No. NO. Reboot.

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.

Doooooode.

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!

Change of plans

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.

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

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 doing them.

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

See? Told you

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.



Scientific proof we're related

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.

Twilight Zone (HBO version)

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.

Maybe I should break my arm again

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:

Hormonal

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.

Lilypad of doom

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?

Heat on, in heat, no difference really

Well, the heat is back on at our house. Turns out it was this exhaustingly complicated process of replacing a tiny purple fuse inside the furnace. Thank fucking GOD there are trained professionals who know how to handle this type of futuristic machinery. I thought the rapture was upon us.

Fuck.

I learned how to replace the tiny purple fuse in our furnace. I even flashed my tits at the HVAC guy so he'd leave me a spare fuse. Then he showed me how to remove the heat sensor stick thingy and give it a good "polish" - we're pretty sure the accumulated dirt on that stick is what started the problems with the furnace. What a dirty, dirty stick.

The good news is that I can stop wrapping my feet with sheets of insulation every time I get up to pee in the night. The bad news is that we're supposed to hit 55 degrees (Fahrenheit, you Canadian morons) today, which means that we're unlikely to take full advantage of our gas-powered capabilities.

But don't worry - I will fart as per usual, so at least THAT gas-power won't go to waste.

In other news, we're pretty sure that our little Scary monster thinks she is pregnant. With ghost puppies, apparently. She's doing a cave dweller's variation of the standard Dog Nesting Procedure where she hides in the smallest possible nook of the room before digging fruitlessly into the un-dig-able floor coverings. Then she licks her belly until (what I'm pretty sure is) fluid leaks from her boobies.

She (out of the blue) started getting up twice in the night for a drink of water and to pee. She has begun carring around her tiny squeaky babies in her mouth.

Now...I'm no dog expert, but I'm relatively certain that the combination of vet-issued spay certification paperwork and hideous belly surgery scars are enough to rule out the possibility of ACTUAL pregnancy, but who knows. Perhaps Scary is the next Mother Theresa.

Wait, that's not right. Help me out, Catholics...Mother Goose?

In any case, she DID come from a puppy mill in Kansas where she spent her life in a cage, giving birth to litter after litter of scary little babies, and so perhaps this is her "time of the month" or something. We're not quite clear on that point.

What I DO know is we could have saved a fortune on the furnace if she'd done us the courtesy of telling us she was already in heat.