it’s dandy for your teeth

I skipped last week, as I’m sure no one noticed, but if you’re wondering what I was thinking last week, just read the post from the week before. I didn’t feel like burdening anyone with reruns.

Anyway.

I got a mostly-clean bill of health from my oncologist. One more CT scan and she’ll declare my lymph nodes officially just “wonky-looking” and not “cancerous.” She’s also not angry about my weight gain, which was what was bothering me the most. She said I looked more toned and that my labs were good, so she’s not worried about the number.

I’m worried about the number, but she’s the one with the medical degree.

As regards my spinal cord stimulator, I don’t even get to see the surgeon for a consultation till the 28th, and the pain specialist won’t do an epidural if I’m “about” to have surgery, even if the reason the surgery was delayed was that her staff sent incomplete referrals, not once, but twice, and both times the surgeon’s office called them back and asked for more information, which they did not get till That Man of Mine marched into the pain specialist’s office and told the staff, very patiently (for him) how to send a faxed referral.

So I’m in hella pain, because of paperwork.

I didn’t see the pain specialist this month. I saw the P.A. He is fantastic about listening to me. And after I vented about the fucking GOONS in the office, he scripted me up for a higher dose of oxycodone, and if these don’t work, I have to come back in and get Opana, which is oxymorphone.

Crap, something better start working before I turn into a junkie.

Although, I must say, I am hoping, just a little bit, that I will need the oxymorphone, so I can go around singing, “Brush-a brush-a brush-a, here’s the new Opana …”

I know I’m showing my age. It couldn’t be helped. I switched from baby powder to Shower-to-Shower. Now I smell slightly less immature. So anyone who doesn’t know me might be fooled.

I did want to talk about Doctor Who, for a quick second, even though most of you are not Whovians.

I’m not sure I’m a Whovian. I prefer to think of myself as a Whooligan.

Anyway.

The only thing I can think in terms of Peter Capaldi being the next Doctor is that, once again, the BBC have proven that they only have a total of three actors.

Also, I think Moffat’s going to kill off Eleven before the Christmas special (in other words, during the 50th anniversary special), but I don’t have any proof of that, just the fact that Moffat’s reputation for doing things just to make me sob uncontrollably during a fucking television program precedes him.

And that’s it, except for me to tell you this story, because I can’t really tell anyone else.

That Man of Mine, great as he is at being my health advocate, is also great at royally Pissing Me Off.

He needs to learn not to do that.

But he won’t.

So I ate a salad, and then.

Then.

I might, accidentally, have picked my teeth with a baseball card.

I said. I only smell less immature.


Tags:

drinking: ice water
listening to: Taio Cruz, Dynamite
teeth: free of radicchio

factitious

I have always wanted a blue guitar. I don’t play. It’s not worth me having one. But I still want it. Curse you, Nancy Wilson (from Heart, not the jazz singer).

I don’t shave my legs, because I cut myself pretty badly once. However, I use Veet for Sensitive Skin, and during summertime in the desert, I use it a lot, because I don’t like wearing shorts with even a tiny bit of stubble. I used it this morning, so there isn’t a single strand of hair on my legs at the moment. If I were courageous, I’d go out with hairy legs, but I am a product of my culture. I get grossed out myself when I see a woman on the street (or in le Mart du Wal, where I see it most often) who, in my mind, didn’t bother to shave, so obviously I have been brainwashed.

Semper Fidelis means “Always Faithful.” One isn’t allowed to be married to a former jarhead without knowing this.

I used to say I would rather swim in a lake than an ocean (I don’t care for waves when I’m in the water, although they’re okay if I’m walking on the beach), but my brother-in-law just sent me a captioned photo of this diving bell spider that lives almost completely underwater, and I’m guessing it meant freshwater, so fuck lakes.

I used to wear black and gray a lot, almost constantly, because it was a good way to fade into the background. I don’t kid myself that black is more flattering if one is fat … if one’s clothing doesn’t fit right, no color will look good. When I finally decided to step out of the shadows, I filled my wardrobe (gradually, and cheaply, by making use of sales at le Mart du Wal and lot purchases from eBay®) with jewel tones and funky patterns, and I guess it’s working, because one of the managers at the company of the chocolatey-brown trucks advised some of my coworkers that she wished everyone dressed like me, since I always look so pretty, professional, and put-together. And I managed this without $5000 and a visit from Stacey London, so there.

My hair is super cute. I’m wearing it quite short because it’s more comfortable in the desert in summertime. I had them use a #3 clipper around the back last time and cut the rest to about one inch layers. TS Toe’s first words when he saw me last month were “Your hair is so short!” and I told him I fell asleep in the chair. I tend to wear really cute earrings when my hair is this short, just to make sure no one thinks I’m a boy; that is, before they get a glimpse of my incredibly impressive rack. Anyway, the color right now is dark brown, with a few grays naturally-occurring crystalline highlights.

I am normally a rational person, but I have entomophobia and arachnophobia (see above paragraph about swimming in the lake) and no amount of intellectualization on my part when bugs aren’t around will convince me that they won’t eat me when they are around. I turn into a scaredy-cat when it comes to bugs, and it’s humiliating, but I can’t get past it.

I am over the age of 21 (nay, twice that), so I guess I am an adult, but I am not a grown-up and you can’t make me be one.

We rent. I hate it. I hate being poor, and I hate that the best apartment we can get with our lousy credit is this one, with the scorched bathroom sink and the dented front door, outside of which I found, the other day, a dime bag that one of my more careless neighbors dropped. I live with the riffraff. On the bright side, the apartment managers love us, because we’re quiet, and we always pay our rent on time.

I used to tan very well, but I refuse even to try anymore. I’ve heard too many horror stories about malignant melanoma. As for tanning parlors, I only have a small amount of money to spend on vanity, and I prefer to use it on super cute haircuts and adorable (but inexpensive, because I go to le Mart du Wal) manicures.

I have the telly on pretty much all the time, but I’m not always watching it. I read whilst it’s on; I sleep whilst it’s on; we leave it on when we leave the house. I wouldn’t say I’m addicted to television. I will say that, the other day, I was watching A-Team, and That Man of Mine said we had to leave for work. Before I left, I stuck my head back into the bedroom (where the telly is) and said to it, “Liam? Bye, honey. My husband’s making me go with him. There’s juice in the fridge and I think there’s some hot water left if you want a shower.” (What? That Man of Mine has been making me roll my eyes for years. It’s time I made him roll his.)

I used to love spending time with my mother-in-law. She passed away in 2010 and I miss her. I love my sisters-in-law and my stepmother-in-law. I think the reason we get along so well is that we never spend any time together except on Facebook.

I am not a sugar freak. Even less so than I was: I gave up refined sugar and white flour for the past two months in an attempt to detox. It has been absolutely determined that I’m not a sugar freak — but I am a bread ho. See me on the 16th, when my detox ends. You’ll probably find me at La Bocce, shoving pizza into my mouth like it’s my job. (I won’t. Now that I know I can do this, I will be doing this most of the week, and on my cheat days, I will be eating, at the most, a single slice of pizza. I am so tired of being fat.) I am not jonesing nearly as badly for sweets.

I have no idea what happened to Larry King. Wait; let me check — nope; don’t care.

I give less than a shit what my zodiac sign is. Astrology leaves out Ophiuchus (the serpent-bearer, a sign that ought to fall somewhere between Scorpio and Sagittarius but doesn’t, because that makes thirteen sun signs and only twelve months), which makes it patently inaccurate at best and complete bullshit at worst. I have found that, if someone tells me their sun sign and I predict, “You’re deeply sensitive, but you stand up for what you believe in,” they always reply, “Yes, that’s right.” When I am asked for my sign, I tell them I’m a Penguin, with Parrot rising, and that Penguin personalities tend to do their own thing without worrying about some random constellation 66 light years from where they’re actually having to deal with their days.

I can’t remember the last time I made a wish on my birthday. I haven’t even had birthday cake, except at work, in the past few years. The year before last, we were avoiding Retro Bakery because That Man’s sugar was out of control, and last year, I was too sick to want cake, which is pretty fucking sick. Anyway, even before that, I can’t recall when I last had candles on a cake. I blame the Neurontin. I did make a wish on the tip of a slice of pie two months ago (dessert of my last refined-sugar meal before detoxing): I said to myself: “I wish this pie wouldn’t make me fat.”

I ripped these questions off from the Mom, but she did this ages ago and probably doesn’t remember where she got it. At the time, she said she got it from Z’s World, who might have gotten it from Sunday Stealings.

I used to skip breakfast, but I can’t do that anymore. Some of my meds need to be taken on an empty stomach, but if I want the rest of them, particularly my pain meds, I have to eat something. I do not tend to eat the full Denny’s-style 1,500-calorie breakfast. Multi-grain toast or high-fiber cereal with soy milk is usually good enough for me. If I want the calorie-laden breakfast at all, I’m more apt to have it for dinner, since I can’t finish it in one sitting.

I have no idea what I would name the royal baby. It’s not my baby to name, and I don’t know the protocol. I know they need a fuckton of names. I’m going to go with Jacqueline Andrea Suzette Prentice Tyler Mountbatten-Windsor. Go me, incidentally, not only for knowing Prince William’s surname, but for remembering Jackie Tyler’s entire name. It’s more than Pete Tyler could do.

I don’t buy newspapers at all anymore, ever. I read the RJ online, and if we need newsprint, we buy $10 worth of gas at the AM/PM across from our apartment, Monday through Saturday, and they give us a free one. I don’t miss the newspaper. I prefer reading the comics online anyway, particularly Dog Eat Doug, which is my new favorite since Charles M. Schulz died and Lynn Johnston sold out.

I’m pretty sure most of those factoids were repeats, but I don’t much care. I’m not at all sure who’s paying attention these days, anyway.


Tags:

drinking: ice water
listening to: Candlebox, Far Behind
tired of: erick erickson. he needs a nice cold glass of shut the fuck up

thirteenescence

highschool

That, for better or worse, was what I looked like in high school. Gourd help me, I thought I was fat.

If I could travel anywhere in the world, all expenses paid, I’d go to London. I know I’ve already been, and that I should pick someplace new, but I miss London, and have done  every day since my only trip there, some twenty years ago.

Fine. If I must pick a new place, let it be New Zealand. Preferably in December, so I can celebrate the usually-frosty winter holidays on the beach.

Five songs for the soundtrack of my life (so far):

  1. Different Drum – Linda Ronstadt
  2. Don’t Stop Believing – Journey
  3. Bad Moon Rising – Credence Clearwater Revival
  4. Here, There, and Everywhere – Beatles
  5. Bridge Over Troubled Water – Simon & Garfunkel

Yes, I’m old. But it could be a whole lot more embarrassing.

I no longer have any television shows that I must watch every week without fail — at least, not until Doctor Who returns at the end of November. I try to catch certain shows, such as NCIS and NOVA, but if I miss them, my world doesn’t end. The one show I never seem to miss is Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives. Not because it’s a favorite (really, I like Guy Fieri as a television character, but I imagine that, in real life, he’s probably a bit of a douchebag), but because it always seems to be on the television in the break room at work.

I firmly believe, with all of my heart and soul, that gay couples should be allowed to marry, and should be accorded the same rights as so-called traditional couples: to be on each other’s insurance; to make deathbed decisions; to fall into cold water because his spouse left the seat up; to get her face smacked by wet pantyhose on the curtain rod the second she steps into the bathroom, and to open the fridge to find an empty bread bag inside. This actually happened to me today. I hope it can happen to my gay friends someday.

The shows from my childhood that should be brought back on the air are, in no particular order: Mr. Wizard’s World, Emergency!, and Patchwork Family. Patchwork Family wasn’t particularly good. But I liked the puppet, Rags. His favorite food in the world was jellybeans. Last time we had someone on the telly whose favorite food was jellybeans was the ’80s, and that sonofabitch ran the fucking country. Rags was way cooler.

I think the one place in the world I would love to live would absolutely be right where I am now, if it were closer to my friends and family. That said, if I could afford to live anywhere, I’d pick New York City. Close enough to visit everyone conveniently, and remote enough that it’s an adventure to come visit me. Mind you, I want a penthouse, and a limo. I think it’s important to set realistic goals.

My favorite animal, for those of you not paying attention, is the penguin. I have never had a penguin tell me he needed more space, or that there wasn’t room in the budget for me. Granted, I’ve never had a dog tell me that, either. But I’ve never had to clean penguin shit off the living room carpet, either, so penguins still win.

My name is Greek for “defender of mankind.” What a joke. I can barely defend myself much of the time.

I don’t believe that honesty is the best policy. Okay, sometimes. “Do I look okay?” can be answered with an honest “You’ve got a little spinach on your teeth” (fixable) or you can be dishonest and say “You look beautiful” to your friend who is really sweet and can’t help the fact that she looks a bit like Steve Buscemi.

If I knew the world was really ending this year (as opposed to all the false alarms we’ve had in the past decade), I think I would learn to dance. Better late than never.

If I won the lottery, the first thing I would do is to send a big wad of it to the Mom, so she could get my dad into a better facility. Then, I’d pay off my bills; then, I’d set up a retirement fund for myself and That Man of Mine; then, I’d donate the rest to charity, quickly, before That Man could buy any baseball cards with it.

I think the aspect of my childhood I miss the most is sleeping in the car. When I was a tiny kid, they used to tuck me into the backseat with my pink blanket, and they did all the worrying for me. I could do with a bit of that now.


Tags:

drinking: ice water
listening to: Grace Potter & The Nocturnals, Devil’s Train
bonus: i’m not superstitious. it’s always, for me, a 50/50 chance of good or bad luck

tea stow

There are quite a few differences between this time that T.S. Toe came to visit, and the last time, which was in January of 2003, and I knew this blog would come in handy some day, if for no other reason than to pinpoint the date.

The most blatant difference, aside from the fact that I got thirteen comments on that post, and only two (from the same person) on my last post before this one, is that T’s personal life has changed quite a bit in three and a half years, and for the better, as he is happier than he’s been in a long time.

I got to meet J, the reason for all the happy, and K, who is a local friend who also lived in CT for awhile. She was uncomfortable meeting new people. However, she is former military, and a twin, and next thing you know, she and That Man of Mine were thick as thieves.

J, incidentally, is ridiculously adorable.

We ate at the Rio, this time, and no one tried to tell us we were hanging around too long chatting; in fact, the server came by several times after we would have already been out in the street at the Luxor, to see if we needed more beverages.

She also, in the middle of the meal, brought complimentary champagne for those of us who could have it. I originally typed that in as “those of us who wanted it,” but that was a lie, because I wanted it. Desperately. Fuck drugs.

However, if this first surgery works (next Tuesday), I can have the second surgery, and then, maybe, I can stop with the drugs and be allowed to have champagne next time T.S. Toe and Company are in the area, which, if he follows form, should be right around the beginning of 2017.

Anyway, the only other news is that I lost four pounds. No one should have to work as hard as I do to have the only result be a four-pound weight loss. In my post the last time T.S. Toe was in town, That Man had just lost sixty. He’s lost more, since. He is about ten pounds more now than I was in 2011.

Granted, I am a lot less than that now, but it doesn’t make it any less depressing.

I firmly believe any man who loses more weight than his wife, without really trying, is an arsehole of the finest order.

However, since he won $79 at the Rio last night, I’ll let it slide.


Tags:

drinking: ice water
listening to: Alicia Keys, Tears Always Win
other stuff that changed since last time: we talked about doctor who instead of the big lebowski

fortnight

I haven’t posted in two weeks, but I’m going to say a “fortnight” instead, because it sounds cooler.

“Fortnight” is short for “fourteen nights.” I don’t know why they thought half a month would be without daylight, but I don’t question. I just recycle and reuse.

I could say that I didn’t post anything for a fortnight because I am tired, and it would be true.

I could also say that I didn’t post anything for a fortnight because I am writing other stuff, and that would also be true.

But the actual reason behind my not-posting-of-anything for two weeks is that I had nothing going on and I didn’t feel like doing a meme. And you can’t pretty that up by trying to call it a fortnight.

Seriously. The most exciting thing going on in my life is that I found a fuckload of Liam Neeson wallpapers for my Android.

They are so bomb.

Except for the fact that a) I change them up every couple of hours, because Liam Neeson is just that awesome; and b) now I hate logging in, because his face gets all covered up with app icons.

Anyway.

Meme it is, just so’s you don’t forget about me.

As usual, no one is tagged, and I’ll be using complete sentences and paragraphs instead of Q and A format, so my teacher will give me extra credit.

Do penguins count as sea creatures? I ask because the first question in this particular non-meme asks into what kind of sea creature I would like to be reincarnated. No matter. If penguins don’t count, I’ll go with the sea angel. I never saw one before till my office girlfriend made me Google it, and they are just as precious as he (my office girlfriend) is. No shit. Like sweet little see-through teddy bears. Also, I might as well be a sea angel next time round, seeing as how I’ve pretty much lived this life as a landlocked devil.

I never, ever go to IHOP. $11 for an order of pancakes is just-off-the-highway robbery. If I want pancakey sorts of breakfasty stuff, I go to Lumberjack’s, which is a bit like Denny’s, only with flannel shirts. We tend to prefer Lumberjack’s in this town because, for some reason, we’ve never gotten good service in Denny’s since 2008 (when we moved to Vegas) except that one time in 2010. Oh, no, wait — we were visiting Connecticut that time. (Speaking of Angels. Heh.)  Anyway, I am cautious about ordering pancakes in restaurants, as they tend to overbeat the batter, which develops the gluten and turns pancakes into Cotton Wool Circles of Doom. Eat one and, no matter how much you chew, or how much coffee you drink with it, it will reform itself into a whole pancake in your stomach. A few restaurants do it right, and I trust them. Blueberry Hill (a family restaurant/diner with a few locations in town) knows how properly to flap a jack. At Lumberjack’s, they probably do, but I haven’t tested it yet because they have Cinnabon® French toast, and why the hell would anyone want a pancake if that were available, may I ask?

The last book I read was incredibly bad and a waste of my time. I don’t remember the title. I only read it because it was free, and I deleted it from my Kindle app right after I finished it, because I knew I’d never want to reread it.  The last book I read, that I enjoyed, was a reread itself: Life, the Universe, and Everything by Douglas Adams. I have no idea how he became so good at writing novels when he hated it so much.

The wallpaper of my cell phone is Mount Charleston. It was one of the first pictures I took with this phone, and I decided to put it to good use. As far as the number is concerned, if you need it, let me know … but be aware that, if you don’t already have it, it’s probably because I decided you didn’t need it that much. Now, as for the Android, I just had this generic cupcake picture on there till, as I mentioned, the other day, which was when I came to the realization that I really do like Liam Neeson more than I like cupcakes. Which is true about very few things in my world, including people I actually know.

I don’t drink much soda. I like it all right, but not as much as coffee or beer, or energy beverages fizzy-lifting drinks, which I try to avoid because they are not particularly good for me. Soda is very high in sugar, and there are a whole lot of “Where the hell did all those calories come from?” calories in it, so when I do drink soda, I try to drink diet soda, but my favorite sodas do not come in diet. They are Jamaican ginger beer, which is like ginger ale, only sharper; and Mexican Coca-Cola, which is the classic classic Coke recipe (cane sugar instead of high-fructose corn syrup). This is the main reason I drink so much water. Never mistake that fact for my actually thinking, “Mmm, isn’t this water delicious?”

If I could use only one form of transportation, I think I’d go with the TARDIS. Time And Relative Dimension In Space. That’s what I need. A phone box that I could park just as easily outside on the corner as inside in a supply closet. Also, the ability to get to work with my hair dry five minutes early, even if I take an hour-long shower right before I ought to leave the house. Also, have you seen the library in that thing? As Clara Oswald said to the TARDIS, “Okay, now you’re just showing off.”

I was home alone for dinner last night, because That Man of Mine was working. I made a small ribeye steak and cooked it the way I like it, without anyone gagging and saying, “It’s bleeding,” or “Is it still alive?”

My favorite toy when I was a tiny kid was Kimberly. She was a plush doll given to me by my dad, who knew I didn’t like what I called “hard dolls”   —   Barbies or plastic-bodied dolls that were useless for hugging. We did play together quite a lot, and she rode on my bike with me, but my favorite pastime was reading to her. She was a very appreciative audience.

I buy my own groceries, but That Man has to drive me anyway, so he gets to pick some of them (within reason), and he can reach the top shelves and carry the heavy stuff. Also, he is not only willing to put groceries away when we get home, he insists upon it, because he says I do it wrong. Of course I do it wrong. How else would one get one’s husband to put away the groceries, eh?

I’m pretty sure of two people who discuss me unfavorably behind my back. However, I give less than a fraction of a full, entire shit about either of them, so I just hope they’re enjoying themselves.

My favorite fruit, as I have discussed before, is the Bosc pear. I like the fact that it’s better on the inside than it looks on the outside. I know Bartlett pears have nicer wardrobes, but Bosc pears have better personalities. Or fruitalities. Whatever.

I always wanted to learn ballet. Ballerinas are so beautiful and graceful. I did music lessons instead. I regret not being able to dance, but I wouldn’t trade my musical background for it.

I listen to quite a lot of classical music. Full symphony orchestra when I need to wake up my attitude, baroque when I need to soothe my soul, chamber music when I need to fall into a coma. I also like heavy metal arrangements of classical music. Beethoven and Mozart, had they lived in contemporary times, would both have approved of slammin’ guitars.

The first television theme song that pops into my head is Doctor Who: first the four-beat (the heartbeat of a Time Lord, which has a binary cardiovascular system), for a few measures, then OOO EEE OOO, WEE OOO OOO. I understand that the original theme was recorded using white noise and a single plucked guitar string, which they then turned into music utilizing wave-form oscillators. Electronic music before it was considered fashionable.

People consider me smart even before they know me very well. I get asked questions about some of the most ridiculous bullshit, just because everyone naturally assumes I will know the answers. The fact that I usually do is neither here nor there. I am just the Mom‘s daughter. We learn things, we retain information, and, most importantly, we look shit up.

My favorite salad dressing, if I have made the salad, with mesclun mix and a variety of additional fresh vegetables, is vinaigrette made either with red wine vinegar, sherry vinegar, or lemon juice. If I’m eating one of those restaurant salads where they bring it to you before the meal, with iceberg lettuce and a single lonely wedge of refrigerated tomato, I usually ask for bleu cheese, just so I will have something to taste.

All the members of my immediate family live way too far away from me. They’re in Connecticut or Massachusetts, and I’m in Nevada. I also have cousins in other parts of the world, but I don’t know which of them is the farthest. I’m not sure it matters, because I probably have never met any of them; and if I have, I can’t have made much of an impression.

My first name gets mispronounced all the time. Most commonly, people see the spelling with an “O”, assume it’s a misspelling, and pronounce it as though it were spelled with an “A”. However, at work the other day, a coworker called me by a completely wrong name, and I didn’t know she meant me till she told another coworker that I was ignoring her. Well, that’s what she gets. I have enough trouble paying attention when you get my name right.

I started blogging in November of 2001, but my posts have gotten very few and far-between. Part of it is the fact that I can keep in touch with my friends and family much more easily now than I could in those days before social media and unlimited talk and text. Part of it is the fact that I no longer work for a company that allows personal web use at one’s desk, even during breaks. Most of it is that I don’t think anyone really gives a shit anymore. I only keep doing it because I’m just that fucking stubborn.

I have a Bachelor of Science in Business Administration. I would like to go back to school, but my company will only pay for further business classes, and I want a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing.

My biggest peeve is that everyone seems to want me to call my peeves “pets.” If they’re pets, then, fine. I will abandon them, and you can rescue them and take care of them yourself. My other two main peeves are people who are being paid for good grammar and spelling but cannot manage either one, and trying to lose weight when food is so delicious.


Tags:

drinking: ice water
listening to: Black Symphony, Deliverance (Queensryche cover)
alternate sea creature: one of those blue fish like Dory in Finding Nemo. We have the same memory span.

how do you like this title, jerkface?

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:

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

pillar of useless information

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:

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

having a little think

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:

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

feeling cupid

Well, I have pernicious anemia, which is completely awesome, because not only does it explain my wonky lymph nodes, which means, yay, no lymphoma (at least, so far), but it also sounds like “Vermicious Knids,” and going from “wonky” to Wonka is a tremendous relief and exceedingly cool.

I have to have B12 shots every eight weeks, but, for now, no more infusions, which news is also yaytastic.

Other than that, nothing much. I am the reigning queen of overtime, I bought three more pairs of pants in non-plus sizes (does that render me nonplussed?), and I have voted for Chicken and Waffles to be Lay’s new chip flavor.

That Man of Mine voted for Cheesy Garlic Bread flavor.

Yes, this marriage will last, but if his chips win, he can kiss kissing goodbye.

I got perfume for Valentine’s Day. I presume he’s not telling me I smell funny.

We went to Fresh Kabob for lunch, and while you are saying that this is so not romantic, it was not busy and the food is amazing.

In fact, it would have been ever so romantic, had I been with someone who didn’t insist upon stealing from my plate.

But he cares. He refrained from farting till we were back in the car.

I’m thinking, maybe next year, instead of perfume, he should get me air freshener.

drinking: ice water
watching: this thing about comets on history channel
wishing: not to be allergic to chocolate on valentine’s day

apock-ellipses

So I got this really terrifying email that said something like, “IT ALL ENDS TOMORROW.”

Then I opened it and realized it was a bulk mailing about a flower sale.

Yes. Get your roses now, because tomorrow they will ALL BE DEAD.

I’m not scared of the Apocalypse, incidentally. I don’t figure the Universe is going to let me die without giving itself the opportunity to watch me humiliate myself in front of someone really cool, such as, probably, Liam Neeson.

See? Got him into an Armageddon post. I am Just That Talented.

So.

I’m not altogether thrilled with the world as it stands at the moment, anyway.

If I were in charge, you know, if I were the deity to whom everyone has been asking, “Why?” about the poor little kids in Newtown, I’d probably reply, sadly, “I have no idea,” wad the whole thing up, bung it into the dustbin, and start fresh on the 22nd.

Please. I’ve been whingeing about end-times in this blog since around 2003, I guess, and that’s about ten years too long.

Plus, it’s currently a Thursday. If I were Arthur Dent, I’d be looking for a towel and about six pints of bitter.

Speaking of beer, I went to Lee’s to get some la Fin du Monde today, and they are Sold. The Fuck. Out.

Not hardly surprised.

Little disappointed, as I enjoyed the potential pun, but, really, if I’m going to leave the world kicking and screaming, the next-to-last words I want to scream (before my very last words, which I am planning to have be “You know, this is just the sort of thing that’d turn a gay man straight”) will be, “At least I got one final bottle of Chimay.”

I am ready to go to a galaxy far, far away. I have my very own lightsaber.

Granted, it is about the size of a toothpick, but that is quite reasonable when you consider that it started life on the top of a cupcake.

Oh, hasn’t your cupcake girl hooked you up with a Star Wars™ cupcake yet?

Oh, you don’t have a cupcake girl.

Don’t sweat it. After tomorrow, neither will anyone else.

Unless we live.

In which case, it is going to suck royally, being you, without a lightsaber.



Tags:

drinking: ice water
listening to: Tim Minchin, White Wine in the Sun
lightsaber blade: green, of course. qui gon jinn, for the win