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