It's been a long-ass day. I was up late packing and stuffing boxes in my car (as opposed to the cars I usually stuff in my box), and then I was up early (for me) to drive to Grand Haven today. There are several of you who wrote me very sweet emails, and I do fully intend to respond to them. But tonight, I am exhausted.
However, I wanted to let you know two things:
I am an idiot. I was into Michigan already today, driving north on 94, and looking for my turnoff onto US-31. It's not like I haven't made this trip several times before. At some point, I stopped at a McDonald's to "powder my nose" (that's female code for a heartfelt piss), talked to Squirl on the phone for a minute, and then steered the car back onto 94. After about 10 minutes, I had the odd sensation that none of the scenery was familiar. It was at that point that I saw the sign welcoming me to Kalamazoo. Uh...kinda missed that turnoff a long way back there. I was able to navigate my way back to where I needed to be, but I wound up adding over an hour to my trip with my little detour. Of course, as soon as I realized I was in K'zoo, I had to call Squirl back and bust myself for extreme retardation. Damn, do I need some sleep!
As of about 4:30 this afternoon, I am officially the owner of a 3-bed, 2-bath mannafractured home. Now I just need to get my furniture and the rest of my stuff over here. Oh, and them pesky cats. I'm driving back to Illinois tomorrow (these two days look to be free of snowstorms, if Mother Nature will just cooperate with the forecast), but hopefully, I won't wander off course again. If I do, then it's just time to put me in a home for brain-damaged bloggers.
So, that's the latest poop from me. And I know y'all couldn't wait for poop. Nothin' worse than knowing there's poop and no one will give you any.
I've done my best to be a gracious host, but now I feel that I must speak up. Truthfully, when a few of you show up at a time, it's no bother. In small doses, you and your kind are very attractive and a bit festive. However, when you feel the need to bring everyone you know, all your friends, your family, all the flakes from the bar at closing time, flakes you haven't seen since high school, I have to say that it becomes something of a nuisance. Must you drop in unexpectedly like this, all of you at once? Is it really necessary for you to just sprawl all over the grass and the sidewalks and the steps and the streets? Couldn't you have your family picnic somewhere more convenient (for me)?
While I'm fully aware that, eventually, you will go away of your own accord, you overstay your welcome more often than not. It makes me feel kind of rude when I have to shovel you out of the way, but you just won't take a subtle hint to move. You don't respect my personal space, either, when you suddenly gather on my shoulders, in my hair, and up the sleeve of my coat. I'm sorry, but I have boundaries, and you cross them without a second thought.
I hope you will not think less of me for venting here, but there comes a time when even the most tolerant host must announce that the party is OVER. Stop eating my pretzels, quit drinking my wine, and cease making my porch slippery. You know who you are.
O, Canada - have I told you lately that I love you?
For most of my life, I lived with people who were sports fanatics. Although I can sit and watch a variety of competitive activities with at least a passing notion of what's happening on the field/court/ice, I've always said that if sports were to disappear, it would be no skin off my pasty ass.
But now that may not be completely true.
Canada, long known as the home of beautifully brutal ice hockey and puzzling yet oddly fascinating curling, has produced a new sport that has captured my complete attention.
Ladies, gentlemen, and those of you who read my blog, I give you the Canadian Pillow Fight League. Low-brow meets high camp as women with names like Betty Clock'er, Lynn Somnia, and Sarah Bellum get done up in outrageous costumes and step daintily into the ring to wallop the shit out of each other with pillows.
This is a sport into which I could really sink my buck teeth. The best part is that they're bringing it to the States this weekend. If there is a deity somewhere pulling the strings, I beg for this to become a regularly televised sport. Fuck the Superbowl - give me grudge matches involving bitches with pillows any old day!
If this grows as I hope it does, my dream is that I can have a new career as a color commentator during televised fights, and that perhaps I can host my own show called Pillow Talk, where I will discuss the minutiae of down-filled combat, interview the athletes, and perhaps take part in mini-matches in the studio.
Some things never change: The moon rules the tides. The Detroit Lions disappoint their fans. Cars with Grateful Dead bumper stickers get searched by the cops. I love pretzels.
When I use the word "love" here, I do not take it lightly. This is not some meaningless fling that I'll vehemently deny when the tabloids come a-callin' - no, this is long-term commitment, the real deal, a solid relationship that would surely result in marriage if only the closed-minded voters in this country would stop its perpetual illegality. I've been enamored of pretzels since I had teeth. There's no telling where I got my first fix, but once I had a taste of that crunchy, salty stick, it was on.
Some of my earliest, fondest memories are of being taken to the movies by Squirl when I was a preschooler. She claims it was a way for her to see Disney cartoons without ridicule from her peers, but I suspect that she was actually a nice big sister and just doesn't want to admit it, for fear that I'll smell weakness and hit her up for cash. We'd go to the Grand theater, one o' those ornate, old-style, pre-multiplex movie houses with fancy scrollwork, chandeliers, and one screen. Of course, concession stand prices were just as comparatively outrageous then as they are now, so in order to save a wad of cash, Mom would send snacks along in Squirl's purse. I don't know what Squirl had for herself, but I always had the same thing: a bottle of Jell-O water and a bag of stick pretzels. Every time. Jungle Book without my pretzels? Ha! Are you mad? You might as well ask for Tarzan without his bag of Cheetas. Or...something.
When I got to be a little older, I was - and I'm saying this politely - a persnickety eater. By that, I mean I was a snot who wouldn't eat anything that anyone made for me. There were a few years there where I more or less survived on a diet of lemon drops and pretzels. Luckily, I still had ample reserves of baby fat, so starvation was not a likely scenario. Even my taste in pretzels had gained a persnicketiness by then, and I would only eat one kind: Mister Salty Veri-Thin Pretzel Sticks.
My first boyfriend. I dreamed of being Mrs. Salty.
My poor parents, desperate to see me eat something, anything, would buy me several boxes of these fuckers at a time. It was not at all uncommon for me to go through four boxes a week of Mister Salty's finest. The space under my bed was known as The Pretzel Box Graveyard, because when I'd eat the last of the pretzels in my room (as I often did), instead of walking the box downstairs and throwing it away like a normal person, I'd just shove the empties under my bed. (I may still be a slob, but at least I don't do that anymore!) I had a ritual for the way I would eat the pretzels - the little sticks had to be bitten into eight pieces of somewhat similar size, and swallowed without any further chewing (eating the salt off first was optional). Once I hit my growth spurt, where I suddenly got obscenely tall and all the baby fat disappeared, it was often suggested to me that I was actually turning into one of the "veri-thin" pretzels. Luckily, no one ever bit me into eight equal-sized pieces.
I don't know exactly when I made the change, but at some point, I began to prefer the curlicue-shaped pretzels (I have no idea what that shape is actually called) instead of the tiny stick pretzels. Today, that is still my preference. Mister Salty pretzels became increasingly harder to find, so I've bounced from brand to brand over the years. For a while, my pretzel of choice was the Made-Rite/Better-Made brand, but since I've moved to Illinois, that is not an option. However, I've found that Jay's Pretzel Thins fit the bill, and I happily eat those on a daily basis. If the store only has the stick pretzels or the little round ones, or curlicue pretzels of the non-Jay's variety, I will snort with indignation and leave the premises pretzel-less. I am no less persnickety now than I was when I was ten years old. I'm eating Jay's Pretzel Thins as I write this - don't try to feign shock; it doesn't look natural on you. There is always a bag of these on my desk, next to the computer monitor (often next to a bag of Reese's Pieces).
Just because I've changed pretzel shape and brand, though, does not mean that I've given up my sense of ritual. On the contrary, I have an even more elaborate scheme for how these pretzels should be eaten in order to appreciate their subtle beauty.
Behold my weird obsession:
If this doesn't convince you that I need some kind of psychotherapy...then you and I should eat pretzels together sometime!
The bad thing about film is that we can no longer deny our questionable fashion choices from the past.
Case in point: in part, the band, but mostly the host on this late-'60s era music show. The Bob Seger System (to the best of my memory: Bob Seger on vocals and organ, Dan Honaker on bass, and Pep Perrine on drums) lip sync to their regional hit Rambin' Gamblin' Man.
Like, wow, man. Outta sight. Groovy.
ps - Kiwi-flavored Jelly Belly? They sounded a whole lot better than they actually taste. Off to scrape my tastebuds now.
This morning, I spent about an hour on chat with my brother Tardist. We discussed many deep and varied subjects, such as art, music, and the flu that turns both ends of the body into veritable bazookas. I'm almost, but not quite, ashamed to admit that when I realized there was a sheep emoticon available, we also sent way too many messages involving the poor wool bearer. Rainbow + sheep, heart + sheep, girl with outstretched arms + sheep, kissy lips + sheep, smiley with tongue out + sheep...I think you get the picture.
It seemed like kismet, then, when I was browsing the images on my camera phone today, and turned up a photo I'd completely forgotten I took in the vet's office the other day.
Check out the look on this guy's face. What, exactly, does he have in mind for that unfortunate creature? In my opinion, he's about to give "lambchops" a whole new meaning.
Don't you dare act surprised - you had to know that, sooner or later, sheep fuckers would show up on my blog.
Why do I have a sudden and unnatural desire for mutton?
"Castration" is such an ugly word. Kinda makes your naughty bits shrivel up inside you just to see it written, huh, guys?
I hadn't seriously considered taking this unpleasant step with my kittens until they were at least six months old. However, when Friday was caught in flagrante delicto with an alluring and in-heat Nala last weekend, the timetable for the operation became "as soon as possible." I brought him into my room and scolded his horny little ass. "I thought you were a gayboy!" He refused to specifically answer any questions about his sexual preference, and all I got out of him was his patented, defiant, fuck you mommy glare. (For the record, and to everyone's great relief, Nala is not "with kittens" from this abrupt courtship)
After talking to the vet's office, I decided that today would be the best day to bring them in for the snippage. They must've sensed something was afoot, because I looked over by my bed last night and saw Friday mounting Thirteen with the urgency of a sailor who's been out to sea for too long. Of course, I broke it up - I've no objection to gay cat sex, but incest is right out. Can't really blame the little guy, though, for wanting to take his nuts for one last spin around the block. A farewell to nards.
Both boys were strangely subdued when I took them in this morning, as if they'd resigned themselves to their fate. Even the rectal thermometer didn't cause as much thrashing as usual. And the kittens didn't seem to mind, either. I felt terrible leaving them at the office, but I knew it was a necessary step in their lives, and there was nothing for it but to go home and recover some of the sleep I'd lost while they were pinballing all over my room last night.
I picked them up a little after four this afternoon, and nearly $500 later, they had booster shots, rabies shots, microchips, pain meds, and empty nutsacks. Friday has been sleeping pretty steadily since I let him out of the carrier, but Thirteen is nearly as feisty as he is on days when he hasn't had his testicles removed. When I took him out of the carrier and put him on the bed, he immediately began to purr and play, biting, clawing, climbing, toy chasing - he even went over and started rabbit kicking Friday in the head (revenge, I would guess, for last night's attempted buttsex). This post has taken me even longer than usual to write, as Thirteen has been on my lap for much of the time, putting in his two cents' worth by smacking the numeric keypad at every opportunity (I believe that 000000000323240....0000000, roughly translated, means my mommy sucks).
The recovery looks to be off to a promising start for both kitties, but I ask you all to light a candle tonight, in memory of The Ghosts of Gonads Past.
As I've mentioned here before, I'm participating in a group on Flickr called "365 Days" wherein members submit a new self portrait every day for a year. The goal here is to try to be creative with the concept of a self portrait. While I don't know if I've been creative, I've certainly been psychedelic on a number of occasions.
I had my doubts, when I started this, as to whether or not I'd actually follow through with the daily "obligation" - that turns out not to've been a problem at all. In fact, today marks day 69 of my efforts.
Day 69, people. Do you really think I could let this milestone go by unheralded? My inner Beavis would not allow this day to be glossed over, as if it were any other day, with no special meaning. Oh, no, my friends. A special day deserves a special portrait. And I do mean helmet special.
Although I'm generally a hard-hearted bitch, there are a few unguarded moments now and then when my softer side rears its garland-draped head and skips through the petunias with girlish glee.
Today, I was listening to a song that sparked one such reaction from me, and it touched me on such a deep level that I felt the need to share it with you. I don't usually post the lyrics from an entire song, but this one hits me right in the heart, and I think it will do the same for many of you, too.
Won't you eat my sleazy pancakes just for saintly Alphonzo?
Today is Friday. Which, coincidentally, is named after my kitten. Or whatever.
Tonight I had a little shopping to do, which first took me to PetSmart, a store which should more rightfully be named I know you just came in for a bag of litter, but I also know you'll leave with a cartload of treats and toys for the little bastards. I managed to escape with a little money and even less dignity, so I decided to stop at Target as long as I was there. Come on - it was right there, and as a woman, do I really need an excuse to stop at Target?
While I was cruising the grocery section for club soda (I don't know why, but I've been on a major club soda kick lately - tingly yet tasteless...like head from a leper), I saw some things that I thought might be good for an effortless dinner that didn't come from Pizza Hut (which is often where my dinner comes from when I'm left to my own devices). This was the ultimate no-dishes, lazy, easy-to-prep dinner: some tomato soup in one of those microwaveable bowls, and a pouch full of albacore tuna.
As I finished the last bite of tuna and the final spoonful of soup, it dawned on me that I had just eaten the perfect Catholic dinner on a Friday. Tomato soup and fish - the quintessential Lenten meal (yes, I know it's not Lent, but old-school Catholics ate like this on Fridays year 'round). I always wondered if all that childhood conditioning would one day come back to bite me in the ass. What's next? Guitar mass? Stations of the Cross? Confession?
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been thirty years since my last confession. I sure hope you're sitting down, 'cause this'll take a while..."
James Brown. Do I have to say more? Do I need to jump back, gonna kiss myself? Like a sex machine? We miss you, Godfather.
I was just idly glancing at a stack on CDs on my bookshelf, and wondered to myself, "When did I buy a CD by some group named Wanger?" Then, of course, I realized it was a classical CD, and it said Wagner. Musical dyslexia, anyone?
Earlier tonight, I was enjoying some quality time with my ABC Soaps in Depth magazine (by which I mean I was reading it on the can), and I'd finished all the General Hospital stuff in there and was bored. Consequently, I started checking out the All My Children opinions section, because I kinda sorta know some of the characters on there. I must say, it's a fortunate thing I was in that particular chair, because otherwise I might've crapped my pants laughing at one fan's opinion about the character Bianca:
I applaud AMC for keeping a lesbian character on the show, but she's so boxed in...
Oh, please please please tell me this woman had her tongue in her cheek - or someone's cheek - when she wrote that...
This one's for Mr. Bloggerific, because he was just complaining that he doesn't see enough pictures of cats around here:
Before you ask, let me clarify: I have no bloody clue what the title of this post means. It just popped into my head, sounded vaguely poetic, and is sure to generate more page hits from weird fuckers using search engines to satisfy their unholy urges.
I've stolen a meme that I saw over at Meggan's place; actually, I've stolen and customized/mutilated it. In its original form, one was instructed to post the first sentence from the first post of every month in 2006. But in doing so, I found that I was dredging up things upon which I'd just as soon not dwell, given the newness of the year and all.
So, in the spirit of using my artistic license to drive much too fast on city streets, I've taken my favorite sentence from each month of 2006, and have arranged a nice little retrospective for my first post of this year. Feel free to sing along if you know the words.
January: Dime-sized hemorrhoids, boiling diarrhea, and rectal gonorrhea...could this get worse?
February: But then again, if genitals were free, how would I make my two dollars?
March: Drunken certainty and self assurance: they will team up to fuck you in the ass like a rabid, unlubricated triceratops.
April: Adorable face looked up at me, emitted a belch that would put legions of frat boys to shame, and then vomited an enormous helping of half-digested kibble at my feet.
May: Urine straight from a derelict's tiny dangling dick would probably be a higher quality beverage.
June: I guess, deep down, I could tell that they were the femme-iest boys in school, even though at the time I had no concept of boys who chomp cock.
July: Makes me wanna take the rolling pin out of my cavernous vagina and admonish you all with it.
August: Why, why, WHY did someone find it necessary to add what is either an anus or a poop stain to the duck's ass?
September: "Oh my gawd, Roo's nutsack looks like Colonel Sanders!"
October: If you don't think that hurt like hell, then I suggest you go jab a red-hot meat fork in your nipples.
November: Take that, Father Time, you cocksucker!
December: "DO NOT PUT YOUR ASS ON MY FACE! That's crossing the line!"