag that contains, amongst other things, my Android, my water bottle, some makeup, my dinner if I’m on my way to work, and a towel because I am a cool frood hoopy. I could hurt a body with that bag.

I hope I’ll never have to do so, though, because it is an incredibly cute bag and I’d hate to get blood on it.

My life always seems to be improving; however, it is pretty sucktastic and it really has nowhere to go but up.

I do believe that time heals all wounds. However, it doesn’t take much to rip some wounds right back open.

I live in the desert, as mentioned above. On the rare occasions when it does rain here, it floods, because the ground is baked way too hard to absorb the water. So the way to handle a rainy day round here is either to wear wellies or to roll up your cuffs and not care about ruining your shoes.

When I used to decorate a tree during the holidays, I always wound the lights round a coathanger to store them. Untangling lights was never a problem for me.

I only ever lost my luggage once, and it wasn’t so much lost as that it had missed the flight. Probably to make room for a medical part being transported to a CT scan department by some logistics desk at one of those silly courier services.

I digress.

Anyway, my suitcase got onto the next flight, and an airline employee delivered it right to my house. I was relieved that it had not needed to be opened, as it contained mostly dirty laundry.

I am not as close with the Mom as I used to be. It’s difficult, living so far away. I don’t love her any less, though.

My dad started drifting away mentally some twenty years ago. I still love him, but the man he is now is not the man he was. For instance, I recently sent him a Grumpy Cat magnet. I was told he liked the idea of it. There was a time when he would have been more in the “damned proud to own it” mindset.

Pfft.

It is my job to be aware of what is going on around me at all times. At my company, we are expected both to multitask and to focus. Being constantly “on” at work means I’m generally “on” outside of work. The problem is that I am also “on” a lovely drug cocktail that does wretched things to my attention span. So my awareness may not constitute much more than my saying, “Oh, it’s an alien with a blaster. Is there any more macaroni salad?”

The truest thing that I know is that my chili recipe is the best in the world.

The problem is, everyone else who makes chili knows the same thing about their own.

When I was little, I wanted to be a writer when I grew up. Or a model. I’m only slightly closer to the writing thing. I’m far too short to be a model, even if I weren’t this fluffy.

In 2011, I spent several days in hospital receiving transfusions, steroids, and diuretics, because I had a pericardial effusion, pernicious anemia, and Hashimoto’s Syndrome. I wasn’t paying attention to my health at the time, other than thinking I was really tired but that there was nothing unusual about that. I came very close to dying, and I believe I’m getting a second chance now.

Fortunately, it has not made me any less snarky, which means I am not forwarding the above paragraph to ten of my closest friends, telling them that an angel is watching over me and that they need to forward it to ten of their closest friends because an angel is watching over them, too.

Mostly ‘cos I’m askeered of angels, now. Thank you very much, Stephen Moffat.

I always want to be a giver. I see people I care about, or strangers, or animals, or causes, in need, and I want to help. Trouble is, I never have anything with which to help. Then, I need a lot of help myself. So it doesn’t matter how much I want to give, I wind up being a taker.

At least, I’m a profoundly grateful taker. Many takers think they’re just receiving what they’re due.

I try to be as openminded and openhearted as possible when making decisions. However, if I’ve got an instinct about something and I can’t shake it, I go with my gut. The bottom line, with me, is that I try always to make the decision based on the fact that I’m going to have to live with it.

There is something pretty fucking wrong with my legs; specifically, with the fronts of my calves.

Right now, they hurt a lot, and I’m relieved, because two years ago, they were so excruciatingly painful that I had to stop and think before I sat down anywhere, to make sure I had a way of getting back up again.

Going to the bathroom when That Man wasn’t home to help me up? Close to impossible.

At work, people noticed my plight as I floundered around, trying to use my cane and the edge of those wobbly break-room tables to hoist my fat arse out of the rickety break-room chairs, but they weren’t permitted to help me unless I asked (legal bullshit), and I was not about to ask.

Holy crap, they hurt. It felt, all the time, like someone was bashing my legs with a spiked mallet made of molten iron and sulfuric acid.

Now, they just ache.

I feel so blessed.

The most emotionally painful experience of my life, so far, was losing my beloved grampa when I was seven. Read the description of how my legs used to feel. When Grampa died, I felt like someone was using that molten iron/acid spiked mallet on my heart, over and over.

Remember when I said that time heals all wounds? I am not so vividly pained now as I was then. But I don’t miss him any less, and I still think about him every single damned day.

Gourd help me when I lose the Mom. When she had cancer, I was absolutely the most terrified I have ever been in my entire life. That she got better, and is now completely cancer-free, is nothing short of yet another example of my receiving a second chance.

Again, I’m too snarky, and too afraid of angels, to spam you with that. Yay me.

The only person I hugged today was That Man of Mine, but he was also the only person I saw today. If you would have been here, I’d've hugged all over you. ‘Cos you’re cute.

Tags: life

drinking: ice water
listening to: Christina Perri, Jar of Hearts
what makes my chili better than yours: oh, wouldn’t you like to know

I missed blogging last week, and damned near missed this week, too, because my time is not as valuable as that of my doctors.

They are bad to make me wait.

Not to mention, I had to disc-out (take two hours of discretionary time at the end of my shift) on Wednesday for an appointment that never took place, and showed up yesterday for an appointment that got cancelled whilst I was waiting in the examination room (forty-five minutes after my appointed time), which means I now must disc-out again on Saturday or not get my ‘scrips.

Makes a girl want to become the world’s oldest pre-med student.

So, That Man of Mine is working for a casino that has, amongst other amenities (such as a salon; a bunch of decent restaurants and bars; an additional food court for people who actually prefer Sbarro’s to genuine food; and a prime rib buffet), an eighteen-screen movie theater.

To which employees, including armed security officers, are entitled to two free passes per day (based on seating availability).

And whereas That Man really freaking hates to go to the movies, he also hates to give up a freebie, which is why we got to see Cloud Atlas last week and Wreck-It Ralph Wednesday night.

The seating availability clause is why we won’t get to see Lincoln for about a week or so after it opens, but this particular casino is, indeed, one of the “select theaters” the deep-voiced announcer is talking about when he says “Opening November 16th in select theaters.”

I didn’t have to trick That Man into wanting to see Lincoln. Aside from the fact that he does have a certain interest in American history, he’s pleased that Liam Neeson backed out of the title role because he felt he was too old.

Sorry. Old or not, Liam Neeson’s still fucking BOMB, and the only reason I didn’t go see Taken 2 for the second time was that the other clause with the free movie passes is that any guest has to see the same movie as the employee.

Himself didn’t want to see Taken 2 again, and he most certainly did not want to, as I suggested the first time, sit in a different row, possibly in Mexico.

Did I get sidetracked by Liam Neeson again? How does that keep happening?

Oh, right. Dead sexy.

In all seriousness, I am very grateful to That Man for taking me to the movies, but whilst I did not have to trick him into wanting to see Lincoln, I did trick him into Cloud Atlas, which was how we got to see Wreck-It Ralph the following week.

Here’s how that worked:

1. We arrived at the theater.
2. We presented his security ID.
3. The girl asked us what we wanted to see.
4. I looked up and said, “Ooh! Cloud Atlas!” (happy sigh)
5. Then I paused and said, “We could see Wreck-It Ralph. That’s a cartoon.”
6. That Man asked, “What’s Cloud Atlas about?”
7. Without mentioning that it took me two fucking weeks to read the book because I kept getting confused and having to flip back (but in a good way), I simply said, “It has Tom Hanks.”
8. “Two for Cloud Atlas,” That Man told the girl.

The movie was actually, for me, a little easier to follow than the book was. Himself was thoroughly befuddled through much of it, made worse by the fact that he insists on having a $5 bottle of water at the movies to make up for not drinking Diet Coke anymore, so he had to get up partway through and missed a crucial bit, because, when you’re dealing with Cloud Atlas, it’s all crucial bits.

Bottom line on Cloud Atlas: I would prefer to see it again on DVD or Blu-Ray, because, like the book, I had about a bazillion instances where I really needed to flip back.

It was, however, smashingly beautiful, and, just as I promised That Man, it had Tom Hanks, who got himself into a spot of trouble on the Today show by channeling one of the characters he plays; specifically, the one who would, in a nationally-broadcast interview, say one of the seven words you can’t say on television.

So the other night, since I had mentioned Wreck-It Ralph, and it was a cartoon, That Man of Mine decided we should, in fact, see it, and so we did.

It was in two different arenas, and they sent us into the one that had it in 3D, which means we got to see 3D trailers, too, which means we’re probably going to get to see Oz the Great and Powerful when it comes out, so yay.

Yet again, Pixar hit us with a charming short before the film. I hate to give away the ending, but since it’s so close to the beginning anyway, you can probably see it coming:

The guy gets the girl, but I seriously wondered how long she’d want him when she realized he was no longer gainfully employed.

Wreck-It Ralph was gorgeous, as most Pixar features are, but I vastly preferred the inside jokes and visual puns to the actual plot.

The castle had Oreos as guards. They chanted “O-REE-O. YO-HO” as they marched, and I laughed my arse off, which I wish I could do more literally, because that is a lot of arse.

That Man was in the mens’ room at the time, returning the rented $5 water, and when he came back, I had to explain it to him.

Also, the cops were doughnuts, named, respectively, Winchell and Duncan, and when they sent out the dogs, they meant Devil-Dogs.

I love calorie-laden humor, which is probably why I will never be able to laugh my arse off.

However, I did join The Biggest Loser initiative at work, not to win, but just to not be alone. They gave me an app to log my water intake and my exercise, so we’ll see how that works out.

So far, I’ve lost two pounds, but I might have lost more if that damned casino did not also have a deli, and said deli did not have pastrami, and said pastrami did not have calories, fat, sodium, or extreme awesomeness.

Just sayin’.

Tags: movies

drinking: ice water
listening to: Breaking Benjamin, I Will Not Bow
scent addiction: fresh popcorn. totally says there’s a movie coming.