One of the great things about living in the desert is that we have movie theaters in the casinos, so after you finish watching your movie, your eyes have time to acclimate: you exit the theater, you walk through the already-dark casino, and you exit into …

… the covered parking garage, which buys you even more time.

All of this occurred to me today when we were walking out of Star Trek: Into Darkness, at the Century 18 in Sam’s Town.

Definitely worth the price of admission, incidentally, in the sense that That Man of Mine works for Boyd Gaming, and the movie was free.

I won’t spoil it for anyone, but die-hard Trekkers who have seen the first batch of movies, with Shatner et al, will feel as though they are watching a rerun. I won’t even tell you which film it ripped off, because the title of the original film gives away a big plot point in the new film.

On the plus side, Karl Urban is still as hot as ever, and I am now, officially (and shamefacedly), a Cumberbitch.

(Did you know Chris Pine’s dad is Robert Pine? Most people remember him from CHiPs, but he was also incredibly good at Password.)

But there, let us leave the art critic to strangle his wife, and move on to pastures new.

The pain specialist and the psychiatrist (which sounds like a Sally Field movie) finally got their shit together, so next month I can have my first operation.

It’s outpatient surgery, where they’ll insert the electrode leads under my skin and leave the mechanism out, in a pack not unlike a fanny bag. I’ll wear it for a couple of days and, if it gives me relief, we’ll go forward with the second surgery to implant the mechanism.

I’m excited about the idea of getting pain relief from something other than a bottle. I have found that Percocet makes my pain manageable not because it helps the pain, but because it makes me not give a fuck about it, and I am terrified of becoming addicted to that feeling.

Don’t tell me I won’t get addicted. I haven’t had a cigarette in nearly eleven years and I still want one.

I have no other news whatsoever, so I have decided to borrow from Skirts and tell you what-all’s in my bag.

I have one bag that I carry for pretty much everything, and it is the Blue Q shoulder tote. They’re not designer; they’re not chic. They’re affordable, they’re made from recycled materials, and they are super, SUPER cute. They’re also incredibly roomy, so I can fit a lot of everyday stuff in them and also use them for groceries.

Currently, in my favorite Blue Q tote (Bautista), I have:

• my cell phone
• my Android
• my wallet
• my water bottle
• my badge for getting into my office
• toothbrush and toothpaste
• a cosmetic bag containing mascara, tinted lip balm, Kleenex, Tylenol, a pillbox with emergency Percs, and a tiny sewing kit
• E.L.F mini complete makeup collection (I duck into a ladies’ room and come out looking like I had a makeover. Win)
• a pen and notepad in case my Android dies mid-idea
• bacon-mints. ‘Cos, bacon, and mint, that’s why
• And a towel, because I am cool and froody

I was rather hoping the contents would be more interesting, but, in my defense, most of my really interesting stuff (books, games, and brilliant story ideas) are inside the Android, so it’s not like I’m leaving them behind or anything.

Tags: Star Trek: Into Darkness

drinking: ice water
listening to: Jason Mraz, I Won’t Give Up
bonus bag item: an apple, but only because i forgot to eat it

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

If I won a $5,000 shopping spree to any store, I think I would pick Amazon. That way I could get a bit of everything.

I don’t have a particular brand of sports apparel I wear more often than any other, mostly because I don’t tend to wear sports apparel. I work out in sweatpants or shorts, and an extremely tatty t-shirt advertising a shipping company whose trucks are chocolatey-brown and who pays me not to mention their name in my blog, even about my tatty t-shirt. I believe I own a Nike hoodie, somewhere, but it’s not because I purchased it. I think That Man of Mine got it with Coke Rewards points.

I was a rubbish student, in the sense that I hated to study and was bad to procrastinate, homeworkwise. However, I was an excellent student in that I read all the textbooks the first week of school and was good at churning out great homework at the last minute. Also, my teachers tended to love me, even when I was going through my badass stage.

Amongst my friends, I believe I could arm-wrestle, and beat, a few of them, because I have been working out with wrist weights and I think some of them don’t work out at all. However, the only one I’m sure I could beat is MommaJ, who just retired. She’s two years older than baseball. I could kick her arse, if she weren’t so freaking sweet.

If I had to choose a branch of the military to be in, I’d pick the Marines. I reckon that’s the branch that would kick me out the fastest.

I think my best feature is my brain, but for people who have to have something to look at, I guess you could do worse than looking at my eyes. They’re light brown. They used to be darker, but I appear to be losing pigment with age. Anyway, I’m told that they twinkle. I wouldn’t be surprised if they did.

If I were to win a Grammy, I’d probably win it for Best Performance In the Shower, Without Actually Knowing All the Words, and With Air Guitar. Not a category, you say? Well, it should be. If I were to be nominated for an actual Grammy, for the kind of stuff I actually sing most often, I guess it’d be Rock.

If I were to win an Oscar, that would be for Best Performance by Someone Who Actually Can’t Act. Oh, for pizza’s sake, you want a real category again. Fine. Is Comedy a category in the Oscars, or only the Golden Globes? I guess I could manage a screenwriter’s nomination, but it would have to be for something lighthearted.

My favorite season is paprika. Oh, season. Not seasoning. I like autumn. It’s a nice relief from the agony of summer in the desert.

What counts in your immediate family? Is that the person to whom you’re married, and your offspring, or is it your parents and siblings, but not your offspring? Probably a moot point, since I’ve never offsprung. Anyway, counting it off: I have the Mom, and my dad, who are still married to each other, and I have a brother, who has two daughters, who are also related to me by blood, so do they count, even if his wife, whom I adore, isn’t? I have-ish a sister, whom I am not close to, and she recently married, and I like her husband quite a lot, but he’s not related by blood, so he’s not immediate family. He’s more of eventual family. And then there is my That Man’s twin sister, whom I am extremely close to, and her kids, which still don’t count as immediate family, so I guess that’s four immediates. If we’re counting. I’d just as soon not.

I think, of the five main senses (I think there are more), I most value my eyesight. I’d be annoyed if I couldn’t smell anymore, devastated if I couldn’t taste anymore, pissed if I couldn’t hear anymore, and relieved if I couldn’t feel anymore (no more pain? hell, yes). But if I couldn’t see anymore, I’d miss the lightning. No.

I would be a more successful singer than a painter. Most people can tell what I’m singing when I sing. When I paint, I get a lot of, “Wow, that’s a nice dog,” and then they have to backtrack when I explain that it’s supposed to be a lion.

I have a degree in Business Admin. Given the time and the money, I’d go back to school and do four years for my BFA in writing, another four for my MFA, and stop if I were too old or too tired. If I weren’t, I’d go back for another four for my BS in astronomy, and possibly another four for my Master’s if I hadn’t dropped dead of exhaustion. I’m tired (and broke) just thinking about it.

The only surgery I’ve ever had has been biopsies, unless spinal taps and colonoscopies count. I’m supposed to be having another surgery for a spinal cord stimulator, to cut my pain, but there have been a few communication snafus between the psychiatrist and the pain specialist. I don’t expect them to sort their shit out anytime soon. In the meantime, I have Percocet, and Australian ginger beer. I’ve survived on less.

I would rather be a professional figure skater than a professional football player. I would have loved to be a professional figure skater anyway. They look so lovely. Unfortunately, I am full of ecarg, which is the opposite of grace.

If I could collect anything, it would be first-edition books. This sort of collection doesn’t fit my budget. I content myself with collecting penguins, in the sense that I never actually have to buy any. I just mention that I like penguins and then everyone buys me some, or sends me pictures of them, or makes sure they’re on my birthday cards, et cetera.

As far as how many valuable collectibles I own, I think that number is zero. However, there are a metric fuckton of baseball cards in my home, and I think I paid for some of them, so do they count?

The final question in that hundred-question survey was: “What one question would you add to this survey?” Really? Don’t you think you covered everything? Sometimes dividing it into two questions? Here’s the question I would add:

Do you feel you learned anything about yourself by answering all these questions?

And my answer would be: I don’t know if I learned anything I didn’t already know, but I’m pretty sure I remembered stuff I thought was long since forgotten.

Tags: meme

drinking: ice water
listening to: Ne-Yo, Let Me Love You
betting: you’re thoroughly sick of this meme

The only items I have ever taken from hotels accidentally (whether staying at them or working at them) have been pens. I tend to stick them in my pocket or drop them into my purse without thinking about whether or not they actually belong to me. This is not to say that pens are the only items I have ever taken from hotels. I have taken ashtrays, towels, matchbooks, sugar packets, Danish that was only going to be discarded anyway, and, on one occasion, a lampshade … all from hotels at which I worked, and all completely and totally deliberately. I reckon the statute of limitations is up on all of that stuff. If not, they can have back the ashtrays and matchbooks. I already used the sugar packets.

I have fallen twice whilst showering. The first time, I was home alone. Thereafter, I stopped showering unless That Man of Mine was home. I did not tell him, because I am a fool. He found out the hard way, the second time I fell. I have a shower seat now, but I use it more for balance than actually sitting in it to shower, anymore. My equilibrium has gotten a lot better now that my health is more under control.

I do not use deodorant soap. I don’t like how it makes my skin feel. I use Bain de Luxe foaming body scrub, which smells like oranges and vanilla, and follow it up with hypoallergenic crystal deodorant. I can’t afford my favorite perfume, Very Irresistible by Givenchy, most of the time, and thank gourd, because I always misspell “irresistible.” (I put in an “a,” every single time.) So I have some, but I only use it on special occasions. For everyday, I wear Bath and Body Works Forever Red, including that I have a pomander necklace that I use as my badge lanyard, and in the little pomander holder thingy is a wodge of cotton moistened with Forever Red. Not only do I smell okay without the use of deodorant soap, my badge is probably the best-smelling one at the company of the chocolatey-brown trucks.

I have never locked myself out of the house so badly that I couldn’t get back in. We all got locked out once when I was a tiny kid, and the GolfBrother got us in. I can’t remember if he broke a window (probably the cellar or the garage, if he did), or if he just cut a screen. He was even tinier than I was at the time, so it’s no good asking him. Anyway, I locked myself out of my first house twice. The first time, I went to the neighbor’s, used their phone, and called my roommate, who worked about two miles away and came home to let me in. By the second time, she and my other roommate were working in Milford, which was a longer haul, so I went around to the side and pried open the basement window. It was undignified, but it worked. Better than I cared for, since my stereo and things were inside. I wasn’t thrilled that it was so easily accessible.

I would not want to make a living as a singing cowboy. There’s only one I even know of anymore, and he sings in tighty-whities and a Stetson on a street corner in New York. I don’t imagine he’s making a living at it, or he could afford britches. I’d far rather make my living as a voiceover artist on The Simpsons. In fact, I’d rather be a writer for The Simpsons, but I do what I do.

I suppose you think that, if I could invite any movie star to dinner, I should invite Liam Neeson. That would be foolhardy. That Man of Mine eats dinner here too, you know. I think I would invite Laura Linney. She seems very cool. She’s also, unbeknownst to That Man, one of Liam Neeson’s closest friends, so, of course, when I was walking her out, I’d whisper to her, “Tell Liam Neeson I made really good spaghetti sauce.” It’s far less harmful, and less stalkeriffic, than saying, “Tell Liam Neeson that I’m wondering if the rumors on that Tumblr page are true.”

I have to go to the ophthalmologist. I have reading glasses, but lately I’m noticing that everything has a lovely fuzzy halo around it. I guess my prescription ran out.

I have, in my travels round the axis, hung out with and/or dated plenty of people my other friends didn’t like. In fairness, most of them have done the same thing, more often even than I. While I refused to pass judgment on their choices, taking their sides even when I didn’t agree with them, because that’s what BFFs do, they generally did not return the favor. Most of them are off living their own lives now, and I don’t hang out or date anyone, because I am married, and we only have the one car, which he drives. I hang out with whomever he fancies hanging out with.

I have also, in those same travels round the axis, been obligated to hang out with people whom my friends liked, but I didn’t. This will continue to be true for the rest of my life, I am afraid, because That Man of Mine likes golfers and card collectors. I couldn’t possibly be more bored.

I myself have never returned a gift to the store, but my gramma got me a shirt once that didn’t fit, and she exchanged it. Since she worked at the store, it wasn’t a difficult thing to do. I had the new shirt the next time we went to visit. As far as other gifts I’ve received, I have either really, genuinely loved them, or not liked them but not had the receipts, so I kept them or regifted them. I don’t regift capriciously, incidentally. For instance, when someone gave klutzy old me a pair of spun-glass ballerina slippers (meant as a wall hanging, not for actual wear), they were one of the more useless (and, potentially, short-lived) gifts I have ever gotten … but I do happen to be friends with a dancer who thought they were a lovely gift from me. So I did get some satisfaction from them, after all.

I don’t care for the Olympics. I’m not interested enough in athletics, and I have seen too many instances of cheating and/or rigging of the judging in the past few games. If I were being forced to attend one event, I would probably pick women’s basketball, since it would likely include at least one UConn alumna whom I would recognize.

If I had to participate in an Olympic event, I’d pick some sort of race, and then, at the starting gun, I would move to the side, sit down, and read my book, which is what I do when the Olympics are on telly, anyway. They wouldn’t know what to do with me.

I own, for me, a lot of shoes. Five years ago, I owned two, and I hated both pairs. They were ugly, but they fit someone whose feet and ankles were terrifyingly swollen. Then my meds got fixed, my size went back to normal, and I made a deal with That Man of Mine that, any time another packet of baseball cards entered the house, I would be buying another pair of cute shoes. He’s been more prudent as a result, but every so often, cards just need to be owned. I have gone from one pair of horrible black loafers (which were my dress shoes) and one pair of white canvas sneakers with a coffee stain on the right toe, to two pairs of sneakers (one of them high-topped and patterned after the Union Jack, possibly my favorite sneakers I have ever owned), five pairs of heels, seven pairs of ballet flats (two red pairs, because red shoes just put me in a really good mood), two pairs of sandals, one pair of regular flip-flops, and a pair of Swap-Flops, with five interchangeable vamps so I can color-coordinate. I have my eye on another pair of flats, but I won’t get them until That Man really needs more baseball cards.

When my gramma was alive, I would never have told her if she got me a gift I already had. I loved that woman. I would not knowingly hurt her feelings. However, my gramma was also the sort of person who, if she got something for you a second time, she’d say that she didn’t know you still had the first one, because she certainly didn’t see you using it. You think I’m snarky. My gramma invented snark.

I no longer sing in the car. That Man does all the driving, and he picks the listening. Either we don’t listen to anything at all, or we have sports radio. We take the occasional side trip into Yawny — I mean, Yanni — or Andrea Bocelli. I cannot bring myself to stay awake for Yanni, let alone sing along. I don’t sing along with Andrea Bocelli because I’d ruin it. All of that having been said, I sing in the shower, and when I’m alone in the house, you’d better watch out, because music is on, and I am singing along at the top of my lungs.

My favorite breed of dog is probably the beagle. They’re not so big they destroy the house or drag you at the end of their leads, and they’re not so small they yap incessantly and bite your ankles.

If I had money to spare, then yes, I would donate money to feed starving animals in the winter, if it were an organization for which it could be proven that that’s where the money was going. Be fair, if I had money to spare, that’s not the first charity I would choose, but I can’t deny that it’s a noble cause.

My favorite fruit is probably the Bosc pear. I think, in a previous post, I might have said apple. I do love apples, but I prefer Bosc pears, and I just forgot, that’s all. It’s a blog. I didn’t chip the shit into my tombstone or something: “Here Lies Golfwidow, Lover of Apples to the Exclusion of All Other Fruits.” That’s a rubbish epitaph. Pears. They’re yummy.

Tags: meme

drinking: ice water
listening to: Dave Mason, We Just Disagree
craving: curry. which means i have to defrost some chicken

We’ve established what I am. We’re just haggling over the price.

I have visited exactly one foreign country. Which, if you’re rounding things off, is nearly zero. Plus, the foreign country I visited was Great Britain, where they mostly spoke the same language I do, only sexier, and with some weird expressions thrown in to confuse me (did you know, for instance, that a fart can be a “trouser cough?”), and the Customs bloke wouldn’t let me pay customs on my imports because I was traveling with The Mom, even though I was over twenty-one and didn’t live under her roof anymore. So I’d like to try that again sometime, perhaps in a more confusing country, and with customs charges.

One of the more bizarre questions on the “mostly useless questions” meme asks, “If you were out of shape, would you compete in a triathlon if you were somehow guaranteed to win a big, gaudy medal?” Here are my answers, in order: I’m not in the best of shape now, but I’m in better shape than I was, and I still don’t want to compete in a triathlon. However, if I’m guaranteed to win, then I’ll be happy to show up at the starting line and collect my big, gaudy medal, which I will then give to my office girlfriend, because he is a darling, but a bit of a magpie, and shiny things make him ever so giddy.

I would rather be poor and happy than rich and unhappy. That having been said, I’d rather, given a choice, be rich and happy. I don’t believe money can buy happiness, but I’d sure like to have the peace of mind it can bring, and then I’ll have time to make my own happiness.

If I fell into quicksand, I believe I would probably try to swim. I wouldn’t mean to. It’s just that, when nothing’s supporting me, I flail. You’ll just have to accept that about me. And so, I imagine, will the quicksand.

We got lost quite a lot today. I didn’t so much want to ask for directions as to say to That Man of Mine, “Can’t you just pull into that Starbucks’ lot? I’ll get a WiFi connection and get you directions.” And he said, “I like to drive around. This is how I learn the area.” It was also how we used up most of our gas and about two hours, looking for a place we never actually wound up finding. Poor and happy, did you say?

I never held a Mexican jumping bean. The girl down the street had some, when I was a tiny kid. She was too, come to that. Anyway, she wouldn’t let me hold them, but she let me watch whilst they wriggled around in the box. Later, the Mom told me they had bugs inside, so I’m glad I didn’t hold them. Ick.

I think I’m more like Alice in Wonderland than I am like Cinderella. I don’t sit around crying and waiting for some old broad to wave a wand and send me to prom. I drink out of the little bottle, and eat the cake, and try the mushrooms … whatever I have to do to get the key into my hand and get myself small enough to go through the little door into the beautiful garden. My problem is that Prince Charming keeps putting baseball cards in front of the door. And I think I’ve screwed these metaphors into an unsolvable knot, so I will stop now.

Given the choice, I would rather have a box of crayons without points than an ant farm without ants. Even without liking bugs (see above), an empty ant farm doesn’t do anything. Broken crayons? Don’t be silly. Peel the paper back and start coloring.

Frankly, I’m not fussy about bread. If white Wonder Bread is all that’s available, I’m still going to eat the hell out of it, because I am a bread ho. But even when I seek out light bread, it’s got to be interesting — challah is fine; I also like potato bread, or Portuguese sweet bread, for sandwiches. French bread is good because it’s got a crust one has to commit oneself to. Most of the time, though, I’m looking for a dark, chewy bread, with lots of seeds and texture mixed into it.

I will pretty much eat eggs prepared any way at all, except if the whites are still clear. I — ugh. Yeah, no. Whites should be white. Golf Widow Law. Anyway, if scrambled is what’s happening, eggwise, fine (can you at least toss a little parsley into it, please?), but I order my eggs over medium well, so the yolks are, not runny, but crawly. I like to dunk my (dark bread) toast into the yolks. When I’m home, I fry eggs and break the yolks, the way my daddy used to make them for me, and put them into a sandwich (light bread for that preparation, because Daddy didn’t want any of that whole wheat crap).

When I was a teenager, my friends and I were coming home from a party and my friend’s car ran out of gas. We pushed it to the side of the road and walked to a pay phone, because the dinosaurs had eaten all the cell towers. Anyway, it was about a half mile walk, and my friend was terrified because her dad was going to kill her, for being out that late, for being irresponsible and running out of gas, et cetera, et cetera. I had a dime in my shoe, because my daddy said I always should, just in case I lost my purse. I had my purse, but the only change I had was that dime. Fortunately, a dime was all we needed, because that was all a phone call cost, when Lincoln was president. We didn’t call my friend’s dad. We called mine. Yes, he swore up a storm, because he was watching The Honeymooners and he had only seen that episode a few dozen times before, but he did show up, with a can of gas, and followed us to the nearest gas station, where he put another $5 into the tank, which, in those days, filled it about halfway, because gas was a very new fossil fuel and we still had plenty. The part of this episode that stuck with me, more than the fact that I never ran out of gas myself after that, ever … was that my friend cried on the way home, and said, “I love your dad more than I love mine.” I thought that was incredibly sad. My dad could be an embarrassment (he showed up in that gourdawful fruit-covered shirt, for instance), but I adored him. No one else’s dad could compete.

I already answered the question about talking in my sleep, because they asked if I ever sleepwalked. I feel like I ought to throw something else in here for you. Oh, I know what. I have out-of-body experiences sometimes. I can’t usually control when or how, but when I feel one coming on (usually when I’m dozing off), I can sometimes steer myself to certain places. It was unnerving the first time. It’s kind of cool now that I’m used to it.

I would rather shovel snow than mow the lawn. Our sidewalk was short, even with all the stairs to the front entrance. Our yard was vast. Fortunately, I live in the desert. We get maybe two flakes of snow per year, and our front lawn is dirt. My shoveling/mowing consists of picking up the occasional discarded wrapper and walking it over to the Dumpster.

I used to love to play in the rain. The world was more interesting (and more abandoned) when water was spilling onto it. I don’t get as much rain anymore, and I’m arthritic as hell, but I still like to park a chair outside for a little while and turn my face up toward the downpour. I’m not sure what that says about me, and I’m okay with that.

I didn’t make mud pies when I was a tiny kid, however. There was a tree in the park across the street that had had a double trunk, but one of the trunks had been cut off, leaving a trunk with a stump poking out. The stump was hollow, and I used to fill it with sand and soil on sunny days, just so I could go to the park when it rained and stir it with a stick. I called it “deer soup,” and I imagined how happy the deer would be, when they came to the park and saw I had cooked for them.

I have broken my left big toe, twice, and my right pinky. I never went to the doctor on either of those. For my toe, the pharmacist where I worked told me the E.R. wouldn’t even splint a toe, and to wear sneakers and white socks till it healed. When it broke the second time, I did the same thing. For my pinky, I bought a splint at a different drugstore (I was way past that first job by then) and it healed all right, too. I reckon I’m all set if I break a bigger bone, eh?

I would not climb a very tall tree to save a kitten. A kitten, no matter what you think, will come down on its own. I’ve seen them do it. However, I would climb Everest to save a child. Although, if it were my own child, there’d be serious trouble for them having climbed up there in the first place. They’d be so grounded that the light from being off-punishment wouldn’t even reach them for ninety-six billion years.

An alligator’s snout looks pointed. Think the letter V. A crocodile’s snout is blunt. Think the letter U. Now remember that you will never need to know the difference, because if you’re near one, and it’s hungry, you’re fucked either way.

I honestly don’t have a preference between Pepsi versus Coke. I drink very little soda as is; when I do, I’d rather have Sprite, or ginger ale. When I’m drinking cola, my first choice is Mexican Coke, which is made with sugar cane and is far more refreshing than any cola that’s been sweetened with high-fructose corn syrup. If domestic is all there is, give me whatever. I’m not sure I can tell the difference. I’ve never really tried.

My favorite number is 42. It’s my date of birth, 6, multiplied by my luckiest number, 7, and it’s my age, and it’s the Meaning of Life, the Universe, and Everything. Everyone’s favorite number should be 42.

We’re almost done with this list, kids. Gimme a couple more weeks.

Tags: meme

drinking: ice water
listening to: Van Morrison, And the Healing Has Begun
into the music: because my cousin was listening to bright side of the road and i got jealous

As I grew older, I always cut my own hair, up until fairly recently, when I went to Supercuts so I could get my eyebrows waxed, and when the girl said, “Can I help you?” I heard myself saying, “I’ve been cutting my own hair for years, and I think it needs to be fixed.” She did an awesome job. Supercut turned into Supercute. Now that I know exactly what to say to the person with the scissors (#7 clipper around the ears and back; follow the same cut guidelines for the rest, tapering up from the back, wispy bang, square off the back, please), I have control over my hair without having to cut it myself. Yay me (and about damned time).

I have never sleepwalked, to my knowledge. (I lived on my own for years; who knows what I did in those days.) However, I once had a sleeping conversation, with motions, with a relative, who came into my room asking to borrow my gray skirt. I told her yes, and when she asked where it was, I allegedly handed her my teddy bear. Which is only right, because, had I been awake, I probably would have said no to the skirt-borrowing.

I have never had a birthday party at McDonald’s. I was a grown-up before I ever had a birthday party at all. It’s actually my birthday today, right now. I am forty-two. The meaning of Life, the Universe, and Everything. Logic dictates that I will, therefore, be ragingly ill, and That Man will be sleeping off his previous shift so he can go have another one in eight hours. The concept of a talking tree and a sundae are therefore making me incredibly jealous, at the moment.

I taught myself, millions of years ago, to flip my eyelids up in order to prove to the boys who were trying to use that move to gross me out, that they were going to have to try harder. I haven’t had to do it in years. Can I still do it? No. I have lost the knack. Fortunately, I have also lost the need for it.

There is no such thing as actual double-jointedness. However, I can bend the top joints of my fingers whilst keeping the second joint straight. This kept the kids in the cafeteria line fascinated for minutes on end.

If I could be any age, I wouldn’t go back to one I’ve already done. I’d pick a really old one, like 122, and shock people with my potty mouth and my fondness for penguins, cupcakes, and Doctor Who.

Not to mention Liam Neeson. Ahem.

One summer, when I was fairly tiny, we went on one of those Park Rec picnics to a lake somewhere, and I had gum in my mouth, and they were going to be serving lunch (hot dogs, one of my favorites), and I stuck my gum behind my ear like Violet Beauregard in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. By the time I got to the front of the hot dog line, it was in my hair. One of the grown-ups got it out with suntan oil. (Which was probably SPF negative 1000 since, in those days, we considered a super-dark tan to be the best protection against the sun.)

I’m still mad at Roald Dahl about that. How incredibly irresponsible. And yes, there was a logical reason for me to believe the bit about the gum despite the fact that the original chewer, in the same story, turns into a humongous blueberry. I just can’t remember it at the moment.

I love roller coasters. They are my favorite carnival ride (because, apparently, beer and fried dough don’t count). However, most of the people I love, hate them. I’m not sure what that says about me.

My dream car is the Bugatti Veyron. Red and black, please. It’s a beautiful car. I know Jeremy Clarkson thinks it’s silly to want a Veyron when one can just use the money to buy a mansion, but he also thinks that that blazer he wears is fashion-forward, so we needn’t listen to him all the time.

My all-time favorite cartoon series is probably the classic Warner Brothers stuff (Looney Toons, Merrie Melodies, et cetera), but my all-time favorite cartoon, ever, is Bedtime for Sniffles, when Sniffles the Mouse is trying in vain to stay up all night to see Sanny Claus. Aside from being a showcase for Warner Brothers director Chuck Jones’ facility of realizing character through facial expression, it’s just so fucking adorable.

I have never eaten a dog biscuit. I tried dry cat food once. It tasted more like cereal than like meat. These days, with all the organic pet food commercials complaining that the standard foods contain too much corn meal gluten or whatever, I guess it was supposed to taste like cereal.

Having said that, and despite the fact that I do enjoy cereal, I’m not planning on having any more cat food.

I think that, if I were in a car sinking in a lake, the first thing I would try to do is open the door. If it would not open, I would try to open the window. Yes, the water will rush in, but I need to rush out. Assuming I ever got the window open (or broken), I would then get stuck in the window whilst trying to get out, and drown. The moral of the story is: don’t eat those fries, foo.

I have never ridden in an ambulance as the person needing the ambulance. I have, on two occasions, ridden in the ambulance, sitting up, with the person who went in on her back. (No point saying “his or her.” It was a female both times.)

I am pretty good at picking stuff up off the floor with my toes. That Man thinks I’m wrong to walk round barefoot all the time, but he can’t pick up anything with his toes, so bang goes his theory, then. Anyway, I freely admit that, for a split second when I’m transferring the pen from my toes to my fingers, I feel like a superior life-form. You’re just going to have to accept that about me.

We have two remote controls in our house. One of them is universal, so we only ever use that one. To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure where the other one is. If I had clicker control last, then it’s in a kitchen drawer. If Himself had clicker control last, then it’s anywhere but the kitchen drawer.

I sometimes sleep with my eyes open. I have a relative who used to tell that to people in order to embarrass me. It didn’t turn into a talent till high school, when all the kids who used to laugh were suddenly jealous that I could do it in class whenever I liked. It didn’t hurt that I used to read the textbooks the first week of the class, so if the teacher did call on me/wake me up, I’d still know the answer. I never had a teacher know for sure if I was napping, although I imagine one or two did suspect it.

I have not been in an airplane since 2010. Since that particular time, I was riding back to New England for my mother-in-law’s funeral, I’m not so much looking forward to my next plane trip.

That was, really, twenty more. Some of the questions were follow-ups to previous questions (such as, “have you ever cut your own hair?” and “how did that turn out?”) so I answered them together. You’re welcome.

Tags: meme

drinking: ice water
listening to: Maroon 5, One More Night
mainlining: alka seltzer plus

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

Only, I’ve never done that meme.

I feel bad, that she gave me credit for something someone else did. I hate that.

I reckon, the least I can do is get the meme out of the way now, so she can go round telling everyone she’s psychic, borrowing a meme from me a couple of days before I actually did it.

As usual, I’ll be answering the questions in complete sentences, paragraph form, so you can follow along without feeling you’ve been made to read a list.

Also, as usual, you are not tagged. Do, or do not. There is no tag.

(My unborn children are thanking their lucky stars not to have been born, because their mother is a big old geek.)

Anyway.

I do not currently have a cell phone. If you had lost your lucrative job and your home, and your new job is still, after four years, only paying you a fraction of what you used to make, and you had an empiric shitload of medical bills, you’d do whatever you could to avoid another bill. So, in all honesty, the last text I received was from That Man of Mine, and he wanted to know if I needed anything at the store, and it’s way too late for me to respond now, even if I had a phone, because the store he was on his way to was in Connecticut, and we haven’t lived there since 2008.

I never close my bedroom door, neither to sleep nor otherwise. There’s no point. This apartment is miniscule, and closing the door just makes a small space seem smaller. As regards the clutter in my bedroom, no one ever comes inside who does not already live here.

I drink mostly ice water, with coffee a close second, but I do drink an awful lot of tea, both iced and hot. I like my iced tea lightly sweetened, with lemon. I like most hot tea the same way, but I like chai with non-dairy creamer or soy milk, because lemon makes it taste a little bit odd.

My plans for tomorrow include, but are not limited to, going to le Mart du Wal for new shorts that don’t fall down, since it’s getting pretty warm outside; counting out my pills for the week, which I normally do on my days off but was feeling rather lazy; trying out some of my new makeup; washing off the new makeup and going to sleep for a few hours; then putting back on some of the new makeup and going to work.

I hardly know what’s worse to me: dry skin or chapped lips. I have appallingly major troubles with both. However, by making exfoliation my watchword in everything I do, I’m able to keep both problems more or less at bay. Having given it some thought, I’ve got to say that, while I can ignore the scaliness on my face and elbows if nothing is touching them, I’m pretty much always conscious of how badly chapped my lips are. I buy tinted lip balm by the bucket. People just assume I’m super vain, and I let them.

I’d be somewhat surprised if Facebook suddenly started charging for their services, mostly because I think they’re aware that they’d lose a good portion of their users, including me. I’d find some other, free way to communicate with people. As to playing games, I have lots of free apps on my Android, and That Man of Mine plays chess with his dad via email. Facebook has to understand that people would do a lot more of that sort of thing, faced with a choice. The ones who would be willing to pay for the service would soon drop it once they realized that the only thing they had in common with the remaining paying users would be the lighter wallets.

I would rather go to California than Canada on vacation. I have friends and family in California. While I do have a few relatives and friends in Canada (and have never eaten a Nanaimo bar), what I mostly have there are incredibly rude and demanding clients, and I’d just as soon vacation whilst I am vacationing, thank you.

I have not touched my MySpace account in years. I use Facebook and Twitter regularly. I think I have a Tumblr account, but I think I only registered there to post one comment, and I can’t recall having logged in there in years, either. I have a LinkedIn account. I log in once in a while to approve other people wanting to link to me. I don’t remember ever having actually used it to network, myself. I have Klout, but I keep forgetting to check my standings. I use Mindbloom for myself, but, although it’s considered a social medium, none of my friends are registered in it, and I don’t see the point in making friends with any of the other users.

I am currently wearing neither jeans, shorts, sweatpants, nor pajama pants. I’m wearing my Black Knightshirt. It says, quite specifically, that it’s only a flesh wound … my favorite line both from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, and Taken.

If I were to change lives for one day with the last person I texted, there’d be a whole lot of baseball card throwing out going on.

I’m trying to think to whom I last told a secret. I don’t keep secrets from That Man of Mine, as such, but I don’t tell him secrets about other people, either, because he can’t keep a secret. I’m thinking it was probably Andy, but I don’t remember what the secret was, so if he tells, I’m guessing it’s no big deal.

At the moment, I’m listening to a playlist I put together at the casino last week. I was too broke to play, and it was too early for the lunch buffet, so, for fun, I used my Android notebook app to make a list of the songs that were playing on the casino sound system. When I got home, I looked up all the songs and put them in one playlist. I do what I can to amuse myself.

The last place I fell asleep, other than my bed, was in the car on the way home from work the other day. If you’re wigging out right now, that means you aren’t paying attention, because we’ve only got the one car and That Man was driving. All my napping took place in the shotgun seat.

I think the one person to whom I will always be attached is my grandfather. I lost him thirty-five years ago, and I only had him for about seven. I still feel he knew me better than anyone. He certainly loved me madly, and I him.

I will almost certainly not be attending any concerts this year unless someone other than That Man is driving and paying. He hates the kind of music I love, and when we do agree on music (opera, for instance, or chamber music), we cannot afford tickets.

I always wanted to believe in karma, but the first (and so far, only) time I’ve ever actually borne witness to it in action, with relation to myself, was the time that the HR woman who screwed up my unemployment wound up getting laid off herself. (While I would never have wished that upon her, or anyone, I was still angry enough about her clerical mistake that my first thought was “neener.”) However, I will always love that line from the movie Dead Again: “It’s the Karma Credit Plan. Buy now, pay forever.”

Tags: meme

drinking: ice water
listening to: Ke$ha, Die Young
next question for the mom: can you pick me some lottery numbers?

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

Sorry I abandoned you last week.

I’m sort of abandoning you this week, too. I don’t have the energy or creativity to entertain you. All’s I got is news, but it’s good:

The crazydoc cleared me for my surgery.

He said, “I see some good candidates for this procedure. I see a lot of really bad candidates for this procedure. I rarely see any excellent candidates. You’re one of those rare ones.”

He was taken aback, you see, that I exercise every day and work full-time even with my level of pain.

Duh on me. I didn’t realize I couldn’t.

I’m just relieved he didn’t take points off for quirky, as I had feared.

Next step is for his office to forward his report to my pain specialist, after which we can schedule the trial. They’ll implant the leads into my spine, but I’ll wear the device externally till it’s proven to work.

If it fails, we go back to the drawing board and I stay on Percs forever. If it succeeds, I get the full surgery, and they’ll shove the device under my skin like a pacemaker.

Anyway, looks like Thundercats are go, and I would seriously like to go out to dinner to celebrate, but Mr. I Never Get Sick has a cold.

He used the Neti pot and took his meds like a trooper, unlike last time; however, I would just as soon not have him pass his cooties on to a bunch of innocent diners.

Other than that, I have nothing much to share. I have a new work girlfriend. Yes, he’s a boy. I don’t care. He is just precious. I hope to talk more about him in the future.

Tags: spinal cord stimulator

drinking: ice water
listening to: Lauren Ruth Ward and Mike Squillante, Just a Fool (Aguilera/Shelton cover)
awesome movie: amélie