After we nearly cooked ourselves last weekend I whined enough to my dad and he came to the rescue today. The animals that have lived in our house before us had layered approximately eighty-four thousand buckets of paint on the window panes--sealing the damn things shut. My dad has said a million times that you "just use a pizza cutter and ZIP they are open!"
It was a little more complicated than that.
But, to give him credit, with a paint scraper, a hammer and pry bar he did get both windows in our bedroom and two in the dining room open. The big giant one in the living room defeated him, though he chipped enough paint off the sides to make it look like shit. I am suitably grateful though--I would rather touch up paint then suffocate with the hot air.
Of course it is only seventy degrees out and we shut them immediately.
I am now nursing a migraine from a lot of dust and paint (probably leaded). But still totally small price to pay.
My dad is the home improvement super hero.
Sunday, July 30, 2006
Friday, July 28, 2006
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Mrs. Robot
My bruise has, sadly, not developed into Elvis. It looks more like a giant jawbreaker that has been sliced in half. A black layer, a purple layer, a blue layer, a green layer with a yellowy pink center.
The center does look like the profile of the Wicked Witch of the West though.
***
One of the hardest things about being married is when things catch you off guard. Like any relationship you fall into patterns. How you interact with one another is just instinctual and after a while you feel like you know how some one will react to any given situation.
And when they don't it just amazes you. And not always in a good way.
J and I had a fight last night. A screaming one. About nothing so important really, it wasn't unimportant but nothing that has to be solved right now if ever, just something that we may or may not have to deal with one day. And fighting is upsetting for me and I think for him. I assume for him, I mean he looked pretty pissed. We don't do it often and neither of us really behaved very well.
He made me so angry I could have ripped the telephone book in half with my bare hands. I could have ripped dozens of telephone books in half. Perhaps that could be my next career--I am guessing J could keep pissing me off if we being paid for it. Hell, it appears he can do it for free.
He fought with me like my dad used to. Dismissive. Patronizing. Like CRAZY AB, she couldn't know WHAT she is talking about. And that pushed my buttons. Actually it jammed those buttons flat back into the control panel so that the circuits fucking exploded. I don't think he meant to do it, I think he was as bewildered by the argument as I was. Normally we can see the why behind the other's point of view but I couldn't last night and I don't think he could either.
It sounds so stupid, to put it baldly, that the hardest thing about being married to another person is that they continue to be another person. You cannot control or direct their feelings or reactions or behaviors. You can't ever really predict with 100% certainty what they will do, no matter how close your relationship is.
I could be positive and say that these things lead to personal growth. But I am really not that kind of person and I don't give a fuck about personal growth right now, I am still sort of pissed. What I do know is that we will move past this, and solve the issue if we have to, this subject will be a soft spot until we do and maybe even after that. The way other couples are about who makes more money or the ex-girlfriend or somebody's car--actually when put in that context this is a really fucking tiny soft spot. Something that will probably never come up again. But it will be there. And there will be more. I can predict that with 100% certainty, I just cannot say when.
I should have married a robot. I bet I could just program the robot. And I bet the robot would fucking scrub the bathtub once in a while.
The center does look like the profile of the Wicked Witch of the West though.
***
One of the hardest things about being married is when things catch you off guard. Like any relationship you fall into patterns. How you interact with one another is just instinctual and after a while you feel like you know how some one will react to any given situation.
And when they don't it just amazes you. And not always in a good way.
J and I had a fight last night. A screaming one. About nothing so important really, it wasn't unimportant but nothing that has to be solved right now if ever, just something that we may or may not have to deal with one day. And fighting is upsetting for me and I think for him. I assume for him, I mean he looked pretty pissed. We don't do it often and neither of us really behaved very well.
He made me so angry I could have ripped the telephone book in half with my bare hands. I could have ripped dozens of telephone books in half. Perhaps that could be my next career--I am guessing J could keep pissing me off if we being paid for it. Hell, it appears he can do it for free.
He fought with me like my dad used to. Dismissive. Patronizing. Like CRAZY AB, she couldn't know WHAT she is talking about. And that pushed my buttons. Actually it jammed those buttons flat back into the control panel so that the circuits fucking exploded. I don't think he meant to do it, I think he was as bewildered by the argument as I was. Normally we can see the why behind the other's point of view but I couldn't last night and I don't think he could either.
It sounds so stupid, to put it baldly, that the hardest thing about being married to another person is that they continue to be another person. You cannot control or direct their feelings or reactions or behaviors. You can't ever really predict with 100% certainty what they will do, no matter how close your relationship is.
I could be positive and say that these things lead to personal growth. But I am really not that kind of person and I don't give a fuck about personal growth right now, I am still sort of pissed. What I do know is that we will move past this, and solve the issue if we have to, this subject will be a soft spot until we do and maybe even after that. The way other couples are about who makes more money or the ex-girlfriend or somebody's car--actually when put in that context this is a really fucking tiny soft spot. Something that will probably never come up again. But it will be there. And there will be more. I can predict that with 100% certainty, I just cannot say when.
I should have married a robot. I bet I could just program the robot. And I bet the robot would fucking scrub the bathtub once in a while.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Where I Offend Probably Everyone Without Meaning To
I was reading an online forum in the past week or two (BLARGH it escapes me which one) where some one articulated something I have been trying to say for quite sometime. The discussion revolved around some one who was a having a baby and she is not Jewish but her partner is and they want to raise their child as a Jew. There was this whole round about discussion about what they needed to do to convert the child (since the mother is not Jewish some branches of Judaism don't recognize descent via the father) and how the laws work and some one (who was Christian but meant this sincerely and I think in a placating way) came in and said, "But where is God in all of this?"
I think she meant this as a call to what is important and to remind everyone that the law is not important but God is important.
And GOD that pissed off every Jew in there.
Because in Christianity your personal relationship with God is the important thing. But it isn't in Judaism. I remember just wanting to scream at my sister last year when she tried to tell me that some one who didn't believe in God was missing "the important part" of Judaism.
As some one who has been both, if you don't believe in God you can't be Christian. But you can be Jewish. And be a good Jew.
This is just an example, but it really is part of something that I think is very pervasive in this discussions. People want religions to be the same. Very accepting and tolerant Christians look at Judaism and what to know the Jewish equivalent to Christmas is or Easter or the Benediction. Let me say this so clearly:
There isn't one.
Jews see the world through a Jewish lens. How the religion functions is not a reaction to Christianity (I cannot tell you how many Christians have asked me what Jews think of Jesus--Jews don't actual care at all about Jesus, he isn't a blip on our radar). It is it's own religion and culture. It is a community with traditions and laws. And none of them have the slightest fucking thing to do with any other religions. J and I became Jewish because we wanted to live by a certain ethical code, by a certain attitude towards the world. We shared the values with Judaism that are very important to us. And it might surprise people how little our conversion has to do with God. In my case (I can't and won't speak for him on this one) it has NOTHING to do with God.
There is a rather common attitude that Judaism and Christianity are the same. That Jesus is the only difference. There is no such thing as a Judeo-Christian value system. They may be based in the same beginning source material (the Hebrew Bible) but they have branched into two very different views of the world.
Do I mean this as a way of saying that these groups cannot and should not get along? Absolutely not. I admire the way that Christians have faith in God. It is a relationship that I cannot have but it is one that I see a lot of value in. I just wish that people could understand that my faith looks and feels and IS very different from theirs and not feel threatened by it.
Right now there is a lot of anti-Semitism floating around. Especially in the media with the situation with Israel (that is not to say that all anti-Israel sentiment has anti-Semitic motivations). I can't help being enraged by it all. And frustrated too. Because sometimes different is just different, not better or worse. And trying to push us all into looking at the world the same way just is not working.
I hope that no one will read this and think it is a slam on Christianity. For all my talk about how that conversation helped me articulate something I don't think this actual post is very articulate. It is natural to try to draw parallels with your own situation and beliefs with ones that you do not understand. I just wish that people would recognize that those parallels are not always actually there.
I think she meant this as a call to what is important and to remind everyone that the law is not important but God is important.
And GOD that pissed off every Jew in there.
Because in Christianity your personal relationship with God is the important thing. But it isn't in Judaism. I remember just wanting to scream at my sister last year when she tried to tell me that some one who didn't believe in God was missing "the important part" of Judaism.
As some one who has been both, if you don't believe in God you can't be Christian. But you can be Jewish. And be a good Jew.
This is just an example, but it really is part of something that I think is very pervasive in this discussions. People want religions to be the same. Very accepting and tolerant Christians look at Judaism and what to know the Jewish equivalent to Christmas is or Easter or the Benediction. Let me say this so clearly:
There isn't one.
Jews see the world through a Jewish lens. How the religion functions is not a reaction to Christianity (I cannot tell you how many Christians have asked me what Jews think of Jesus--Jews don't actual care at all about Jesus, he isn't a blip on our radar). It is it's own religion and culture. It is a community with traditions and laws. And none of them have the slightest fucking thing to do with any other religions. J and I became Jewish because we wanted to live by a certain ethical code, by a certain attitude towards the world. We shared the values with Judaism that are very important to us. And it might surprise people how little our conversion has to do with God. In my case (I can't and won't speak for him on this one) it has NOTHING to do with God.
There is a rather common attitude that Judaism and Christianity are the same. That Jesus is the only difference. There is no such thing as a Judeo-Christian value system. They may be based in the same beginning source material (the Hebrew Bible) but they have branched into two very different views of the world.
Do I mean this as a way of saying that these groups cannot and should not get along? Absolutely not. I admire the way that Christians have faith in God. It is a relationship that I cannot have but it is one that I see a lot of value in. I just wish that people could understand that my faith looks and feels and IS very different from theirs and not feel threatened by it.
Right now there is a lot of anti-Semitism floating around. Especially in the media with the situation with Israel (that is not to say that all anti-Israel sentiment has anti-Semitic motivations). I can't help being enraged by it all. And frustrated too. Because sometimes different is just different, not better or worse. And trying to push us all into looking at the world the same way just is not working.
I hope that no one will read this and think it is a slam on Christianity. For all my talk about how that conversation helped me articulate something I don't think this actual post is very articulate. It is natural to try to draw parallels with your own situation and beliefs with ones that you do not understand. I just wish that people would recognize that those parallels are not always actually there.
Monday, July 24, 2006
He Did Use To Enjoy The Thighs Of Blond Women
The picture is not really showing this very well. Perhaps I need the fancy lens for my camera? Because this bruise is black. And has a strange shape in the middle that currently looks like a cartoon of the Man In The Moon but I am secretly (oh I guess not so secretly since I am writing about this on the internet) that it will morph into an image of Elvis. I mean how awesome would it be if the King decided to communicate with the world via my THIGH?
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Reason Nine Hundred And Twelve That I Am A Stunner
This is my thigh. Notice the rather delightful bruise that is about the size (or exactly the size) or a softball?
A member of our team hit a HARD ground ball and hit me standing on first base (because sometimes I am an idiot who doesn't get the hell out of the way) but you know we were all safe so OK.
Hurts like a mother though.
Especially since I took this picture like two hours after I got hit. I am pretty sure I am going to look gory tomorrow.
Then I cut the shit out of myself while shaving in the shower, something I haven't done in like ten years. Since it will still be ninety degrees tomorrow I am going to look GLAMOROUS in a skirt tomorrow.
Somehow I Have Failed To Train The Dachshund To Fan Me Properly
I am not much of a sweat-er (as in I don't sweat so much but I guess I am not actually a knit garment either) but the last couple of days here in the Northwest have turned me into one of the pit-stained masses.
It has been in the high nineties, which I know is making some of you in other parts of the country PTHHHHHB in derision but I would like to remind you of a couple of important details.
1. We are total weenies here.
2. None of us have air conditioners.
Now this isn't poor planning, because you can't even buy a house with air conditioning here. It is only hot enough to even turn it on about three days a year. But man, we are on day three and JESUS JUNIOR it is hot in here.
We went and saw Jeff Dunham last night with my mom and dad (I know! My dad left the house! Never fucking happens!). Beyond the fucking kerfuffle with the Moore Theatre (which will lead to a bitchy call to the theatre manager tomorrow) and Ticketmaster we had a delightful time. But I have never seen a sweatier man in my entire life. The poor guy was a little surprised I think to realize that a large theatre, packed to the gills with people has no air conditioning. I thought he was going to pass out.
All of us in the balcony are guzzling waters and pondering the pools of sweat in our underwear and the only person in the place who is happy is my mother. Who, thanks to her very fucked up internal thermostat, is comfortable for the first time since last year's hottest weekend of the year.
My father tells me that Friday night they go to the mall, where the rest of the city is trying to cool off in the air conditioning, and my mother is wearing a hooded sweatshirt.
By the way, I am disappointed that no one that reads my blog is a Project Runway fan and recognized the title of the last entry as a Tim Gunnism. I also am sad to note that no one voted on the shoes which means I either am being fooled by my sister as my only reader wildly clicking away pumping up my stats (in which case click more, they aren't really that impressive) or I have vastly over-estimated how much y'all give a shit about my shoes.
I am going to go sit in front of a fan and eat ice cream.
It has been in the high nineties, which I know is making some of you in other parts of the country PTHHHHHB in derision but I would like to remind you of a couple of important details.
1. We are total weenies here.
2. None of us have air conditioners.
Now this isn't poor planning, because you can't even buy a house with air conditioning here. It is only hot enough to even turn it on about three days a year. But man, we are on day three and JESUS JUNIOR it is hot in here.
We went and saw Jeff Dunham last night with my mom and dad (I know! My dad left the house! Never fucking happens!). Beyond the fucking kerfuffle with the Moore Theatre (which will lead to a bitchy call to the theatre manager tomorrow) and Ticketmaster we had a delightful time. But I have never seen a sweatier man in my entire life. The poor guy was a little surprised I think to realize that a large theatre, packed to the gills with people has no air conditioning. I thought he was going to pass out.
All of us in the balcony are guzzling waters and pondering the pools of sweat in our underwear and the only person in the place who is happy is my mother. Who, thanks to her very fucked up internal thermostat, is comfortable for the first time since last year's hottest weekend of the year.
My father tells me that Friday night they go to the mall, where the rest of the city is trying to cool off in the air conditioning, and my mother is wearing a hooded sweatshirt.
By the way, I am disappointed that no one that reads my blog is a Project Runway fan and recognized the title of the last entry as a Tim Gunnism. I also am sad to note that no one voted on the shoes which means I either am being fooled by my sister as my only reader wildly clicking away pumping up my stats (in which case click more, they aren't really that impressive) or I have vastly over-estimated how much y'all give a shit about my shoes.
I am going to go sit in front of a fan and eat ice cream.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Defending the Shoe**
Ultrasound was negative. Which is apparently a Good Thing.
And I am shockingly blase about the whole thing.
And a little befuddled about how I came to be defending my new bronze shoes to J. Apparently he thinks that these have put a blemish on my otherwise impeccable fashion record. Does the internet agree?
**My undying devotion to anyone who gets this reference.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
No News Is No News
I never know exactly what to say to people when they ask when we are going to have kids. For a while now I have made use of an easy-breazy "someday" but I am afraid that might come out a little forced once in a while. And, sadly, it often leads to questions about when and why are we waiting so long and damn it woman you are not getting any younger.
No one ever is trying to hurt my feelings and I do know that this is partly my fault. I am not ashamed of our situation but to be honest I do not feel like getting into the Infertility Saga Why Things Just Sometimes Don't Work Out with every single person I meet. I am such a naturally reserved person (I understand why this might be difficult to believe since I have told the internet about my bowel issues and the time I got a tampon stuck in my cooter) that I just don't know what to tell people.
It is all very awkward and sad and it doesn't need to be this way. J certainly doesn't have a problem with it. It is just me the terminally socially awkward that cannot figure out how to ignore the question and Move On Already it is No Big Deal.
Last week I had my ultrasound. I haven't heard from the doctor yet which could be a good sign but I am paranoid to the extreme so I can't see it that way. Contrary to what I had heard my date with the dildo cam really was no problem. Perhaps this suggest that I am a loose-cootered whore (actually remind me to tell you the story of the many doctors who have told me I have a very small vagina, actually that is the whole story, many doctors have remarked on my very small vagina enough that I am a little weirded out about it) but mostly I think it has to do with the lovely tech I had (who chatted with me nicely including a cute anecdote about how she farted during her last pelvic exam) and the fact that maybe everyone else's sexual partners have teeny dicks? I don't know. I could see how that exam would not be so fun with an infection or while pregnant but for me it was no big deal.
But my lovely tech went out of her way to show me my right ovary, describing it in great detail but when we got to the left one she tilted the screen away from me. Since that is the side that hurts I cannot help but be a little afraid. Not that my ovaries are doing me any good but having two sure is nice. I'd like to keep it you know?
So now the internet knows what I know, precisely nothing. So much for my reserved nature. No internal organs have exploded yet (good) but the tech didn't exclaim about my nice healthy normal but somehow undetected pregnancy either so . . .
I suppose no news continues to be good news.
No one ever is trying to hurt my feelings and I do know that this is partly my fault. I am not ashamed of our situation but to be honest I do not feel like getting into the Infertility Saga Why Things Just Sometimes Don't Work Out with every single person I meet. I am such a naturally reserved person (I understand why this might be difficult to believe since I have told the internet about my bowel issues and the time I got a tampon stuck in my cooter) that I just don't know what to tell people.
It is all very awkward and sad and it doesn't need to be this way. J certainly doesn't have a problem with it. It is just me the terminally socially awkward that cannot figure out how to ignore the question and Move On Already it is No Big Deal.
Last week I had my ultrasound. I haven't heard from the doctor yet which could be a good sign but I am paranoid to the extreme so I can't see it that way. Contrary to what I had heard my date with the dildo cam really was no problem. Perhaps this suggest that I am a loose-cootered whore (actually remind me to tell you the story of the many doctors who have told me I have a very small vagina, actually that is the whole story, many doctors have remarked on my very small vagina enough that I am a little weirded out about it) but mostly I think it has to do with the lovely tech I had (who chatted with me nicely including a cute anecdote about how she farted during her last pelvic exam) and the fact that maybe everyone else's sexual partners have teeny dicks? I don't know. I could see how that exam would not be so fun with an infection or while pregnant but for me it was no big deal.
But my lovely tech went out of her way to show me my right ovary, describing it in great detail but when we got to the left one she tilted the screen away from me. Since that is the side that hurts I cannot help but be a little afraid. Not that my ovaries are doing me any good but having two sure is nice. I'd like to keep it you know?
So now the internet knows what I know, precisely nothing. So much for my reserved nature. No internal organs have exploded yet (good) but the tech didn't exclaim about my nice healthy normal but somehow undetected pregnancy either so . . .
I suppose no news continues to be good news.
Monday, July 17, 2006
Nothing
Bah.
Today was my eighth straight day of working. I am spoiled brat office worker woman and am tired to the bone. Just burned out and wrung out and yet facing a sort of crisis because I am worried about my future for my job. So even though I feel stretched to the limit I have to just keep going.
I look like shit though.
And I've got nothing.
Today was my eighth straight day of working. I am spoiled brat office worker woman and am tired to the bone. Just burned out and wrung out and yet facing a sort of crisis because I am worried about my future for my job. So even though I feel stretched to the limit I have to just keep going.
I look like shit though.
And I've got nothing.
Saturday, July 15, 2006
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Stupid Fucking Cats, Both of Them
Because of my haircolor I feel this sort of obligation to at least give off the appearance of having my shit together. I just do not want to be part of the problem, so to speak, that is perpetuating this myth of dumbshit ditzy blonds. Also, I do find that I get more credibility from the world at large if I don't act like an idiot--I am sure this advice works well for anyone regardless of coloring.
But still. I do try. And I am failing miserably this week. My brain simply feels full. Of useless shit, NATURALLY, but also of things that I need and am using. It is just that sort of week, with too much going on and since I have no short term memory at all I forget all sorts of things like names and the word pro-active (which you think I would remember since it is an acne system that Brooke Shields is a spokeswoman for) and I actually put GO TO THE BATHROOM on my to-do list today because I totally forgot yesterday and almost pissed myself.
The dogs have been all nutty and our schedule has been weird (since J has been doing FUN things which how dare he when I am busy forgetting his name here) and I haven't really slept much this week which is really not helping. But still some important or notable or probably really fucking boring things have been happening:
1. I colored my hair because the tanning booth had fucking bleached it white again. And men were leering at me. I think because Hugh Hefner's girlfriends all have hair that color (though much larger and faker looking breasts than mine) and so they all associate that color with woman who take off their tops in public. It is still really light but more flattering. I think. But also somehow makes my hair look LONGER. How is that possible? And why, when people comment on how long my hair is, do I feel compelled to EXPLAIN that I might maybe possibly be trying to grow it and blah blah blah until we both just want to die and why can't I shut up?
2. The guy who owns the car I hit last week called. Apparently he is my neighbor's brother who left the car there while he borrowed one of their cars. Apparently he is also a delightful person who doesn't think I should have to pay anything and doesn't care about that car so don't worry about a thing. And I didn't even have to take my top off!
3. The dogs have decided that they hate the cat across the street and there is nothing anyone can say or do or put in their food to drug them that will change their minds (ok, I didn't drug anyone but I really thought about it at about midnight last night). They keep barking and banging their heads on the front window trying to get at this cat who is either really stupid or taunting them. Am sorely tempted to just open the door and let the chips fall where they may.
4. Project Runway started yesterday and I still have not watched! Because J and I are watching together. Am a beacon of self-restraint!
Alright, the manic sleeplessness will undoubtedly continue but I simply must go pry my wedding ring away from the cat who is trying to throw it down the heating duct.
But still. I do try. And I am failing miserably this week. My brain simply feels full. Of useless shit, NATURALLY, but also of things that I need and am using. It is just that sort of week, with too much going on and since I have no short term memory at all I forget all sorts of things like names and the word pro-active (which you think I would remember since it is an acne system that Brooke Shields is a spokeswoman for) and I actually put GO TO THE BATHROOM on my to-do list today because I totally forgot yesterday and almost pissed myself.
The dogs have been all nutty and our schedule has been weird (since J has been doing FUN things which how dare he when I am busy forgetting his name here) and I haven't really slept much this week which is really not helping. But still some important or notable or probably really fucking boring things have been happening:
1. I colored my hair because the tanning booth had fucking bleached it white again. And men were leering at me. I think because Hugh Hefner's girlfriends all have hair that color (though much larger and faker looking breasts than mine) and so they all associate that color with woman who take off their tops in public. It is still really light but more flattering. I think. But also somehow makes my hair look LONGER. How is that possible? And why, when people comment on how long my hair is, do I feel compelled to EXPLAIN that I might maybe possibly be trying to grow it and blah blah blah until we both just want to die and why can't I shut up?
2. The guy who owns the car I hit last week called. Apparently he is my neighbor's brother who left the car there while he borrowed one of their cars. Apparently he is also a delightful person who doesn't think I should have to pay anything and doesn't care about that car so don't worry about a thing. And I didn't even have to take my top off!
3. The dogs have decided that they hate the cat across the street and there is nothing anyone can say or do or put in their food to drug them that will change their minds (ok, I didn't drug anyone but I really thought about it at about midnight last night). They keep barking and banging their heads on the front window trying to get at this cat who is either really stupid or taunting them. Am sorely tempted to just open the door and let the chips fall where they may.
4. Project Runway started yesterday and I still have not watched! Because J and I are watching together. Am a beacon of self-restraint!
Alright, the manic sleeplessness will undoubtedly continue but I simply must go pry my wedding ring away from the cat who is trying to throw it down the heating duct.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
Baby Brother
I'm getting a new baby brother y'all!
This time, not Leon (dog featured at right) but my sister is getting married!
Wheeeeee!
I mean that in the least we-finally-found-a-buyer-for-the-Eidsel kind of way. Personally, I find it bizarre that I was married and my sister wasn't. She will be an amazing wife and someday an amazing mother.
And she wants J and I to be her bridesmaids!
So we are getting another J in the family. And we are thrilled to have him.
Friday, July 07, 2006
Gee, Maybe Nachos Don't Sound Good
I just popped what I lovingly refer to as a seven layer zit.
You know, like the dip. With a little less cheese and crusty enough you don't need chips.
Layer one: hard yellow crust (peel)
Layer two: greenish yellow pus (squeeze until it spurts out looking like a giant banana slug)
Layer three: clear oil (just keep squeezing)
Layer four: creamy looking pus (should shoot out so bonus points if you hit the mirror)
Layer five: blood (damn girl stop squeezing)
Layer six: more pure oil (we have solved the energy crisis)
Layer seven: a little more crust (just scrape)
Congratulations, you have found the big gaping whole in your chin. Come back next week when you will stop looking like you were attacked with a cheese grater.
You know, like the dip. With a little less cheese and crusty enough you don't need chips.
Layer one: hard yellow crust (peel)
Layer two: greenish yellow pus (squeeze until it spurts out looking like a giant banana slug)
Layer three: clear oil (just keep squeezing)
Layer four: creamy looking pus (should shoot out so bonus points if you hit the mirror)
Layer five: blood (damn girl stop squeezing)
Layer six: more pure oil (we have solved the energy crisis)
Layer seven: a little more crust (just scrape)
Congratulations, you have found the big gaping whole in your chin. Come back next week when you will stop looking like you were attacked with a cheese grater.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Maybe I Do Not Want The Boys To Be Men
So the doctor thinks that a few things could be happening:
1. I was pregnant and am miscarrying.
2. I had an ectopic pregnancy and am miscarrying.
3. There is something wrong with one of my ovaries.
She is awesome though, kept trying to cheer me up saying well maybe this means we know you can get pregnant. I waver between that Pollyana view and the slightly more psychotic view that yes, I can get pregnant with embryos that will die.
The truth is that the option I want it to be (the mysterious and sadly absent #4) is that this is all not happening and I do not have to deal with it.
So instead of obsessing about this (and the also annoying fact that car crash man STILL HAS NOT PICKED UP THAT NOTE AND IT IS ALL WET FROM THE RAIN AND ARE YOU TRYING TO MAKE ME CRAZY) I am completely obsessed with this barbershop I drive by after work each day.
It is called Physique. Excuse me, actually it is Fiz-Eek. Oh how I wish I were kidding. It has tinted windows and is decorated with blue neon lights on the inside. The slogan printed on the banner reads:
Where boys become men and men become KINGS.
Y'all, tell me the truth, this is a whorehouse right?
Because I cannot think of a single other reason for that being the fucking slogan for a barbershop. Though personally I think a topless barbershop is a brilliant business idea because every single straight guy I know would go get a haircut from a topless chick. She wouldn't even have to be that hot. Just naked boobs and a pair of clippers.
I suspect it would be a health code violation. Which is a damn shame because I was already spending my retirement fund from the franchise fees.
I suppose this means I will be going to work AGAIN tomorrow.
Become KINGS indeed.
1. I was pregnant and am miscarrying.
2. I had an ectopic pregnancy and am miscarrying.
3. There is something wrong with one of my ovaries.
She is awesome though, kept trying to cheer me up saying well maybe this means we know you can get pregnant. I waver between that Pollyana view and the slightly more psychotic view that yes, I can get pregnant with embryos that will die.
The truth is that the option I want it to be (the mysterious and sadly absent #4) is that this is all not happening and I do not have to deal with it.
So instead of obsessing about this (and the also annoying fact that car crash man STILL HAS NOT PICKED UP THAT NOTE AND IT IS ALL WET FROM THE RAIN AND ARE YOU TRYING TO MAKE ME CRAZY) I am completely obsessed with this barbershop I drive by after work each day.
It is called Physique. Excuse me, actually it is Fiz-Eek. Oh how I wish I were kidding. It has tinted windows and is decorated with blue neon lights on the inside. The slogan printed on the banner reads:
Where boys become men and men become KINGS.
Y'all, tell me the truth, this is a whorehouse right?
Because I cannot think of a single other reason for that being the fucking slogan for a barbershop. Though personally I think a topless barbershop is a brilliant business idea because every single straight guy I know would go get a haircut from a topless chick. She wouldn't even have to be that hot. Just naked boobs and a pair of clippers.
I suspect it would be a health code violation. Which is a damn shame because I was already spending my retirement fund from the franchise fees.
I suppose this means I will be going to work AGAIN tomorrow.
Become KINGS indeed.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Carry On
Oh dear.
I am a little rattled.
This morning I crashed my car, oh that is a little dramatic, I smushed it. On the side of another car. Backing out of my driveway. No damage to my car, obviously no one hurt since I was going about two miles an hour. I have to admit that my first instinct was to haul ass out of there and admit nothing.
Instead I left a note and then obsessed all day about just leaving a note. I know that is what you are supposed to do and yet it didn't feel right. In fact, when I was waiting for the bus a police cruiser pulled in and for a brief moment I had a little panic attack. Because yes, the police who do not always respond to 911 calls in moments have time to come and pick up a woman who fled the scene of an accident and left a note instead of leaving an ounce of blood and her wedding ring as a token of her intent to pay.
Me thinks that I didn't escape without that drama gene that makes me roll my eyes at my mother.
I kept calling J (who was off work today) to make him see if my note was still there. It wasn't. He took this as a sign that they got it, I took it as a sign that the note blew off the windshield and I begged him to put another one on the windshield. He wouldn't. BASTARD.
Seriously, don't all rush off to try to find my real name on the internet so you can try to romance me away from him.
I think he was enjoying this, despite that I am sure it will wreck our insurance, because it confirms in his mind that I am a bad driver. I used to be certain that I wasn't but five years of him telling me how horrible I am and ridiculous have sort of made me internalize it a bit.
Heh. Did I just make this accident his fault? AWESOME.
Less awesome is the blood clot that fell out of my vagina yesterday (was that a startling segue?). Since it was not accompanied by my period but was with some stabbing pains very much unlike cramps I had to call the doctor today.
The nurse was so sweet and reassuring and OH I AM SURE IT IS NOTHING LET ME DOUBLE CHECK WITH THE DOCTOR.
And then BAM. An urgent phone call back and you must come in first thing tomorrow do not pass go and if there are more clots than go to urgent care.
DAMN IT.
Even though I am quite sure it is all very hyper-precautionary I am dreading it. Am guessing that she is not going to say, "Oh, well was the clot star shaped and the size of a nickel because those are GOOD LUCK!"
On a vainer and more ridiculous note I also just shaved my pubic hair which I try never to do before going to the doctor because even though I know many women do it and she isn't really the type to judge and golly how unprofessional would it be for her to be checking out my pubic hair anyway I still am slightly worried that she is going to be all, "look at that girl, shaving her pussy and propagating unreasonable sexual expectations to her husband and whomever else she whores around with, does she not understand the third wave of feminism at ALL?"
Which I do, and I am pretty sure that the third wave doesn't really approve of bald cooters in general but would certainly support my right to CHOOSE THE BALD COOTER.
Even if I think the third wave is totally offended that I took my husband's last name.
Anyway, there is no way it is all going to grow back before tomorrow morning so excuse me while I obsess about pubic hair grooming and blood clots and WHY HAS THAT GUY STILL NOT PICKED UP THE NOTE ABOUT THE DAMN CAR.
But everything is fine. Carry On.
I am a little rattled.
This morning I crashed my car, oh that is a little dramatic, I smushed it. On the side of another car. Backing out of my driveway. No damage to my car, obviously no one hurt since I was going about two miles an hour. I have to admit that my first instinct was to haul ass out of there and admit nothing.
Instead I left a note and then obsessed all day about just leaving a note. I know that is what you are supposed to do and yet it didn't feel right. In fact, when I was waiting for the bus a police cruiser pulled in and for a brief moment I had a little panic attack. Because yes, the police who do not always respond to 911 calls in moments have time to come and pick up a woman who fled the scene of an accident and left a note instead of leaving an ounce of blood and her wedding ring as a token of her intent to pay.
Me thinks that I didn't escape without that drama gene that makes me roll my eyes at my mother.
I kept calling J (who was off work today) to make him see if my note was still there. It wasn't. He took this as a sign that they got it, I took it as a sign that the note blew off the windshield and I begged him to put another one on the windshield. He wouldn't. BASTARD.
Seriously, don't all rush off to try to find my real name on the internet so you can try to romance me away from him.
I think he was enjoying this, despite that I am sure it will wreck our insurance, because it confirms in his mind that I am a bad driver. I used to be certain that I wasn't but five years of him telling me how horrible I am and ridiculous have sort of made me internalize it a bit.
Heh. Did I just make this accident his fault? AWESOME.
Less awesome is the blood clot that fell out of my vagina yesterday (was that a startling segue?). Since it was not accompanied by my period but was with some stabbing pains very much unlike cramps I had to call the doctor today.
The nurse was so sweet and reassuring and OH I AM SURE IT IS NOTHING LET ME DOUBLE CHECK WITH THE DOCTOR.
And then BAM. An urgent phone call back and you must come in first thing tomorrow do not pass go and if there are more clots than go to urgent care.
DAMN IT.
Even though I am quite sure it is all very hyper-precautionary I am dreading it. Am guessing that she is not going to say, "Oh, well was the clot star shaped and the size of a nickel because those are GOOD LUCK!"
On a vainer and more ridiculous note I also just shaved my pubic hair which I try never to do before going to the doctor because even though I know many women do it and she isn't really the type to judge and golly how unprofessional would it be for her to be checking out my pubic hair anyway I still am slightly worried that she is going to be all, "look at that girl, shaving her pussy and propagating unreasonable sexual expectations to her husband and whomever else she whores around with, does she not understand the third wave of feminism at ALL?"
Which I do, and I am pretty sure that the third wave doesn't really approve of bald cooters in general but would certainly support my right to CHOOSE THE BALD COOTER.
Even if I think the third wave is totally offended that I took my husband's last name.
Anyway, there is no way it is all going to grow back before tomorrow morning so excuse me while I obsess about pubic hair grooming and blood clots and WHY HAS THAT GUY STILL NOT PICKED UP THE NOTE ABOUT THE DAMN CAR.
But everything is fine. Carry On.
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