Peak of Perfection

For the February Wordsmiths challenge:

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Mother says “Moidrak has called you, and you’re about to go on a wonderful journey. You’re going to take the Cup of Consecration, and then we can begin.”

I have heard this before, many times, yet because it is now my name being spoken in the invocation, the words have a resonance I’d never heard before. The call to ultimate service is a warm whisper of eternal life, eternal love, eternal adoration, real and beautiful as the rosettes on the ceiling of the convent’s vast kitchens, and I am glad to answer.

Getting to the Table of Covenant had not been easy for a girl like me, born in the gutter, raised as a maid, culled from the herd of orphans by the Mother Immaculate herself to service. Mother had told me that the light in my eyes spoke of great things, and so it seems she was right. It’s not every day a nobody like me gets to be Grafted. Graftees are normally rich women, old and venerated, ready to give the rest of their lives to the service of Moidrak, not some milk-pale firm-hipped kitchen whelp like me.

And yet. Here I am, on the Table of Supplication, getting Grafted. The needles sting as they dip into my arms. My tears are joyful.

“Nia, sleep.”

So I do.

“Nia, it is over. You must now concentrate on being very very still or the Graft will not take. All your years of service will be for nothing. You don’t want that, do you”? the Mother’s voice beseeches me, calming as a stream.

No, I do not want that. The pain in my eyes is immense, but the Drugs of Obedience and Veneration keep me quiet and my limbs immovable, even though there is rebellion and fear in me. Moidrak has promised I will surmount this if I am a true Graftee. This is what I want more than life itself, and so I heal myself through sleep.

And awaken. My eyes still cannot open.

The world feels strange. Its seems like up is down. There is weight on my cheeks, my belly sags, the Graft line tugs a million prickles in my skin. I cannot see. I sleep.

“Nia, it is time.” Mother’s voice echoes. I awaken, longing to stretch my arms and legs, but suffering against the body in service to Moidrak is the fondest of wish of all Graftees, so I am lucky.

Nurses open my eyes with tiny snip of scissors to the Sacred Threads. That is all. There will be no more release. I open my eyes, afraid and excited. I am a Graftee now. Success.

Mother is so small from up here. I can hear voices of venerated old women whispering welcome. I am pressed to the ceiling, the starflung centerpiece of the glittering temple peak, my eyes the center of the Four Arcs of Solchar, my body the invitation to heaven.

Not bad for a girl from the gutter. Not bad at all.

Cats throwing up amuse me

Heh - Albert just puked, and it was funny.

Stupid cat doesn't know enough to not eat houseplants (which, tho not officially poisonous, cannot be all that great for him). Two seconds after the crunching of the plant stopped, the hunching of the back began. He developed a glassy-eyed 100-yard stare, the tongue stuck out a little and was perfectly cherry-gumdrop red against his smart white fur, then the slickety-click of his epiglottis could be heard from across the house as whatever it was that was bothering him came lurching back up his gullet.

Yes, I watched the whole daggone thing. Twice.

Laughed both times, until it dawned on me that he is not the one that will clean it up.

Ingrate.

To steal from Tracy Lynn

FEAR ME!


21

Stolen from Renn, (who can take on 15), who stole it from Stew (who can take on 29!), who prolly stole it from someplace else.

How many can YOU take on???

Oopsie!

Said I was gonna write a wordsmiths story for today.

No can do, peepies. No.Can.Do. Teh krazy has broken out here at work so there's not much time here, and I'm still in the midst of trying to move all my crap back INTO the bedroom after the paint job so there's not much time there, which leaves only mornings to write stories, and while I like the idea of rising early to hunch over a glowing computer screen as the words flow from my fingertips into posterity, I just can't seem to get out of bed in enough time to do much more than the triple S plus coffee. I don't even dry my HAIR before I leave the house, for Pete's sake; how am I supposed to write a story too?

Perhaps tomorrow. Maybe.

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I was talking with a friend this morning who said that his stomach had just made a noise "like a surf guitar solo."

That is some funny shit, right there.

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I totally love the new colors in mah bedroom, and the new re-arrangement of furniture that now makes it looks like a retreat rather than a dumping ground. Who new that puttin' a little feng shui mojo on the domicile could make such a gigantic difference?

There are houses all over my neighborhood that have been stripped down to the barest of bones and rebuilt to their original style. Many of these houses are lived in by artists, and therefore are painted all KINDS of bright, festive, Caribbean colors, both inside and out. I am a fan of that kind of color scheme, but when it came to choosing colors for my OWN room, things went far more dietary. The color on the fireplace wall (that also serves as my headboard) and below the chair rail is "Mocha." The trim is "Swiss Almond." The color above the chair rail and on the THREE doors in the room is a breakout from the edible colors; it's "Sand." The combination of dark below, light above, and pale yellow on the trim is like wrapping myself up in a Big Blankie of Chocolate/Nougatty goodness. Mmmmmmmm, nougat.

Obviously, my inner rastafarian can't compete with my love of sweets.

Plus which, the new color scheme in the bedroom now plays all matchy-match with most of the rest of my house, which is done in something like Guilden's Spicy Brown in the living room, and a brick n' guilden's checkered wallpaper in the kitchen. In those rooms, white trim abounds. Things got a little wild in the bedroom though with the Swiss Almond trim color. I know. It's shocking. What would the neighbors think?

Oh yeah - they're artists. They live in purple houses with cranberry-colored living rooms and cobalt kitchens. With shiny-hard dangly fixtures over their large kitchen islands. With stencilled floors and lilac walls. With rooms the colors of a bag of Jolly Ranchers, bright and primary and zingy enough to keep a fair shock of nerves jangled. Their houses simply vibrate energy.

The Tiny House, on the other hand, exudes warmth (here I was going to say "like a dairy barn," but then didn't say that because dairy barns nowadays are antiseptic and harsh, not at all like the old wooden barn I was thinking of, in which Farmer Brown milks the cows by hand and maybe shoots a jet of warm milk into an eager kitten's mouth from time to time while bits of hay chaff float through sunbeams and the smell of everything organic is a gentle assault...though maybe I interior-decorated that a touch more than is strictly necessary in my Kincaidian rhapsody, for which I should be taken out back and forced to turn in my highlighting brushes and fancy imagination. So, not like a dairy barn.), like a small English pub on a damp night, like a vast velvet cape, like a long hug from someone you love, like sunset at the beach on a hot August Thursday.

Yep - just like that.

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Now what color shall I paint the bathroom? It's the last bastion of "whee!" color in the house, and the mint-green of it has never been a favorite of mine. Nor, quite frankly, is the harvest gold tub with the cracks in it, but I'm not all about the affording of a new tub right now, so it stays.

So too, unfortunately, does the god-awful fake marble vanity top in shades of greens that remind me of egg drop soup swirled into weak lime jello....with a chipped faucet on top as the ultimate in white trashliness. It's a terrible bathroom, with a GREAT new floor done up in lovely stone-lookin' brown tile, and I now NEED something on the walls the de-emphasizes the awful bits while pumping up the floor's glamour. Yes, with a "U."

Got any idears? Help a sister out, won't you?

Can I just say something here?

I'm freaking addicted to this game. Heaven help me. I'm up to level 20 and can't stop playing. I can't let the Blockies beat me. They shall NOT beat me.

I have no idea when I'm going to get my WORK done, but that hardly seems to matter, does it? The Blockies, they wait for me. I must go to them.

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The leg is fine, y'all. I do believe I am now healed.

My bedroom is done. It is gorgeous. Thank goodness I had help getting it done, or I never would have finished it - I do have the best friends! Except now? I think I need drapes. And better furniture. And maybe some new lamps. And thus the downward spiral is embarked upon, in which I begin to CARE about such things, now that I have a nice space to put them in.

Warning - the rest of this post is "thinky," so if you came here for the next chapter in the fart wars at work, I'm afraid you'll have to wait. Sorry. I got in a mood. Whyn't you just go play Blockies and come back tomorrow?

Oh wait, not tomorrow. My Wordsmiths story is being posted tomorrow. It's not funny. So, Friday then. I promise, I'll be much more entertaining on Friday.

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OK - so the New York Philharmonic Orchestra played a concert yesterday in Pyongyang, North Korea. At first blush you might wonder why this is newsworthy, but take a moment and blush a second time while thinking about it.

Yeah, it took me a while too. I'm not the most savvy person when it comes to global politics and the implications of "Violin Diplomacy."

See, the United States and North Korea have kind of a frosty relationship right no, being as how North Korea may or may not be developing nuclear weapons, which we're not all that happy about. Go figure. The concert was billed as a "relationship builder" for both countries, and while I'm not convinced that playing a concert for 2000 of a nation's elite is going to change anything all that much, I'm all for enhanced relations.

They played classics of the orchestral repertoire, including a selection from Wagner's Lohengrin, Dvorak's " New World Symphony" and Gershwin's "An American in Paris." The concert closed with the Korean folk song "Arirang."

Here's where the thinky bit comes in.....I have been a playing member of several symphonies (and have actually played all but one of these pieces) and that is perhaps why I started to tear up a little bit when I heard the sound bites of the group playing. It was surprising, this reaction. I did not expect to be dripping tears while driving home. Who WOULD, really? But my musical heritage, if you can call it that, got stirred up, and the thrill of being part of a body of people that can work together to create that kind of beauty came back full force.

I have experienced many things while playing my instrument. Joy, frustration, exhilaration, even pain, but the absolute best feeling is that rush of euphoria when you realize that everything is going just right, and you're helping to create an artistic experience, to translate someone's genius into reality, to provide entertainment and escape. It can be spine-tingling, distracting, absorbing, and transporting.

And now, because of that wee headrush, I want to start playing my horn again.

It has sat in my closet for three years now, waiting for me to be ready to pick it up again. While I'll very likely never be as good as I once was, that's of little import right now, as long as I can find the outlet to express that strong desire to not just enjoy music, but make it too.

At the very least, I expect it will stop the sudden-onset weeping when I hear the opening bars of a familiar symphony...and I think we can all agree that this is probably a very good thing indeed.

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Along the same lines, I think I'll start drawing again. I doodle, a LOT, but haven't sat down and DRAWN something for serious in a very long time. I used to really enjoy it, though I can't shade worth a damn. No matter. It's not as though I'm working up a show or anything. It would be just for me. If I like something, I'll keep it. If not, I've got a lovely brick firepit in the back yard that's just calling out for more fuel.

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So, I ask you - Did you used to play an instrument, or sing, or act, or draw, or do something totally creative when you were younger that you would love to do again? What is it, and what's stopping you from doing it now?

I say we capture back that which once played a part in how we defined ourselves. I say we start to express ourselves rather than being mere lumps of flesh that do nothing but consume what other people have created for us.

Whaddaya think? You with me?

We're at a stalemate

My thanks to all who commented on yesterday's "windy" post - you had me laughing right out loud. Seems retribution/revenge/retaliation is a strong fu among you. I'd love to have y'all on MY side when the bomb drops, is what I'm saying.

The fart wars with my borbyrigmafied cube neighbor have not yet commenced today. That's too bad, because I gots me a gut full of lentils and beef, which are stewing and ready for action. But if HE doesn't fire off first, I can't, and it's furrowing my brow. If Farty O'Blappydrawers doesn't sound off soon, I can't launch any offensive defensives, and that would be sad, seeing as how I'm so prepared.

To clarify one thing about the "Living situation" around these parts: Tooty McRazzypnats next "door" moved in AFTER me. He is the latecomer, and thus I believe I have certain rights to my quiet corner. It's a big room people, and yet he was put cheek (heh) by jowl (ew!) with me, which puzzles me to no end, because it completely goes against the "one empty seat" rule that we all follow in libraries, buses, and bathrooms. I wonder who was the one to have made the decision to put Gassy O'Pufferbutt next to me? Who was the one to have sentenced me to a life of secondhand gastrointestinal experiences?

It's not like I don't enjoy a good toot, people, for I do. There's certainly something extremely pleasurable about letting a good one rip, isn't there? BUT NOT IN SOMEONE ELSE'S AIR SPACE! It's like farting on an airplane - it's Just.Not.Done.

Which all makes me wonder - Does Razzy De'Analhorn not KNOW that I'm here? Can he not remember that there's someone just over the 6 foot-tall partition who might LIKE clean air to breathe? Can Braphomed Al-Honkerbriefs truly believe that farting in a cubicle, and what's more, farting LOUDLY in a cubicle, not come with some kind of repercussion?

Well, I'm going to GIVE him repercussion. And re- and re-, and re-, until he realizes that turning loose his gaseous effluvia into MY space is not acceptable.

It's just that I have to now wait for him to do it again. And the lentils, they won't wait.

Crap.

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Thunder in February. It's happening right outside my winder, y'all.

The oddest meterological phenomenon I've ever experienced included thunder in winter, but not the Southern thunder that comes with early spring rains as we're having today. Oh no. This was something completely different.

I was on my commute home from the pharmaceutical leviathan for which I then worked. It was a blowsy New England winter early evening, with fast-moving clouds slung low on overhead and a fine wind whipping the dry branches. There was a hint of snow in the air, a damp smell that told of much precipitation held aloft.

The wind kicked up, blowing snow across the roads and pushing cars around in their lanes. The tree limbs bent to and fro, being whipped about by the gathering storm. Fat drops of snow started plopping down, splattering against the windshield with authority.

And then, lightning. ZAP! The sky split in electric fury, sizzling blue-hot against the manatee-gray clouds. A deafening peal of thunder ripped out, concussive in volume. My fingers couldn't help but turn white as they gripped the steering wheel, hard. A second blast of lighting, then more, as branches began falling from trees, as wind and snow slowed the line of commuters to a crawl, and as blast after blast of thunder bellowed from the blackening sky. My goosebumps got goosebumps as I struggled to hold the car on the road and my nose filled with the scents of ozone, wet earth, and hot panic.

The Thundersnow was awesome, truly and literally, and it was over in less than ten minutes. I don't think I breathed more than twice that whole time. Simply and utterly amazing; a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

Thank God.

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Anyone ever almost been struck by lighting, or experienced a tornado, or been caught in an undertow, or otherwise been subject of the powerful tug of nature?

I have, all three, and let me tell you, I'm not a big fan. Maybe I'll tell you about them sometime, but for now I'm off to do work, think about my wordsmiths story, and try to not listen to whatever's going to happen in the cube next door as lunchtime draws ever more near.

Wish me luck, and have a great day.

Stop me from killing him

My cube neighbor FARTED right the hell out loud today.

That's right...he FAR-TED.

Not even the "oops!" kind of fart either. It was purposeful. I HEARD HIS CHAIR CREAK just prior to the fart. He leaned over in his chair and outgassed. He launched an air biscuit! He stepped on a the proverbial duck! At work! Right next to ME! Into my BREATHING AIR!!

He KNEW he had to fart, he KNEW I was over here, and let it rip anyhow!

I just about leapt over the partition and ripped HIM something...

Gods! As if the sighing, the chewing, the bag rustling, the slurping, the burping, or the LOUD PERSONAL PHONE CALLS weren't bad enough, we now have the farting. It cannot be abided (abode?).

See below for a helpful schematic of my "office," which might explain why I am getting rather frustrated by this person's personal functions. He is in my space, people.


I think I'd prefer to be told to move to the basement, if you must know.

I miss my office. So.Very.Much.

Quick - grab the carrots!

Dudes - another busy day, but I thought I'd take the time to offer up this recipe for yummy nummy deeeeligh carrot salad, that even I, a hater of all things cooked carrot, enjoyed.

Srsly, it's that good.

You'll need:

1 Tbsp oil
1.5 cups carrots (I julienned mine, just for fun)
1/4 cup each chopped onion and green pepper
1/4 cup rasins
1/2 ounce chopped nuts (I used walnuts)
1.5 tsp sugar
1.5 tsp apple cider vinegar

Cook the carrots, onions, and green pepper in the oil until crisp-tender, cover the pot, reduce heat to low, and cook until fork tender.

Add the other ingredients, toss, and chill for an hour or so.

Eat.

This goes really well with roasted orange chicken (take one chicken, jam orange slices under the skin, stuff a half an orange in the body cavity along with a cupla bay leaves, sprinkle chicken with salt, roast at 375 for an hour or until done) and buttered rice.

I am just saying, is all.

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Hey - you know how to totally use up a Sunday?

Step 1) Decide to paint your bedroom. Step 2) Decide to use three different colors. Step 3) Decide to replace some window trim while you're at it, Step 4) go ahead and move everything in the room OUT while painting, just so that once done you can rearrange the furniture into something resembling an adult's room and not something done in "early dormitory" style, Step 5) go to the store, purchase paint and other supplies, and Step 5) commence to painting.

That should take about 10 hours, at the end of which time you'll be really tired, and once you've had your dinner and some cocktails you will sleep like a baby, only without the 2 a.m. feeding and diaper change (unless, of course, you're into that sort of thing, then by all means have at it).

Really! It works like a charm!

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Bye for now. Y'all enjoy your Monday as much as you can, y'hear?

Weatherr report, Tiffleg update, and Headlines

Hey y'all! Happy Friday!

It's a glorious rainy day here in NC, and I can't help but be excited by that. You'd think that a middle-aged lady of dubious past would not get so excited about RAIN, but by golly it's worth getting excited about when you're staring down the barrel of Stage 2 water restrictions and dire predictions for little precipitation in the near future. Any drop of rain is good, a box of rain is better, and a whole BARREL full (or resevoir, take your pick) is better yet.

So, yay for rain!

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Also, yay for healing! Take a gander, folks, at the Tiffleg, Day 10-ish.

Is it not a thing of beauty? I mean, compared with what it looked like on Day 5 or so, it's really a whole lot better. I'm never going to win any KIND of 'best legs' contest with knees like these, but dayum it's nice to have the ugly lumps gone.

There's only a tiny bit of residual bruising (sigh, I miss it, don't you?), and as far as discomfort goes, it peaked on Tuesday and is resolving tremendously well.

Once I'm all healed up I think I'll generate a little stage-by-stage comparison picture so that anyone who wants to come on by and get the full spectrum of gorgeousness that is the tiffleg before n' after, becuase I'm all about the public service.

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Hey y'all! It's HEADLINE TIME! Get you ready for some ham-fisted humour, served up by the mistress of demi-wit herself, Meestriss Teef!

First, political news:

Clinton: Obama 'change you can Xerox'

Obama: Clinton, 'Yoda you speak like'

Obama, Clinton big spenders

Clinton: Heap big talk, Kimobama.

International news is next:

Turkey launches ground operation in Iraq

Because hambruger is scarce there, you know.

Now for human interest:

Dog saved by Marine coming to Calif.

Original headline used the word "butterface," but the editors thought it was too long.

SHOCKING CRIME!

Jury: Man poisoned wife with antifreeze

His defense that she was frigid and he thought a little Prestone would help her didn't go over very well, obviously.

From the world of entertainment:

Northern Rock under government control

Southern Rock still under Skynrd control

Science news is next:

Wolves to be removed from species list

Sorry dudes, you're just a buncha big dogs (but not the butterface kind).

Japan Internet mogul appeal trial begins

The appeal of internet moguls is obvious: they're much easiser on your knees than the real ones!

Indonesia sends bird flu samples to WHO

I don't know, who? That's right, WHO. No, who? Exactly.

And now, for Sports:

Indiana mum on fate of embattled Sampson

Beverly Orbison, of Indianapolis, told the US News and Global Report that Sampson ought to be ashamed of himself, and cautions him to "play nice or get out of the sandbox."

And to round this out, a headline that needs to rejoinder. Just click on the link...

Pig song: download it from styTunes?

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Have a great Friday folks, and a lovely weekend. SMOOTCHES to all who want 'em!

Can't Stop.Looking.

Someone call for an intervention. This has me hooked.

My God, am I really THAT shallow?

Quick hits

First, go read the comments from yesterday's post. The phrase "cube tooter" was used, and there's a story about an unapologetic farter in there too. Amazing. I laughed right on out loud, and that's not something that happens that often, because I laugh very loudly and sometimes frighten myself.

Anyhow, go read.

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The following is a total dash of nostalgia.

Burning Down the House. (a clickable link, yo, for I know not how to do the embeddening)

Man, I feel good now.

I've been re-listening to "More Songs About Buildings and Food" lately, and I must say that the band got better with time, with "Stop Making Sense" one of the best albums I've ever heard. The concert video is pretty spectacular too, if you like that kind of thing, which I do, which is why I said something about it here.

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I was shoppin' at the local Food Lion (rawr!) yesterday evening while the Things were at tae kwon do, and in the midst of a very focused cereal-buying moment I thought I heard the voice of God. It was deep, clear and booming, and it was telling me that I couldn't have that box of cereal because I was too sneaky at home...

Before putting the box of "Oats and More" back on the shelf (because, seriously, it's HEALTHY, God!), I looked around me, and espied a wiry redneck (I say that with love, y'all) gentleman and his three children in the same aisle. I hesitated putting back the cereal, because I didn't want to appear to be a waffler on cereals in front of a crowd...it's not like it's a life and death decision, the cereal.

And then God spoke again, only this time it came out of the mouth of the man: "Ya'll shuh-nt be able to git that there snack, because mama tells me y'all've bin nawty tuhday tuh her."

I admit I might have gawped a tiny bit.

It was an improbable voice. His body wasn't big enough to hold that voice. He wasn't really big enough to hold much more than a mellow tenor, and yet here he was carrying around the heavy burden of a voice of power, richly resonant, with layers of timbre padding a deep rumbling bass note. The voice was beautiful...and it belonged to this hard-worn man with three little kids who was just trying to buy some supper.

This, for some reason, made me happy. Little surprises almost always do.

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"Pirates of the Carribean" 3 totally rocks. It's way too long, but it still freaking rocks. That movie was the previous two evening's entertanments; I have no idea how people wer able to sit through the whole thing at the theater.

There were moments of real beauty, of extreme excitment, of heroism and humor, and an ending I did NOT expect. Completely worth the 4 dollar rental fee.

I know that y'all have already seen it, but I just had to throw in my two bits of review.

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Leg update! It's fine. No longer feels like the insides are going to come sproinging up to the outside, and I can walk reasonably well, there is minimal bruising, and I'm thinking of playing tennis this weekend.

Not bad for an old broad, I should think.

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And that's it folks. Duty calls, and I must go clean it up. Heh.

This one's all over the map.

A Proud Moment in Parenting!

For the second day in a row I got a phone call from Thing 2 not long after I dropped him off at school.

“Mom, I forgot my science binder and novel at home, and I need them for school.”

Today, unlike yesterday, I did not go back home to get them. Today I stood firm, and told Thing 1 that he’d just have to struggle, because I was halfway to work and wasn’t turning back.

I think he hung up on me. That’s a first.

Y’all think I was too hard on the boy? I turned that thought over and over in the 20 minutes it took me to get to work after he called, and I’m leaning toward thinking it was for his own good, because he IS 12 years old and in 7th grade and I shouldn’t have to tell him to pack his backpack with his HOMEWORK, should I? When do you reach the point where you can stop narrating your children’s lives for them, and expect that they’ll be able to anticipate necessities like having their schoolwork packed up and ready to go?

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The Things did their homework by the light of a bonfire last night. Just like Abe Lincoln, if Abe had done his homework near the roaring blaze created by the immolation of a dozen cardboard boxes, some dead weeds, and a bunch of old wood scraps. Oh, and various magazines that were just lying around the house begging to be set on fire. And some old homework. And a few dead branches from the yard.

Yep – just like that.

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My intestines are making noises like a bubbling mud pit. I fear that what may eventually come OUT of them might smell like a bubbling mud pit, all sulfurous and mustard-gassy.

My cubicle neighbor might be in big trubs. (not as big as THIS guy, but big nonetheless)

Being flatulent at work didn’t USED to be a big issue – I’d just close my office door and have at whatever it was that needed having at. But now my natural functions are being held to a much more polite standard, and it irks me. Man, there’s almost nothing more satisfying than letting a good one rip when you really need to, but now I can’t because it might be noisy or stinky and the noise and stink couldn’t HELP but be noticed by the person sitting a mere three feet from me.

Back in the old days (precube), if I had “issues” I could just put up the “in a telecon” sign on my door and close myself in, relishing the freedom that office provided. Now I have to reign in the greatness that the alimentary canal produces, training myself to emit only when the "all clear" is in effect, or when I’m alone in the ladies room. It’s TORTURE, people, especially since before cube life I had no idea I farted as often as I seem to need to now.

Man, I miss the good old days.

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Ron was nice enough to e-mail me asking about my leg, and how my recovery is going. (Nice, yes, but I suspect he just wants more pictures and the niceness was a cover. If so, well done sir!)

Well Ron, the recovery is going great, if by great one means that one can FEEL the proximal bit of one’s greater saphenous vein practically ripping itself to smithereens inside one’s leg, which is accompanied by a sore stiffness that can be likened to what an old rubber band must feel like just prior to snapping apart. Shut up, rubber bands can TOO feel things.

It’s a terrifically odd sensation, and I’d love to get a peek inside the gam to see what’s happening in there. SOMETHING is going on, that much is for sure. Yesterday the pain from the healing/stretching/tugging was intense enough to break through a 4-hour-old dose of 800 mg of ibuprofen, which doesn’t usually happen. Today, however, things are much better, and so I have a feeling that the body is doing the right thing, and is breaking down that nasty ol’ vein into bits that can be dealt with by the tiny garbagemen that live in my bloodstream. Why, I can hear the back-up beeps of numerous infinitesimal trucks now, piling up the detritus of what used to be a very large blood vessel, carting it off to the liver or wherever bits of corporeal dross go to be cleared from the system.

There’s hardly even any more bruising. The great purple thigh stain of Saturday is no more. A shame, really, for it was a thing of great hue and beauty, wasn’t it? Ah well, all beauty must fade, and indeed the purple is now a light celery colored blotch that is also rapidly fading. Perhaps I’ll grab one last picture tonight just for old time’s sake, because even though the great bloom of bruise has dissipated, there’s still some rather disgusting scabbing going on which I’m sure should be captured for posterity.

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Jeez, this is getting long. I’d better cut off here, so as not to go into much more blathering. Best to save that for tomorrow, when the price of blathering might have risen and therefore the resulting post will be that much more valuable to all concerned.

And hey! Look! I didn’t cuss ONCE in this post.

Have a great day y'all. See you tomorrow.

A tsunami of posts!

Two yesterday, and one to start off today. Something's happening here, and while I'm not sure it's all that terrific, it's happening. We'll see what comes of it.

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DebR has gifted me with the "Roar for Powerful Words" award, and I am thankful. If you've read here before you'll know that I've gotten this award before (Thanks Beth!), but you know what? I'm not against getting it again. It would be like turning down an Oscar. The last time the lion was pink...this time the lion is blue, so I'm building a little award nursery here. How adorable.

It's terrific to be honored like this, really. I'm pleased that people enjoy their time spent here, and that they take away a samll part of my world in the reading. I know that what's contained in this blog is not great literature, it's not high art, it's not anything more than the blurting out of the thoughts and feelings and experiences of one middle-aged woman who from time to time has delusions of grandeur and a tendency to clumsily wield the humor shilaleigh.

So, thanks Deb - you totally made my day.

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Yesterday's schedule went something like this: get kids up for school, drive them there, drive back home, take a nap. Wake up, rush to doctor's appointment, go to Home Depot for fertilizer and flowers, go back home, eat lunch, hang out, do dishes, do laundry, go get Thing 2, go back home to drop him off, go get Thing 1 from school, go back home. Hang out for an hour, supervise homework, take kids to tae kwon do, go back home, plant flowers, get kids from tae kwon do, finish planting flowers, fold laundry, eat dinner, wash dishes, watch the end of Star Wars III, tuck the kids in to bed, and fall asleep on the couch.

Y'all? This being a SAHM is hard freaking WORK.

This morning it was back to normal. I was up at 6 to help Thing 2 finish his homework, fold more laundry, make lunches, get ready for work, take them to school. I thought it went rather well, until 5 minutes after dropping off Thing 1 at school I get a phone call from him: "Mom, I left my green homework binder at home, Could you please get it for me?"

Grumble, grrr.

I thought briefly about making him take the hit for being forgetful, but decided to show mercy and go back home (a 15-minute ride), FIND the binder, go BACK to school, and only then get on the road to work. From the time I got into the car to start the normal morning "thing" until the time I actually GOT to work, 2 hours had elapsed and I'd missed the first half an hour of a telecon. 2 hours of my life I'll never get back, just sitting in the car being responsible.

Sometimes it doesn't pay to get out of bed, you know?

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Hey - y'all checked out the Wordsmiths pic yet? It's pretty neat. See what you think of it, and maybe get yourself inspired to write something.

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That's it for now. The telecon is ending and it's time to get back to work. But first, of course, a cup of coffeee, maybe a blog read or two, maybe a chat with someone who looks chatworthy, becuase there's no sense plunging HEADLONG into the maelstrom if it's at all avoidable, is there?

I'm chocolate on chocolate

I didn't make this up - but wish I did. Enjoy!!

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If all of the deserts listed below were sitting in front of you, which would you choose?

Here are your choices:

1. Angel Food Cake

2. Brownies

3. Lemon Meringue

4. Vanilla cake with Chocolate Icing

5. Strawberry Short Cake

6. Chocolate on Chocolate

7. Ice Cream

8. Carrot Cake

No, you can't change your mind, so think carefully what your choice will be, and then scroll down to find out what your choice says about you!

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1. ANGEL FOOD CAKE -- Sweet, loving, cuddly. You love all warm and fuzzy items. A little nutty at times. Sometimes you need an ice cream cone at the end of the day. Others perceive you as being childlike and immature at times.

2. BROWNIES -- You are adventurous, love new ideas, are a
champion of underdogs and a slayer of dragons. When tempers flare up you whip out your sabre. You are always the oddball with a unique sense of humour and direction. You tend to be very loyal.

3. LEMON MERINGUE -- Smooth, sexy, & articulate with your hands, you are an excellent after-dinner speaker and a good teacher. But don't try to walk and chew gum at the same time. A bit of a diva at times, but you have many friends.

4. VANILLA CAKE WITH CHOCOLATE ICING -- Fun-loving, sassy, humorous, not very grounded in life; very indecisive and lack motivation. Everyone enjoys being around you, but you are a practical joker. Others should be cautious in making you mad. However, you are a friend for life.

5. STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE -- Romantic, warm, loving. You care about other people, can be counted on in a pinch and expect the same in return. Intuitively keen. Can be very emotional.

6. CHOCOLATE ON CHOCOLATE -- Sexy; always ready to give and receive. Very creative, adventurous, ambitious and passionate. You can appear to have a cold exterior but are warm on the inside. Not afraid to take chances. Will not settle for anything average in life. Love to laugh.

7. ICE CREAM -- You like sports, whether it be baseball, football, basketball, or soccer. If you could, you would like to participate, but you enjoy watching sports. You don't like to give up the remote control. You tend to be self-centred and high maintenance.

8. CARROT CAKE -- You are a very fun loving person, who likes to laugh. You are fun to be with. People like to hang out with you. You are a very warm hearted person and a little quirky at times. You have many loyal friends.

All's well, y'all

I have the day off today, and so was going to stay away from the intertubez, but because someone is worried about me I decided to update a little.

I'm fine, kenju, really.

Had the 1-week visit with the vein surgeon today, and was told that I'm making good progress. Hooray! I was feeling good enough to take a hike in my backyard, see??

(not to scale)

All the tape strips are gone - I'd had enough of them by yesterday evening, and so after the second bourbon I plucked up the courage to pluck them OFF mah laig, thus freeing me from the infernal itch and burn of those steri-strip. Sweet relief! Other than a residual amount of pain from the bruising, and the feeling that if I stretch the leg out too far the thigh bit of laser-blasted vein is going to rend itself in two, I'm feeling much better, thanks. Seriously, that's an improvement!

So, let's keep it short and sweet today. It's too daggone NICE out today to be setting inside messing about with the worlewidewebz, so I'm outta here. See you tomorrow!

Muthaeffing OW - Updated Saturday!

There will be new pictures of my totally gross and bruised leg later on today, if all goes well. I just got back from the bafroom to have a peek at why it hurts so freaking MUCH, and for all y'all sickos out there who have been enjoying my trip through recovery from daggone stupid varicose vein surgery, this ought to be your shining moment.

My God, it's awful.

Have a nice afternoon.

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OK y'all. It's Saturday morning, and so I'm a little late on the whole gross picture thing. My apologies for the nightmares you missed out on having. See if this next thing works for tonight's nocturnal equines.

(See Tiff's leg, PLUS extra bonus special man-hands shot! Daggone I need a mani)

See all the lovely lovely bruising up there on the thigh? That's where the laser (please say that like Dr. Evil, mmkay?) was threaded up the greater saphenous vein and then where it blasted the vein to smokereens.

Those are HOLES on the inside of my knee. That's where the bulgy bits of veins were yanked through and snipped off.

Those little tape strips on my shin are where more veins were yanked and ligated.

Overall, I'm pretty pleased with the results thus far. Spectacular bruising is kind of awesome.

Stellar Moments, and Not

Buzzardbilly had a contest yesterday.


I just HAD to get in on the action. Really now, how can you NOT participate in something with THAT noble an aim? The submissions were hilarious, and many ought to be turned into some kind of Valentine's greeting card, because heaven knows that there is a dearth of "Sorry I was such a Dick" cards out there. So go on over, read some inspiriing poetry, and enjoy.

This got me to thinking.....and I'll wait a moment while all of you go "why start thinking NOW, TIff? Why NOW?"......more ellipses.......and some more.......y'all done yet?

Good. To reiterate: This got me to thinking "why don't we have poetry/greeting cards for 'I'm sorry I was such a BITCH' "? Because really y'all, there's a need. Hey, I know from time to time (once a month, maybe?) I could have used such a card or sentiment myself, and as hard as you might find that to believe, it's true. Sometimes Tiff needs a mega-Midoal and a half-gallon of liquor to keep the even keel...

So, I ask you, my friends. What couplets, sonnets, odes, limericks, or haiku would YOU like to see on the subject? Write some, and leave 'em in the comments. If you do, feel free to download and use the attached graphic on your site to let the world know you're making it a safe place to live, one apology at a time.


Oh, here are a couple of examples for ya:


If I wasn't such a bitch,
How would you know that I loved you?

If I wasn't such a bitch,
Would you say that my love wasn't true?

If I wasn't such a bitch
What would you talk about with your friends

If I wasn't such a bitch
How could we make our amends?

If saying I'm sorry will make you feel better
Then I'm sorry, OK? That enough?

If saying I'm sorry will make you forgive me
Then I'm sorry, all right? Let's make love.

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Your friends tell you that I'm a bitch
Do they know how good you've got it?
Their wives are harridans, shrews, and fishwives
Nags and witches and hotheads

So I'm sorry that people say I'm a bitch
I'd say that they're way of the mark
Their "little ladies" and lovers are way worse than me
I'm a bitch, yeah, but not in the dark.

So I'm kind of a terrible poet, but you get the idea, no?

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Ah yes, the graphic - I made it myself. It sucks, but whatever. It fits the mood, right?
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More dreams of spiders last night. Spiders in church. Church spiders....does this need any interpretation?

Started with one little inch-wormy thing hanging from the back of a pew, which I tried to wipe away before it got on Thing 1. Then the sticky threads started to multiply, and with each swipe grew in tangledness and adhesion until I was flailing around in a mass of websilk, all the while noticing that the little spots of what I thought were dust were really baby spiders, and that they were growing by the second and getting all over me. In my hair, down my neck, on my kids, on the preacher. Ther was no escape....none.

I hate those kind of dreams. Where's George Clooney when you need him?

George has let me down lately. He doesn't show up anymore. What's UP with that? Why can't a fantasy boyfriend at least show up from dreamtime? Where am I going wrong with this?Do I need a new, more attentive fantasy boyfriend, or is it that being happy in real life has chased away the need for a fantasy boyfriend once and for all?

Daggone it. All this happy is wrecking what used to be a very lively imagination.


Hrmph.


Now if the happy could do something about the spiders, I'd be ever so grateful.


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No leg update today folks. Just let it be known that the bruising continues to spead, that some of the steri-strips have come off, and that I just found out that it takes longer than three days for me to be all the way healed up. Eee-yewwwww.


Oh, and I have a splinter. Or had one. I just dug it out. It was made of METAL. TF?


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Headlines are once again taking a break; I used all my creativity on that black rose graphic.
Make it worth my while y'all, and write me something purty, please?


Then have a great weekend!

It's 1:30 already?

WTH?

This day has gotten away from me. For the first time since last Friday I'm working at work, and it's totally thrown me for a loop.

I'm back in the land of the cubicle, listening to Mister Cube Neighbor chew gum, pop bubbles, curse under his breath at his computer, take personal phone calls, and burp. Oh, and I can hear his intestines grumbling. It doesn't sound good, folks.

What to do? Well, I grumble my intestines right back AT him, is what. Then maybe I belch discreetly and all ladylike, say "excuse me," and go about my business. But I swear, if any odd smells come wafting from his corner of the cube farm, I'm out of here. I'll have the perfect excuse - "my leg needs to be elevated and I can't do that in my current office setup!"

AAMOF - It does hurt, a little. Is it any wonder why? Just LOOK at this!

It's really starting to turn a nice shade of yellowy-green, ain't it? Mmmm, all up the course of the vein to my groinal area, and the inside of the knee is just lovely. That big ol' purple bruise is spreading a little too, so I think it's a fairly impressive growth of ick over the last day or so. MmmmMM! Day 3 of recovery/convalescence/whining is going very well, thanks for asking.

It would be going a little better if I'd remembered to take the ibuprofen this morning. Things are just a tad tender. Me dum, fo sho.

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SNOW this morning in NC. SNOW! Wooo!

Schools were cancelled in some places, which was a bone-head move if you ask me, because by 8 a.m. the roads were clear and dry, and only the bits of land that hadn't seen a touch of sun had any evidence of the meteorological phenomenon left.

By noon it was 50 degrees here. Went out for lunch sans jacket.

There are trees in bloom. My hydrangeas are leafing out. I've seen DAFFODILS, people. Spring is coming to the south, and only NOW does it decide to snow? Gah!

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I used to have a bike. I do not anymore. Apparently someone thought they needed it more than me and went into my backyard, shopped among the three bikes that were out there, decided mine was the nicest one, and horked it.

Boy, were THEY wrong. Mine wasn't the best, by a long shot. Stupid thieves.

Even though it's not the best bike in the world, I would like to have it back, and you can BET that if I see anyone riding a teal-blue 18-speed cheapo WalMart LADIES bike around town I'm going to be stopping them and aksing a few questions. Really, how many people could have bought one just like that one, and how many people are capable of pedalling that heavy-ass bike more than a couple of miles? Not many, I'm guessing.

The other two bikes are now locked together, and also locked to the deck posts.

Thanks, dear neighbor who stole my bike. You suck.

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A free hot tub sounds like a good idea, right?

I thought so too.

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If I haven't mentioned this before, my cube backs up to a wall, on the other side of which is the company gym. There's someone in the gym right now, I can tell, because the teevee, which is attached to the other side of the wall that backs up to my cube, is turned up to freaking ELEVEN and is blasting some daggone sopa opera into the back of my head. I've a mind to pound on the wall and scream "TURN IT DOWN!" just to scare the living piss out of whoever takes an hour of their time at work to watch their "show" while I'm trying to....uh....work.

I mean, I could be working if I wanted to, but their shows are distracting me and I can't think properly, so I have to post instead.My indignation is well-placed, yes? I'm on firm footing, no? Right.

That's that ticket, right there.

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Over n' out for now y'all. It's meeting time again.