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.
Get Boned.
Showing posts with label Lily. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lily. Show all posts
Saturday, September 03, 2011
Thursday, June 30, 2011
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. |
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
The Devil Wears Coonhound
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?
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. |
Friday, June 10, 2011
The trouble with...
...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?
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?
Monday, June 06, 2011
Booze baby, burning blood
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 01, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
I just...you guys...there are no words
Apparently she isn't spayed.
Apparently she has a giant vulva full of blood.
Apparently she hates wearing diapers.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, May 16, 2011
No news is...super confusing
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.
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.
Thursday, May 05, 2011
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:
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:
Thursday, March 31, 2011
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.
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?
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