Saturday, May 30, 2009
Come ON. I'm old. Old people still like presents for their birthdays, and this one's free!
Nothing to spend except a little time.
And tell your friends to follow me too. All's I really want is as many followers as I am old (which, tomorrow will be....47). Won't you help an old lady realize a dream, before it's too late?
You blog hates me and won't let me comment on it. Fix that, won't you dear?
For the sake of troubleshooting, I can't use my Google ID as a profile even when already logged IN to iGoogle, and I can't comment as 'anonymous' either. It pains me to craft pearls of complete perfection to drop into your comment box, and be turned away by some invisible hand.
You know, I already HAVE 'Pathwords' bookmarked. I REALLY DO! Quit frigging suggesting I bookmark it then, for cripe's sake!
You know where to reach me if you have questions.
Dear poison ivy,
Dear fancy-ass new running shoes,
I sure hope you make it so I like jogging. You cost enough to make me HAVE to run to justify the expense, that much is for sure. One thing though - if my knee still feels like it's full of blood pudding AFTER you and I start a relationship, you're so totally boned. It's on the BONFIRE with you!
Thought you should know.
Dear cheesecake in the oven,
ToOmorrow you are mine. Mwuahahahaa!!!
And now you're all caught up. Have a good 'un, and remember - FOLLOW ME!
Friday, May 29, 2009
Fuck fuckkity FUCK!
I TRY to keep my hands off, really I do. Not itching though means that other means must be employed, like tapping on really bad spots with my fingernails, or patting with fingertips, or digging in with the edge of a counter while I’m washing dishes or cooking.
What also works, but takes a little more bravery, is a white-hot shower. Oh my. It’s a good thing I’m a bit of a masochist (shhh!), because I’m fairly certain that people who are afraid to embrace pain would hate this method of ‘treatment.’ This morning, for example, I set the shower as hot as it would go, then stepped directly into the stinging spray of our low-flow shower, which on a regular day feels very much like like being sandblasted. Being blasted by 120F sand is, in a word, therapeutic. The sensation of it on itchy poison ivy rash is almost too much to take; the effects of it, however, are so long-lived in the anti-itch department that it’s completely worth stepping in and taking the pain for a few minutes. Once the sensation turns from ‘kill me now’ to ‘hey, not so bad, akshully,’ it’s a sure thing that the nerves that cause the itch are so overwhelmed with OTHER signals that they won’t start into itching again for a few hours.
In a weird way, it’s like those moments leading up to a really spectacular orgasm, when you almost can’t stand it anymore and then BLAMMO! Sweet relief!
Or am I the only one who feels that way?
Other things that work for the itch: 1% corticosteroid cream, and Sarna. Totally OTC at the moment, I am.
I’ve not yet gone to a doc for treatment because 1) I hate going to doctors, 2) my old doc quit the biz a while back and I don’t have another one, 3) it’s not really all THAT bad yet, and 4) it would probably take 2 weeks to get an appointment, at which time I won’t HAVE poison ivy rash anymore.
If it spreads though, you can bet I’m all over the insta-clinic. There’s a Doc in the Box not but a mile from my house at the new CVS; I’m certain they’d love to get a gander at my middle-aged rashy flabbitude. Docs are pervs like that, you know.
Another weekend is almost upon us. It is a weekend that will bring with it yet another in a string of birthdays for me. At this point, I’m pretty much OVER celebrating my birthday; there’s only so much room on the cake for candles, you know? However, being as my Mom is coming down for a visit and bringing her fabulous homemade spaghetti and meatballs for a birthday dinner, I suppose a TINY celebration might be in order. Hey, it’s not every day someone’s willing to drive dinner a couple hundred miles for me, might as well take advantage. :)
With that, y’all please have yourselves a wonderful Friday and a restful weekend.
(UPDATE: I work at a dermatology company. Two docs just were here looking at my 'case,' and it appears as though they think I should hurry out to MY dermatologist for a consult and prescriptions for stronger topical steroids and an oral steroid because, in their words, "that's not normal." Also, one of them took pictures of me for teaching purposes, and is going to send me copies! Yay! Also also, the word 'textbook' was bandied about. If I wind up in a textbook, I'll autograph it for anyone interested...because damn, that's my 15 minutes of fame!)
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Which is why that lil’ itchy rash on my chest was chalked up to stress-related hives…which I HAVE NEVER GOTTEN BEFORE. But hey, stress can do weird things, my hormones are for shit so who KNOWS what beauties I might generate through anxiety alone? Stranger things have happened.
The rash spread. From my collarbone down to my belly and up to my neck it spread. That rash crept around inflaming itch sensors and histamine receptors until pretty much all I could think about was ‘oh for FUCK’S SAKE I itch! Stress sucks!’
Only it was, and is, not stress. Heavens no, for that would mean a fast resolution of torturous pruritus (that’s fancy med-speak for ‘being itchy’). No, what this awful rash is, in fact, a gift from Albert The Cat to me, a schmear of poison ivy juice from his nimble little all-weather bod onto mine…the result of ‘shooing’ him (through direct corporal interaction) out of our bedroom yesterday morning right after I’d had my shower and, yes, before I’d gotten dressed.
Friends, there is a cat-shaped poison ivy rash on me, from my neck to my ribcage.
That damned cat is therefore getting a bath tonight, whether he wants it or not. That’ll learn him.
Tinkerbell is in grave condition, y’all. When she throws a fit, she throws it BIG.
How big? 800 BUCKS big, is how.
Eeyeah. Something about a crankshaft sensor whatevermabob that needs replacing but that to replace requires the wholesale eviction of lots of belts and geegaws and shit that of course will need to be replaced because once you stretch ‘em you can’t unstretch ‘em.
Ah well, the timing belt needed to be replaced anyhow. 60K miles is about all you can expect offa one, and Tink’s gone through about 80K since she was kitted out with the last one. It was only a matter of time, really, before urping up a big chunk of my monthly income was going to have to happen.
800 bucks. Goodbye, savings account. You were pretty swell there for a while.
Guess I’d better make darned good use of that Lovely New Jeep Compass it looks like I’m going to be driving for the next few days. Nothing parties like a rental! 4-wheeling, anyone? Doughnuts in the highschool parking lot? Come on, I bought the rip-off insurance just so I could drive with the impunity of a 90-year old! Who’s with me?
Meet me at the WalMart at 6. Until then, have a grand day.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
The minus side is that I'm driving a lovely new Jeep compass because Tinkerbell decided to die on the highway.
The plus side is Tinkerbell decided to die on the highway right near a car shop.
The minus side is that Tinkerbell decided to die on the highway right near a car shop that couldn't help me because the proprietor works on Hondas and is also going out of business.
But he could point me to someone who could help me.
Who couldn't come with a tow truck for 90 minutes.
But the guy he recommended could get me in 15 minutes.
However, that 15 minutes was spent in a TURN lane, flashers on, hood up, which apparently is not enough of a signal for some people and made for some highly nervous moments.
But was OK after the cop showed up and hung out with me until those 15 minutes passed by.
Minus is that I had to pay for the tow.
Plus is the guy 'only' charged my 50 bucks; a 15 dollar discount.
Minus is that the shop to which Tink was towed couldn't look at her until later this afternoon, necessitating I rent yet another car.
Plus is that the girl at the car rental place (they pick you up!) gave me money off on the lovely new Jeep Compass rental to make up the difference between its normal going rate and that rate of their cheaper rides.
So, the bad bottom line is that Tinkerbell nearly scared the giblets out of me by dying on a highway. The good bottom line is she's in good hands, there was no accident, there were discounts on services to be had, it quit raining during my 'outdoors' time, the issue didn't happen during rush hour or while I was on the way to pick up the boys, and on and on.
Take THAT cloud. I'm my own git-dammed silver lining. Now start raining shekels, because I'm going to frigging need them when the REAL bottom line nears...
Thursday, May 21, 2009
One can see why Facebook is the new blog. It's shiny and new and fun in bite-sized pieces of whatever reality people choose to have you believe! With pictures! Facebook is going to take over the WORLD!!!
Well, I don't really care for that sort of thing, truth be known. Over the past few months I've spent my fair share of time on FB, and do enjoy checking in there from time to time, but am coming to realize that that site is a killer of time and productivity, isn't it? A promise to onesself to only do a 'quick check' of statii (plural of 'statuses,' you know) turns into an hour-long slog through photo albums and profiles and new quizzes and updates....and pretty soon the stuff you were going to do in that hour becomes stuff you still need to do, and really that hour spent goofing off didn't really get you any closer to real goals, did it?
Real goals, like blogging, which is wholesome, improves posture, and freshens breath. I value those things, don't you?
Don't let Facebook eat YOUR blog. Just say 'no,' and go post something on your REAL site. I'll be over to read just as soon as I crack 20,000,000 on Chain Rxn, I promise.
Public service announcement: It's time for another site traffic check. Pardon me while I test the system to ascertain if a random string of buzzwords will increase visitors to NAY. We'll be back to our regularly scheduled program in 2 minutes.
Naughty nuns spanking
Jonas Brothers eating pie
Transformers Megan Fox
Mac and cheese recipe
There. That should do it. Oh wait....must insert Kenju's traffic getter for good measure
OK. We're done here.
Actually, we're not QUITE done yet...we still have this one thing to do: celebrate Thing 2's birthday! Yes! BIRTHDAY! He is a dozen years old today.
This is him with a cheek full of hot dog last Hallowe'en (photo by Kenju!). Even with his face stuffed his mama thinks he's a handsome boy. *sigh* This is the last year I won't have to look UP at him to look him in the eye. My, they do grow up fast.
Happy birthday, my baby. Thanks for being a part of our family. You're one to be proud of, you trombone-playin', tae kwon do-doin', straight-A gettin', witty, intense, insightful, lovin' lil' (OK, BIG) jokester.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Go on over and say hey, if you haven't already. Heaven knows she's got a ton of traffic at her site already, but if you DON'T routinely go there (and whyever not?), please pay her a visit.
NOTE: You might want to put your hand over the lower right side of the copmuter screen if there are children or Judgy McJudgementalpants adults or your boss milling about before you do any clicking. Jus' sayin.'
And because the world needs another awkward segue, here ya go - from birthdays to bathrooms in less than 15 seconds:
There's a woman here at work who can pee for a solid 2 minutes. It's frickking amazing. She can pee, constantly, for the time it takes for someone else to enter that bathroom, go pee, clean up, wash hands, and exit. I'm not talking little dribbly pee here either; nosir, it's like a vicious stream of pee shooting with a fair bit of velocity out of what I can only imagine is a bladder the size of a human head.
It's a source of wonder, and I am jealous. My own personal bladder is the size of a lemur noggin at best.
Is this 'pee'anist envy, then?
Playing double-12 chicken foot dominos with 2 people takes a long, LONG time, and can result in the loser getting smacked upside the head with mega-points each round if they're not watching for every opportunity to shed those high-point tiles.
In truth, those few glasses of red wine I had prior to start of play might have contributed to the THRASHING I took. That, and it was approximately 90 minutes past my normal 'stop paying attention to things' hour of the evening when we STARTED playing.
Ah well, there's only like a 200-point deficit for me to make up, and we're slated to deal out the double 8's tonight. There's still time for me to make a spectacular comeback!
I sure hope y'all are having a spectacular day where you are. It's a sunny 70's (fahrenheit, not decade) day in the Triangle, and I'm about to go out into it to do some high-grade basking.
Peace out, yo.
Monday, May 18, 2009
So....it has been a problem that our bedroom was the least pleasant room in the house, atmospherically speaking. It was then a problem of mustyness, you see. Of perhaps a smidge of damp, or of staleness. A few issues with the room are as follows: Firstly, there's only one window in there, which makes the place a touch cavelike. Not a bad thing on long weekend mornings, but not a 'come on IN and let's hang out, read, play records, do each others' toes, and talk about thermonuclear war' kind of place. Second - one window = no cross-ventilation. Thirdond - the ceiling fan in that room was woefully undersized...a result of having the attc pull-down attich just off center of the bedroom, and a ceiling fan that is about half-size just so the blades don't overlap the pull-down. Truth is, even the bravest of little soldier fans couldn't keep up with the demands of moving around a 15' cube of air - even on high speed that wee lil' thang just couldn't generate a breeze brisk enough keep two full-grown adults comfy at night.
(it must be added here that THIS full-grown adult throws off enough heat while sleeping to melt an igloo, and the other full-sized adult is no slouch in the exothermia, either)
That fan didn't work so great last summer to augment the AC. And now, the spectre of summer looms large again. It's already been in the 90s here. Summer with a wee fan isn't all that hot, hardeeharhar. As if that vague sense of 'ohno, not this again' wasn't enough, there was the burning smell that woke me up at about 4:30 yesterday morning. (What, again? you might ask, remembering that not but about 2 months ago we had the fireboys at our house for a PREVIOUS burning smell, which resulted in a $5000 outlay for a new heating and air-conditioning unit.) Yes, a burning smell; the cause of which this time seemed to be the tiny fan giving its all, coughing out its final efforts while humming louder and louder against the strain of its duties.
The fan was burning up, y'all.
And so, yesterday afternoon found us at Lowe's, purchasing a 52" ceiling fan AND REMOTE CONTROL for the 'master bedroom.' Yessir, 100-some dollars worth of pure comfort came home with us, was ably installed by the handydude, and was SLEPT UNDER very shortly after lunch. Oh, sweet Sunday afternoon nap - the fond memories!
The fan works a treat, folks. A TREAT! If it is wrong to love having my nostril hairs swirled about by this brawny new air-handler, to feel the chill breeze on whatever leg I poke out rfom under the duvet, to revel in the notion that we haven't even USED medium and high speed yet, then I don't even WANT to be right.
Bring your worst, summer. We are ready.
As long as there's electricity. Which reminds me....I wonder if we have a generator?
Friday, May 15, 2009
This, of course, makes me the reincarnation of the most stereotypical laid-back Hispanic in history, for whom 'manana' (do NOT day it like 'banana' please) is not just a word, but a way of life. Swah-vey, babies I'll do it tomorrow. Today, the roof doesn't need a patch because it's not raining!
In the plowing through of things that was (unexpectedly, and shamefully) on the menu for today, I learned a lot of things. Some of those things are as follows:
- I am an ENTJ (or was it an ENTP? aw crap. um, whichever one it was was the one that makes me sound like a whole LOT of fun). Wait, lemme go see...
Oh yes. I bring people together. With My CHARM! Now bow to me and give me your CASH!!!
- If I were a sexual position, I would be 'doggie style.' How very serendipitous, for I am a big fan of that action.
- If I were a Kama sutra position, I would be the lotus. How also very serendipitous, for I am also a fan of that action too, but because i am old have to slowly work my way up to the flexibility required to be crossed-legged with my thighs against my chest (whilst on my back)...another week or so should do it. I will either achieve success, or be the horniest paraplegic on the block.
- I do not know enough about Ron.
- Someone from my HS class who was in the 'popular kids' group asked to be my friend. I allowed her the privilege, for I BRING PEOPLE TOGETHER! What I learned about myself from this is that the kids who were cool in HS are now humbled in my presence. It is a good feeling. A very good feeling.
Boring stuff. Just like that.
Oh, and my Angerometer is on the fritz and needs a juiceup. I'm feeling far too accepting lately, and need something to get pissed off about to get the ol' juices flowing again. Any ideas?
I'm off to get, as we used to say, 'altered.' Hope y'all are doing the same.
Have yourselves a lovely weekend.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
10 hours from now, maybe not so much, but for now I feel alive, ALIVE! Hot jalapenos on the salad n’ my tongue is a-hangin’ out like I’m a professional stamp-licker. Mmm, tasty mucilage.
Things like “tasty mucilage" are, no doubt, why BuzzardBilly FINALLY gave me the long-awaited lil’ prezzie yesterday in the form of one o' dem dere blog awards, which of course I love because it is new and shiny and has girlie touches like flowers and lace, which would resemble my underwear if I chose to ever wear any and indeed had ever purchased any like that which I have not because the lace is itchy and flowers look like giant embroidery zits under my regular costume of cotton ninja pants, a look I think all can agree is very distasteful indeed.
So, ‘no’ to the panties, but YES to the prezzie.
AN AWARD! Yes! I am loved, vindicated, supported, recognized! Who cares if it might be a part of a gigantic conspiracy to make be break out the giddy – for today I am pleased.
See? Isn’t it pretty?
Of course, unlike awards in real life, when only the WINNER (like me!) gets the big shiny pretty trophy, bloggy awards make you pass them around, getting them all tarnished and fingerprinty in happy happy group lurve, a fact that is stimulating (shared lurve) and irritating (sharing!) at the same time.
The Bella Rules:
1) Accept the award, post it on your blog together with the name of the person who has granted the award, and his or her blog link.
2) Pass the award to 15 other blogs that you've newly discovered. Remember to contact the bloggers to let them know they have been chosen for this award.
Oh kay.... anyone who has been here for any period of time knows that my blog roll is freakishly static. I have my core, and I like it that way. But,even with an admirably stable core (much like the Starship Enterprise, if I can be so bold), things can get stagnant and the only cure for stagnicity is to dump the core, blow up a black hole or two, and ride the explosive wave our of danger of the Vaste Boredome.
Now, here's where I need your help: I KNOW a number of y’all who read here have gigantic blogrolls of people who are readworthy. Who have YOU discovered recently that you have had to add to your blogroll? Let me know please in the comments.
Ah, and for the record? I’ve recently added “I’m not Benny” and “Mind of Spaz” to the list over there on the right. Also “Bitchy McBitcherson.” I like people who can tell a story, make me laugh, or wish I was them, apparently (you decide who is who!).
At the very least, they deserve a visit from YOU. Oh, right, and from me too, because I have to go tell them I gave them something, which might surprise them, because I’m sure at least one of them has no idea who I am and might, in fact, ban me from their blog once they find out about the lace and flowers.
It’s a risk I must take to share the lurve, much as I hate to (it's mine!).
Lastly, may I just say that your hair looks fantastic today? Tell me what you do to keep it looking so lustrous!
Then have a lovely day.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
I sometimes get excited when people tell me that they enjoy this blog so very much that they’re going to give me an award (or at least I’m assuming they like it, because if they hated it or thought it sophomoric and tedious they wouldn’t be awarding me anything, would they? (unless of course the awards are all big jokes on me, which is why I don’t sidebar them for fear it’s all a vast internet prank aimed SOLELY AT ME, which is a thought pattern that kept me from dating much in my teen years)).
Yes, I get excited. Everyone likes praise, from the tiniest toddler learning to toddle to the eldest individual who still can toddle (and chew, and change their own sodden diapers), from the most mentally challenged of us who beam when a LEGO finally snaps together properly to the astoundingly intelligent who beam when their laser touches off cold fission (fusion?). Praise is good, to be eagerly anticipated, so when someone says ‘hey I have an award for you, come over and get it’ of course the first thing you do is go over to their house to pick up your award, no matter if it’s deserved or not.
Well, I’m still waiting for mine….and so today’s post is rather disappointingly for me NOT about getting an award, it is rather about what happened to me this morning that engendered a powerful hunger to crawl back in bed and wish heartily for a mostly-total do-over.
Chronology as follows:
1:25 a.m. – wake up, look at clock, groan, fall back to sleep.
2:45 a.m. – wake up, look at clock, groan, fall back to sleep.
3:35 a.m. – wake up, look at clock, groan, fall back to sleep.
Rinse and repeat at 4:20 and 5:15.
6:15 a.m. – get poked in the side by bed partner, wake up. Get up, brush teeth, pee, put the dog out, go back to bed. Spend some quality time. Fall back to sleep. (this is the bit I'd NOT do over, in case you're wondering)
7:40 a.m. – wake up, look at clock, say ‘oh shit,’ get up, wake up kids. Go to pantry to get coffee can so as to make the bean squeezins, step in still-warm cat puke (positioned PRECISELY in the middle of the floor. Nice shootin’, cat).
7:45 a.m. - (note: this is normally about the time we LEAVE for school, which starts at 8:15) make lunches, slam down coffee, get dressed, sign agendas, nag about the importance of brushing teeth, admonish Thing 2 to change shirt because wearing the same one 2 days in a row just ain't cool, administer cold meds, get dressed enough to drive kids to school.
8:05 a.m. – break longest fingernail on car door while loading up car.
8:12 a.m. - Decide to get sick for the rest of the day. Check systems to see which can fail fastest first. Determine that I am, in fact, not sick, drive back home, get a shower, get dressed, and go to work.
So here I am in Da Kyoob, logy as hell, needing a caffeine drip, avoiding e-mails, wishing for a sudden burst of lottery winnings to fall directly in my lap, and boring the shit out of anyone reading this.
Oh, plus which, if sudden sweaty spells and an itchy nose are any indication, I think I’ve caught Thing 1’s cold. So there’s that to look forward to.
We went out to dinner last night, which was nice. Maybe not 100 dollars nice (erk!), but there were appetizers and chopsticks. And the Things ate honest-to-God Asian food, which pleased me to no end. With chopsticks. All right, so the sticks were generally used to SPEAR the food, but hey man, baby steps.
Also? I’m finding out that Thing 1 has very expensive taste indeed. Filet mignon, my eye, young man, you’ll have the shrimp in lobster sauce and LIKE IT. And so he did. And ate bok choi. Like a bunny.
Guess I’ll go commence to waitin’ for that AWARD I am supposed to be getting. That might be all I get done to day, so I’d better to it up right.
Y’all have yourselves a fine, fine day.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
One day I was smoking a bong
with a dude who was 12 inches long
full of chatter and play
we cruised through the day
me and that dude Mr Schlong.
See? Easy-peasy! Now you try! First, second and fifth lines rhyme, third and fourth rhyme. First second and fifth have 8 or 9 syllables, third n' fourth have 4 or 5. Like so:
There once was an man from Nantuck---
Ah, you've probably heard that one. How about this one then (which I also just made up on the spot like the limiericky genius I am):
While walking in ye olde Bombay
I heard a frail old woman say
she'd once had the chance
to wear Churchill's pants
while he wore her saree so gay!
Woo-hoo! A whiff of salaciousness is never a bad idea where limericks are concerned. Being bawdy without being outright offensive is the trick, my dears. Oh! Wait! Here's another one coming on!
Step away from the side of the track
Lest a car smash you in front or back
You'd wind up a pile
or dragged for a mile
'Neath a train with a filthy smokestack.
Cautionary tales also work, it would appear.
The limerick is a nimble art form, is it not? Suitable for amusement and purposes of teaching. Hysterical AND inspiring. One thing it is not though, is eponymous.
Now, you know. Have a wonderful day.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Lorem ipsicum, in a gadda da vida.
Gobbeldygook is the power of the people, a right to prevarication unalienable in that age and day of estuarian rapaciousness, woudln't one agenda? Insuitable, we confer.
More tomorrow, or as events progress to a natural vortex.
Friday, May 08, 2009
In other words - 40 years ago today, Biff Spiffy was born. Now y'all KNOW I love me some Biff, but here's an idea - whyn't you click on that link and leave a comment on his blog regarding this most celebratory of days (unless, of course, you're a 7th Day Adventist, in which case just go say hi or something else utterly non-celebratory yet still friendly in a non-creepy kind of way).
We'll could maybe get the whole internet crowding around in his comments section, bumping up against one another in a sexy melange of bloggerdom. Ooooh, FEEL the love.
I'll be back later with a few choice thoughts on the birthday boy. Now go, click, comment, and spread the birthday cheer like you're an infected lil' Mexican Piggie!
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
Starting at the top, there was this to notice:
- a too-small straw hat
- a wreath of hair curling out from the edges of the too-small hat
- a pair of emo-hipster tortoiseshell glasses in a shade of ironic black
- plugs in the earlobes, I'm guessing 14 gauge
- a ratty Van Dyke beady thing, with crumbs on.
- a double chin under an already weak one
- a short sleeved plaid cotton shirt in a mix of muddy browns that no doubt spoke to his lifelong parent-hate
- a pair of jean shorts. rolled up. to his crotch. unevenly.
- a set of blazing white doughy thighs that would make a 15-year-old girl cry at the injustice of them if they were hers, causing her to adopt an 'all-maxi-dress, all-the-time' attitude and a love for lights-off sex, not to mention never EVER getting into a bathing suit in front of anyone, not even her granny, because Granny has better thighs than her, dammit.
- shinny chicken calfs
- ratty hi-tops, in a bland tan that no doubt is a mirror of his take on the current state of society.
The thighs though. Those freaking THIGHS will haunt my memory. The soft yeasty overproofed thighs of a young MAN (if the snotty demi-beard is to be believed), the thighs that should be hard and sound and muscular in the places where this....boy....was as yielding as a down pillow, yet not as alluring a place to rest.
Ew. Ew ew ew ew ew ew.
And yet? He was with a GIRL. Who was being all solicitous and shit about what kind of kraftbrew or bubbly wine he wanted. Either she was his sister, or he's got a huge dick.
There can be no other explanation.
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
Little postabortions, if I may be so crass. Sorry nubs of ideas that didn’t take root or that were poisoned early on by a sick gush of malevolence, twisting them terribly until there was no way they could survive (without causing torsion leading to clotting and subsequent necrosis. Not pretty).
Bet you're wondering what they were about, huh? Neener neener neener! I'm not telling!
Let's just say that what follows is a LOT better than what you could have been reading...
I made tuna casserole last night from a recipe I found online. MISTAKE. Should have stuck with the tried-and-true method that revolves around the notion that very nearly everything tastes better when bathed in cheese sauce. I had my taster tuned for the old down-home ‘role recipe, and was disappointed. Oh, it wasn’t BAD, but cream of celery soup ain’t no kind of substitute for melted orange pseuo-cheese. Something to do with not having a heart-attack-inducing level of salt, is what I’m thinking. So there I sat, heart attack-less, and slightly disapppointed that this new way of doing things simply wasn’t cutting the mustard (if I might use a culinary metaphor here). It’s like wanting a Chik-Fil-A artery-clogger onna bun, and settling for something grilled, with lettuce on. Yes, it might be better for you, but if all that’s left of life is a series of choices made to help us live longer in grudging half-enjoyment while remaining fully cognizant of what COULD be, then what’s the POINT?
Next time, I’m breaking out the Velveeta and saying buy-bye to that healthy choice soup crap.
Last Sunday I spent some quality time at a local middle school track going ‘round and ‘round while Biff was playing Ultimate Frisbee. Round and ‘round gives one a fair bit of time for pondering. Pondering important life questions like “why does that fat woman in front of me think it’s a good idea to wear those shorts out in public? Her thighs are as bumpy as the surface of the moon, her butt is wobbling up and down so much I’m getting motion sickness, and her crotch is slooowly eating the inside hem. That upside-down vee hem is so NOT A GOOD LOOK. Of course, neither is the tee shirt that so tight we can all see each and every one of her 1..2..3..4 rolls of back fat. Is that her husband with her? Does he grab dem back fat rolls and slap ‘em against each other when he’s riding behind? Does he maybe….oh God no Tiff, don’t go there. No. Think of something else.”
And then the voices in my head started talking in a Swedish accent, because nothing banishes thoughts of mature citizens having back-fat sex than that.
And for that mental image you are welcome.
Friday, May 01, 2009
In those moments of mind-casting, the mid- and later-1980's are but a memory away, not 20+/- years.
That time of my life was rich; I was young, single, surrounded by friends, totally free. Wonder what it would be like to go back there with the 'me' I am now so that I could fully enjoy that time and place, if only for a short time.
If I had these looks again, I'd go in a heartbeat:
Yep, that's a blondie Tiff back in 1987, a fresh-faced 25-year-old with nothing but time on my hands (when I wasn't working or going to school or teaching labs), and a ton of friends to help me find trouble and fun.
Sheeeeyit. What being young, carefree, skinny, and having estrogen in your system will do for a body.
This picture came courtesy of my buddy Puffhead, who has been uploading some pictures from back in the day to her Facebook page, and it's been a wonderful trip thus far down memory lane. All those folks who were a part of daily life back in the day reappear in full color, folks who are unfortunately now gone are still there with a smile on their faces, we're all so much younger. Puff says there are more pictures to come; as holder of 'the goods' from when that bar shut down (as the bookkeeper she was in POWER!), she's been carting crap around for over 20 years and is just now going through a bunch of stuff, airing out old memories and subjecting the past to the electronic light of day.
Parts of the past like this:
PROOF (if you can look past the fact that I'm not in any of the pics with these guys) that I knew these now-famous people well before they were famous. I TOLD you!
(In case you didn't know, that's Butch Taylor, recently of DMB fame, on the top with part of "Secrets," and Tim Reynolds, currently of his own fame (and good buddy of the DMB) on the bottom playing with his group TR3)
From the 'now' perspective, I'd have to say that we had nothing but wonderful times in that bar. Of course if you'd asked me back then, I would have griped about slow shifts, hating clean-up of the happy hour buffet, stupid drunk college kids, and having to clean the bathrooms after any given Thursday through Saturday night, because I can ALWAYS find something to whinge about. But now of course the lens of sentimentality caps the clearer vision of youth, and I only remember the good times.
.....good damned times, y'all.
So, my dear friends, lurkers, and stalkers, I challenge you this: go on and post a post sometime in the next week with a picture of YOU from 1987 or thereabouts, then leave a comment here that you did with a link to the post. I'd be happy to compile the posts into one big linkapalooza so that we can all get a gander at who we used to be. Come on, it'll be FUN!!
(Don't let me hang here, all alone, exposing myself.....)
And have a glorious weekend. See you Monday.