Zipbag of Bones

I swear to god the only thing I'm on at the moment is coffee. Cold coffee.

2012-01-29T11:42:00.000-06:00

Thursday night, when my car was snatched (very politely and by a guy who looked a little like Santa, and with minimal tears on my part), I found myself in a bit of a tailspin.

Friday was a tough day for my ego, and then I realized that I needed help. Help was offered. And I, the endlessly prideful dumb ass that I am, turned down the help. For real.

I've always liked the idea of not needing monetary help from anyone, and went most of my adult life without asking for much of it, but I did get a loan from a loved one to help buy my house. This house is the best place I've found so far, and I don't mean house-wise exactly, because it needs a lot of work, but this is where I belong for some reason. I don't ever want to leave this property, and I'm going to do my damnedest to make that reality.

Unless I change my mind, but you know...I'm impulsive like that.

After my tough day on Friday, Daylow and I made our semi-regular trek to out little dive bar in town, and we talked quite a bit, as we are wont to do, and I noticed a very interesting pattern unravelling.

The situations when I've desperately needed help from other people, thus far, were difficult to swallow, but when I finally prostrated my ego enough to accept offered help, those debts resulted in some of the best things that have ever happened to me.

The loan for my house started a huge snowball of life-changing events that brought me here.

Where's here?

Home. Finally home.
In the place where I broke my skull and knocked every spec of responsibility out of my fibers.
This is the place I love most in the state despite all of the painful things that have happened here.
Finally accepting help from someone gave me a home.

The snowball blew through 2011 and knocked everyone aside, including Gray, and along the way, that snowball brought people into my life that made other changes explode like really grizzly fireworks. Half was a good show, half was like a slap in the face with a stray limb.

I've never been more alone than I am right now. I've never been more financially desperate than I am right now. I have never been more scared than I am. Right now.

But that fucking snowball, despite all the carnage it scattered through my world, also brought me Daylow. He's the best, most unexpected present I've ever received*.

Along with Daylow came months of unemployment, and not the "I deserve a tiny violin" kind of unemployment, but the "holy fuck, that chick is retarded" kind of unemployment.

Unemployment brought be the most fun, least profitable job I've ever had, and it also made an odd network connection (courtesy of meeting one of those limb-in-the-face people from the snowball) that resulted in me finding my new job. The job that I love. With a company I can dig. And a paycheck that will allow me to pay for my home. And my vodka.

All of the mistakes that I've made recently, all of the ways that I've fallen into a very deep hole, the fact that I'm pretty much scraping rock bottom in every way right now...these things brought me the happiest Minnesota winter I've ever survived.

Well, those mistakes and the fact that it's been warm and snowless all year.

Now I'm seeing the pattern repeat, because I desperately need help to crawl out of my self-fashioned hole, and also because someone has again offered to help.

I realized that I had to change my RSVP from "thank you for the offer, but I'm too proud to accept your help" to "FUCK YEAH, thank you very much."

It might just bring another good thing my way.

*Thanks Dale. And Pat. And the futon.

FOR SALE: Toro snowblower, pretty much brand new, expensive, fancy, and sprays magic (instead of snow) out of its blade thingys

2012-01-27T19:50:00.000-06:00

$8.15

No joke, this snow blower propels itself, shoots really high in the air, and the snow it disburses is like a sparkly rainbow of unicorn farts and angel kisses falling from heaven.

I'm asking the price of a quarter tank of gas for this beauty, basically because I'm that desperate at the moment, and in exchange, this Fancy Toro *Expensive Model* can be yours.

I haven't checked the forecast yet, but I'm assuming it might snow again this year, maybe once or twice, definitely in March and DEFINITELY after we've washed our cars, so it's probably a matter of life or death, whether or not you own my magical unicorn snow cone maker.

Call me. Buy this. I NEED GAS MONEY.

Except that...wait, NO I DON'T.

Why don't I need gasoline after all, you ask?

That's right, I almost forgot.

I thought I was acting out my perfectly normal routine of riding to work in Daylow's car and, once there, being stranded even though I didn't need to go anywhere, going to Arby's for lunch with a co-worker because I think he felt bad that he couldn't drive me around like a princess so, instead, he drove me to Arby's (which I didn't used to like, but now that I can't taste...I guess I actually do, and then working almost two hours later than I've recently been accustomed to working, but it seeming longer because it was dark when I left, the building was empty, and I'd gotten there at my regular time this morning, so it was a longer day in general, and then riding home (again, a passenger) by another very compassionate co-worker, and unlocking my front door to go inside, and having to explain to my very confused dog why I was entering from the wrong end of the house, did that mean she needed to get up and greet me, or was I planning to go around back and come in the correct way?

Except, as you can imagine, THAT IS NOT A NORMAL DAY FOR ME.

My car. It has been...returned to it's maker, shall we say, and is going to auction if I don't come up with a lotta cash soon.

So PLEASE call me. And buy my magical unicorn fan, and I'll only charge you the cost of a repo.

IF YOU DON'T PUT THE WORD "crustacean" in the subject line, I'll now your spam.

Fetishes have come up again, but in a very unexpected way.

2012-01-16T10:07:00.000-06:00

Maybe you can help settle this for me.

Daylow and I cook. We cook a lot. It's wasteful, really. We need to open a soup kitchen or something, because even though we eat like pigs and feed our roommate sometimes, there are a lot of leftovers. I need to start taking them all to the neighbors.

Food waste doesn't seem to bother us as much as it should, though, because Daylow and I love to shop. At the grocery store. Basically, the grocery store IS my Bloomingdale's. If you ask me what kind of gift card I'd like, the answer is ALWAYS to the grocery store. Or the gas station, I guess. Or the liquor store.

We basically always shop for food together because it's more fun and also because our menu is very rarely pre-planned. We just kind of browse around and get an idea, trying to use whatever meat or produce looks best. And cheapest.

Anyway, here's the only difference between Daylow and I on the matter of grocery shopping:

When I put fruit and veggies into a produce bag, I just kind of "twirl" the bag and plop the weight down on the loose bag end. It's quick, it's easy, and it leaves the produce bags in perfect condition to be re-used as dog poop bags. Sometimes, for stuff like garlic and limes, I don't use bags at all. I just throw produce in the cart and onto the checkout belt. Twist ties multiply like rabbits. I have a quart sized bag full of different sizes and types of twist ties, and I have another bag in my camping gear. I don't need more twist ties. I don't use them that often because, of course, I never re-seal the food once it's in my fridge. Bread doesn't need that stupid white contraption to keep it fresh. Just twirl the damn bag and lay the end of it underneath the bread. VOILA!

Daylow...well, he not only ALWAYS uses a produce bag, but he also always uses twist ties to close the bags. No joke, there was a time when I ended up with an entire pocket full of twist ties because he was worried I would keep forgetting to use them and, say, we'd be in the dairy aisle when Daylow would realize I didn't use a twist tie (even just one!), and of course we'd have to go back to the produce department to get a twist tie, and so my pocket being full of twist ties makes perfect sense. He's practically preventing my stupidity. PROACTIVELY. Amazing.

I was shopping for food by myself the other day and when I arrived at the check out, I realized I'd subconsciously tied ALL of the produce bags shut. No twist ties, no, but I'd done a loop knot to seal them.

First of all, WHAT THE FUCK HAS HAPPENED TO ME? I'm all of a sudden...tying produce bags for someone? He must be really good in bed or something. I don't like to compromise on my morals like that.

Secondly, I found an ideal compromise to our twist tie debate completely by accident. The loop knot is perfect because you just kind of...pull the knot out, and the bag stays poop-ready, but the produce stays properly...piled? Contained? What the hell is the purpose of using a twist tie? Maybe it's about vegetable safety or something.

Or perhaps Daylow has a twist tie fetish. I googled it, it's a real thing. Explains why he's got a twist tie cock ring.

I honestly have no idea why I'm compromising in this situation, but since I didn't realize I was doing it, I guess I'll let it pass.

This is why compromise is necessary.

I still don't understand how the Internet works

2012-01-14T15:06:00.000-06:00

Every once in a while, I get curious about visitors to Zippy. What kind of freaks are you? Fortunately, there's a way to find out.

These are my Google Analytics scores going back to the beginning of this blog:

17,099 unique page views

2 mins 52 seconds average time on site
77.03% bounce rate

At first, it seems like a lot of page views, but then I look at the Content stats, which show that I've drawn lots of readers who had no interest in my blog, so they left right away.

The same is true when I check out the keyword search terms, because I'm pretty sure the guy who came to Zipbagofbones by googling, "Labia weights" didn't intend to find this post.

Naturally, I like to try to imagine which of my content pages got pegged by Google search to pull up a result which led a stranger to my blog. Labia was an easy guess, but what about "activia and anal fissures"? What about "how to break my arm"?

I MUST KNOW.

So now, we're going to play Let's Match That Google Search Keyword To A Post From This Blog!

To start us off, please welcome My Most Common Google Search Term:

i want 18 (and other variations like iwant18, iwant 18, 1 want18.com, et. al.)

Variations of "i want 18" has been my number one search traffic generator for as long as I've had access to a computer. Which, if you read the post that started it all, makes you realize exactly how long and how often I irritate horny teenage-lovers everywhere. Awesome.

Here are some others. I literally searched these terms in my blog dashboard, and I had exact matches for all of these. I really should pay more attention to what I'm saying...

eating feces
kanye west toilet
xxx
kate gosselin pink cowboy hat
midget joke
christmas wedgie
really sick shit This post also explains the search keywords "fursuit fetish, fursuit fetish story, and fursuit fetish gang bang.
una's dwarf
i smell bad
"a mean meatball"
i wear my sisters clothes
scary bush baby (bush baby scary)

As I discovered last time, clearly, I am NOT what you people are looking for. And that makes me feel complete inside.

No. NO. Reboot.

2012-01-12T08:04:00.000-06:00

You know what? Fuck what I said the other day. I don't feel guilty at all.

Can anyone explain why people who talk a big game seem without variation to be hypocrites?

(For example, almost every outspoken anti-gay politician turns out to be gay. I say stick that dick wherever you'd like, just own it. OWN THAT DICK, Senator.)

The people I speak of preach safety! And security! And good will towards men! They are citizens who take action against hooligans! They build fences to protect their children from danger! And they have a big problem with people who don't take those same things seriously.

But when shit hits the fan and the big game talkers are implicated in a dangerous situation, it suddenly becomes someone else's problem. Some other person's responsibility. No apologies, no concern. They feel that the problems they "caused" not only should be overlooked, but all those other rules about safety and community involvement fly right out the window because suddenly, they are the ones under fire. They are the ones out of line.

Hypocrisy at its finest.

I agree that their lives are hard enough as it is right now, which really does suck. That's why I've tried to be helpful.

I can't do anything but hold up a mirror and hope they see themselves in it when what I really want to do is smash the mirror into their thick skulls and scream, "WHAT THE FUCK?!?! WHO ARE YOU!?!?"

So I take it back: I'm not sorry. I'm pissed, and I have every right to be.

I'm also awesome at sleeping

2012-01-09T17:29:00.000-06:00

Well.

Today was my first day at a "real" job in about 3 months. CULTURE SHOCK. By 2:00, I had a pounding headache and a very serious disdain for the fluorescent lighting.

Interestingly enough, although a bit overwhelming, it was a really fun day. I met a ton of people whose names I'll try desperately to remember tomorrow, and all of them were very nice and welcoming. After one day of training, though, it's obvious that I am completely fucking clueless about how to do my job. But my entire department is in the same boat, so we're going to learn together.

I came straight home after work to check on Scary, who is now eating enough bread for me to get her meds in her belly. She seems to be feeling a little better today. Good news for good pups.

Unfortunately, after work I had to address an issue between myself and a friend, and it was incredibly unpleasant, as such things usually are. It seems my habit of broadcasting EVERYTHING to the internet (including my preference in vibrators and the epic shits I take) has come yet again at the cost of hurting others.

Inadvertent? Yes.

Icky, guilt-induced belly feeling? Double yes.

It seems, yet again, that I am a complete failure at life.

But on the plus side, I'm still awesome at ruining everything.

Doooooode.

2012-01-07T19:00:00.002-06:00

I start my new job on Monday, which is, like, in less than five days.

Five days is kind of my default "Oh shit, this is coming up soon" measuring stick.

Anyway, I'm very much looking forward to it because although I quit my job that was boring as fuck, I discovered that Unemployment...it's nothing but a new boring job.

No joke, my house is torn apart, I have new pets, I rearranged our bedroom, I made beef pot pie from SCRATCH. Except the crust, but fuck making crusts from scratch.

Unemployment is boring as fuck.

So it seems I'm starting a job and seem to vibe well with management, which means all of my coworkers will all be fun. I can only assume the entire department was hand-selected to be super awesome like myself.

Or, super insane/brain injured like myself.

Could go either way.

Because part of unemployment involved selling all of my work clothes, business casj, as they say, my fairy godmother Veronica treated me to lunch and some mad Elite Repeat consignment clothing swag. This place is so fun because they have a wide range of sizes and styles, all in pretty exceptional condition, many brand new or with dry cleaning tags, and very well made brands like Tahari silk tops, Banana Republic khakis, and tailored wool pants, satin-lined, and made in Romania. And all of these items are reasonably priced. And they're soft like bunnies.

It was so nice to see Veronica and have a happy afternoon, because it was after I attended a memorial service for a dear friend's fiance. That was tough, for a lot of reasons. But it was lovely, and there were peacocks and balloons, so basically it's the kind of memorial service I want, except at mine there will be kegs instead of ministers.

Irish style.

I also scored big at Goodwill on Thursday, several pairs of like-new business casj pants and lots of tops that are both A)Work Appropriate and B)Cover my "Fuck" tattoo.

Good luck I'm having, right?

HA.

Today, I was out in the yard and I was smoking because I was walking Scary, so basically it was selfless smoking. (I resolve to tackle my resolutions in a REASONABLE time frame. That is why in lieu of smoking cessation in 2012, I set a more reasonable goal of Learn to Smoke with Left Hand.)

Anyway, I was outside with Scary and a big dog charged at Scary like WHAT, and there was screaming and kicking and biting and people yelling.

It was like watching UFC, if Brock Lesner (big dog) was fighting Papa Smurf (Scary).

In that case, someone DEFINITELY forgot to weigh those fuckers in before fighting commenced. The big dog had her in his mouth, and at one point I was terrified she was a goner.

Fortunately, she's gonna be fine, one trip to the ER Vet later. She's just bleeding all over my house and stoned on doggy drugs. And half bald. And terrified of her own yard so won't go potty.

She's refusing to eat. And I'm not talking dog food, I'm talking slow-cooked beef roast. This fat girl has gained a lot of weight this winter, and let me assure you it's because she bases her entire life motto around somehow earning or stealing a tender, juicy cow muscle.

In the fray, I got bitten.

Once we FINALLY got her out of Scary out of his chompers, I scooped her up and tried to get to my back door - granted, I was straight up panicking by that point, partly because I was having Cujo flashbacks, and also because I saw my mother nearly get mauled to DEATH by a dog she knew once, and partly because I thought Scary was dead or dying. She screamed at first, but towards the time we got her away from big dog, she'd stopped making much noise.

So I started foggily towards the back door with her in my arms, and immediately, the big dog charged me, lunging up to the level of my outer biceps, trying to get his teeth on Scary. I was bitten on both upper/outer arms, and while the punctures were more "scrape and bruise" than "House of 1000 Corpses, I can assure you that they still hurt like a motherfucker.

Fortunately, I know the dog's shots were current, so as long as I keep my wounds clean, I can continue boldly on into the Land of No Hospitals in 2012.

Hopefully, the soreness in my arms abates before I report to duty on Monday. Accounting departments are extremely arm-use-centric kinds of places, thanks to the modern marvel known as a ten keypad.

Wish us luck and non-infected puncture wounds!

Because the idea of being "left out" makes my skin crawl almost as much as Percocet

2011-12-30T22:22:00.000-06:00

Speaking of which, anyone have any Percocet?

Because apparently brain injury + concussion = migraines which arrive out of nowhere and are vomit-in-the-shower-crippling, and are also virtually unaffected by anything known to man (except an illegal substance of which I certainly have never partaken, I'm just assuming since weed is used medicinally for migraines, it must actually work. Which reminds me, I need to move to California, because I could get an Rx for weed for any number of my ridonk ailments, from migraines to anxiety to depression to boredom. What, boredom is TOTALLY a medical condition.)

What was I saying?

Ah yes, it's time for me to hop on the band wagon and write a year-end wrap-up post because we're about to begin The Year the Mayans Got Bored with Making Calendars.

I'm pretty sure they just ran out of weed, but when they called their dealer, his voice mail said he wasn't available to sell because he was busy getting sacrificed on an alter or some shit.

There's something else we can thank weed for: Postponing the end of the world until 2012.

Anyway, I'm sitting here in my bedroom, surfing the interwebnet because I don't want to watch the UFC fight that's on my TV because EEW, blood is grody, and I'm thinking about how crazy this year has been in almost every way.

2011 was supposed to be my first full year of marriage to my best friend, and while *technically* that's true because no court papers have been filed, I'm pretty sure everyone would have an opinion on just exactly how "married" I am. Not only are we not really married, not really living together, and certainly not best friends any longer, I'm hard pressed to get Gray to speak to me these days.

It's completely understandable, of course, but sucks just the same.

So I lost our beloved Bampa, as well as my husband and friend, not to mention all the brutal alienation such a split inevitably causes. So many of our friends are mutual, and most of those have no interest in my life at this time (I assume) out of loyalty to my husband, which again is understandable, and again, sucks.

The few friends I called my own, mostly from work, I lost touch with when I quit my job, but I think really they were relieved because I was proving to be more exhausting than awesome to them. Also understandable, when our lunch chats morphed from my wedding plans to my dating plans.

I'm an acquired taste at my very best, so throw in a few impulsive mistakes, a few irrational behaviors, and more than a few drunk texts...folks seem to appreciate some space.

So, New Years.

I'm not so naive to believe that January 1st is some kind of magical date. It's not a re-set button. It's nothing but the end of a calendar year, a calendar which was determined thousands of years ago by people WHO SLAUGHTERED OTHER PEOPLE IN THE NAME OF GOD.

So, really, they were a lot like we are now.

But this is what we do, we Americans. We talk about our kids and our ailments and our jobs and our wardrobes, and then we speculate on how those things may change in the next 52 weeks. We make predictions, we make grand statements about our intentions, we set unattainable goals, we thank everyone for believing in our ability to attain those goals, and then we get hammered and watch an electric comet plummet into Times Square, half-way hoping something will go horribly wrong and the ball will go rolling down the sidewalk, taking out every single one of those paper hat-wearing revelers, half-way relieved when it doesn't happen.

And so, I'll jump on that train because it's what I do.

In 2012, I intend to Get My Shit Together, Financially Speaking. I'm starting a really wicked new job on the 9th, and it should more than be enough for me to catch up with my medical bills, et al. I hope to find a second roommate to rent out the other bedroom upstairs, which will help financially as well. I plan to keep my part-time job and work nights and weekends, depositing that chump change into a separate account that I will use for "fun money," leaving the rest of my accounts untouched except for necessities. I plan to start over with a 401K because retirement sounds better every moment I'm alive.

I'd like to grow a tail, but that one is up in the air.

I plan to quit smoking, preferably forEVER this time.

I also intend to train Ramsey and Lucky to bring me beer in bed, and possibly to clean the toilet.

As far as relationships go, I plan to get back in touch with many of my friends. I'd like to make new ones. And I want to be sure that my partnership with Daylow doesn't grow stagnant, predictable, or co-dependent. I have a history of all of those things, and they don't bode well for Happily Ever After.

I'd like to drink less.

I want to camp more.

Daylow and I are going to plant a big garden this year, hopefully saving a small fortune on vegetables and herbs.

I want to see my family more than I got to this year.

Finally, I plan to win the lottery. Sadly, this may be the most likely of all of my goals, although if I do win the lottery, I'll be able to buy toilet-cleaning rats and pay people to be my friends, so it would kill several birds all at once.

Complete bullshit

2011-12-26T19:19:00.000-06:00

Aunt and girl are moving things to clean up for the season, that’s what was discussed, but really they are moving the planters because the squid had been allowed to grow too big.

It eats the greens, which are scattered around the pond platform in any number of planters and boxes, creating the illusion of an oasis in the south-Georgian heat. When nobody dares to swim in its pond, as grandmother regretfully did two weeks past, the squid must eat greens.

Their fronds grew long, and fell into the water, as minds were on other matters. Grandmother had been suckled.

The pond squid is a secret.

The pond squid is important.

The pond squid is as dangerous as it is coveted.

As aunt and niece work, careful to keep back from the ledge between water creatures and life, a girl appears. She looks like she’s been-a ramblin’, all dust-coated and pack-toting, but perhaps she’s just been walking the back roads of Rockford Township all day. She is of ambiguous age, probably between 17 and 20, and has long, flowing, dirty-blond hair, curls, but so long and snarled that it hangs heavy, leaving only swirls at the temples and the tips.

She has a tangled spangle, as grandmother was wont to say. Tangled spangle like a mop.

They meet as aunt and niece are carrying planters from the pond out to the decrepit barn. There is something important in the barn. It, too, is a secret.

"How's your ma n' em?" Girl explains that she hitched here for the party on the lawn next door, a farmhouse ¼ mile down the dirt road.

“What kind of party is it?”

“Dykes,” she responds, disgusted, but not by he thought of the lesbian camp out. Something else disgusts her. She was looking for one thing over there, but found another. Or perhaps she found nothing at all.

Later, intrigued, niece walks past the door yard and down the road. At first, she sees only a mess of tents and people on the lawn. “Dykes,” she says hesitantly, for she sees men in the mix. Soon, though, she realizes all the men are simply women with short hair.

“Dykes.” Yes.

May she have a glass of water? The girl is polite, not at all what niece expects of a hitcher, and she wears a gold chain around her left wrist.

“We’ll do you one better.” Aunt smiles nervously, as she always does when a stranger comes knocking.

Peach tea, which aunt reserves only for special company because the season is low and the crop was disappointing, and niece knows aunt must pity the teenage wanderer and wants to be a good Christian, show her charity.

Peaches are the work of The Lord, her grandmother always insisted, and thus aunt uses them as such.

While waiting for tea, girl asks, and niece shows girl the barn. Aunt asks that they finish taking the planters to the barn - with a sharp glance at her niece to be sure she understands the secret must stand.

They know it is safe because it is day light, like it’s safe to drink peaches, and girl doesn’t see the squid because it’s hiding in the depths.

When everything has been finished, girl says she may take a dip. It’s late-summer hot. Niece, torn between the secret and her fear of the squid, says she girl shouldn’t swim in the pond. It’s not safe. It’s too deep.

Girl looks as if niece has confirmed something she suspects and stays dry. She does smile, however. She smiles, and it’s not a nice smile.

They return to the farmhouse, and girl helps aunt serve the tea, although aunt protests that company shouldn’t be working.

“Nonsense, you’re too kind,” and so girl brings tray with glasses. Niece watches girl closely – suspiciously – because that smile had been wrong somehow. Girl notes the suspicion, and manages to slip something into niece’s glass, and hands to niece. Other glasses go to uncle, brother of aunt, and those have also been doctored, but with a different sort of thing.

A mesmerizing thing.

Aunt returns to sitting room with a small platter of bread and apple butter, and idle chit chat ensues. Tea is guzzled, the novelty of such a rare treat briefly replacing niece’s suspicion.

Niece awakens later, surprised to find herself in bedclothes, in her bed, and hears music downstairs. She pads down and finds girl playing a fiddle, to the delight of aunt and uncle. There is something wild in the sound, and niece feels ice in her veins.

Aunt and uncle are raucous, dancing and clapping, oblivious to niece’s return, but girl – still playing madly – glares at niece. A warning glare.

I will have what is mine, the glare says. I will have it, and you won’t tell.

***

Niece sees girl with male companion in town, although girl is dressed to disguise her hair, and niece ducks into a shop filled with 1950’s memorabilia. But not before her recognition of girl and companion is noted. She is followed, one through the back door of the shop and one the front.

There is a door – and old, wooden door – she has hoped to purchase for her aunt and uncle. It’s in the shop, and it perfectly matches the missing linen closet door of their farmhouse on the second floor. Niece glances at the door, but only fleetingly.

She feels the ice again, and is on guard. Male companion appears and tries something violent, but shop keeper somehow intervenes, and girl is asked to leave the farmhouse immediately. That the girl has found The Jackpot, there is no question.

Precautions are taken.

The secret in the barn is employed.

***

Church, two weeks hence: Niece sits with aunt, uncle and elderly grandmother in a pew near the front because grandmother’s vision is gone, but she insists she feels closer to The Lord when sitting closer to the minister.

Girl and male companion set off a series of explosions in church.

They will have The Jackpot.

They will have the dangerous spoil.

Erm.

2011-12-19T22:48:00.000-06:00

So it's kind of late for dinner, but Daylow* is outside grilling the most bizarre, delicious looking chicken I've ever seen.

It's chicken breasts stuffed full of crushed pistachios wrapped in an entire package of bacon. The sides are just about every vegetable known to man, slathered in butter and grilled in tin foil.

He's a culinary pot head. This is either going to be completely devoured in less than five minutes, or it's going to be an epic, totally inedible FAIL.

Based on prior experiments of his, my money's on YUM YUM GIMME SOME.

And because we roll like this, our rats are hanging out on the kitchen counter while we prep the food. Super duper sanitary, I'm sure, but they fucking LOVE the pistachios and got dirty on them like it was their last meal.

We're kind of celebrating Daylow's decision to leave a super abusive job behind, an we're also stoked about my highly successful job interview this morning, which (PLEASE DEAR GOD) may land me the best job I've ever had with a company I am really digging so far working with people who were cool enough that I'd hang with them voluntarily, and hopefully will.

I quit my job with Canterbury Park in October, partly out of laziness, mostly out of frustration. Ever had a job where you get paid to do nothing? It sounds fucking sweet, right? And it totally was...for the first two years. After that, I decided I was being treated like a wasted commodity, and with no hope of change, I gave my dad (and most of my friends) a stroke when I quit with no alternate position lined up.

There are only so many videos of baby monkeys riding on tiny pigs, you know?

Why would anyone think I'm nuts for ending my marriage, getting three new tattoos (one of which is a GIANT profanity, stamped across my upper back), quitting my job, ripping out my bathroom floor, adopting (then un-adopting) a third dog, and falling in love right away?

It all seems perfectly rational to me.

Which is why I'm not allowed in 23 of the United States without supervision.

And now I'm off to eat some really bizarre food with my new love and probably practice some clicker training with the rats (we found a new home for Rachel Ray) and then maybe watch the first installment of Bag of Bones on demand.

I'll probably also drink a liter of Jag and remove a few of my ribs with my jumbo toenail clipper.

You know...for self-sufficiency reasons.

If you don't hear from me soon, I'm either dead from eating weird food, or I'm unable to type because I accidentally removed my hand instead of my ribs.

*In case you're wondering the extent to which my life has changed in he last four months, Daylow is the man I am engaged to marry, but not until after Gray and I are no longer married, which (in my [sadly] extensive experience) will take quite a while.

Now with 100% more rodent incest

2011-12-18T16:05:00.000-06:00

Well, I'm back and I can honestly tell you that I don't have a fucking clue where to start.

I've wrestled back and forth for months now about how to approach the future of this blog, in light of the face that when I began writing here in 2008, I was blissfully pregnant and madly in love with Gray; but now, about three years later, I'm not pregnant (nor am I a mother), Gray and I are in the process of ending our marriage, I have two completely new men living in my house, I quit my job, I lost many, many friends, and I worried the hell out of almost everyone who knows me.

So what to do?

Speak the balls-deep truth about my failed marriage and risk hurting Gray even more than I already have?

Pussy-foot around the truth and kind of...phase my new life into the blog and just hope nobody notices?

Start over with a completely new blog?

Seriously complex first-world problem, right? Boo to the hoo and suck a toe, right? More specifically, CAT, suck on the infected toe of reality and find something more important than this stupid online journal to worry about, like keeping your house and not being psychotic?

Here's the thing though: This stupid online journal is part of what keeps me from going psychotic. It's like therapy. Really, really unethically based therapy. And I'm starting to need this therapy again. It's mid-December in Minnesota, and snow or no snow (currently, it's looking like a shit-stain Christmas), I have my annual SAD flaring up, otherwise known as My Perilous Grasp on Sanity, or My Single-handed Funding of Kleenex Factories World-wide.

I need this blog to survive another life or death battle with my personal Interloper.

But using this blog as an anti-depressant isn't going to do a damn thing, I've decided, if I don't continue writing my real story. The things nobody wants to hear me say. The truth.

Plus, when I look back into my archives, I realize I don't remember 99% of the stories I tell you, which means that in the last few months I've spent on hiatus, I've forgotten at LEAST fourteen separate instances of drinking myself stupid, seven of my Epic Shits, and many other small, ridiculous fluffery that I consider far too closely and then write about here.

Like the tampon vs. the chapstick. WHAT THE FUCK IS UP WITH THAT?

Thank christ I wrote it down.

So here I am, Lolita Razzle Dazzle, resuming my life's work of offending and humiliating other people.

And it feels so good to be home.

PS: I now have two fancy hooded rats named Lucky and Rachel Ray, and they're going to fuck each other soon if I don't separate them. We thought Lucky was a girl, and so we bought a female from Lucky's litter to be a companion, but then giant testicles appeared on Lucky, and Rachel Ray is most definitely rocking a vagina, and they're almost old enough to mate. But I can't justify two separate cages because WHAT WOULD THAT SAY ABOUT ME, plus the ball python Raven is already irritated that she didn't get a chance to eat Lucky and Rachel Ray, and I don't like pissing off snakes if I can help it.

So either one of the rats becomes snake food (which I cannot do, no fucking way, they're my bayyyybeeeeees), we split them up and get two completely different companion rats that they cannot fuck (unless they swing that way), or we allow these little bastards to have incestuous rat sex and produce up to fourteen separate baby rats, which would then need to be hand fed because Rachel Ray is too young to nurse her babies properly, and then I'll end up living in a house full of rodents because all the babies are my grandchildren and I am insane.

So here: Have some cute rats

Pity Party!

2011-11-07T10:52:00.001-06:00

Hi kids. It's me: The MIA Nutjob.

Since last we met, my life has been demolished like a really ugly skyscraper on the Vegas strip. It was exciting to watch this giant, solid structure implode and collapse, and my mind whirled with the possibilities for that vacant lot and what I might make of it.

And then I started cleaning up the debris. FUCK. The debris. It is everyfuckingwhere. And it's heavy. And it's seemingly endless, because I'll hoist a big fucking cement chunk up on my tiny little shoulders and crawl over to the dumpster with it, spend an eternity trying to raise it up high enough to tumble into the roll-off container, and then turn around to crawl back for another chunk, all the while hoping my legs won't collapse and leave me in a puddle of urine. When I get back to the clean up site, there is no visible difference in the amount of debris. The piles of broken walls and the throat-closing dust haven't shifted. Haven't shrunken. I feel like I'm shoveling and endless pile of steaming horse shit.

Granted, it was my idea to demolish that building on the strip. It is my dreams that made the mess. I chose to end my second marriage. I chose to quit my job. I chose to work in an environment that is such that I fell AGAIN and cracked my skull AGAIN and am now on two weeks bed rest. AGAIN. It was me who decided to adopt a third dog, and also me who broke down into a sobbing, screaming puddle when I realized I don't have the strength in my legs to make that situation work.

All of this was my idea.

So I guess it's time to buck the fuck up and just make it work. Keep shovelling the shit, even when I'm so exhausted that it hurts to open my eyes (thank you concussion). I will not lose my house. I will live without cable and internet. I will not eat out. I will sell every damn thing I own that is of any value. I will not sink. I will not sink. I WILL NOT SINK.

I keep trying to imagine myself as a Phoenix bird - the beast who dies in a fiery mess of debris, but then returns, stronger and more beautiful than before.

I'm trying.

Please hold

2011-10-16T22:51:00.000-05:00

I got rid of Internet at home, and I quit my job which, let's face it, is where I did all my blogging, so here I am, trying to type on an iPhone, and my friends? IT IS NOT GOING WELL.

I'm escaping reality for a few days, going camping up north with Daylow, the man I blame for my new obsession with snakes.

I will return to blogging soon, but I cannot guarantee I will be funny. Something about my shortage of vodka and my abundance of dogs seems to have sucked the hilarity right out of me.

Although... I DO have a few new epic poop stories.

Some are even about the dogs.

Ode to what once was

2011-10-06T08:41:00.000-05:00

I'm remodeling four or five rooms in my house. At the same time. Technically by myself. With almost no first-hand knowledge of what I'm doing and a hell of a lot of tools I can't ever find.

HAS ANYONE SEEN MY PHILIPS HEAD DRILL BIT?!?!?!

I figure I've watched enough This Old House, DIY Network, Bath Crashers and Design Star to have a PhD in Remodelology, including installing new door hardware (which is simple, right?! WRONG. Try installing 2011 lock hardware in three separate 1915 doors and you tell me how simple it turns out to be. Fucking non-standard widths and original hardware that left the core of the doors empty.)((IT WAS HAIR-RIPPING MADNESS).

So my porch is done, and two bedrooms, and my bathroom is down to plywood subfloor.

My ONLY bathroom has been reduced to plywood and screws and sharp tile shreds.

Oh the panic: I have until November 1st to replace the vanity with a pedestal sink, have the toilet moved, repair the subfloor (because some DUMBASS laid tile directly on top of plywood and used CEMENT to adhere it, so it was no shocker when the tile came up and the subfloor under the toilet is rotting and discolored, SO SO WET), install a new toilet over the new plumbing, move an electrical outlet from over the sink (still not sure if I *need* to do that or not), install an exhaust fan and figure out if it can be recessed between the joists of the ceiling or if I need to build a soffit, lay waterproof barrier down and install a new floor. Oh, and paint everything. And cut/install floorboards and trim. And reinforce the heating vent, which is basically just floating over a huge hole because it's not attached to any kind of stud or wall support.

I CAN HAZ LOTS OF SHIT TO DO, YA'LL.

But this huge Fail of a project honestly isn't the biggest change happening right now. Our families have been more or less updated now, so it's relatively safe to tell all you Interweb strangers.

Gray and I decided that we make better friends than spouses. We decided to make a split, and he has moved out of the house.

Divorce #2 by the age of twenty-eight! If it weren't for Brittany Spears, I'd have the world record of Really Big, Expensive, Hurtful Mistakes.

It's a much, MUCH longer story than I'm going to share here, mostly because it's a private matter (you know I don't consider much sacred here, so I must mean business) and I have no desire to rumor monger when it comes to one of the best men I've ever known in my life. He didn't do anything wrong to cause any of this.

As it is, Gray and I aren't angry with each other. We're not fighting, nor are we blaming each other, nor pushing our friends and family into choosing sides. Gray and I will always be very, very good friends. He will always be Uncle Jeremy to Angel Butt. I'll always call his mother Mama. Our mutual friends (and there are MANY) will always be mutual friends. Our dogs will always belong to us both.

It's just that I've learned (via therapy and an excruciating trial and error process) that I am not the type of woman who is cut out for marriage. Or monogamy, for that matter. So we're reverting back to our original status of really good friends.

And I'm praying to gods I don't believe in that I won't ever be stupid enough to make the same mistakes a third time. It's okay to hurt myself, but not other people.

They must have a Divorcers Anonymous somewhere, no?

So to Gray, my best friend and the man who has been there with me, by my side every day, for more than four years as a partner, and before that as a rock-steady confidant and friend, through months in the hospital, through more changes of address than I can remember, through our miscarriage, our family dramas, through my staggering, life-shattering bouts with depression and anxiety and suicidal thoughts.

Thank you Jeremy for everything you've done for me, all of the memories we built together, and all of the ways you helped me to find who I really am.

You taught me to be my true self, even if I don't know who exactly she is. You're taught me how to search for her.

I love you and I'll never regret any of our time together, not for a second. You stepped back from something you love so that I could be free to follow my own path, one that was hurtful and doesn't include you in the same capacity that you'd hoped. You selflessly gave me back parts of my life that I've never truly had: independence and the promise/fear of an uncertain future.

I hope more than anything we still have decades of memories to build together. We will always be family. You'll always be my lobsta.

And I hope that you find the happiness that you are so over-qualified to enjoy. You are the best thing that's ever happened to me in so many ways.

I'll never be able to thank you sufficiently for that.

And so we're off to start new chapters of our lives, embarking on some not-necessarily-welcomed adventures of our own, and altering our world views to include a future that doesn't involve growing old together as husband and wife.

It's terrifying and sad. It's also hopeful and liberating, at least for me.

There will be a long period of adjustment for us both, as well as our friends and family who know us as happy and well-suited for each other. In the end, I believe we've made the best decision for us both.

And that, ya'll, is really all we can do.

Greetings, earthlings.

2011-10-05T12:21:00.000-05:00

Where have I been?

DID I FALL DOWN THE STAIRS AGAIN?!

Well, yes techinically I have fallen several times recently, but nothing *too* major resulted.

Huge, earth-shattering changes happening in the Zipbag household, both good and bad, and I'm not quite at liberty to discuss those things yet, but I may have mentioned before that I am terrified of every single snake on the planet, as well as any snake-shaped animals and objects. Like eels. Or squid. And don't EVEN get me started on octopi. THEY ARE EIGHT GIANT SNAKES ATTACHED BY A VENGEFUL MOUTH-TYPE HOLE.

Well...

Voluntarily holding her, no joke. She's...cute. Or something. I have no idea, maybe I was drugged.

Raven makes the best coffee EVAH.

Well THAT'S new.

I know they're sideways, but my computer (and Blogger) is being a total cunt, so you're going to just have to tilt your head today.

The party you are trying to reach is playing with unicorns

2011-09-09T07:54:00.000-05:00

I'm here, I'm here.

It's just...well...it's probably good that I'm not in school this year because it turns out I have a lot of shit going on.

Since last weekend:

Somebody gave me a dog. Another one. No joke.
Somebody else gave me a flooded basement. Twice.
Somebody tormented me with pictures of SPIDERS RIDING ON SNAKES, and gave me a stroke. I have to say, if I'm going to see any animal riding on any other animal, it has to be baby monkey. That video? Never gets old.
Somebody gave me a new tattoo. More on that later. Fair warning, Dad. YOU WILL HATE IT.
Somebody else gave me a unicorn. A Webkinz unicorn. I don't know what that means, but my mother-type friend says that means it's alive. I named her Galdalf because I'm reading The Hobbit for the millionth time.
Somebody gave me the keys to her house. And permission to carry her dogs in my pocket.
Somebody else gave me Halloween Dots that look like black licorice flavor but are really blood orange flavor, and I know this BECAUSE I CAN FEEL CITRUS. Winning.
Somebody gave Klout perks, which I don't understand exactly, but they are sending me things in the mail, so I don't really care. Unless I open the box and it turns out to be a cobra. Then I'll probably file a Klout Komplaint.

In addition to all of these new acquisitions, I'm also trying to edit a bunch of videos of me playing Beatles Rock Band - POORLY, I might add - for a really ridonk vlog to post here. Because there isn't enough ridonk in the world.

So as you can see, it's been a busy week. In fact, I missed my 3rd Blogaversary on Sunday. This time, I didn't even post about how I didn't post about it.

(My first real post in 2008. My first blogiversary post in 2009. My second blogiversary post in 2010.)

Clearly, I'm regressing back to my teenage years. When you see my new tattoo, you'll agree. I'm about 14. And I'm a boy.

I'll be back here when I feel like it.

Change of plans

2011-09-03T12:37:00.000-05:00

I may have mentioned that I'm lazy.

It's not that I don't enjoy projects, work, staying busy, et al. It's just that I like doing those things because I WANT to do them rather than because I have to. I spent a lot of my life doing things I have to do, and now I enjoy doing things because they're fun.

Laundry is a bit behind, for obvious reasons.

I drove to St Paul for my children's writing class on Thursday. I sat in the parking lot studying, and by "studying," I mean "looking at picture books and reading the accompanying text book about why picture books are important." I finished brushing up on everything necessary for my class, and I still had 45 minutes to sit around.

I wondered, then, if I wanted to spend 12 hours a week thinking about, writing, and analyzing books for young children, or if I'd prefer to spend those 12 hours at home with my family, out with friends, drinking beer and working up the courage to rip out the cabinets in my bathroom.

I realized this class was going to suck.

I got in my car and drove home.

On the way, I called Gray and said, "Yeah, so I just dropped out of school."

His response? "You went back to school because you wanted to. Because it was fun for you. You were doing this for YOU. If it's no longer something you enjoy, then you don't need to be there."

EUREKA! Higher education is all about me, especially in my case, because I don't intend on using my English degree for work, nor do I plan to continue on towards a graduate degree. Gray is right: I returned to school because it was interesting to me, and because I wanted the tuition money.

I'm at the point now where I'd prefer to spend my time in other ways, and so rather than continue to rack up student loan debt, I've decided to throw in the proverbial towel. At least for now.

I partly blame my brain pain. That semi-near-death experience made me view everything in my life differently, from my relationships with Gray and friends and family, to the way I approach my life. That stupid fall down the stairs changed my life, both in good ways and in bad. And I'm starting to take to heart what my husband has been trying to teach me for years: "Do you."

He's been telling me (for as long as I know him) that I spent enough of my life taking care of other people.

He's been trying to show me how to put myself first.

He's been giving myself to me.

So, in summary, now that you've vomited all over your keyboard from the sappy shit above, I'm not going back to school this fall. Instead, I'm going to read for pleasure. I'm going to write because I have something I want to say. I'm going to make plans on Thursday nights and not worry about making excuses to my professor. I'm going to travel. In fact, I'm hoping to visit my BlogHer '10 bitches in Salt Lake City this fall.

I'm going to do me.

Selfish-less-ness: The Sequel

2011-09-02T08:50:00.000-05:00

I've had the best morning ever, and I'm not even drunk.

Remember waaaaay back when I wrote about selfish-less-ness? Of course you don't, you drunken whores. For those few who do, I think about my grandparent's story every once in a while and I was startled today when I searched for it and realized I wrote that post nearly three years ago. It was one of my first posts, actually, because this shit-for-brains blog has only been around for three years (this Sunday).

I try to be kind to strangers as much as possible, when I'm not flipping them off and blowing smoke in their children's faces, but it's been a while since I've done the whole Pay It Forward routine. I've bought drinks or dinner here and there, and that has been done for me as well, but nothing involving complete strangers and without the guarantee of a sincere thank you in return. I simply haven't been out buying designer coffee lately because, well, I CAN'T TASTE IT, so seriously you could shit in a blender and add some milk and pour it into a cup and I wouldn't know the difference. Starbucks seems a bit of a waste in the face of that.

One thing I have done recently is commend several parents on the exceptional behavior and politeness of their children because it's rare that you find a young girl who is eager to hold open the restroom door for you for no reason whatsoever other than because she knows it's a kind thing to do.

I've done a few generous things for others lately, but since this is more of a family-friendly post, I'll neglect to mention those things now.

This morning, I was in a drive thu grabbing an ill-advised breakfast and chiding myself for eating such crap, when I overheard a woman in the Jeep ahead of me say, "And there's a white car behind me. I'll get hers." I recognized the gesture immediately and realized it's the first time a stranger has paid for my order.

A smile stormed my face, and I decided I should pay it forward to the car behind me as well. I double-checked my wallet and decided that even if the woman behind me was ordering quite a bit, I could swing it. Good deeds! They are happening! Woo hoo!

So as I sat in line waiting to pay, grinning like a mad man, I investigated a lump in the tiny zipper on the outside of my wallet and found...wait for it...ONE HUNDRED FUCKING DOLLARS I FORGOT I HAD. There is no telling how long the cash had been there - seriously, I've been paying for gas with quarters all week long - and I honestly have no memory of putting the money in there.

I don't believe in karma, like, AT ALL, but jesus christ. That was a happy fucking surprise. And the stranger behind me...her order was only $1.07.

The moral of the story is that you, too, should prevent forest fires. Or maybe just buy a coffee for the guy behind you, even when you're low on cash.

You never know...the secret wallet compartment fairy may find you, too.

Fucking lazy

2011-09-01T14:00:00.000-05:00

Where have I been?

Exactly where I always am, which is either on the toilet or on the couch. If only they could unite the two, my life's dreams would all come true.

I've been reading a lot for class, and by "reading" I mean "looking at picture books and wondering what the fuck is going on because I don't understand how to follow a red scarf through a circus without accompanying text because jesus christ, is that lion eating a woman?" Because reading for kids who are too young to read is, apparently, taxing on my little pea brain.

I promise I'll be here soon, when I have something to write about which does not involve the word "hippo" or "sharing nicely together."

So really, I'll never be back.

The new and improved finger.

2011-08-29T18:56:00.000-05:00

My new toy from Edenfantasys.com has been ORDERED.

I bought the Chandra. Sounds like a stripper. Contemplated several other options, but some of the dirtier stuff...well, I've been watching a Friends marathon today, and it seemed wrong of me to order anal beads while Joey watched.

Review coming soon, and one lucky (sick ass) reader is going to win a $50 gift card of their own to Edenfantasys.com.

I can haz a new addiktion

2011-08-25T08:41:00.000-05:00

Seriously, I cannot get enough of these two songs.

I want to snort these songs and then blow my nose and then swallow the mucus and then puke it back up and then mix it into a bathtub of hot water and then soak in it and then filter out the chunks and put them in a blender and then inject them into one of my many arm veins.

And then lick the wound.

Gray is going to kill my ass if I make him listen to these agian.

You would think I'd be used to this by now.

2011-08-25T02:55:00.001-05:00

You GUUUUUUUUYS. I can't sleep. Guess why? It shouldn't be terribly complicated, I started digging through my archives and discovered I do this EVERY. FUCKING. TIME.

My writing class starts tomorrow.

This is a problem for two reasons, and probably a whole lot of other reasons I haven't thought of yet, but the first is that I haven't been to a class of any kind since mid-way through fall semester last year.

You know. When the shit got knocked out of me and stuff.

I am no longer used to A) being a student or B) having deadlines or C) HAVING DEADLINES. And by "deadlines," I mean "anything at all I have to do for any reason other than because I feel compelled."

Second problem? Writing classes: they can haz scarinezz. You ever taken one? They read your shit out loud, and then they tear it to fucking shreds. OUT LOUD. It's all very...well, it's awesome, actually, and super helpful, but I've been stuck in writing classes with really stupid people before, and they're kind of a buzz kill. Because they suck and writing, except they think that they're awesome at writing, so they hate my writing (which...come on, seriously?) and then they refuse to employ any of my suggestions or answer my questions.

At the end of the day, it's a tiny room full of people, sitting in a circle, showing each other their private parts and critiquing everyone elses bush trim.

OH. Thought of another one. This is a children's literature writing class.

Ya'll have read my shit before. Obviously. You're here after all, and most of you probably aren't even being held at gun point (Hi Joseph! This one's for you buddy!).

So it may be obvious to even the most dense of you, that I? DO NOT CATER TO THE RATED G CROWD.

I can't write for fucking kids, am I out of my mind? Seriously, the last assignment I had to write from a child's perspective was traumatic even for me. I have a lot of work to do on my child's voice, but the thing is that I don't ENJOY writing that shit, so finding a new creative voice seems...like a lot of fucking work.

I blame this on the fact that I started reading Salem's Lot when I was eight years old. There's no going from Stephen King back to fucking My Little Golden Books.

I write stupid stuff and mildly scary stuff and funny stuff and suuuuper disturbing stuff, and all of it is...adult rated, shall we say. Even the few things I've written (like this) about happy times in my childhood (there were actually a few), my voice is distinctly not a child's voice. Nor is it an adult speaking to a child. It's like...a really stoned guy explaining the intricate details of Bugles to the cop who just pulled him over.

OH. Thought of another one. My class is at the Midway campus, which happens to be called "Midway Campus" because of it's close proximity to the state fairgrounds, and did I mention that tomorrow? IS THE FIRST DAY OF THE MN STATE FAIR?

I've already had a traumatic first day of writing class experience. This one may be just as bad, except it's possible I might find cheese curds on the ground, and that would actually be awesome.

It's not about the meat anymore.

2011-08-24T11:43:00.002-05:00

All right, all right. I get it. I'm weird.

2011-08-22T15:13:00.001-05:00

People keep giving me random, awesome shit.

For example, I keep a bowl of candy in my office to lure unsuspecting flies into my personal paperwork hell. I sometimes take requests for specific types of candy, or if I overhear someone talking about some they like, I'll look for it. One guy loves Warheads, those little sour hard candies, but I couldn't find them, like, ANYWHERE. I was beginning to think they weren't being made anymore.

Someone heard my Warhead dilemma, and said, "Don't worry, I gotcha." I assumed that meant he knew where to buy a bag of them, but a couple days later, a giant package was delivered to the office with my name on it. I had a moment of panicking, thinking maybe I'd drunken ordered a sex swing and mistakenly shipped it to work instead of home. Then I panicked again, wondering how the hell to assemble a sex swing.

Turns out, it was a giant case of Warheads, shipped from New Jersey.

Another friend of mine, who happened to give us the best wedding gift of all (a framed, autographed Lamb of God album) knows I love spicy food. He does too. Every so often, he just shows up with habanero kettle chips or spicy sardines or hot chili flavored Ramen. Once, he even gave me a jar of pickled eggs, but that is decaying in my kitchen cabinet. I AM AFRAID OF PICKLE-CHICKEN HYBRIDS.

Last week, a friend walked into my office and said, "Oh, I was just at Target and I saw these and I just HAD to get them for you because...it's just too perfect. You had to have them."

These really are the most appropriate note cards I've ever gotten. People see the word "crazy" and they think "CAT!"

Another co-worker was at the dollar store and saw this Wooly Willy. He thought it was something I needed to have, which is true, because I REALLY needed a wooly willy that day.

This thing turns out to be a bigger draw than the candy bowl. People are sitting down to draw metallic mustaches ALL DAY LONG, and now I just realized why Klout says I'm influential about "mustaches." It makes perfect sense.

Aaaaand then there's the giant rubber band. Totally not that exciting, right? WRONG. People love this fucking thing, and let me tell you, it gets some serious air around the office. It can go halfway down the hallway, no problem. Again, this was something a friend saw and said, "Catherine. She can haz giant rubber bandzzzz."

Nobody seems to realize that what I REALLY need is a motherfucking unicorn.

I would post a TMI warning, except if you're here at all, you already know.

2011-08-16T08:37:00.000-05:00

Well now. Remember waaaaaaaaay back in June when we were hot in the middle of Operation: Baby? And I posted that although I wasn't pregnant, I also wasn't experiencing anything even remotely resembling a period?

Yeah. Well it's arrived. THREE FUCKING MONTHS LATER.

Seriously, three months (almost to the day) since my last period. Since then, we've put Operation: Baby on hold and I've gone back on the pill because I have some personal shit I need to address (via Dr. Crazy Palms, who is still kicking my ass and taking my name every session) before I feel like I'm really ready to successfully damage my own children the way I've been damaged.

For most of my life, when I'm on the pill, I "suppress" my period, meaning I skip the week of placebo pills and just go straight back to the hormone pills, which means I usually only have one or two periods in a year, which means I WIN!

Except now that I'm suppressing again after MONTHS OF NO UTERINE ACTION AT ALL ANYWAY, of course this is when the fucking shittiest part about being a woman decides to come and fuck with my life.

Welcome back tampons, you have not even been a little bit missed.

Feel like a fuckin bottle of wine, stuffed with a cork, laying sideways in the fridge, dripping all over the place anyway.

Toys, yes. For kids? Not so much.

2011-08-15T08:46:00.002-05:00

I've gotten several product review/giveaway offers from companies recently. The most offensive offer I received was from Fisher-Price.

I say offensive because...SERIOUSLY? CHILDREN'S TOYS + THIS BLOG = A VERY ICY, FROZEN HELL.

Dear Cat ,

Fisher-Price® is inviting the readers and followers of Zipbag of Bones to enter into The Little People™ Animal Sounds Contest calls on parents to submit a video of their child demonstrating his or her best roar, grrrr or squawk (oh my!) for the chance to win a $10,000 cash prize and a trip to Fisher-Price headquarters in East Aurora, N.Y. for a special photo shoot!

Fisher-Price is thrilled to launch a contest of this magnitude that also gives people the chance to submit their entries via an iPhone® or Android™ mobile device and taps into social media trends by encouraging consumers to share their video links on Facebook and ask

their friends and families to vote.

Thank you for your kind consideration and I look forward to

working with you on this exciting contest!

Best,

Ariel

Abramowitz Freeman Public Relations

An email to which, of course, I replied:

Deal Ariel,

You've never actually visited my blog, have you?

That is such a nice offer, really it is, but any parents who might read my blog are the kind who would sell their kids' toys for drugs. Or sex. Or possibly DVDs.

As much as I love the little ones making animal noises, I'd be laughed out of the B-o-sphere.
--
Yes, that smell is me,
Cat
***

I didn't get a response.

So that was unfortunate. But you WILL be interested to know I'll be doing another product review for EdenFantasys soon. Sex toys! WOOT! It's been a long time since I've reviewed one of their toys, and I'm thinking it's time to mix it up...maybe something I've never tried before. Maybe something Gray has never tried before. Maybe even something I'm...gulp...afraid of.

OR maybe I'll review one of the free toys they gave me at BlogHer. Only time (and my vagina) will tell.

And, of course, with the product review will be a product giveaway to one very sick, twister reader of mine. So stay tuned for that.

Earpanties. Wet ones.

2011-08-11T08:47:00.000-05:00

Another thing about my freakshow cousin is that he's always handing me new music. Every other sentence out of his mouth is, "Ya heard the band ---fill in the blank---?"

How he hears this shit in the first place is beyond me - apparently I need to get out more - but holy christ. Everytime he sends me something (like Job For a Cowboy [LUHV, though a bit heavier than my tastes usually run] and Horse the Band) my heart gets all...flustery.

The flustery feeling is part eargasm, part guilt for not knowing about the awesomeness already.

Because seriously, how could I not have heard of Skrillex before? He was just fucking here in Minneapolis last month. And I missed that shit.

I had no idea how to describe this genre of music when I heard it the first time. My cousin was all...oh, it's...shit, I forgot what he said. He explained it with a lot of words that I've never heard used together before.

Then a guy I met at the San Diego airport bar tried to explain it to me (probably in sympathy of my mangled hand) by waxing poetic about the mix of genres that comprise music like Skrillex, and I was all: "DUDE. Blood. I'm blood-ing all over. I cannot remember this shit."

So he wrote down some stuff on a receipt like "dub step" and "house music" and gave me some other bands to check out, like Widespread Panic and Rick Preston.

And I was like: "Great, so now there are a MILLION bands/people in a genre I don't understand or remember. Awesome."

Although I will say neither of those others sound quite like Skrillex. I want to use this guy's hair as a toothbrush.

Then there's this other band I'd never heard of before, and my cousin was all, "YOUR EAR PANTIES! THEY WILL BE WET!"

Which, frankly, is one of the most interesting things that anyone has ever said to me, and then he started playing this song (below) and it was super jazzy and intricate and I almost said, "Doode, my dad would love this shit!" because my dad plays some mad guitar, but then around the 50 second mark, I was super glad I hadn't said that out loud because FUCK.

No, no he wouldn't like it at all. But I fucking DO.

PSYOPHUS!!! WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL MY LIFE!??!?!

Apparently they're "mathcore" style, which...mathcore...dub step...does anyone else think they're just making shit up now? Ima start calling Coldplay's style "suicide core step."

Lastly, I met a dude who swears he-a-be mad famous someday, and since I don't like hiphop music but he convinced me to buy not one, but two of his CDs...I'd say there's a good chance. Say olah to A.P.P.L.E. M.A.R.T.I.N.I. (an acronym which stands for something super enlightening about power to the people and death to ignorance or something, but I can't remember what the fuck it was).

If you end up famous man, I better get an actual apple martini. Just sayin.

Clearly, music is better in California.

Time to panic about school

2011-08-09T08:22:00.001-05:00

I woke up this morning and realized HOLY SHIT I START SCHOOL IN LIKE...OMG I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHEN I START SCHOOL.

I'm notorious for pretending not to remember just long enough that I have exactly zero days left to buy my books and, usually, all kinds of plans I have to cancel because CHRIST. SCHOOOOOOL.

I am way out of practice. Last fall, I was registered for a humanities class and a literature class (I think...) and I made it half way through he semester before breaking open my skull and spending a few unconscious weeks, after which I was verboten by my neurologists to read or write or even freaking watch TV. I had to drop the classes.

Then spring semester, it was highly recommended I not return yet to classes because I was still in occupational therapy and just returning to work part time. I spent most days trying to stay awake and avoid passing out from the strain of sitting upright for a few hours.

Summer semester? I just didn't fucking feel like going to school.

So here we are, back at the beginning of fall, and I have no more excuses, especially as far as the student loan companies are concerned, so it's either continue working towards my semi-pointless degree in English...or start paying off my student loans.

Which...did ya'll know if you spend eleventy million years in school because you can't decide what to do and you have to work full time (sometimes more) that by the end of it, if you stacked up your loans like a block tower, you'd need the biggest fucking Godzilla baby in the world to begin knocking it over?

So yeah. Schooooool.

I'm taking children's literature and writing children's literature, so they should go nicely together, but it did occur to me I'll have to seriously cut back on my use of the word Fuck.

I'll also have to begin driving to St Paul every week, which is by far the least fun part of my upper-division classes because the coursework at this point is all pretty entertaining and challenging, but the driving? LORD, the driving. It's so faaaaar. And the classes are three-and-a-half hours long. By the time I get home from St. Paul on class nights, it's officially waaay past my little old lady bedtime.

On the upside, expect many posts about procrastination in the near future.

Well, I'm home now. Most of me, anyway.

2011-08-08T12:45:00.000-05:00

I left a lot of blood in San Diego between the tattoos and the fact that an escalator at the San Diego airport tried to eat me.

Human flesh. OMM NOM NOM.

I am officially banned from using stairs of any kind for any reason at any time, including the self-propelled variety.

I won't say that I had a horrible time on this trip because I actually had a lot of fun. It was just a different kind of fun. My cousin is a total freakshow, which is probably why we get along so well. Best voice impersonations EVER, wears a beanie when it's 80 degrees outside, and dances. A lot. It was pretty awesome getting to hang out with him for the first time in my adult life.

I did meet some interesting people, got a lot of surprises, and ate a lot of really good tacos. Oh, and I tried Thai food finally. So there's that.

I am, however, so so so so so happy to be home. My bed, it was magical. Sleeping beside my husband was something I missed for a long time. The Scary dog flung herself onto me and refused to detach, sleeping all night long ON MY FACE. I was even looking forward to work today, although typing without three fingers is kinda tricky.

I can't wait to unpack and do laundry. Go grocery shopping. LAY AROUND ON THE COUCH. I have so much planting to do in the yard now that our windows have been installed. Millions of putzy little projects and I am so excited to be home so that I can ~~sit around thinking about them for so long that I never actually get around to~~ do~~ing~~ them.

I'm also happy I don't have to get on a flying death trap for a long, long time.

BlogHer '11 or bust. Or bust in general.

2011-08-07T09:54:00.000-05:00

So.

My hotel bed sheets are all...leaky. Black and ishy.

Probably should back up and explain that.

I um...well, I don't know what I was expecting from the conference this year, but it wasn't even close to what I was expecting, whatever that was. I got here on Thursday afternoon and I spent about two hours at the conference. Then Friday I went to twenty minutes of one workshop.

And I was done.

I left the convention center and walked around downtown, got some lunch and drank some beers, then went back to my hotel and waited for my cousin to show up. When he did, we drove around through Balboa Park and then went to somewhere (La Mesa?).

And then these happened:

I only cried a *little* around hour forty-million of the needles.

Then we crashed at my cousin's house, played with his crazy fucking kitten, and then came back to the hotel where I got hit on by a bum, met Jessie James, learned how to open beer with a lighter, and fell asleep for houuuuuurs.

I never returned to the conference, not even for the parties. I only used one of the ten drink tickets they gave me. Hell, if I were expecting something from this trip, it's probably that I would have been hung over AT LEAST half of the time, but no. Not even once.

And now I'm packing all my shit up for the return trip to Minnesota, where I've never been so happy to live at the moment.

Did you know that chicks here in San Diego are, like, BLINDINGLY gorgeous? It's kinda painful to look at. And then it makes looking in mirrors just that much more awful.

Airplanes are my best friend now, apparently. If they kill me, I'm so going to unfriend them on facebook.

Time. Flying. And also not. I don't know, I'm fucking JETLAGGED. Cut me some, okay?

2011-08-03T01:05:00.000-05:00

Remember that time I said that life is weird? TOTALLY LEGIT, ya'll.

So first of all, I voluntarily hung out at the airport on Monday from like 9:15 a.m. until my flight boarded at 3 p.m. Mostly because that's when Gray could take me and I'm too cheap to pay for long-term parking. But also because airport bars are like the nirvana of the traveling man.

Early morning booze is totally acceptable.

So I caught a buzz by 11 and then I took a nap. Loudly and with loudlyness. Except I was wearing headphones and listening to Mastodon. Because yes, sleeping is better if you're slightly paranoid.

And also I didn't want to know if I A) farted or B) snored.

Another reason airports rock: anonymity is almost guaranteed, if you ignore the guy who pretends to feel your boobs for explosives.

Yeah, in your pants, Mr. TSA.

Anyway, so on the flight I sat directly behind a guy I'd been eyeing all morning in between sleeping it off. So at first I was like BUMMER but then I realized I was sandwiched behind Jock Man and Super...Something Man, and both were cute. And, I was reasonably sure, of drool-legal age.

HI HENRY! HI BLAKE! Although I'm pretty sure you burned my business cards during a seance to rid your soul of toxic contact.

So we all totally napped for takeoff like every sane person does and then we realized they were serving food.

DID YOU HEAR ME? EDIBLE STUFFS ON AN AIRPLANE. I think Blake said he was having a flashback to the 90s or something. So true.

So then I decided to order a cocktail and Henry agreed, so then I knew for sure he was legal, except we didn't get carded, so apparently airplane rules are different that Safely On The Ground Rules.

Then we ate the totally free food and Henry and I got to chatting, then I started interrupting Blake while he was totally studying some very intricate drawings of the human anatomy (Jack the Ripper, for sure) so I basically inserted myself into his head, too, then before we landed, we were all laughing (I with glee, them with uncomfortable fear) and then the end.

It was the best plane ride in memory.

***

On another note, here's a pic of me at my dad's Mac. And, can I say, WHY THE FUCK DON'T THE BROWSER WINDOWS COVER THE WHOLE SCREEN? I cannot stand to see desktop behind it, my mind is literally twitching right now.

And here's me at my dad's same Mac in 2007.

Holy shit, can you say DIVORCE PLUS WEDDING PLUS PLUS DOGS PLUS TWO LAYOFFS PLUS MORTGAGE PLUS BRAIN INJURY = GRUMPY OLD FACE?

Anyone know how to get 24 back? I'd love to know.

***

About one day to BlogHer and I'm still not ready for the sea of vaginas, but I'm trying.

Good thing I can't smell.

Packing is for pussies, except that it's not for me, and I'm definitely a pussy, so really...packing is for other pussies

2011-07-31T10:50:00.000-05:00

So my former BlogHer roommates have been emailing back and forth for CENTURIES about what to pack for the conference, one even going so far as to lay our her outfits, photograph them, and send them all for our admiration. Or approval.

I don't know which it was, but I have not stopped making fun of them. Because, look:

"A thought that has crossed my mind: Do I need sparkle for Sparklecorn? I don't like costumes."

In my experience at Sparklecorn, you can wear (or not wear) whatever the fuck you want to wear (or not wear), so I replied, "No you don't. Not even a little bit." Just bring your boobs.

So while this entire month-long exchange has been entertaining, I woke up this morning and realize I have to get on an airplane. Like, TOMORROW. And with me must come clothing and shit.

Now I'm frantically reading the archived emails from my former roommates, trying to decide what to bring, what not to bring, challenging my shitty memory to decide what I took last year that was non-necessary and what I forgot to bring, all the while forcing myself not to panic that I am getting. On. A flying DEATHTRAP.

On purpose, and with purposeful intent.

So I'm also regretting how I let the laundry pile up for days and days now because UNDERWEAR?!?! does not seem to exist in my household at the moment. And skirts? are all fucking M.I.A. Which means I'll be one of the dykes at BlogHer, baggy jeans and my home-grown mullet, which means I'll be a predator: a horny dyke in a sea of thousands of awesome vaginas, and frankly, people are already scared to meet me. Being a dyke predator is NOT going to help my case.

Haircut? Might be the easiest solution.

Anyhoodle, bon voyage and wish me luck because I'm pretty sure I'll be dying in a flaming, airplane-shaped inferno tomorrow.

Better than unicorns. Almost.

2011-07-30T12:18:00.000-05:00

Ever had something happen to you that was so unexpected - and welcome - that you feel like everything inside of you that was heavy, everything that was coiled up tight, all of the second thoughts, all of the "what if" questions - all of those things that weighed you down have been sucked out of the top of your head by a giant, cosmic vacuum that's floating above you. And it's a giant, yellow smiley face vacuum.

Then when you feel like you're empty of bad things, you start floating around like an astronaut in zero gravity, and suddenly you bump into something wonderful, then you float around some more and bump into another magical thing, and after a while, you realize that all of the empty space, the void where your doubt used to reside, is starting to fill in with wonderfulness.

Yeah. I love it when that something happens.

::UPDATED:: Newsflash: I am really really good at fucking everything up, ya'll.

2011-07-29T08:40:00.001-05:00

So I decided we can't afford to send my pretty little self to BlogHer. Too much else going on. Too many bills. Too many weeks without paychecks (for Gray AND me). Too many real things to justify going on a fancy, self-indulgent whim of a trip for a writing career I don't even have.

BUT.

They don't offer refunds.

ANDOHMYGODMYROOMMATESFOUNDAREPLACEMENTBECAUSEITOLDTHEMIWASN'TCOMINGBECAUSEOFCOURSETHEYDIDWHOWOULDN'TBUTNOWI'MGOINGTOBESLEEPINGINADUMPSTERWITHTHATGUYFROMALLTHEMOVIESWITHTHEBADHAIRANDAPETPARAKEETBECAUSEOHMYGODHOMELESS!

What I'm trying to say is...if you're going to BlogHer and you have a spare bed in your room that you'd like to fill up with 100% AWESOME...CALL ME.
I need you.

::UPDATED:: I decided that the only way to avoid homeless parakeet guy was to book a room all by my very own self. Roommates might follow, they might not. So I went to the Marriott website and found that there aren't any rooms available, and I must say this is probably the only time I've EVER encountered an over-population of vaginas.

If you're a dude, or a lesbian, or have a shoe fetish, this is probably a really awesome time to visit San Diego.

So instead, I booked a room at another, cheaper hotel about a mile from the convention. Which means I spent the same amount on one room with one bed and no roommates as I would have paid to split a room at the Marriott with three other chicks, and by "chicks" I mean gigantic suitcases of shoes and 45 shirts per day and lots LOTS of face cream.

So really, the solo room should work out nicely.

Except for the whole "walking back a mile to the hotel in the middle of the night by myself when I'm drunk. And probably naked" thing.

Summer

2011-07-27T17:06:00.000-05:00

The grass, high as your waist and as flexible, so bright that you had to squint against the explosion of lime, like citrus in your eye, and the way that it pulsed, one blade against the next, so that its movement almost had you believing that it was inching up and over the hill, looking for the icy creek, just as you were.

The grass pushed you away, but only slightly, trying to gain an advantage and cannonball first into the water.

The water, once you got there, was waiting only for you. The grass pulsed back away in defeat and it sighed a hot breath in your direction that stank of manure. But the water was like fire to your toes and suddenly you decided you weren't so hot after all, nothing that a little nap in the grass couldn't fix.

The citrus growth held you tightly, only lashing a little in contempt of your victory, and you laid there until you felt the bugs marching their way up your shorts.

Then the water, you realized, was your only hope.

You only hoped it wouldn't sting your grass burns.

Totally worth the co-pay if it gets me a book deal

2011-07-26T07:00:00.001-05:00

The best part about therapy is realizing how crazy you are.

And by "crazy" I mean "just like everyone else without the balls to admit the shit they think/deal with/fantasize about."

Everyone already thinks writers are eccentric, which is the fancy word for nuts. And I claim to be a writer. Or I pretend to be one. Or I want to be one. Or I want to figure out a way to slither into Stephen King's head and live there, like a parasite. And see how that shit works itself out onto paper.

What I'm saying is that therapy is good for a writers' soul. So is craziness.

I just got back from the river where I *accidentally* chugged out 950 words of a story I'm "working on," like, completely by accident. BY ACCIDENT.

Well, by avoidance, really.

I got home from the shrink's office, I'm going to have to call her Dr. Crazy Palms, and I was like, "Shit, all the stuff I'm supposed to *actually* think about is too much work. Time to write."

Therapy is already paying for itself.

That's when you know your session was hard: when writing is easier.

This message is brought to you by psychosis. And also insomnia.

2011-07-25T08:00:00.000-05:00

So.

I'm going to see a new shrink today, mostly because I saw a new phychiatrist last month (the kind with pills) and he read through all of my past therapy files and summarized their contents out loud to me - all of the things in my past that have been done to me, all of the things that I've done, all the fucked up stuff that I'm afraid most people have dealt with, but apparently they have a gene that I'm lacking, the one that instructs them to move the fuck on already, it's in the past, something I've never been able to do - and after reading the notes, the psychiatrist looked up at me and said something like, "No wonder you're depressed."

And all I can say to that is HA. HA HA HA HA HA. Yeah, no shit.

So the main problem I've encountered with talk therapy is that my previous shrinks take a lot of notes and nod their heads a lot, occasionally asking questions, but mostly just waiting for me to blurt shit out. Anyone who's "met" me knows that BLURTING IS NOT A PROBLEM FOR ME. So while perhaps getting patients to discuss their sexual abuse or their history of self-mutilation is a major break through, for me it's like DUDE. Save us both some time and just read my fucking blog.

What I need is a shrink who will grab me by the throat and shove my face into the sentence I just said, hold me underwater and scream at me, "LOOK AT THAT SHIT. WHY DID YOU DO THAT. That's what you need to figure out, dumbass."

I need someone to push me.

Someone to call me out.

Someone to actually HELP me.

So this morning, I have the very typical (for me) Patient's Remorse, the feeling I get when I'm at the point of no-return before a therapy appointment, when it's too late to cancel without paying for the session anyway, and I'm all, "But see? I'm not even that depressed today. This is like going to get a manicure after pulling all of my nails out with pliers. KIND OF REDUNDANT."

The psychiatrist I saw last month upped my dose of the anti-anxiety medication I've been taking for two years with fairly remarkable success, and it seems the slightly higher dose is helping because now I feel like I'm normal again.

Except.

Except this feeling is something I've experienced before a bajillion times, and what it means is that I'll be peachy-golden-sunshine-and-unicorn-farts for about two weeks and then all of a sudden, I'll feel like the entire world is spinning, the color will drain out of everything and I'll watch it slip away like shit down the toilet, and I'll be like, "Fuck. Shoulda kept that therapy appointment." But then, I'll be too depressed to pick up the damn phone, so I'll suffer through it until I'm feeling better.

Lather, rinse, re-fucking-peat.

Defeats the whole purpose of therapy, really. I'm tired of using crutches. I want to fix the fucking break inside of me. Forever.

It's exhausting, always trying to decide if living is worth the trouble.

So.

Look out, San Diego. I will be farting there for at LEAST three days. Depending on whether or not I lose my plane tickets.

2011-07-21T16:47:00.000-05:00

I am happy to report that I'm leaving in a couple weeks for BlogHer '11. You dont even know how exciting this is for me. Because.

Oh lord.

Just look at what last year was like:

Someone I don't remember, Ultra Hungover Me, and Kristine from Wait in the Van, and contributor to at least four other online publications. I am so excited to be rooming with Krristine this year in San Diego, although she has kids AND a better body than me, so I will be force-feeding her burritos and churros before we head to the beach.

This is how we spent our spare time: drunkenly perusing the streets of NYC and taking photos with strangers. Or sitting on their laps. Or having them buy us drinks. Or petting their dogs. Or handing them our business cards. Or, in Susan's case, phone-sexing their co-workers.

From the left, Random Gay Dude #1, Incredibly Drunk and Friendly Me, Random Gay Dude #2, Susan Mercedes from a blog she no longer even PRETENDS to write, but also of the Incredible Honkers Club, Random (think so) Straight Guy #1, and Summer from Blogfully Yours. The three physically female ladies in this photo were roommates last year and instant BFFs, and I now have a standing invitation to visit Utah. Not until they fix the Alc by Vol shortage, ladies. Not until then.

The view from our hotel, aka Fucking Heaven.

Speakers on the Humor Panel: Lizz Winstead, co creator of for The Daily show and actress/comedian Jessica Bern from Bernthis.com, also a dear friend and one of my favorite Jews on earth. She's good, funny people.

During this panel, I was so hungover that I had to keep getting up (from the front row) to speed-walk to a bathroom. To puke. With a chick wearing a superwoman costume in the room. That right there is what BlogHer is all about. Well, that plus vagina jokes.

I don't quite have it in me to "empower" my vagina, so the artist went with "empowing." Makes a lot of sense, if you ask me.

Me and my favorite Jew again, Jessica Bern.

This was a panel in which they spoke about the fine line between telling the straight truth and telling an interesting story, as well as deciding where to draw the line between ROFL and TMI.

Clearly, I didn't learn a fucking thing.

And I'm a terrible person because from left are Woman I Don't Remember #1 But I'm Pretty Sure is One of the Co Creators of BlogHer, Woman I Don't Remember #2, and my motherfucking hero incarnate: Jenny Lawson aka The Bloggess. Jenny is the most deranged - and therefore lovable - person I've ever read, and her blog is sick and wrong and funny as shit. I want to unzip her skin and wear it like a cloak.

I may or may not have licked the entire side of her face last year, chin to temple. It may or may not have been awesome. She may or may not have a bodyguard this year.

Me and Susan and Summer, partying at Sparklecorn on Summer's 30th birthday...just before shit hit the fan.

This was me at CheeseburgHer. Best party of the weekend, if you ask me.

Me, decorating a dildo with googly eyes and glitter at the EdenFantasys party. At the next table was a jewelry-making station. Using condoms.

These people really *get* me.

***

This year, I'm shacking up with some new friends, and I'll be sure to write much more about them soon - especially about how they're already obsessively emailing photos of their planned outfits for the weekend - and how I'm like, "Um...I don't remember pants being a requirement."

Fursuit fetish and other really sick shit we love

2011-07-20T16:34:00.000-05:00

Well now.

Quite a good showing for our last anonymous confessions post. I was impressed with the number of commenters, both anon and non-anon, although some people close to Zippy felt the confessions were pretty damn run-of-the-mill slash vanilla.

So.

Here's something I've been fascinated by for years, thanks to an episode of CSI: Miami - There are people who only get off on the idea of or actual act of fucking inside of or to a person in a fur suit. Like a mascot.

I've never been able to look at the Twins T.C. Bear the same.

So I've been thinking. What is my sexual fetish?

I'm not sure that I have one, to be honest. Certainly nothing that I obsess over. I don't like feet that much; I'm not really into dead bodies or threesomes. Asian chicks are hot, but so are lots of other women. Dick size doesn't seem to make much of a difference in porn, although GIANT does seem to equal more screaming than moaning. That's kind of a turn-off, actually.

Hurt so good, in my opinion, didn't mean hemorrhaging and vaginal wall tearing.

So.

I DO enjoy watching sex I'd never actually have myself. For instance, you may have noticed my many references to Taboo Anal Pleasures 5000. I don't want anything in my pooper except poop, but it's fun to watch. Seems the more porn one views, the more desensitized one becomes; therefore, the more out-of-the-box ones viewing must become if one is to attain...the Ultimate Goal.

Having met some people with fetishes, however, I think it must be much more common than we think.

Therefore, spill it.

I want to know your dirty, nasty secrets.

Ever wanted to do a chicken? That's called: Avisodomy

Ever got off by watching someone freeze to death? That's called: Psychrophilia

Find yourself "accidentally" sticking your junk in your partner's nose? That's called: Nasophilia

We don't judge here. You don't have to worry about people calling your a pervert. Actually, you should be more worried that my freaks will want your phone number for a booty call after this one. So go ahead: spill the beans.

Unless you have a thing for beans. Then you're just sick.

Totally boned. And not in the good way.

2011-07-16T11:30:00.000-05:00

Hi.

I have so much drama happening and I can't talk about any of it. SUCKY. This is the first time in Zippy's history that I've been unable to use you freaks as free therapy.

Wait, is there a confidentiality clause on the internet?

Hmm. Didn't think so.

Instead of telling you anything AT ALL about what's going down in Zippy town, I'll have to be content to show you these.

Why has it never occurred to me to glue shit to MY car?

Someone left this hat at my house. I don't know who. I also don't know what I'm doing with my hand.

Someone else left THIS hat at my house. It may have been my dead grandfather.

This is me at the hospital with my broken toe. Did I mention they didn't give me enough pain pills? The worst part about this injury is that I just purchased a bunch of shoes on Ebay. And I can't wear any of them for four to six weeks. Baaad savings karma, clearly.

I miss this.

My new motto. Except...it's also retroactive.

What happens when you hand me a paintbrush.

Inside joke. Most of you have probably heard it. Guess that makes it an outside joke.

Good god. HOW BIG IS THE 500+ lbs TOILET? I'm afraid to know.

What. The. Hell.

2011-07-11T19:21:00.000-05:00

Where have I been, you ask?

Wait, you didn't ask? Good thing I don't give a flying V, eh?

Let's see, I...

Went to the shrink to learn that I'm not bipolar. I'm just really, really wacked overall. So there's that. Lots of therapy lies ahead of me.
Then I got laid off. Excuse me, I got "temporarily furloughed," and so did Gray.ON THE SAME DAY. So it's going to be just *that* much more difficult to pay for said therapy.
Then I helped one of my very best friends start packing because she is moving WAY FAR AWAY.
While I was helping her move, I slipped down the stairs and broke my big toe in two places. No joke, the fracture is "L" shaped. And no, I wasn't drunk. I wasn't even drinking. Except coffee, but it wasn't laced absinthe with or anything. I AM JUST THAT FUCKING CLUMSY.
Then Angel Butt and Five Head came to visit and we've been alternating between subsequent, ridonkulous video game challenges issued from Gray to Five Head (some kind of odd 35 year old to 12 year old bonding thing, no? They have more in common than Gray and I do.) and sleep overs with 4-year-old girls. Did you know that children don't push themselves on the swing? That you have to do it FOR them? It's all very exhausting.
Then, thanks to the no-jobs thing, we ran out of booze. And painkillers. Did I mention I broke my toe? And then Angel Butt accidentally stamped on it just when it was starting to fit into a regular shoe again?
NO JOB THING.

So I'm a bit stressed. Turns out polishing up my resume is about the exact opposite of fun. Or exciting. Or bearable.

And applying for unemployment is almost impossible, did you know that? There are all these...forms and...questions and...OUCHIE BRAIN.

Did I mention I've done all of this sober?

I don't write about work here, for obvious reasons (if they find the bag of body parts in my office drawer, I am totally fucked) so I have had very little to divulge except "ouch" and "ouch" and, oh: OW MOTHERFUCKER.

July is awesome so far.

See? Told you

2011-06-30T07:53:00.000-05:00

She IS the devil. The very, very stoned devil.

Look at the white flap over her right eye! WHAT IS THAT? The screams of the dead, that's what.

Her surgery went off without a hitch, at least as far as I could decipher the vet's crazy-in-depth jargon regarding "interesting" fat layers between "subcutaneous" and blah blah blah. I was like, "Dude. Clearly Gray didn't slip you enough caysh to ensure this demon dog had an unfortunate accident, so just shut the fuck up and let me get out of here. I want to try her Rimadyl."

But oh no, this vet used to hunt raccoons and so he had a particular fondness for Lily and her breed, which is Treeing Walker Coonhound, if you care. I don't. Never heard such a ridiculous breed name in my life, in fact.

But he did confirm what we suspected: Lily may be the devil, but it's her breeding and treatment running the flames. Apparently, coonhounds are not pets. Did you know that? He said they're livestock. LIVESTOCK. My pweshy-weshy licky bear bear stretchy-bean butter sticks princess is NOT a cow. Actually, if I could milk it, I might trade her for one. But seriously? Cattle?

SHE IS A DOG. A pet. A HUMAN BEEEEEEEEEING.

Or she should be, at least. She most definitely acts like every rich emo kid I've ever known. But apparently these dogs are considered valuable only for their tracking/treeing abilities, and once they stop performing or the hunter takes a financial hit of some kind, these dogs are considered "overhead." Which is almost certainly why Lily was found running around the fields of Iowa - she was sent out on her own to either find some help or die.

Did you know that wild raccoons can grow to be, like, 8,000lbs?!?! Or more like 35-40lbs with very! sharp! teeth! The vet confirmed Lily's scars and split ear were all coon-inflicted. Injured in the line of duty. She should have won a medal. Instead, she got the boot. And according to the vet's explaination of the hunting process, it's usually the hunter's error that causes such injuries - a poorly aimed shot will send the pissed of coon down to attack the dog, sometimes dragging them underwater TO DROWN.

She was also bred at least once, and he said that some of the puppies (of champion stock) can pull in $2,000 for a female. Un. Fucking. Real. I mean, wouldn't it be cheaper to, like, but a camcorder and figure out where the raccoons hang out and then go sneak up on them all ninja-style? Why the fuss? Why the pageantry? WHY DO YOU THINK FOR A SECOND WE WANT TO WEAR RACCOON FUR?

I am curious what they taste like, though. Except I'll never know.

Here, have bonus Scary.

The Devil Wears Coonhound

2011-06-28T08:38:00.000-05:00

Lily.

She is the devil.

She lulled us into a false sense of Nice Doggy after a few months of terror, so we let our guard down. Then she pooped on the dining room floor. Twice. In one day. WITH MALICE. Then because we'd learned to keep all food stuffs off the counter in an effort to squash her counter-surfing habit, she decided to take up a career in garbage can tipping and I came home to find disgusting bits of lettuce, coffee grounds, chicken packaging and DOOM strewn all over the kitchen, dining and living rooms. Twice. In two days. Then I bought one of those child-safety locks for an oven door and attached it to the now-thoroughly-dented-in-the-shape-of-dog-paws-garbage-can to prevent her from dumpster diving. Then she decided to counter surf again anyway, and she discovered a really old jar of fish food. A jar of fish food SO OLD that it had turned into a putrid, grayish brown liquid, which she chewed up and smeared all over her dog bed. After I took her for a walk. After she'd eaten dinner. WHILE I WAS SITTING IN THE OTHER ROOM. I cleaned it up as best I could, but when Gray came home, he discovered what he described as, "The most disgusting, rotten odor I've ever smelled in my entire life." Windows were opened. Cans of air freshener were emptied. The dog bed was thrown away. The garbage can which held the ruined goldfish food jar was taken outside and doused with the flames of hell.

He says the smell is ::almost:: gone now.

Today, we will be avenged.

The uterus of the devil is being removed. Is it wrong that I kind of hope they use a dull knife? And a weak anesthetic?

Aww, look how cute I am! Come closer, let me STAB YOU WITH MY PITCH FORK.

You. Yeah, you. Speak the fuck up.

2011-06-23T09:01:00.002-05:00

This post is dedicated to all the lurkers out there. You know who you are, which is to say that if you read my blog, YOU are who I'm talking to.

You ever checked out my comments on this blog? No? THAT'S BECAUSE THERE AREN'T ANY*

Why is that, I wonder?

Some would say it's a no-brainer: Nobody reads my blog.

While I would agree that is the most likely answer, especially in my case, my Google Analytics and Blogger stats beg to differ. There were 100 of your shy motherfuckers yesterday alone, and that isn't counting those of you who subscribe to my blog in a reader.

Google Reader: Haven to the world's most notorious lurkers.

I know you're out there. I meet people all the damn time who say, "Hi, I'm so-and-so. I read your blog!" and I'm like, "Uh, thanks? It was good enough to read but not good enough to leave a comment? YOU WHORE." And then we get into a nasty, topless battle of fisticuffs and it's not a pretty picture, but it makes for good blog fodder.

Not only do I know that you're out there, but I also know where you came from. For example, anyone out there read Steam Me Up Kid? Don't bother denying it - in the last month, that blog sent 68 unique visitors to this whore of a blog.

Ever heard of Monster Apathy? At least 30 of you have BECAUSE YOU CAME HERE FROM THERE, and that's just since May.

My number one traffic source of ALL time (aside from Blogger, direct traffic and Facebook) is Lil Miss Kel of Ambiguously Shallow. I can bet most of you Kel-lurkers are from southern Cali or Utah, which is hysterical because I was born in southern Cali and then moved to the nearly-as-infamous-for-inbreeding-state of Arkansas. Hi to all my fashionista lurkers!

Other big supporters of my "work" have been Jenny (dear god if you don't read her, then you are going directly to a booze-free hell), Schmutzie from Five Star Friday, and (oddly) Allison of Tales from Lala Land. I say "oddly" because I'm not really sure who she is or how her site has sent over 500 visitors to mine, but HELLO AND THANK YOU. I will be lurking at your blog from now on.

There are so many other referring sites that I cannot even list them here, but I will say that you bitches and warlocks need to open your damn mouths and say hello.

You hate something I wrote? Tell me why. In great detail. Using as many harsh words as your pea brain is capable of tying.

You love something I wrote? Well, who could blame you, but say something anyway. Something about how the world revolves around me would be perfect.

You think I'm a drunken whore? Join the club. And send me booze. Or condoms. Wait, trying to get pregnant, so scratch the condoms. Lube will do.

JUST FUCKING SAY SOMETHING, ya'lls.

I know that commenting is a pain in the ass. That's why I almost never do it myself. I am the Queen of Lurkers. But I'm also an attention whore, so here - let me make this easier for you:

Did you know you can leave anonymous comments? That you don't need a blogger account to do so? That you can use a fake name or no name at all? That you can leave obnoxious links to your own blog in the comment section and almost nobody will stab you for it? That you can call me names WITHOUT REPERCUSSIONS?

It's really fun, I swear.

Lurkers and trolls alike, I summon you. Come out of the shadows and leave a comment here.

And in honor of one of my favorite genre of mindless websites, I urge you to leave anonymous comments today that tell a very Deep! Dark! Secret about yourself.

Something about that time your frat house roommate poked your asshole and you liked it.

Something about your biggest fears of being just like your own parents.

Something about why you drink ::almost:: as much as me.

Something about the affair you've been hiding for 3 years.

Something about the bra you stole.

SOMETHING ABOUT SOMETHING.

If enough of you leave anonymous secrets here, then I will leave one of my own. And it will be a doozie. But, of course, it will be anonymous.

Time to man up and say something, ya'll.

I dare you.

*A shout out to my few, faithful commenters - You make my pants quiver.
**I forgot to roriginally credit my must for this idea, the fucking humorist extraordinaire from Oh Noa.

The trouble with public transportation...

2011-06-22T07:49:00.000-05:00

...is that it leads to really bad writing.

***

The man was heading to the library because he'd heard Thompson might be there. In his hand, he carried a small book. He boarded the bus at Franklin and Nye, three blocks from the parking garage where he'd spent the night in the bed of a pickup truck with Wisconsin plates. He'd known the owner of the truck would be gone until Sunday because of the stub on the dashboard.

The man always stood holding the over head rails. He thought sitting was for pussies. Today he was in Chicago, however, and Chicago city buses do not endorse standing passengers, so the man was forced to sit by the window with his long legs tucked up and bundled in the space provided. They did not fit at a forty-five degree angle and he had to dip his knees low and turn to the side. He fumed and swore under his breath, and he clenched and unclenched his fists as the felt each leg become first tingly, then numb.

At the library bus stop, the man pulled the cord and advanced down the aisle to the exit. Still weak, his legs betrayed him, causing him to stumble from the last step of the bus down onto the pavement below. He looked around sheepishly and saw a woman smiling at him.

She was holding an infant up in the air and producing an assortment of obnoxiously-endearing babble for his benefit. She lowered the child then quickly raised him into the air again, which elicited giggles from the suspended boy and chuckles from the small crowd gathered around them. The woman's eyes remained on the fallen man.

The man was frozen, staring up at the woman and the baby boy, wondering why he hadn't chosen to walk the twenty-seven blocks and avoid this whole mess. He was distracted enough that he didn't immediately hear the voice that spoke to him.

"You gonna move out of the way or what, buddy?"

***

The man stiffened, stood tall and puffed up his chest. Then he turned his face in my direction and locked eyes with me and just...stared. I stared back. He seemed dazed. Then he turned purposefully and stalked away.

Saturdays are when I take Levi down to the corner with a pack of Parliaments and sit on the bench on the east side of Boulder Park. I sit and smoke and make faces at my son from the time the dew is just shaking itself off the grass until the time it begins to trickle back with the return of evening.

On Saturdays, I watch people.

Sometimes I get lucky and witness one of those events that make life worth living: a skirt caught in the breeze; a child grabbed tightly around the arm and yanked; and old man rear-ending a station wagon full of kids and driven by an angry man.

Today, the event was the man who fell when getting off the buss. He noticed me watching. He dropped his book and left it there.

And if he thinks I was smiling because I enjoyed his pain and humiliation?

He was right.

Technology is a bad idea. So are pixie haircuts

2011-06-21T07:00:00.002-05:00

Gray built a fire pit on Friday, and because we're both dying to go camping but cannot make it work with our schedules, we've decided to Pretend Camp.

Pretend Camping is exactly like real camping except for the whole "camping" part.

Scary hates it - HATES! - it, probably because the fire makes popping sounds that sound suspiciously like clapping and snapping sounds, both of which (according to Scary) are the devil himself and were sent there to give her a coronary. Lily doesn't seem to give a shit what we're doing as long as she can lick herself and eat some hamburger buns when we aren't watching.

Gray suggested we add something that reminds us of camping every time we have a bonfire, so tonight, we're going to simultaneously grill AND have a fire.

I know, right? We're absofrigginlutely wild.

He suggested smores, but I hate them. I'll assemble everything and then watch him eat them, if he wants, but I would rather eat a hot coal than a smore. BLECH. Slimey and sweet and blech. No thank you.

In the future, we plan to add guitar karaoke, scary stories, drinking card games, and tornado warnings to our Pretend Camping experience. Maybe even a tent one day. I mean...the neighbors already know we're nuts, so what's a little tent sex going to do to our rep?

So Friday, we braved the rain (Gray held an umbrella over the fire for about ten minutes and I just...sat there, getting wet and laughing at him) an burned our first bunch of logs in our new fire pit. We drank Heineken and talked about how awesome it is to poke fires with a stick. I read a huge stack of old essays and papers that I dug out for inspiration.

Then we ran around town looking for nacho cheese, but that was kind of unrelated.

Updated** Nopers

2011-06-20T08:10:00.001-05:00

So I'm not even a little bit pregnant.

Except that I still don't know for sure, I'm just guessing based on the utter lack of symptoms, the negative pee test, and the fact that I had cramps so badly on Saturday that I wished for a swift death.

Ladies, you know what I'm talking about - the cramps which feel as if a sewer rat has climbed inside your abdomen via your belly button, which it ripped open with its bare feet, and has taken to leisurely gnawing the lining of your VERY SOUL one shred at a time, while using it's hind claws to scrape your cervix into bloody shreds of flesh and tears?

Those kind of cramps.

Except...wait for it...NO PERIOD YET.

Usually, my personal brand of rat gnawing cramps come at the same time as the hideous rush of dead uterus, but not this time.

Because of course not this time.

If I've learned anything during Operation: Baby, it's that my body is NOT to be trusted under any circumstances.

So I'm not pregnant. I think. Probably. Status pending.

So here: have some pictures while you wait.

Lily, secure in her guilt. That's a diaper she shredded. A BLOODY diaper.
And it was stuck in her teeth. And we found a piece in Scary's shit.

Scary, post-hair cut. She is so itty bitty now!

A visual demonstration of why I love metal shows. I'd go for the t-shirts alone.
But more to come on this...I've got some heart-to-sick, twisted heart coming with my favorite scary band, Fetus Heist.

***So Dr. Crazy Socks and I squared off this morning for the first time in, oh, a year-and-a-half. He remembered me, but not in the good way. He was - fittingly - wearing crazy socks, either some kind of pink trout or salmon, I couldn't bring myself to ask, and he confirmed that indeed, I am still crazy. More appointments pending, including one with a psychiatrist. Apparently Dr. Crazy Socks feels he is in over his head re: fixing me. Because of course he does.

It could go either way

2011-06-17T14:19:00.001-05:00

As of this moment, I am either pregnant or I am not pregnant. Crazy thought, huh, being one or the other? Because isn't that exactly what all human beings are at any given time? I am the first one ever.

It's hard to say which way the cookie will crumble, thanks to last month's royal fuck of a wonky 31-day cycle, which completely threw off my ovulation window calculations, thanks very much, Mrs. Testy Vagina & Co.

So my period is due today but has not started, which last month would have had me all twitterpated and poking my boobs to see if they're tender until I bruised them and actually MADE them tender. This month, I'm not sure that anything short of a fetus leg falling out of my coot would convince me I'm knocked up.

It is exactly such unexplainable swings in my moods from scary-obsessed to mildly blasé at most that has me scrambling to meet with Dr. Crazy Socks on Monday.

The not-even-kind-of-a-post Post

2011-06-15T08:35:00.000-05:00

::Just a warning, ya'll. Don't attempt this at home unless you're ready for your skin to crawl for the rest of the day::

I was in the mood for something cute and furry, and not even to eat this time, so I googled "cute animals" and some sick motherfuckers thought it would be funny to mess with my already perilously teetery sanity and include lots and lots of photos of spiders. And now I know that my theory is correct, that the internet is the devil, because not only is there no way that any sane human being would consider a tarantula "cute" but also...they aren't even fucking animals, people! THEY ARE ARACHNIDS. Or the devil himself, depending on how paranoid you are, personally.

Also, I stole all of these photos and I would have stolen all of the animals, except my bathtub is already full of the baby robins I've collected. Because I thought you should know.

"Oh, hai. I can haz eyeballs. Keep Angel Butt far, far away from me."

I'm sure Maury would have to disagree, Sir.

Until this photo, I didn't know it was possible for a human mammal to spontaneously ovulate via artiodactyl mammal stimulation. Consider me learned. I want one to carry around in my pocket.

Ah, the ole "smell my feet" bit...I used to do this to my sister: convince her they smelled either like strawberries, or - if I was feeling very fruity - cherries. She fell for it every time, consecutive sniff or otherwise. WTG, monkey mama. I applaud you.

You know that evil kitten is thinking, "What is it and how fast could I eat it?"

At least SOMEONE will eat oatmeal cookies.

Think I could rent one of these for my necklaces?

This one is mine...Lily is sheepishly avoiding her reckoning after shredding yet another $50,000 diaper. "What, mama? It was touching my private parts!"

Sisters

2011-06-14T07:00:00.003-05:00

Entwined legs on the coarse, gray-weathered deck boards.

It is summer, and we are joyful. The air is oppressive: each breath feels like a swimmer forced to sustain life by growing gills and breathing under water.

She sweats against my chest, but I hold her tightly for the camera as mommy demanded, and this makes her giggle. All around, the sound of cicadas scream. They are the loon of the south, all crazy and mournful, and their screams make us happy. It is summer.

We'd long since grown accustomed to the drone of the summer sounds. Tree frogs bellowed shrilly, so loud, so tiny. Later, we'd go searching for these little brown prizes. We'd hold them tightly in our sweaty palms and feel their fear escape them in a rush. Tree frog pee pee doesn't cause warts, mommy says.

As the sun falls out of the sky, we sit together on the deck, still twined together like broom straws, now arguing over the headphones, which are not attached to a cassette player, but we like to pretend.

Bugs scream past our ears every moment, it seems, some circling (sweat bees), some hovering like ghostly apparitions before our faces, blocking our views (gnats), some landing and landing, never choosing an adequate spot, able to lift straight up like tiny helicopters (flies).

The boards are rough in places, smoothed by time and tread in others. To walk barefoot on this deck is to temp fate. Many splinters are pulled from our tiny, soft kicks.

Only I

2011-06-13T08:23:00.000-05:00

So I hazarded my first attempt at a top secret "friend of the family" recipe called Hot Chicken. I really wish I'd learned to make this BEFORE I lost the ability to know if something is seasoned correctly or, instead, tastes like an old shoe. Because seriously, I cannot tell the difference.

Unfortunately, I became privy to this recipe a few months ago which, in Cat's Terms of Memory, may as well have been fourteen thousand years and a few dozen liters of vodka ago. Because all I remembered were most of the ingredients and that the end result is yummy. So I faked it the best I could and reasoned that if nothing else, this would be spicy, and spicy is just about all I have left in this world.

12 jalapenos and ~~2 habaneras later~~ 1 habanera later, I decided, after I tasted one with the tip of my tongue and it was blissfully painful, ought to have been enough to make this truly "HOT" chicken.

But it wasn't. It was more...mildly intolerable chicken.

To me, it was "meh."

But on Saturday, I prepped everything and shoved it into the crock pot and then headed out on foot (thanks to a flat bike tire) to find a quiet spot to get some writing done. We're a few blocks away from the Minnesota River, which happens to be one of my favorite places for walking, crying and brooding, so I figured it might work for writing, too. That I've never tested the theory goes to show you just how long I've been out of commission.

I was armed with a notebook full of helpful man thoughts from a crew of (apparently) drunken comrades, and I was curious to give these ideas a shot. I'm still working on that, but as it turns out, I am TERRIBLE at being a man.

A bug flew directly into my eyeball, and though I saw it coming and reacted by slamming shut my eyelid, it was too late. It was unfortunate for me that I stuck my jalapeno and habenera fingers in after the bug to fish it out. Let's just say I was blind for several minutes and considered turning around and heading home.

Once at the river, I started along the path (because who would ever do such a thing as walk in the grass?) and I stumbled upon a scruffy middle-aged man who, from a distance, appeared to be sporting a shirt pocket of cigarettes and a fist full of some hideous, silver-canned beer. Turns out it was only a travel mug of what I presume was coffee, but this guy was a character, I could tell just by glancing.

He had with him a dog who was off leash and well behaved, and he paid no attention to me as I approached. The dog was busy tramping through the water and weeds, looking for anything that moved.

As I am wont to do, I asked the man what kind of dog he had, and he answered that it was "hard to say," or something the like. Again, with my memory. I noted that the dog looked like he had tiger markings, and the man commented that was his brindle. Happily ready to prove that I am a Dog Person, I noted that Gray once had a boxer named Tyson who shared the same tiger-looking brindle as this dog, and the man exclaimed, "Yes, exactly!"

We started walking together, dog talking, of course, and he asked if I was just out hiking.

Ha, exercise. Not likely.

I told him I was trying to find a quiet spot to write, that our neighbors were installing a fence and there was a jack hammer involved, that there are kids all over the park by the river, so that I was following the trail looking for a better spot.

"Come with me."

Normally, I don't go around following strange men who say "come with me," but this guy wasn't setting off any alarms and plus, he had a dog.

I am powerless against the charms of the canine species.

Turns out to be a lucky thing I followed the guy because he led me to a marina and then out onto a secluded peninsula so near the river, and so level with its surface, that I felt I was sliding right along with it. He pulled up a chair for me and one for him, we smoked a bit, and then he left me to my writing, but not before we became friends.

I told him I considered this an open invitation to return and he didn't disapprove, so now I have a new place that is perfectly peaceful and serene where I can retreat in just a few short minutes whenever I need to write, which (apparently) should be all the damn time.

Next time, remind me to take the bug spray. I'm half-mosquito today.

The trouble with...

2011-06-10T14:48:00.002-05:00

...getting out of bed in the morning is that it means I am likely to accidentally do things.

And have any of you ever noticed how I tend to...how do I say this...OBFUCKINGSESS about those things that I do?

Yeah, I'm doing it again.

Now that I've started writing, it's like I can't turn it off, and I've found myself with 7 new drafts in my blogger dashboard and countless tiny, indecipherable, middle-of-the-night notebook scribbles, all of which is good I guess, but it's also frustrating because none of them are "publishable" in even the loosest "hit publish button on blog that nobody even reads" sense, and all of them are completely fucking different topics and ideas, but I have this suspicion that they're all related in some way, and so I'm starting to see a pattern and a way that they can go together to make an entire readable thing, but the problem now is that I have to actually make that happen, and holy shit, ya'll.

Writing is hard.

All of this is compounded by a few things, like that I called in a refill for my crazy meds last week but didn't realize it needed a refill authorization from my doctor, so I ended up having to miss a couple days of medication, then the pharmacy forgot to call and tell me the Rx was ready, and then I forgot that I needed to call the pharmacy to see if the Rx was ready, but finally I remembered to check on the website and saw that it WAS ready, so then I forgot to go pick it up. For two days.

Needless to say after my recent behavior, I can report that I am absolutely confident that I should be medicated. AT ALL TIMES. And by any means necessary. Which reminds me, I need to order this medication in the anal tablet form so that in the event I accidentally staple my mouth to someones couch, I can still get my absolutely vital daily dose. Ya'll, I lost track of the number of times I sobbed over things like the color of Lily's sad eyes and that the dishwasher was full of dishes, but those were clean and I had nothing to replace them with, so the poor dishwasher was going to be lonely.

And has anyone noticed that "breaking up" with a friend is really fucking awful? I've had to do that a couple of times in the recent past, and it's honestly more painful (for crazy lil ole me) to lose a friend than it was when I got divorced from my first husband.

Both times this has happened, it was due to both a parting of interests which make continued friendship more harmful than awesome, and also to my BIG. FUCKING. MOUTH. that I cannot seem to ever stop from running around naked while metaphorically flipping people the bird in between swallows of Svedka.

Between my lack of medication, the overwhelming inadequacy and pressure I feel when I'm trying to produce actual words with actual meaning, and the social turmoil of the week behind me, I can honestly say that I plan to get so motherfucking drunk tonight that I will not wake up until Monday, and when I do, I probably won't be able to locate either my pants or my face.

PS - I will need a ride home on Monday. Any takers?

Hydrant flush

2011-06-10T10:49:00.000-05:00

This isn't the first time Mr. Heiney has bailed me out of a funk, and here he is again - giving me an irresistable prompt with which to play. I guess I owe him a blow job.

***

Jim: "Candace simply adored her new shoes. They sat prettily on her shelf where she had been admiring them for the past few days. Now that she had the perfect outfit to go with them, she supposed she should remove the previous owner's feet from them so she could wear them."

***

It was too soon, though. The woman hanging from a hook in the closet hadn't lost enough weight.

There were rules Candace knew, and that the previous owner had to die via starvation was the foremost of them. Without strict adherence to her rules, the world she'd carefully constructed would devolve into complete chaos, and Candace was far too peaceful a creature to cope with that. Her shoes would have to wait until the woman died.

They rules didn't forbid Candace from turning up the thermostat to ninety degrees, however. She did so with a satisfied smile, and then she shed her new dress and instead, donned an pair of blue slacks and a white, frothy shirt and paired them with the former Mr. Clein's comically small loafers.

Her feet throbbed in anticipation of the new shoes, however, so she made sure to bring along some bandages in case of a lust-blister.

She was meeting friends for lunch, and so she had only a small window of time to deliver Eva's lunch box to school. Her daughter had forgotten it on the counter and Candace had been notified by the school that Eva needed to purchase a lunch on her mother's credit. Appalled at the idea of her own child ingesting the dangerously ill-prepared hot lunch of a public school, Candace managed to squeeze in a trip to the elementary.

It gave her a chance to check out the receptionists Keds.

Well now.

2011-06-08T09:51:00.000-05:00

So I have this friend who's an actor and a playwright (both in reality and in aspirations) and he's been giving me a lot of shit because I haven't been writing myself lately.

Technically, I HAVE been writing, here on this blog and over at The Metropolitan News, but in the grander scheme of literary ambitions (I can't deny my English major and creative writing minor without confronting a large stack of thereby-pointless student loans), I know that this blog is bullshit. It's all fluff and shock and awe without much content, especially since my brain pain.

In years past, I was featured many times on the really kick ass blog Five Star Friday for posts that one of my readers connected with in some way, and none of those posts were particularly blog-centric. Instead they were creative non-fiction or fiction itself, like this and this.

I haven't been nominated in a long time and I realize that's because I haven't written anything worth a damn.

Funny? Fuck yeah.

Therapeutic? Sometimes. More than not, really.

Disgusting? Always.

But literary? No. Not even a little bit. In fact, my writers group is probably getting a little sick of my lame excuses for why when they show up for a meeting, they have pages for us to review and all I have is a bowl of popcorn and a compulsion to bum a cigarette from them. But they're too consumed by their own creative drive and their awesome works in progress to really spend any time kicking my ass over..how lazy I am.

I could blame not having a laptop, but my actor friend vetoed that excuse. Something about a pen and paper. What the hell are those? I didn't really understand, either.

I could blame my lack of being in school, but that's kind of, oh, one hundred percent my fault, and anyway I don't want to be in school for the rest of my life, so at some point I'll have to man up and make myself write even if I don't have an assignment deadline. Hell, if I get what I REALLY want, all I WILL have is deadlines, and I hear publishers are even less forgiving than college professors in that regard.

I could blame my wedding last summer, but...that was last summer.

I could blame my head injury, but that was only a valid excuse for the amount of time it took me to be able to shower without vomiting or using a shower chair. I'm lucky as fuck that my brain wasn't permanently damaged so that I was no longer able to write creatively - or at all. I should be taking advantage of my second chance at creativity.

When I break down all the excuses, I find that I'm just tired. And scared (hey writers, feel me?). And out of practice. And lazy. And I watch too much television and I drink too many beers and I adopt too many dogs.

I'm giving myself every reason in the world not to write.

And so I guess I'm going to do what any self-respecting woman would and just fucking write already.

All of this to say that some of the things I post here might not be my standard blog fodder. I may not tell as many awesome poop stories for a while, and I probably won't discuss cervical mucus (unless I have a really awesome chunk of it myself someday). I'm going to make myself post shit that came from somewhere a little further in my head than a bad penis joke.

And I'm exhausted just from finding a pencil.

Confession time

2011-06-07T07:00:00.005-05:00

Okay, so the weirdest thing happened back in December 2009, but I've been super confused about it so it's taken this long to write about.

I was with three friends at a swanky hotel bar, and *somebody* got so hammered that the security and emergency medical staff became somehow involved and we were asked to leave. The security guard was apologetic until I flipped him off.

When we left, we took this back road home and came across a property that was a pile of boulders and clay and dirt, about five miles off the interstate and up a spiraling dirt road. It was dry and hot, and we were on dilapidated road and property, and it was probably closed - a sign lay on the ground by the gate that said "North Pole". There were random cheap Christmas decorations laying here and there, plastic snowmen knocked over, reindeer hanging from a tree, and a three foot barber shop/north pole marker at the very top of the hill, clearly meant as a photo op for tourists.

When we got to the top of the driveway, we were met by a balding guy with a maroon and white Hawaiian shirt over an undershirt over his gut that was hanging out. He told us he was Santa, insisted we were at the North Pole.

Behind him was a crumbling ranch-style house just at the top of the hill. It looked dark and hot, the window coverings were drawn. There were some kind of outbuildings behind and to the right, 200 yards back and sitting perpendicular to the house - maybe barns or something big like that. The ground was dusty and dirty, patchy weeds and grass growing wherever they could find a hold.

We decided to get the fuck out of there, but then we saw Santa and (a woman who appeared to be) his wife hurrying out of the house with suitcases and loading up an old beater in the driveway in front of us.

I blacked out for a while and found myself in the living room where I was confronted by several Hispanics who explained that they were slaves who had just "overthrown" the owners (as those owners had done to their predecessors) and they'd just taken control of the property by force. The old owners were fleeing for their lives.

Down a hallway in a back room, we came across a crazy young mother and twin baby girls (identical, pale-skinned, bald, big round heads, wearing pale pink pants, and barefooted), roughly a year old. The mother was babbling, worried about being killed by the servants. She was apparently the victim of some sort of incest or rape by the owner, Santa, her male relative, because when we explained that we'd come from the hotel to rescue her and her babies, she shot one of the twins and said something like, "That one was his, I'm taking mine with me," which made a kind of convoluted sense at the time.

Just as we began our retreat down the hallway with the crazy mother mumbling and cowering, the injured baby we left for dead began wailing and trying to crawl after us. I picked her up but I don't remember if I end up taking her with us.

A a psychotic grandmother-age woman came wheeling down the hall at full speed, trying to stop us from leaving. We ran into the living room where we grabbed things to throw at her in defense, like picture frames and paperback books.

Everyone ended up in the living room, slaves, Santa and his woman, wacko grandma, crazy young mother and baby, myself and my friends who came with me, I'm not clear on which friends they were. We seemed to be "choosing sides" and the slaves and mom/baby stood on our side while the old owners and grandma faced us, and we began kind of...squaring off, but just via conversation at that point. Negotiations.

I remember I threw some things at the grandma's head and missed her every time.

When I woke up in a ditch three days later, I was sorry to find I'd mislaid my chapstick in the confision.

Booze baby, burning blood

2011-06-06T08:12:00.001-05:00

Okay, so @NamelessFriend didn't get a tattoo after all and she didn't even BOTHER to run it by me first. I haven't actually spoken to her yet, so I don't know if she totally changed her mind or if she just had to postpone the ink because she was too drunk, but either way, I am reporting her for underage consumption.

Why? Because, Christine...you are turning twenty...your eyes are getting heavy...when I snap my fingers, you will bestow upon my your (what do most kids drink these days?) Mike's Hard Lemonade (which I will spike with actual alcohol when I get home) and you won't remember a thing...oh, and throw in those white heels while you're at it...

I spent my weekend in the sun so I'm a bit pink today, which is awesome because, at least with my skin, the burn kind of sneaks up like a cat stalking a sparrow, which is to say that I don't hear the burn coming until it's too late, and when I wake up decapitated in heaven, it feels like the sun tossed me around and then bit me a little bit. The feeling gets stronger as the color of my skin changes, so now that it's been a full 12ish hours since I retreated inside, my thighs may as well be on fire.

Right vicinity, wrong unit.

I did have to take a break from skin-cancering myself to drive all the way to a non-puppy-selling pet store to pick up more fucking DIAPERS for Lily, who is still "in heat" which means that if she is non-diapered for any moment of time, then she leaves a trail of bloody drips behind her. It's easier to find her, sure, but THERE IS DOGGY UTERUS ON MY FLOOR and also Gray says she smells like a fat lady, which I know from experience is not a good thing.

Um, and the other morning, Gray and I may have been baby-making (is it odd that my dog and I are ovulating together?) and I glanced down to see Lily sitting at attention, big grin on her face, tail slapping the wall like my head into the headboard. I'm pretty sure she was rooting for Gray, but part of me wonders if she thought she'd be next.

I would pay to see those puppies.

She also sits on the deck or at the door and instead of whining softly at the appearance of a person, she moans and howls loudly at the appearance of ABSOLUTELY NOTHING, which translated from dog language means FUCK ME, BOYS.

Tell me something...are diapers for humans this expensive? Because if so, I *maybe* just decided that I don't want kids after all.

Zipbag of Virgins

2011-06-03T10:18:00.002-05:00

HI CHRISTINE!

So I have this friend who shall remain nameless, except for the part above where I say her name, just forget about that and go on about your lives thinking this friend is anonymous.

So Nameless Friend makes me feel quite advanced in years because she does things like glue colored feathers into her hair and wear her bangs chopped sideways like an a-line skirt and actually buy clothes instead of inheriting them from her grandmother.

And she's turning 21 next week. Which means not only will she not remember this post by July, but she also won't remember her birthday by next weekend, so I have a plan.

I will convince her she's only 20 and she got arrested for underage consumption (after she blacked out on her birthday) so she'd better hurry up and hide all her booze, but don't worry because I am WAY over age and will happily dispose of every drop of alcohol, even the Boone's Farm. And I won't even charge her.

That will be my birthday gift to her.

Until today, ~~Christine~~ she was a virgin to this blog, which means she still thinks I'm relatively normal. Things are boutsta change up in heeya.

I happen to know that at this moment, my nameless friend is reading this post from a chair (presumably) in a dingy garage (possibly) on her sister's Ipad (definitely) while her cousin stabs her with a needle over and over and over and over, but not just because it's fun as hell, but also because he's putting a tattoo of the word "believe" on the top of her foot, and all of this to say HI ~~CHRISTINE~~ NAMELESS FRIEND! How ya feelin? You hurting right now? PAIN-SIES?

Ouchsies.

Also, Nameless Friend, here's something you may have already considered, but most people ALREADY believe that their feet exist.

You might want to get some counseling for that.

Scientific proof we're related

2011-06-01T11:26:00.000-05:00

Our niece Angel Butt was here with my sister over the weekend. The following tid bits were actually divulged.

If I hadn't watched my sister give birth to this child, I'd be pretty sure I gave birth to her myself. And then forgot.

***

On Eyeballs:

My sister: Lately, Angel Butt has been obsessed about what certain things eat. She asked me what angels eat, and I said probably something fluffy. Like Marshmallows.

Angel Butt: They eat EYEBALLS.

Me: What? Eyeballs? Why do they eat those?

Angel Butt: Because they are delicious! Mmmm mmm mmm!

According to this 4-year-old, penguins eat eyeballs too. As do all other truly worthy animals.

Later we took Angel Butt to the horse racing track and she was a little too interested in one horse's eyeballs. We took her by the hand and exited the building as fast as was possible while also dragging a drooling, eyeball-hungry toddler.

***

On canine horniness:

Angel Butt: Is Lily sick?

Me: No, honey, she's just bleeding because she's having her period. Like mommies do.

Angel Butt: Oh. Is she a mommy?

Me: No, but she wants to be.

Angel Butt: When will she be a mommy?

Me: We aren't going to let her be a mommy.

Angel Butt: But whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy?

Me: Well...because there are already too many puppies that don't have homes.

Angel Butt: But you can keep them.

Me: We can't have any more puppies.

Angel Butt: Okay then, just two more.

***
On vaginal health:

Me: Did you go potty this morning?

Angel Butt: YES *big grin*

Me: *feels her wet overnight pull up* Hey, it's wet! You went potty in your pull up!

Angel Butt: Yes, but I didn't wet the bed!

Me: *damn technicalities* Okay, but we have to put on clean panties before you eat breakfast.

Angel Butt: No, we can do it later.

Me: Honey, it's bad for your vagina to be wet like that.

Angel Butt: What's a "vagina"?

Me: *shit* Erm, I think your mommy calls it your "peaches". Does mommy say you have peaches?

Angel Butt: Yes, peaches.

Me: Okay, then it's bad for your peaches to be wet, they need to dry off so they'll be healthy!

Angel Butt: But I don't LIKE healthy peaches. They're BAD peaches.

***

On love:

She kissed an older boy on the neck at her birthday party on Saturday.

That is all.

***

Also on love:

Angel Butt: When you get married you're supposed to have babies. But you don't have babies.

Me: We're trying to have babies.

Angel Butt: How do you have babies?

Me: *FUCK* Ooh, look - something shiny!

***

On boogers:

Angel Butt: Sometimes when you go to the doctor, they give you a shot. Oh ouchie. I don't like shots.

Me: Yeah, ouchie.

Angel Butt: I went to the doctor and they stuck my finger for a stick test and they tested it to make sure I was healthy from my boogers.

Me: I'm sorry, what? Something about boogers?

Angel Butt: Yes, they stuck me in the finger for a stick test and they squeezed - Oh ouchie! And I bled, and then they tested to make sure I was healthy. From my boogers.

That's when my sister walked outside. I needed a translator.

Me: Your daughter is telling me about a "stick test" and her boogers and I have no idea what she's talking about.

My sister: What did you say to Auntie Cat?

Angel Butt: Remember, Mommy? When I got the stick test and they squeezed it - Oh Ouchie! And they said I was healthy even though I eated my boogers.

My Sister: Ooooh. They drew her blood at a check-up and I guess someone told her that eating boogers can make you sick.

Me: Wait, did you say you eat boogers?

Angel Butt: Yes *big grin*

Me: Why do you eat boogers?

Angel Butt: Because they're delicious *rubs belly in a circle* Mmmm mmmm mmmm

Me: Jesus, girl...I flick them, but I never eat them...

***

Then she helped Scary get drunk and also fed her a tube of chap stick. And then she tattooed herself and her birthday party guests.

I wish she'd never leave.

I just...you guys...there are no words

2011-05-31T09:50:00.000-05:00

Apparently she isn't spayed.

Apparently she has a giant vulva full of blood.

Apparently she hates wearing diapers.

Yin and yang and ooh, pretty, shiny!

2011-05-27T09:48:00.004-05:00

So I kind of forgot that we're trying to get pregnant because I'm all distracted by shiny things, like a raccoon.

Except "shiny things" are bi-sexual black boys and Craigslist and giant, inflatable elephants. And stuff.

This is a perfect example of my self-diagnosed ADD, really, because one minute I'm obsessed - OBFUCKINGSESSED - with cervical mucus and ovulation windows and birthing plans...but then I get my period and so I have a cocktail and that reminds me I need to groom Scary's fur which reminds me I'm growing a mullet which reminds me I need to transplant my vegetable seedlings so they can grow which reminds me I need to call the hot weed guy to kill our dandelions which reminds me of a house cat I saw that looks like a cross between a lion and a bush baby which reminds me to trim my cooter hair which reminds me I haven't masturbated in a week which reminds me my vibrator needs batteries which reminds me I need to fix the power to the air conditioner which reminds me we have company coming tomorrow which results in a frantic, last-minute search for beds which actually FIT into our tiny, vintage home, which reminds me we need to get quotes for replacement windows, which reminds me I need a second job because WE ARE BUYING THIRTY REPLACEMENT WINDOWS which reminds me I forgot to google my next baby window.

Oh yeah, we're trying to get pregnant.

Gray is ADD in an entirely different way. Like rent-a-jack-hammer-and-bust-up-the-concrete-in-one-of-the-two-former-clothes-line-post-holes-then-return-the-jack-hammer-because-he-forgot-the-second-clothes-line-post-hole-full-of-concrete. That kind of way.

He also didn't notice the giant purple and yellow dinosaur sand box in our yard (despite several trips from the garage to the house and back) until I pointed it out to him.

It's like I'm a meth head and he's a burnout. Which might lead to some very incompatible sex. Which reminds me, we're trying to get pregnant.

I wonder if he noticed?

PS - It really does look like a tiger/bush baby hybrid!

Twilight Zone (HBO version)

2011-05-24T08:30:00.002-05:00

I stayed home yesterday because I said so.

I took Lily on a bike ride to the Minnesota River and she ran and ran and she explored the woods and kicked it through some tall brush and her tongue waggled and she met a great dane and a chihuahua at the same time and when we got home, Scary had burrs in her beard.

What the...?

Then I decided to install our kitchen chandelier because I was tired of live wires dangling from the ceiling. So I spent an hour installing the chandelier. And then I realized I need more than two hands actually install the chandelier. Then I fell off the island, but that was before I drilled through my middle finger.

It bled, like, a lot.

The world's sexiest lawn care guy showed up to kill our dandelions. We thought we had Creeping Charlie. Then someone said no, they're wild violets. Then sexy guy called it Creeping Jenny, which is weird because our neighbor is Jenny and she is the one who referred us to sexy guy for weed removal. Clearly she was suspicious of herself all along and wanted to be sure she didn't creep over into her own yard.

Then two of the world's fattest white people showed up with one of the world's skinniest black kids. They used their big truck to knock over our steel clothes line posts, and when that didn't work (because the posts were anchored enough cement for a bunker), the fat people drove away to find a tobacco shop and left the skinny black kid to do the job himself.

During the hour that ensued, I learned skinny black kid is dating fat white peoples' son/brother whom he met outside of the Gay 90s (LOVE THAT PLACE). Fat white people were "scrappers" and were going to sell the steel for money. Skinny black kid was fat white people's hired help, except that they didn't pay him anything, so really it was kind of like slavery.

He got sweaty, then he took his shirt off. He may have been skinny but he was not even a little bit scrawny. I realized that black skin is lovely when it glistens! And when I told him so, he smiled and said, "If you weren't married..." *insert innuendo here* and I smiled back at him and said, "If you weren't gay," *insert lusty eyes here* and he said, "I'm bi."

And then I died in my driveway because if I weren't married...

Don't worry, he was 19. Totally legal. I think.

It was the weirdest day ever.

Took the hillbilly out of the girl

2011-05-19T12:12:00.001-05:00

My mom was born without two of her adult teeth, so they just pushed her entire bite forward to close the gap. Then because most of her worst genes passed right on along to me (skin, nose, TEETH, giant ribs, probably moles if I counted mine up...), I was born with the same problem.

But since I lived in Arkansas when my baby teeth fell out, I was doomed to the hillbilly version of Mom's Missing Teeth, which means only one side was missing, which means they couldn't fix my smile by moving things around, which means OF COURSE THEY COULDN'T.

So my parents installed braces on my (mostly there) teeth to be sure I could have a dental implant and a chance at a normal mouth.

I just realized I failed the "normal mouth" test in more ways than one, but you can't correct obscene language with dental hardware, so again - not my fault.

My orthodontist was either an idiot or a fraud (based #12 on this list, and the fact that I NEVER BROKE MY NOSE and therefore began making up different stories about skiing accidents and pony kicks to appease him, I'm guessing he was an idiot) and allowed my canine tooth to move so that it blocked all access to my jaw, which meant NO TOOTH IMPLANT FOR ME.

Look at me...I'm crying on the inside *of my mouth*

At some point, Dr. Genius decided to attach a little fake tooth to my braces so I could pretend I wore shoes and had indoor plumbing. It would spin around on the wire sometimes, and that was kind of hard to explain to Joe, whom I wanted to feel my boobehs.

They went un-felt for years.

When my braces came off (after 3 years) but after we went to get my implant and the oral surgeon laughed us out of his office, we returned to Dr. Genius and had him PUT THE BRACES BACK ON in order to straighten up the canine tooth and make room for an implant in my jaw. He put the braces back on for another year.

The canine didn't move.

We gave up because, you know, I was kind of graduating high school and moving away from home and it's hard to make those regular orthodontic visits when you're in a different part of the country and stuff.

So I got a retainer with a fake tooth on it. It was my mini-denture, but it stayed put really well thanks to the retaining wires running all over the place.

Once the retainer grew old (you know, when my grand kids started asking why I wore antique dental hardware, don't I know retainers haven't been around for more than 1,000 years, like, I should totally sell that on Ebay and buy them candy), I paid (out-of-pocket) for what is far-too-happily-referred to as a "flipper".

No, it's not the good kind of flipper.

It's the gross kind. the kind you learn to pop out with your tongue, just to fuck with your friends' heads. Because it's both disgusting and it's horrifying in some completely inexplicable way. People shudder, like, literally when I do it. And I shudder myself because - somehow - my hijacked #7 tooth is the thing I am most mortified of in the entire world, including Hitler.

That bastard had all his teeth.

Maybe it's KINDA like a dolphin...

And this poor girl knows exactly how I feel:

But I FEEL THAT WAY NO MORE.

Last year, my hot dentist told me about a new kind of partial that won't damage the surrounding teeth *much* and won't have to be removed for cleaning or, you know, for giving blow jobs. (Seriously, have you ever choked on a big piece of plastic and then had it rammed FURTHER DOWN YOUR THROAT by a distracted recipient? It's not cool.)

This year, my insurance agreed to pay for part of the work, which is kind of a miracle because my hillbilly tooth hole has always been considered a preexisting condition by insurance companies and potential suitors.

Yesterday, I banished my flipper forever.

This machine carved my tiny new tooth.

This computer program made my teeth look like a very yellow mountain range.

And now I can smile without having to think, "SHIT. Did I remember to put in my tooth?" or "Fuck, I didn't expect to see my neighbor so early in the morning, TALK WITH MOUTH CLOSED" or *upon waking up with a killer hangover* "HOLY GOD which toilet is my flipper swimming in and how many times did I pee on it in the night?!"

Which means that now...I'm no so ashamed anymore.

Here's me "before' with my flipper (third tooth from left)
It's darker than my other teeth because we went ahead and did some bleaching up in this bitch.

Here's the ::vomit:: shot.

My after shot, bitches!

My directly-after shot when I tried to smile but half my face was still numb. Damn. I coulda been Elvis.

It feels exactly the same so I'm pretty sure my reproductive organs are staging a bloody coup

2011-05-18T08:52:00.000-05:00

Well I'm not pregnant, so that baby bump musta-could-be attributed to the burrito I ate.

I'm most upset because that blows my "burritos are slimming" theory all to hell.

In a grand gesture of Impatience, I went to the doctor and had them perform a blood test to confirm what I already suspected - that Gray's little swimmers aren't so much "swimming" as they are "wearing water wings and splashing each other" - but the results of that blood test proved to be the difference between one margarita with dinner and three margaritas with each course of dinner, so it turned out to be well worth the trouble.

Then OF COURSE I started bleeding like a stuck pig in the middle of that night.

I guess when my uterus realized I was onto its mind games, it decided to wave the red flag and go back to business as usual. Which is fine with me because I've been dying to use those PH balanced tampons ever since BlogHer last year, but I kept forgetting I had them because the package looks like my box of Sponge Bob band aids, and while I've been tempted to use Sponge Bob on my vag before (excuse me, but aren't band aids MADE for things that are bleeding?)...I never did.

I remembered my PH balanced tampons this time because I'm hyper-conscious of my vagina's emotional state this week, but also because I abstained from buying regular old imbalanced tampons in the hopes I wouldn't need them for a while, and so when the blood gushed, it was either 1) Wear the PH balanced tampons or 2) Shove in an old wine cork and hope I don't need the corkscrew to get it out. Then I realized my wine comes with screw tops these days, and that option seemed like unnecessary vaginal torture.

We're trying to make amends, my vag and me.

It wouldn't be a normal "time of the month" if I didn't experience some of the horrifying "chunks down the shower drain, holy god, did my uterus maul a small rodent, what the fuck WAS that?" and then I decided it must have been my remaining shreds of dignity that plopped out.

I'd been looking for those.

Happy Birthaversary

2011-05-17T09:33:00.000-05:00

Even though your actual birthday is a mystery, it was a year ago today that we brought you home to live with us/the best day EVER. So this is the day we picked to celebrate your birth and spoil you rotten.

Wish we could spend it with you.

We're going to bury you tonight, right in the spot where you always liked to pee. We can tell exactly where that is because there's still a yellow rectangle in the grass, and it's like a flashing beacon that says BAMPA WUZ HERE.

We're going to bury you there and think about you and we're even going to pretend you didn't pee like a girl.

We miss you!

No news is...super confusing

2011-05-16T09:42:00.000-05:00

So I'm not pregnant. Except that I'm also not-NOT pregnant.

I'm exactly where I've been for the past two weeks which is the frustrating space of not knowing if I'm between Ovulation and Conception or Ovulation and Shedding Uterus, depending on how the whole Operation: Baby strike went the first go-round.

What I'm trying to say that is I still have no fucking clue what is going on.

On Friday, I was completely convinced that I am not pregnant and I was happily resigned to knowing we'd have to try again this month. When we have out of state visitor's sleeping 10 feet away. When I'm tired from hosting out of state visitors.

On Saturday, when my period declined it's standard invitation (VERY UNUSUAL FOR ME), my happy resignation turned into frantic peeing on sticks, but all the pee tests are negative (even the early detection tests taken two days after my period was due), so basically my body is messing with me for shoots and googles, and it serves me right for obsessing, right?

This is exactly like not being able to buy Season 6 of How I Met Your Mother - even though I'm dying to watch it - because Season 6 is, like, not over yet, and stuff.

The other minor symptoms I'm experiencing could be early pregnancy symptoms OR they could be in my head and NOT ACTUALLY HAPPENING AT ALL.

I've been talking to my uterus all weekend, saying stuff like, "Either be pregnant or be empty. It's your call, but fucking pick one already," and "BLEED, MOTHERFUCKER!"

The lack of finality is making me all question-y , and the only other explanation I can come up with for my late period is stress, which seems like a given when you've met me before, but I'm not actually very stressed out right now. I'm ready to know if I'm pregnant, I'm ready to BE pregnant, but I'm also enjoying my time at home with the dogs and the hubby and watching our very own fat robin who is nesting next door and plotting the deaths of the legion of dandelions in our yard and replacing worn out breaker switches and hosting dinner parties. I'm busy, but it's all very FUN, lazy business.

So is my insomnia + shingles outbreak + late period all a sign of my secret stress?

Or am I knocked up with the world's strangest spawn?

Is my giant, flappy labia involved in this mess? Do my boobs hurt because I keep squeezing them to see if they hurt? Or do they just hurt when I squeeze them because they hurt?

It's all very confusing.

Oh, and also - Lily wants to live in the trunk of my car. Or underneath the deck. I haven't decided which she'd prefer, but she's almost gotten locked in/stuck in both places this week, so it's kind of a toss up.

All kinds of disturbing

2011-05-10T14:04:00.000-05:00

When tearing out the hideous landscaping rock, I dug up giant clumps of roots that were halting our shovels' progress. I may have screamed at them, "I don't know what you think you are, plant, but I didn't give you permission to grow here so you've GOT TO GO."

We left a big bunch of them growing by the deck because they weren't hurting anything there and I was curious what they were. Turns out I killed a bunch of bleeding hearts. Threw them away. In the garbage. With a smile on my face.

We bought a new TV (OUR VERY FIRST FLAT SCREEN!) from a friend who is moving and didn't need this one in his bedroom anymore. I just realized I should have dunked it in Purell. Don't tell Gray.

Did I mention it's a 46" flat screen? And that we have it? In our house? Cause we do!

Things are just starting to grow here.

If you're lucky enough to live in a state in which spring began prior to May 7th, then I fucking hate you.

Kylie and I garage-saled our asses off on Saturday. She made me stop buying when there was no longer room in my car for another item. She wouldn't let me tie her to the hood. I love Kylie, but she can be really selfish sometimes. You should have seen how crowded my trunk hostages were.

I don't know what this thing is, but I want one for my very own self.

I haven't had a pedicure in a long time, but I wanted to wear open-toed shoes this morning, so I'm such a genius that my solution what to paint a non-matching color over the existing, comically-grown out polish. The result was a horrible mash up that part melted crayon, part gangrene. It didn't occur to me that I could, oh, you know, REMOVE THE GODDAMN POLISH FROM THE TIP OF MY BIG TOE.

And then I realized you can see my non-painted third toes, anyway.

Here's a word of advice to all you ass hats on Facebook whose only photos are of themselves posing shirtless in front of a builder-grade bathroom mirror with their camera phones: Not only do we not wish to see fourteen *slightly* varied poses of your jaw line, but next time you might want to include a friend in your photo. So we think you have friends. Hell, even a stuffed abominable snowman is better that what you've got.

And oh yeah: I have shingles.

Don't the graphics make them look like more fun? Because in reality, they feel like a semi ran over my shoulder, then it backed up over the other side of my shoulder, and also the semi's eighteen wheels were made from rubberized spider poison and the hounds of hell.

And because I've only read of youngish people getting shingles, and because I don't have the time/inclination to make my very own Shingle Tribute video, may I present to you Heather's:

SHINGLES! from dooce on Vimeo.

I found a project (actually, I found 5,000 of them)

2011-05-06T09:54:00.000-05:00

I think I'm going to start with this project, though, because I'm tired of our house being an eye sore. I'd much prefer to have the reputation of the weird couple with the beautiful home.

The first part of that reputation is already in place.

A before picture, for your viewing pleasure.

Okay, so here's what the house looks like now that we ripped out the awful for sale sign, the stab-happy flower shrubs of doom, and all of the hideous landscaping rock.

And here is my first attempt at sketching what I'd like to do with the new facade.

Can you tell I don't have a) Photoshop b) any sort of artistic abilities c) or really any sense of landscape design whatsoever?

I NEED YOUR HALP.

The front of our house is in full sun almost all day long.

I basically only plant perennials because I hate buying them every damn year, but I'd like some annuals in the window boxes (which I have yet to buy/make).

I want relatively low-growing shrubs in the front under the windows, shrubs that won't be huge one day, that I can prune back and keep below the windows.

Perhaps some evergreens.

Perhaps some unicorns.

Who knows.

I will be laying fabric and mulching over the dirt when all the planting is done.

Otherwise, it's a blank slate.

FOR FUCK'S SAKE...HALP ME!

Maybe I should break my arm again

2011-05-05T10:21:00.000-05:00

I have a giant rash on my left shoulder and arm, and I'm pretty sure it's a stress rash from HAVING TO WAIT TO FIND OUT IF I'M PREGNANT.

Have I mentioned I'm not good at waiting?

I'm trying desperately to distract myself, keeping busy every day at work and when I get home, but there isn't one second of the day that my mind isn't flashing an internal neon sign and screaming at me that I don't know if I'm pregnant, I could be pregnant, I might not be pregnant, I have no way of knowing if I'm pregnant, I MUST KNOW RIGHT NOW.

Gray doesn't understand the stress involved. He listed of a dozen other semi-major things we have gong on, and said his mind keeps busy mulling those things over instead, and then I punched him in the gut and told him to suck on his busy mind. Because I mull every one of those things over (except Mortal Kombat) every day, too, and apparently I've got a speedy mental processor, because it's like I wake up in the morning and go,

"Three days until payday *mental list off all the bills we need to pay*, Gray might be starting a second job *mental list of all the money he would make and how I can spend it*, Lily ate two sticks of butter and Scary tried to bite the kitchen island when it snuck up on her...dogs are both still in need of major training *mental list of all the ways I could dismember them and shove their pieces down the garbage disposal*, need to fix the garbage disposal *mental note to google how to fix the garbage disposal*, I start taking summer classes next week *mental list of all the shit I need to buy for school*, have to remember to take my prenatal vitimin *OMFG I MIGHT BE PREGNANT*"

And then it's all over from there. The rest of my waking hours are spent alternating between thoughts about pregnancy, worries about miscarriage, *mental list of acceptable baby names*, cringing about cervical mucus, and wondering if I'm pregnant.

Last night I decided to take one of those "early detection" pregnancy tests that are supposed to work up to five days before your next expected period is due.

Last night was exactly eleven days prior to my next expected period, so I figured my chances of getting an accurate reading were, oh, SO FUCKING GOOD.

Okay, okay, fine. I knew I was wasting a pregnancy test and my time, but was there a tiny little part of me that thought that just ::maybe:: it would come back positive? Maybe just 1% chance?

Yes, I figured there might be a tiny chance, and so during the requisite three minutes waiting for my pee to soak into the stick, I contemplated the best way to disappear into another country to escape all the scientists who would want to study me because I'm the only woman on earth who got an accurate pregnancy result before her body even knew it was pregnant.

It was negative, of course, which leaves me exactly where I was this time yesterday, which is HELL, if you're wondering.

Maybe I shouldn't have quit smoking pot. Seems like that would help right about now.

Here, have a squirrel:

And also, Zzzzzzzz

2011-05-02T09:16:00.000-05:00

I slept all weekend.

No, really. ALL WEEKEND, I SLEPT. And I wasn't even drinking. Nor am I sick.

I am, however, hoping that I'm pregnant.

It's way too early for symptoms, right? Except I remember that last time, I was exhausted. Inexplicably exhausted. Wake-up-at-noon-nap-time-at-1:30-laziest-dogs-on-earth-think-I-must-be-dying-or-something-bed-time-by-7:00 exhausted.

That's the same exhaustion that hit me on the head Saturday, so the OMGIWANTTOBEKNOCKEDUP part of me thinks that I must be pregnant, and maybe it takes a hell of a lot of energy to...allow an egg to embed itself in my uterine wall? Help the little egg divide cells like it's going out of style?

CONVINCE MYSELF I'M PREGNANT INSTEAD OF REMAINING (reasonably) HOPEFUL AND INDIFFERENT?

Yeah, that's the most likely.

Even though I may be jumping the gun, I can tell you that the men on the field made a valiant effort, it should be good, the pieces are in place, I cannot believe I'm agreeing to procreate with a man who never stops quoting Brett Farve (even in the off-season) and I cannot believe I've turned into the woman who quotes him right back.

If we're not pregnant, then it was a hell of a try, and I'll be taking consolation gifts in the form of 1.75L vodka and some Swisher Sweets. There will be approximately 2 weeks in between Sad Face pregnancy test and the recommencement of Operation: Baby. Why not console myself with a little liquid happiness?

But if we ARE pregnant...have a drink for me, wouldja?

(Christ, now I have to wait two weeks to find out how this story begins. Please, please please - let me begin vomiting uncontrollably before then. I cannot take the suspense.)

We're considering installing a chair lift

2011-04-26T08:23:00.001-05:00

Well, we got the green light from our OBGYN to Make! Babies! Promptly!

Most people don't think to visit the doctor before conception, but I had a lot of google time on my hands as I waited for the goddamn class D seizure/migraine medication to clear out of my body, so when I read (on a very medically sound message board, I am sure) that a preconception check-up was sometimes recommended, it took less than forty-five seconds for me to schedule that appointment.

Except that's not true because that's not how it happened.

See, when my neurologists assured me that my traumatic brain injury, skull fracture, parietal lobe bruising, and related cervical nerve damage would in no way effect my future pregnancies, I didn't believe them for a fucking second.

It doesn't seem possible that a head injury can just...dissipate and go away like a broken arm or a bad reaction to shell fish. My past experience with brain injuries, albeit from the sidelines, was telling me a different story.

In December when I was finally given the okay to begin DOING ACTUAL THINGS again, I emailed my faithful OBGYN (we'll call him Dr. Noggin for the sake of not saying "OBGYN" every six sentences) and although he had already been notified of my injuries (via fax)((at my request)) by the hospital where I'd been treated, he didn't yet know the whole story. When I explained what had happened to the best of my knowledge, I was met with a response that didn't surprise me, but DID scare me a little.

Dr. Noggin said there were definitely risks and concerns, namely my "focal neurological deficits" (my loss of hearing and my dizziness, which have since gone away completely, and my loss of taste and smell, which have not), high blood pressure during pregnancy, and pushing during labor and delivery. Basically, we have to be wary of anything that could potentially knock a blood clot loose in my brain and cause...well...whatever they cause, and while that is always true of any pregnant woman, apparently women with TBIs in their past are at a much greater risk.

Dr. Noggin forwarded my information to a perinatologist (high-risk pregnancy specialist) at the Mayo Clinic for more information, and he came back with even more semi-scary news.

Though I knew this already, it was something else entirely when he said, "Your head injury is the most important thing in your medical history now, NO QUESTION ABOUT IT." Dammit, I guess Mummy Hand must take a back burner. Forever.

He said that we'd "re-evaluate next year," which is now, and said he'd prefer to see us back in his office before we made the decision to commence Operation: Get In My Belleh, Baby.

So we went, and although it was a much happier appointment than the last time we were there together, it was still a little nerve-wracking. We found ourselves beyond punchy and giggling like little girls over something involving head cheese and the word "moist". I, of course, was starving because I'd fasted all day in preparation for my cholesterol test, and Gray was exhausted, probably from playing too much Mortal Kombat, and so there we sat, in the room full of miniature vaginas, models of ovaries and diagrams of cervical positions, laughing so loudly that we drew a bit of attention to ourselves.

When Dr. Noggin came into the room, it was time for business. He began with, "So you're normal now," and when neither Gray nor I could answer that in the affirmative, he chuckled and said, "Well, not "normal," but better. Head-wise."

There is no mistaking me for "normal."

I expected some questions about my brain to be interspersed with others about my menstrual cycles, my lifestyle, exercise, immunizations, and all the other topics I'd googled about preconception check-ups. What I didn't expect was a very pointed interrogation about my brain injury, doctors, time in the hospital, recovery, symptoms, headaches, medication, mood, and other completely brain-centric questions. He also had me sign a form so he could get my last CT scan. Just in case, he said.

I was a little taken aback because at this point in my recovery, I consider myself back to how I was before, even though that doesn't equal "normal".

But as Dr. Noggin pointed out, a traumatic brain injury resulting in ten days in the hospital, some of those in ICU, is not something that I can ever "gloss over," not for the rest of my life. And I'm beginning to realize that the implications of one stupid fucking fall down the basement stairs will be much farther-reaching into the rest of my years on this earth than I ever imagined.

So by the end of the appointment, we got the green light, but I feel it was granted in a near-begrudging manner, and with very strict orders to report any type of change in vision, hearing, motor skills, touch, ANYTHING WHATSOEVER OUT OF THE ORDINARY, and Dr. Noggin said he would not hesitate to order and MRI and refer me to a high-risk specialist if my blood pressure rises or other warning signs present themselves.

I don't think he'd hesitate to spank me if I neglected to follow his orders.

I'm also scheduled for a fasting cholesterol test. I cannot possibly be old enough for that.

2011-04-21T10:21:00.000-05:00

Tomorrow is the Big Day.

Gray and I are returning, not triumphantly, but at least happily, to the OBGYN where we went for our first lost pregnancy, this time to do a preconception check-up and catch up with the very best vag doc in the entire world, who Gray loves (in a strictly-hetero way) because of their mutual love of vintage Metallica.

Do you understand what I'm saying? Because I don't think you do. You don't seem nearly excited enough.

WE CAN HAZ BABIEZ MAKING.

I've literally run out of preconception topics to google. There is nothing left to learn, aside from the scheduled post-brain injury implications during pregnancy, labor and delivery. Otherwise, I've been taking a prenatal vitamin since January, I stopped birth control at the same time, I've been off the dangerous seizure medication for three of the neurologist-advised "two-and-a-half to three" months. I'm cutting back on coffee. I'm getting more exercise. Gray is eating better and losing some weight to prepare for chasing around toddlers. And, you know, SEX.

Aside from stocking up on lube, there isn't much left to do now but wait for my ovulation window to slide itself right on open so we can shove our spawn through the crack.

I AM NOT A PATIENT PERSON (yes, the implications of impatience for motherhood have been brought to my attention, thank you for reminding me, asshole) and yet I've been waiting. Nay, WE have been waiting. We've been waiting for three years, both by chance and by choice, and I can assure you that we are both capital-R ready.

Now that we're closing in on the prospect of having children, I must begin the process of trying to calm the fuck down, for the love of god talk about something besides cervical mucus already, stop wasting all the pregnancy tests because we just had sex 30 MINUTES AGO, and I should probably stop buying newborn onesies with adult slangs on them, but that's mostly because of child protective services and stuff.

We're also terrified about losing another pregnancy, but as per our ::totally calm and coherent:: discussions last time, we wanted to wait to try again until I was prepared to face the idea that another miscarriage is possible. It's not likely, it's not a given, it's not even a particularly high risk, but it's possible.

I wasn't prepared for that idea the first time, but now I hope I am.

I think I am.

And also SCREEEEEEE FOR BABY MAKING WINDOWS!

I hope this blog will soon return to its original purpose, which was to chronicle the ooey and the gooey parts my of pregnancy.

Don't worry - I'll still be a fucking badass.

I'll just have bigger tits.

Once a cheater...

2011-04-20T07:00:00.004-05:00

I wrote this for a brief class assignment in 2009:

I wrote a lot of angst-ridden "poetry" in high school. A LOT of it. And I'm horrified now by every single word, but cannot bring myself to throw it out. I have this old earth science binder from 8th grade and it houses every short story and poem I wrote from 5th grade all the way up until computers ruled the world. It was like my blankie.

As a kid, poetry was an easy way to expel my scrambled thoughts in a medium that didn't have to make sense...my purge when I just had to get my feelings out. It was like I had bulimia of the mind.

I'm only recently beginning to appreciate READING poetry, much thanks to the creative writing class I took with Gar Patterson last spring. He is so gifted with the ability to use language in new ways, to take a single word and give it 50 different meanings simply by how he spoke it, that I had him pegged as a fiction writer. Because only fiction writers are that versatile, right?

And then I googled him.

I ordered his books of poetry from Amazon (proof that poets all have day jobs, each of them was less than $1) and started to view both him and poetry in a new way.

Now I'm trying to tear down the "I don't like reading poetry" wall I've built over the years and allow myself to appreciate it's value to me as a writer and a student and a human being.

Poetry is courting me.

After two years of this bullshit I came to the conclusion that I still hate poetry.

That's probably why I married a gamer instead of a writer.

Leftovers (alternately, "I never smoked enough weed to justify my memory loss")

2011-04-19T13:55:00.002-05:00

~~Because I didn't feel like writing today,~~ Out of sheer ~~laziness~~ curiosity, I did a quick scan of the 62 draft blog posts in my arsenal and was horrified to discover that not only do they all suck, but none of them make even the slightest bit of sense, which is especially unfortunate since I no longer remember what I was talking about, and therefore I must live with the knowledge that my riveting story of "Nintendo tried to kill me" will never be told.

When taken all together, though, they do form a bit of a picture of how my fucking cracked mind works, and ~~so I don't have to write an actual post today~~ for that, I'm going to show them to you.

Let's start with saved drafts that LITERALLY CONTAIN NO MATERIAL WHATSOEVER, only titles:

Tinsel
The toilet saga
Her Lipgloss is poppin
We've been boo'd
Words
My personal favorite, Ted Stevens fails to report gift of life, finds justice in fiery airplane crash
Teeth dream
Where has my libido gone?
Okay, but sometimes shut up
Sex talk with my mom (okay, unfortunately I do remember this one)
Fungal love
I don't miss you right now
Furry bandit stakeout
Jon Gosselin abused by Kate's hair
And let's not forget the all-important Ingrown cooter hairs

I'm most intrigued by "Words" because what exactly the fuck else would a blog post be besides words? Mimed dialogue? Soft porn? Was I making some kind of commentary or was I literally unable to come up with a decent title for that post?

::elevator music while I check to see if there were any actual words in the body of that draft::

Okay, so the entirety of the (BRILLIANTLY TITLED) post "Words" is below:

C'est la vie

Donezo

Yes We Can

I don't know whether I was trying to convince myself that the two years of high school French were, in fact, NOT a ginormous waste of time or if I was trying out different slogans for the Obama '08 campaign, in which case I'm pretty sure the third option would be considered plagiarism.

Okay, so now check out this post titled "I've got all my eggs in twin baskets":

Being the worrier that I am, I have spent a lot of time mildly freaking out about the possibility of losing my job. I got laid off in March last year, although they kept me on until July. But with the current financial crisis and the fact that every single person in the world is getting laid off right now, I feel it's prudent to make a Plan B.

Not only do I have no idea why I was freaking out about losing my job, I should mention that I never bothered to come up with a financial Plan B. Unless you count hooking, but in the event of a layoff, that's already my Plan A.

This one illustrates my laziness to a T, meaning I never got around to blogging about Gray's proposal to me: "Be very afraid. Marginally afraid is acceptable."

Holy cannoli-balls people, I'm back from vacation and I am ENGAGED TO BE MARRIED. Where do I even start?

"At the beginning" is not an option because I'm stuck in epic poetry mode and I must begin in medius res or the entire world with implode in a cloud of bad cologne and hornyness. And I just learned that spell check does not recognize "hornyness" as an actual word, therefore I claim it.

Can you say I'm a douche? Because that's basically what the entire previous paragraph relays.

How about the much anticipated "The trouble with trusting a fart, Part II"...This one simply says, "Yes, it's happened again." WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED AGAIN and exactly how many pairs of underwear did I have to trash that day?

The world will never know.

Like white on

2011-04-15T15:32:00.000-05:00

Everyone has their quirky meals, it seems. Sometimes (like last night, actually) Gray will eat nothing but three giant chocolate chip cookies for dinner. My dog would eat a loaf of bread if I set it too near the edge of the counter.

In fact, she has.

As we speak, I'm eating a bowl of plain, white rice. Technically it's still breakfast time, but I'm starving to death and the yogurt I ate at 7:30 isn't cutting it anymore. Probably because it's made out of milk and bacteria. Like my vagina.

White rice is my All Alone for Dinner meal because it's delicious and simple. I can customize it to my mood by squirting it with lime, sprinkling it with crushed red pepper, or stirring in some Italian dressing. It's filling in my tummy and texturally-interesting in my mouth. I love brown rice, too, but it takes so much longer to cook that I usually don't make it when I'm cooking just for myself. Not because I don't feel like I deserve a good meal, but because I spent so much time with my Anal Pleasures DVD and I'm too faint to wait for complex carbs.

Another go-to meal of mine is plain spaghetti noodles. Same reasons, different texture.

I've also been known to subsist on strange meals like a plate full of pickled vegetables and pieces of cheese, a whole tomato with salt and pepper, a raw, sweet onion, Asian soy-snack mix, and a full bag of popcorn. Oh, and fourteen Luigi's Italian Ices. In a row. While eating chips and guacamole.

With a side of Kettle One.

Now I really WILL cut a bitch

2011-04-13T13:17:00.000-05:00

Gray and I didn't celebrate Valentine's Day this year because we were broke and also because there are only so many stuffed animals an adult female can pretend to adore before things slide over into the Ridonkulous category.

Two gorillas, an ancient Curious George, a stuffed lobster, a caricature elephant, and a Harley Davidson-clad Build-a-Bear is enough.

On that day this year, I happened to catch a post from Kristine who writes the blog Wait in the Van. She made this kickass card and I stole it, printed it, and gave it to Gray in lieu of actual Valentine's paraphernalia:

Ever since, all our references to awesome things (like vodka, free vodka and bacon) have been replaced by the phrase "magical unicorn." For example, Gray decided to buy a video game last month but WISELY chose to double check with me before the purchase.

Gray's text: Ima get a game if that's okay. It's about $50.

My text: Okay, you BIG NERD.

(later that day) Gray's text: Sorry, it was closer to $80. Hope that's okay.

My text: JESUS CHRIST, did you purchase a magical unicorn or a video game?!

Gray's text: This game is awesome. It's the magical unicorn to gamers everywhere.

For the next several weeks, when I asked what he was up to, he's inevitably say he was playing with his magical unicorn.

As my birthday approached, Gray assured me that my very own magical unicorn was forthcoming. I wasn't sure if he meant that literally or not because I know that they are real but also VERY hard to find unless you're a member of the Saudi royal family.

Yesterday, my unicorn came out of the gift wrap closet:

Unicorns are hard to disguise.

A variation of the strap-on: The uni-horn.

My very first husband-sanctioned sharp object!

It's my buff day, and I take that very literally

2011-04-12T07:00:00.002-05:00

God help my co-workers.

A friend of mine and I share a birthday and she wanted to treat me to something special, so on Friday, she took me to see an awesome play/improv show called Girls Only: The Secret Diary of Women, a production inspired by the re-reading of the creators' girl-hood diaries. And their subsequent mortification.

It's kind of a laugh and wink at the condition of Being A Woman.

There are no adequate ways to describe how awesome a fucking hilarious this show was, except to say that the women do the whole first act in bras and panties, and they are NOT supermodels. Cottage cheese thighs never looked so...hilarious. My favorite part was the choreographed number to Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy from The Nutcracker, except the Girls' Only version was of women trying to put on pantyhose.

Thanks again for the awesome birthday present, Friend, and if you people live in the Twin Cities and haven't seen this show yet? You're an idiot. But the good news is it's been extended into June.

There were little diaries on all the tables (right next to the cocktails) that women were encouraged to write in. Most mimicked their 11-year-old voices and wrote about their boy crushes.

I wrote this:

Dirty girl

2011-04-11T08:07:00.000-05:00

I've had a woody all weekend long and no, it wasn't on account of Gray's slimming waistline.

It was finally warm enough to do some yard work.

Did you hear me? I GOT TO WORK IN MY YARD FOR THE VERY FIRST TIME SINCE I BOUGHT THE HOUSE. With yard tools and chemicals and a bandanna and everything.

First, I started with a general clean-up. Dogs poop a lot, see, and while Gray and I typically snatch up the shit with a little plastic bag, when it's 40 below outside, you can bet your sweet canine ass we send the pups out to fend for themselves in the snow.

On the up side, all of the lingering poo was fossilized for easy pick-up.

There was also a ton of garbage on the front curb and in the back alley. Stuff we don't eat or drink or throw away. I'm blaming the hooligans, and also the wind, because more than once our garbage can was sent careening over a snowbank (THANK YOU CITY PLOWS) and into a pile on the alley floor. I'm sure we weren't the only ones.

Then I grabbed my trusty snipper clipper thingy. I don't know what it's called, it's some kind of ratcheting shrub pruner something-or-other, and I obliterated all of the start-up trees and shrubs taking over the yard and threatening to allow even more rodents to call our place Home.

When we bought the house, we discovered a large chain link dog kennel folded up on the side of the garage. It's probably 8' tall and god only knows how big. We don't use those things because our dogs are strictly indoors (unless we're out there with them on a leash).

I want to sell the fucker.

Unfortunately, one of said start-up trees had grown its way up through the chain links, twisting here and there all willy-nilly, and effectively pinning the damn cage both to the ground and to the side of the garage. It was awfully difficult to get the pruners to work in such tight quarters (did I mention I had to squeeze myself between layers of the fence to get close enough to reach the limbs?) but finally I got enough of the cursed tree snipped to allow for the kennel to...lean against a tree instead of the garage.

Yeah, I'm THAT bad ass.

Turns out it's too heavy for me to move alone, so Gray will be enlisted post-haste.

Then there's the landscape rock. The horrible, awful, pink-brown landscape rock that some prior owner thought would be FUCKING FABULOUS all over the property. There aren't any shrubs or bulbs inside the stone borders, but BY CHRIST THERE'S LANDSCAPE ROCK.

I don't know about you, but I found that rock is heavy.

What are the muscles that connect your shoulders to you boobs? Apparently those are the muscles that does 90% of the heavy lifting when shoveling landscape rock into a pile on the driveway, and holy shit. My shoulder-boob muscles hurt.

The rock is in the front of the house, a huge section on the east side of the house, and all along the back of the house. I started in front because there are two "rose" bushes that are so covered in thorns and daggers and, I'm pretty sure, rusty narcotic needles, that I cannot wait to slaughter them entirely. They don't produce many leaves and almost no flowers, but BY GOD if they're aren't sharper than the entire staff of Yale, and I've decided a big rope and the trailer hitch on Gray's truck ought to be their demise.

I'm probably going to burn them, too. Just for fun. But I'm going to wear protective eye wear because I'd be shocked if the flaming thorns didn't hurl themselves directly in my direction.

I also began slaughtering the hoards and legions of box elder bugs that inhabit our garage and sun porch. When I woke up on Sunday, one whole wall of the garage was black, and I was like, "Dude, did the stoned brother in the next block explode on our garage or what?" and then I realized it was thousands of bugs.

And so I killed them.

When the storms rolled in, I retreated to my basement workshop and planted all of my seedlings to get an early start on gardening: 3 kinds of hot peppers (overkill? not when heat is the only "taste" I have left), asparagus beans (some kind of hybrid that I squealed over and cannot wait to check out), a mix of sweet peppers, tons of basil, rosemary and chives, cherry tomatoes and big fat regular tomatoes, zucchini, cucumbers, and...oddly...marigolds. I don't plan on eating those, though.

The scary thing about these vegetables I'm growing is that I don't exactly have room for all of the plants, so I'll have to get creative. Can anyone say rooftop pepper mill?!?!?!

I have been waiting to cram dirt under my fingernails and organize my garage and just fucking GET OUTSIDE for over six months now.

It's like I've died and gone to a southern state (minus the bigots and bolo ties).

Nozema, on the other hand, is in mourning

2011-04-07T14:29:00.001-05:00

I stopped taking hormonal birth control in January in preparation for Operation: Damn You Vagina, Swallow, Don't Spit and the skin on my torso, though pasty-white and semi-scarred, certainly has not erupted in the violent display of porous infections known as "truncal acne" that I feared it would.

Therefore it is obvious that my hideous brush with Backne from Hell during the winter of 2008-2009 was definitely due to the miscarriage of baby Gage. At that time, in the MONTHS following the miscarriage, I hypothesized that my mortifying skin condition was a combination of my terrible genes (inherited from my mom) and those very same hormones (laugh! cry! laugh! growl! cry!) which caused the Backne from Hell. My poor torso didn't begin to heal until I started taking birth control again.

This time, I not only quit suppressing my periods (which I've done for a decade, give or take), but went off of the pill entirely, I can assure you that there has been NO lack of emotional bipolarism, and I assume my rapid shifts from raucus laughter to inexplicable weeping is due almost entirely to my crazy-ass hormones that are now free to course through my body without the barrier of ortho-cyclen to block them.

I may be fucking crazy right now, and I may cry with joy if you tell me your morning poop was shaped like a banana, but I can assure you that every zit on my body is visible on my face.

And that's something.

We're already doing it wrong

2011-04-06T09:46:00.000-05:00

I'd forgotten how quickly the helpful conception/pregnancy/parenthood advice comes rolling in once the announcement of sex/conception/pregnancy/motherhood is proclaimed.

Since I began alerting the media about Operation: I'm a Dirty Mommy Slut, I've been told to

Try to incorporate a Rabbit vibrator because "men always love a show"
Not to try to get pregnant, just to "wait and see what happens" because it worked for this particular lady (Clearly she's never met me before. Patience and non-impulsivity skipped over my gene pool).
Not only to try to get pregnant, but to try a LOT throughout the entire estimated ovulation window
To be sure Gray and I climax simultaneously because...something about the angle of the lady bits is supposed to help in some way

Climax simultaneously. A nice idea.

That sounds a lot like, "Find the hidden pot of gold on the other end of the rainbow, shove all those doubloons in your pockets, then climb the rainbow to reach your diamond-encrusted unicorn which will fly you to your magical castle in the sky where a lifetime supply of Skittles awaits you."

In other words, it sounds great, but HIGHLY IMPLAUSIBLE even under normal circumstances (i.e., when we're not having sex like stoic robots more than once a day for a week, meaning when I'm not having to wear adult diapers just to cushion my pelvic bones from any hard surface upon which I might sit because they are suddenly made of bruises and tears).

On the plus side, I'm still a Verified Conception away from the gory miscarriage stories from misguided friends about complete strangers whose shattered lives I don't really need to know about while I'm busy trying not to miscarry myself. I know this phase is coming, and I've stocked up on hot pink earplugs for the occasion(s).

What I'm saying, I guess, is that people are givers when it comes to unsolicited advice, and I shouldn't be surprised. It's payback time since I am the Queen of "You know what you should do?"

Damn my giant mouth.

Hormonal

2011-04-05T08:53:00.000-05:00

Here we are, finally in the Month of Operation: Put a Baby In Me.

I think my ovaries are swollen just with that knowledge. I literally cannot think of anything else. I'm obsessed with the eagle nest cams and cry every damn time I see the babies. I watched a DisneyNature film about flamingos and nearly bought one on Ebay before the credits were over before deciding a trip to Lake Natron would be more practical.

I'm fashioning a bunting sack in which to carry around Scary like she's a newborn human. I'm ogling community education brochures and debating the benefits of Yoga over walking clubs. I am DREAMING ABOUT DIAPERS.

And also about being eaten by feral ponies, but that's another issue all together.

I'm trying desperately to keep my expectation waaaaay down low because A) Sure, we got knocked up within one cycle last time, but that's not likely to happen again, especially if I am convinced that it will, and 2) WE KIND OF LOST THAT ONE, so let's not fall in love right away, shall we?

Even if we do spawn on the first try (which, for those of you who've been here before, you know "first try" translates to "five day window where sex-having, fluid-drinking, sex-having again, and ass propping on pillows to encourage sperm to stay in me" are the primary activities), there's always the possibility of miscarriage, something we never even considered the first time because that? WOULD NEVER HAPPEN TO US, right?

Ha.

So. In short. I am drinking a lot of booze for the next two weeks. I am eating deli meats and drinking coffee like they're being rationed. Our pre-conception appointment is on the 22nd, and after that I'm going on the wagon.

There will be about a week there for my system to clean itself out before Operation: Baby begins, so in case you're keeping track, so after the 26th, if any of you so much as text Gray to ask him a question about a suspiciously-cancerous growth on your testicles, I WILL MURDER YOU IN YOUR SLEEP.

He's all mine, so don't even fucking try to save him.

And also pray for our spawn because Gray's involvement in the genetic process ensures the child will have no chin, and mine...The Nose.

Nickfit & McClooneybin

2011-04-01T11:00:00.011-05:00

Today, I sound like a carton-per-day, loose-neck-skinned grandmother from the backwoods. I'm probably wearing matching socks and t-shirt under my night shirt. Mr. Hicks - If you need some strong baritone in your chamber choir this year, lemme know. I can fly down for the spring concert if need be. I think what pushed me over the edge was the cigarette I smoked. Who says carcinogens are bad for people? It's like I'm supporting fine arts just by being alive. I'm a hero. ::hacking and gasping::

::throat clearing::

Last night I got to hang out with my writing losers Nick and John. It looks like we're the Final Three in what started out as a writers' group of six spazzes, and it has come to my attention that although this was our first meeting since September (stupid brain pain!), it was not the first time that everyone came with some writing to share EXCEPT FOR ME.

I've gotta get back to school and into a creative writing class before my brain cells die and fall out of my nose. I'm registering for summer and fall classes next week.

Nick, whom I think of as one crazy good motherfucker, read a performance piece about some wrestling match back in some time before I even pretended to like wrestling for the sake of getting into Gray's pants, and it was funny as hell, thanks to his typical crazy fucking delivery. But if I liked it, you might have thought that Gray was going to jizz all over the dining room because holy shit this nerd is talking about THE UNDERTAKER in my very own home and now I can die happy. Well played, Nick my man, and if Gray tries to cop a feel next time, it's all on you. Home-wrecking bastard.

Then there's John, who just published a collection of fiction on Amazon, and ya'll'd be fucking nuts not to go buy them for 99 cents a pop. You don't need any kind of E-reader to download them, just half a brain and a computer. John used to work with prosthetic limbs, so he could tell you a thing or two about the brilliance of your plans to play chicken with a train and your bad habit of eating too many Oreos (I'M LOOKING AT MY HUSBAND).

I'm a big fan of John's work. We took a writing class together last year and I remember him as one of a handful of people with real talent, at least as far as my vodka-sodden, concussed brain is concerned. He's a bit on the dark side, which is another reason his work is relatable for me. Three of these stories are short fiction and one is flash fiction, which meant it was almost physically painful to me when the story ended and I realized THAT WAS IT. No more. Nada.

When preparing to tell you losers about John's published stories, I asked him to dish some embarrassing (and thereby fascinating) things about himself. Apparently one of those things should have been that he's a perfect specimen and has never fucked up in a public manner, because this is how he responded:

Three embarrassing things about me:

It's been ten minutes of blinking cursor.
Hmmmm... apparently I have blocked out anything truly embarrassing.
Fuck, Cat, I don't know. Make up something about a nursing home, a pellet gun, and a plastic vat of Mississippi river water.

You can see why I love him so.

Lilypad of doom

2011-03-31T11:46:00.000-05:00

You know that feeling where your tonsils have been removed with a toothpick via thousands of tiny stabs until it's rip-out-able with a a set of demon fangs, laid out in the road, salted with road salt, run over by that guy I saw in the diabetes aisle at CVS this morning, and then hastily super glued back into your throat, but not before some other demon triggers a massive saliva flow, forcing you to swallow what feels like molten lava every other second?

Yeah, that feeling sucks.

But apparently I'm not contagious, no strep throat here, so life will go on.

Speaking of life, a whole big bunch of shit has Gone Down since last we spoke, namely the acquisition of the Dog from Hell and the frantic adherence to Caesar Milan's training techniques, most of which would have come in handy had we read it BEFORE we adopted this dog, but our research was focused mainly on compatible temperament per the descriptions laid out by the foster family, and thus our first encounter with Stretching The Truth resulted in a dog we drove 10 hours to pick up and bring home, but which was nothing at all like we expected her to be.

Meet Lily.

We chose Lily because of her age (9), her need (unadopted after months in foster care), and her temperament (easy-going and mellow). The only way this dog could be described as mellow is if the foster family was A) on a strict diet of methamphetamines and Mountain Dew, or B) they all smoked pot and blew it in Lily's nose. ALL DAY LONG.

Because Lily is not mellow. She is very much ECSTATIC to be alive, jumping on the counters, placing her paws on every guest's torso and dancing the waltz, pulling me on the leash so that I end up with rug burns on my palms because I? Go too slow. Apparently. And my lack of being able to Be! Everywhere! Right! Now! seems to be a problem for her walking requirements.

At least that was Lily before the training lock down began. Now she is much better, but we're freaking exhausted, and it's not over yet.

Turns out I'm at the bottom of the pack in our household after Scary, Gray, then Lily. I'm the pee-on, go-fer bitch. I'm the pushover. (Newsflash, I know.)

So now I've had to begin Claiming My Space and Appearing Big and Exuding Calm/Assertiveness and HOLY FUCK CAN A BITCH JUST SIT DOWN FOR A MINUTE?

Plus, she sheds. She's the ultimate tripple threat. With a whip instead of a tail.

Idn't she cute?

King Bampa

2011-03-22T10:55:00.001-05:00

Gray and I have lived more than three weeks without our dog.

It's taken me forever to write about this because...well...it fucking sucks, that's why. And also, my eyes have been swollen shut since he died.

I found Bampa completely by accident while searching rescue websites in an attempt to convince a friend she should adopt a puppy rather than purchase one from a breeder. None of my business, I know, and I'm as guilty as the next guy when it comes to supporting dog breeders - my ex was a hunter, and he loved him some purebred dogs, so my first two (even the mutt) came from breeders in the area.

Having just read something online about Black Dog Syndrome, I was hyper-aware of the need to adopt black dogs and senior aged dogs, so as I was scouring Petfinder and other websites, copying links to the most adorable puppies of the breed my friend was searching for, and bombarding her inbox with "helpful" suggestions with regards to her new fur kid selection, I may have begun subconsciously shopping for myself.

I'm always super helpful when it comes to doling out unsolicited advice, and even when explicitly solicited, my advice is rarely well-received. This situation was no different. But there was a bigger reason for my nosey ass this time, and during the search, I stumbled across the website for Homeward Bound Dog Rescue of Minnesota and began scrolling down their list of available dogs. There were just SO MANY and what astounds me about this particular rescue operation is that they don't have a centralized shelter or pound building. Instead, Homeward Bound is a network of foster homes in the Twin Cities area, and I can't believe how many people must be involved in fostering strays with this rescue alone to account for all of the pooches listed on their website.

There must be dozens of volunteers, I thought, every one of them living in homes that are bursting with dog fur, beds that are overwhelmed with snuggly sleepers, and yards full of shit.

VOLUNTARILY FULL OF SHIT.

As I scrolled through the assortment of canines, reading each bio with watery eyes and a pit in my stomach, I came across this photo of Bampa:

I was in love. IN LOVE. Instantaneously, irrationally, more in love with this dog than any picture of Devon Sawa I ever made out with in all of my pre-teen years, head-over-heels in love with this dog. In an instant. After reading his bio, I knew my fate was sealed: "Grandpa" (as he was called) was MY dog. I only had to convince Gray of that.

Gray, bless his heart, he tried to resist. We're renters, we can't have a dog. Don't worry! I already cleared it with Veronica! You're a student and you work full-time, we don't have time for a dog. I can come home between work and class to walk him! That's too many things on our plate. I'm only gone for classes one night a week, GAWD. I can handle it. Dog's are expensive, we can't afford him. He is going to be EUTHANIZED for fuck's sake, how can we let that happen?

After weeks of this back and forth, Gray looked at me and said, "Well, I guess you'd better figure out when we can go get him. I'd hate for your dog to have to wait very long."

And that was that. We picked him up on a Monday night in May 2010, and the funny thing is that as much as I loved Bampa from the moment I saw his photo on the Homeward Bound website, Gray fell even harder for that dog from the instant we met him until the day that he died. Gray spent that first night laying on the hardwood floor beside the dog bed so that Bampa would calm himself enough to rest.

Later that week, I sent this email to my parents:

Congratulations - You're grandparents!

Meet "Bampa" (formerly known as Grandpa)! He was a stray who ended up in a pound in Ohio for a couple of years, and just before he was put down, he was rescued by Homeward Bound and brought to a foster home in Minnesota. He's about 10 years old and moves slowly because of his un-treated arthritis pain, but we started him on some medication Tuesday and it's making a huge difference already! Otherwise, all his organs are in great health and his blood tests were great. Even his teeth are in amazing shape! Unfortunately, some asshole in Bampa's past de-barked him, so he's our silent old guy, but we love him already!

Bampa is the gentlest, calmest, friendliest dog we've ever met! He's definitely our kind of dog: already potty trained, affectionate, intelligent and sedentary. We're hoping to give him at least a couple of years of the happy, care-free retirement he deserves after the rough life he's had! Isn't he pweshus!? Can't wait for you to meet him!

XOXOXO
Cat

Over time, and with medication, grooming and a better diet, Bampa started looking and feeling much healthier. He even got a little trot back in his step, would occasionally run and climb stairs, things he couldn't do when we adopted him. He was exceptionally tolerant of the young kids who lived next door, kids who Gray BRILLIANTLY taught to ride the poor old guy like a motorcycle, using his ears as the gear shift. I'd pull into the driveway after work and one or the other would cry, "CAT'S HOME! LET'S GO PLAY WITH BAMPA!" which was the funniest thing to watch because Bampa's idea of "playing" was to stand in one place and look around with confusion.

Bampa went with Gray and I on our honeymoon. We drove thousands of miles from Minnesota to Idaho and back, stopping in places like Yellowstone and Red Fish Lake. While sitting outside the lodge at Yellowstone, a passerby remarked, "Hey, that dog looks just like a black bear." Gray and I laughed and smiled because we often referred to him as "Bear-bear" or "Bampa-bear" for the very same reason.

Bampa rode eagerly in the backseat which we rigged with bedding, an electric fan and some dog bones. He loved sleeping in tents. Hated the motel rooms. He got to travel the country and see some of the most famous landmarks we've ever seen. He was an amazing road trip companion, never bored or anxious, always eager to get out of the car yet always thrilled to get back into the car, as if he was thinking, "Okay, that was awesome, but WHERE TO NEXT?!"

When we moved into our new home, Bampa was a little stressed out. His belly started giving him fits, so we began feeding him a special (vet approved) diet of rice, cottage cheese and eggs or hamburger. He LOVED that shit, and to say we were sorry to give up the dry food would be a stretch. It was so funny to watch him dance around the kitchen, chasing after Gray with a bowl of this concoction in his hand, Bampa grinning from ear to ear and wagging his fuzzy tail.

When Bampa began struggling with incontinence, when he would sleep right through a poop-dropping, we feigned cheerfulness and cleaned up after the poor guy, all the while assuring him that we weren't angry because it couldn't be helped. That he was a good boy.

We brought Scary home with us in mid-January, and she was the first dog that Bampa didn't challenge in any way. It was as if he knew that she had been through the ringer, just like him. Like he knew his days with us were numbered and he didn't want to leave us alone. Like he loved her as a brother. When he tried air-humping in her direction, she scolded him swiftly and he stopped. He never bullied her, never tried barking at her, never became defensive with his food or bones. He was a good big brother and she followed him everywhere.

Then on February 26th, Bampa didn't come when called for breakfast. He was laying on his dog bed and couldn't move, was having difficulty breathing. We rushed him to the emergency vet where they had a gurney waiting, and we sat clutching hands while the staff took Xrays to determine what was happening with our Bampa bear. When the doctor entered the exam room with a laptop full of Xray photos and a somber, "Well, it's not looking good..." we nearly lost our ability to speak.

He showed up photos of several large tumors, cancerous tumors, that had invaded Bampa's lung cavity (making it hard to breathe) and in his abdominal cavity (squishing his spleen and possibly explaining his sensitive stomach). One of the tumors had ruptured, and Bampa was bleeding internally. His gums were turning white, he was anemic, and he was dying.

Our options were to try surgery and chemo, treatments not recommended for a dog of Bampa's advanced age, and often not effective because the type of cancer is almost totally incurable. We could bring him home with us and sit with him until he died. Or we could choose to hold him and talk to him while he slowly went to sleep without pain or fear. It was the hardest decision we've ever made as a couple, and probably in our lives.

Gray went next door to Subway and brought back a fist full of bacon to serve as Bampa's last (forbidden!) meal. We spent a couple of hours sitting with him, talking to him, bawling our eyes out over his furry face, and trying to come to terms with what was about to happen. Eventually, Bampa pulled himself up and looked purposefully at the door which the vet had told us to knock when we were ready for him to come and give the injection. It was as if Bampa was tired of all the drama and wanted only to rest. To be done.

So we said goodbye to our Bear-bear forever.

We will never forgot the King of Dogs, our little old Poop Sidewalker.

He meant more to us in our ten short months together than we could ever have hoped for, and he is the reason Gray and I will adopt the "unadoptables" and gather a rag-tag pack of bears around us until the day that we die.

Columnar

2011-03-17T13:54:00.003-05:00

I know, I know. I'm still missing.

But I'm inching closer, so be very afraid and also, stock up on hand sanitizer.

In the meantime, you can read my column over at The Metropolitan News.

Speechless

2011-03-11T09:17:00.000-06:00

Well, I lost a Follower.

Can't say I blame It. I've been MIA for two weeks now. But there's a good reason, I swear:

I started drinking again. And it's magical.

But no, that's not why. Our Bampa died on the 26th. I need to write about his life and his death and what he meant to our fucking crazy clan, but I just haven't been able to do it, and writing about anything else just seems like a kick in the formerly-present, presently-former balls of my dearly departed Bear-bear. He deserves a proper tribute, and I've been avoiding it because...well...I don't know. Just because.

I haven't been in a creative writing mood lately, more of a DIY mode filled with sharp objects and deep splinters, so the thought of expressing myself verbally has been very much akin to scraping red-hot blown glass over my labia and then inserting the fried labia into my eyeball.

And so there. I'm not writing a post now. Because I'm not ready.

But things are Happening in our den, so I'll be back soon, probably with a hangover, but hopefully with actual words.

Birth Announcement. Kind of.

2011-02-24T09:20:00.000-06:00

Introducing Roger “Matilda” Woodyson

Born 5:45 p.m. on February 23rd, 2011

Delivered in the company of two men and one very buff woman.

As you can see from the photos, this baby was breech.

1,000,000 lbs 2 oz,

8' 25” long,

Mother and baby are doing just fine. Send nipple cream.

Cannot get the motherfucking pictures to ROTATE. Broke my tailbone just trying to make that happen.

Anyway, this beautiful baby is the table I bought from Meighan back in September. My intention was to refinish it and use it as a stunningly rustic dining room table because it's got that "harvest table" look without the multi-hundreds of dollars price tag. This thing is HEW-MUNG-GO and can easily seat ten dinner guests, which was kind of the reason I fell in love with the dining room at our new place: It's big enough to serve people NOT on their laps.

Unfortunately because of my brain pain, I didn't get a chance to start on this project before Jesus smote us with the coldest fucking weather in the history of Biblical plagues, so Gray purchased a couple of heating towers so that I could work on the table in the garage and not lose my nipples to frostbite.

Also unfortunate is our inherited, crazy-ass electrical wiring in the garage because when Gray plugged in the heaters, the circuit blew and we've been unable to get the power back on. No lights, no garage doors, no heater = effectively NO GARAGE.

But folks: I am TIRED of eating dinner on the couch and I am TIRED of not inviting dinner guests because I'm embarrassed to feed them on the blue folding card table that I stole from someones garbage in south Minneapolis (sorry Jeanne)((that's the name written on it, anyway)) and I decided the only way to Make! Table! Happen! was to plan a big dinner party (i.e. implement a deadline) so last night, Gray got his minions to move the damn table into our front porch.

Now I can sand to my little heart's content and I can hem and haw (because the past five months of doing so hasn't yielded a solution) regarding whether I should stain the table, oil the table, paint the table, paint and then distress the paint on the table, or just poly the fuck out of it and leave the weathered finish (which is what I'm leaning towards because of the overall style I'm going for)((rusty-vintage-chic)).

I am so beyond excited that this table thing is finally happening because now I am motivated to pick up some paint for the living and dining rooms (DONE!) and start recovering chair cushions (DONE!) and HOT DAMN my dining room is going to be pretty when I'm with the wall of mirrors, which has to be soon, because I've got hungry guests descending in a month.

It's going to be perfect. Just as I imagined it all these months.

Only...my brawny she-friend Red brought up a good point: If I'm going to dance on that table, I'm going to need a different chandelier. The existing, dangly thing is another head injury waiting to happen.

More of me. Just what the world fucking needs, eh?

2011-02-22T08:45:00.000-06:00

So I'm obsessed with making babies.

This is a perfect example of how I go from "meh" about something to "every waking moment of my existence will be spent thinking/planning/day dreaming about this." I am not a patient person (which probably points to a problem I might encounter with parenthood) and when I decide I want something, am ready for something, or shouldn't have something...that's the very instant I MUST HAVE THAT SOMETHING.

Doesn't matter what it is, really. A dog. A house. A cocktail. Hell, even Gray. It took less than a month for me to go from, "He would make someone an amazing husband," to "GET IN MY PANTS, MAMMOTH DICK." I still think he's trying to figure out what the fuck happened that month. There he was: single and semi-obsessed with my sister. Then BAM. He's living with me and has a ring on his finger. He's going to figure it out eventually, which explains the hefty life insurance policy I took out.

So this baby thing isn't a new obsession for me. A couple months after I got into Gray's pants, I drank a liter of wine and told him that I wanted to have babies. HIS babies. Like, yesterday. Proving how disoriented he was (and how much of his blood was partying in his penis), he agreed with me and said I had a green light to make his babies.

Taken slightly aback, I decided we'd better wait until, you know, my divorce was final. And stuff.

We made a baby in 2008 but we lost him at eleven weeks, so the baby making obsession has been on the back burner for a few years while I pulled my head out of the oven and did some maturity regression techniques, like this blog. And like chopping off all of my hair. And like getting married.

Okay, I guess that last one doesn't fit the bill.

Anyway, we'd planned to begin Operation: Baby Making back in the fall after the dust from our wedding and honeymoon had settled, but then we bought a house and decided to wait until the end of the year so we could get moved in. Little did we know I was going to DIVE HEAD FIRST from the basement stairs (helpful hint: just because the basement floor is painted blue doesn't mean the cement is soft like water) and was put on a medication that prevented us from trying to get pregnant, unless we wanted to inflict our kid with spina bifida, in which case we would have been golden.

I stopped taking that medication two months early because (SEE FIRST PARAGRAPH) and now we're waiting the final months until its icky fingers are out of my system.

My OBGYN (best doctor in the fucking universe) wanted me to gain a little weight...BAM! Thank you lethargy and Dots!

My cycle needed to return to normal after years of suppressing my period and a couple of non-cycling months due to the head injury, and WHAMMIE: I'm bleeding all over my underwear RIGHT THIS MOMENT.

I'm using a website to track my monthly cycle and describe the viscosity of my ::gulp:: cervical mucus. Gray and I are back to playing our "text each other random baby names all day long" and the good ones make it onto my Excel spreadsheet of baby names (which uses the data filter tool to mix and match middle name candidates with the first name candidates to verify that the initials don't stand for something awesome, but sadly, inappropriate).

Every time I see a baby, a picture of a baby, a small-sized animal, or the tiny Mickey Mouse t-shirt in my bra drawer, my eggs come squirting out of me and shoot all over the damn place.

You don't want to borrow my keyboard, believe me.

I'm frantically planning the last of our pre-incubation social gatherings, including our first grown up dinner party. I'm finishing the big painting projects around the house (as quickly as I can gather free paint to do so). It's going to be like living in Sesame Street once I'm done, and HOW PERFECT FOR BABIES IS THAT?

And also, I'm kegeling. I'm kegeling like fucking mad. My abdominal floor muscles can kick your abdominal floor muscles' asses.

And don't even get me started on how long I can hold my pee.