I Will Never Be The Same Again

Dammit Todd and I went to the movies last week. I always have to go early so I can catch all the previews, the second best part of every movie.

During the previews there was a sudden flash of something on the screen. I couldn’t tell yet what it was but I knew it was huge because every estrogen-filled hormone in my body stood to rigid attention in an instant.

There was a second flash and with a thunderbolt it hit me. I sucked in a breath so hard that I ingested a piece of popcorn from the couple’s bucket in front of us. My ovaries flared into an explosion and then melted in a fiery blaze. I was irrevocably and helplessly disolved into a puddle of teenage longing.

I turned to Todd, my eyes huge, and stared beseechingly.

Already beaten and resigned to his fate, Dammit Todd sighed, “Fine, we’ll go.”

You guys, look what’s coming!


It’s going to a long, miserable, glorious wait!

How To Write A Book Proposal, By Jimmie

Step One – November 2012

Receive news that a publishing company is accepting full book proposals from women writers.  The deadline is midnight, March 15, 2013.  Get excited and yap about it to everyone you meet for three solid days.

Step Two – December 2012 thru February 2013

Push book proposal far from your mind.  You have plenty of time.

Step Three – February 28, 2013

Realize in a sudden panic at 3:00 a.m. that you only have two weeks to complete the book proposal.   Berate yourself mightily for an hour or two then phone all friends and family members (at a reasonable hour, of course) to explain why you will be unavailable to them for the next 15 days. Tell them you love them then turn off your phone.  It is also best if you shut all off social media sights like Facebook, Yahoo, Google, etc. but everyone knows you would never do that in a million years.

Step Four – March 1, 2013

Begin your research on what a full book proposal entails.  Understand with a slow, sickening realization that this is worse than any term paper you have ever written.  Understand that as much as you talk about yourself on your blog and to your friends, a book proposal is a more narcissistic and self-involved project than you have attempted to date.  Did you guys know you have to sell yourself?  I didn’t.  I do now.

Step Five – March 1 – 14, 2013

Write like mad.  Massage your fingers when they cramp from the typing.  Dream of your book.  Leave a notebook beside your bed so that when you have a revelation at 2:00 a.m. you have a place to write your thoughts.  Make arrangements to stay late after work every night so that you have two giant monitors and fantastic internet service at your disposal.  You also want no distractions. Save your proposal in no less than three locations.  Losing that work is something you don’t even want to think about. 

Step Six – March 1 – 14, 2013

Do research.  Focus on what others have done before you and how it can help you now.  Realize that everyone who has ever written a book before you is a genius and you are an idiot. Wonder how 50 Shades of Gray ever got published (Gray? Grey?  I have no idea. Didn’t read them).  Reread some of your work and laugh out loud and then continue on with the proposal because you know that most of what you have is very good and that if you never pursue this, you will never succeed at this.  Repeat this step a minimum of five times.  You must second-guess yourself and then take pride in your work alternately.  It’s how you keep your weight down during this process. 

Step Seven – March 15, 2013

Receive an early morning phone call from Martie that Poppa is gravely ill and in a helicopter on his way to Vanderbilt.  Begin to cry at the office and then work like a dog so that when he finally gets to Vanderbilt you can leave and drive 90 miles an hour to the hospital where you sit for hours in the CCU.  Rub Poppa’s head and talk nonsense, as he is, about anything you can think of, just to make him stop hurting, just to calm everyone down.  Mention that you wrote a book.  When Poppa shows the merest sign of lucidity, he will say, “You wrote a book?  What is it about?” Tell him then, and explain about the book proposal and say “Yes, sir” when he says, “Make sure you turn it in.”

When Brother Bear gets to the hospital, you hug him then leave.  You have 90 minutes to put the finishing touches on your proposal.  You thought you were going to have five hours.  You were wrong.  You italicize everything, add commas, write the query letter and send it off three minutes before the midnight deadline.  Then you go to sleep with acid in your stomach worrying about Poppa.  The next morning you check your email to see that the proposal was received.  Then you wait for two months before hearing who won the coveted prize of a publishing contract.

Monkey wrenches you might encounter:

  1. You will think that Twizzlers will aid in the writing process. They do not.  Do not be lulled into the false sense of security they give with their unique waxy strawberry flavor.
  2. You will feel that you have enough time to make healthy dinners during this process.  You do not.  Subway needs to become part of your dietary plan during this time.
  3. Never forget the ponytail holder.  Your hair will annoy the ever-loving shit out of you during this process.
  4. Do not answer the phone, even for a quick question!  This is bad!  The person on the other end of the line will have every interest in eventually ending the call and you will not.  You will drone on for as long as they let you until they finally just hang up while you are in mid-sentence.  For those of you not in the know, this is called Procrastination. 
  5. Give yourself a pat on the back for staying late every night at work to really focus on your project.  Then take it back when you find yourself alone in the office with the one person who also is working late, the person who sits right next to you, and the person who is so quiet during the day that you are surprised when everyone leaves at how she begins a running monologue for one and half hours.  She is talking to you, telling you the same story over and over again, only changing a word here and there so it sounds different. She does not take a breath between sentences.  She is relentless yet sweet so you can say nothing other than the occasional “mmm hmmm”.  Go to the bathroom and when you get back, you’ll find that she is still talking, loudly and with force, and that she didn’t even realize you were gone.  Go to Subway, get some dinner, eat it, and when you get back, she will still be nattering on as if you never left.  When she finally leaves for home and all is quiet at the office, weep a little for the lost time.
  6. That might be it.  That whole process is a bit fuzzy now as time has passed and I cried a lot. 

So that’s how it’s done, people.  A book proposal in seven easy steps.  Piece of cake.  

I got this, right? 

I Am On A Budget. And I Have Some Addictions. These Are First World Problems. (Part Two)

So money is tight. I’ve told you that before. It’s okay, I’m not complaining. I’m learning actually. I’m pretty good at budgeting and stretching a dollar and I’ve always been the queen of planning. I view this era of my life as a challenge and as a growing process, so it isn’t bad.

Now that I have written the “rah, rah” section I will now begin the “huh, this is . . . fun” section.

Due to lack of funds (see above: Budget) and lack of dates (see entire blog: Single) I now occasionally find myself in the enviable position of having a Saturday night with absolutely nothing to do. Nothing. Not a thing. No thing. At all. Enviable, right? When that happens I’m not sure what to do with myself. Usually. However, lately I seem to have overbooked myself professionally and socially and so when I understood that I was going to have a weekend that did not include people in any format at all, I began to rejoice. Honestly, I was getting rather emotional and snippy as I had had no alone time in weeks.

Also, remember when I hired Ernesto, my house cleaner, and I was jazzed that he came every two weeks and folded my toilet paper ends into points? Remember how I loved him and swooned over his work? Well, I miss him (see above: Budget). My house does too.

These were my plans when I went to bed Friday night: to sleep as late as possible (7:00 a.m., baby! I am a sloth!), and to clean my miserable (miserable) wreck of a house. Do you think it is sad? Do you feel a little sorry for me? Don’t! It was marvelous!

Following is a list of what I accomplished:

Two carloads full of stuff were taken to Goodwill, some mine and some Kasi Starr’s. (There is another story here – tune in later for that episode.) By full, I mean there was room for me and that’s it. I could see out the front driver’s side windows and that’s it. It, I tell you.

The areas where one of the kitties vomited unspeakable things onto the carpet were shaved off with a razorblade. Gross. I’m currently not speaking to Murphy or Miss Kitty.

My garage is completely organized according to girl code. Boys, you have no dog in this fight. My garage is perfect. I do not need your advice about how to arrange my storage space according to your strict and non-negotiable standards of tool/garden object/car/cleaner areas.

The interior of my car was vacuumed and scrubbed.

The trunk of my car was emptied and vacuumed. I hope you guys caught that. The trunk. Of my car. That I have not really touched since April when I was laid off. Was cleaned out. It was sad a little. I had a whole life at that company and that whole life was stuffed into my trunk where I did not have to face it. But after I threw a whole bunch of that life away, I felt lighter somehow. Also, look at it!



After.  Ain't it beauty-ful?

After. Ain’t it beauty-ful?

I cut my thumb open with a vegetable peeler. Not only was I not cooking anything, but I had been whipping about a razorblade all morning with no ill results, yet the moment I washed the dishes, I nearly bled to death in the kitchen. It was a scary time.

I lost my car keys. How I did that in this spotless, completely organized house is beyond me. I don’t know how you guys stand me. Really. I can barely stand myself.

I organized my closet. And here, my friends, is Addiction, Part Two.

Wall One

Wall One

Wall Two

Wall Two

You see all that? Those are hoodies. I love them. I can never have too many. I am on the never-ending quest for the perfect one and despite what you see here, I have not yet found it. One of those hoodies was stolen from an ex-boyfriend. It was literally the only thing I kept from that relationship of one whole year and my whole heart. Two of them I stole from a guy I went on two dates with. Four of them I stole from Coach (you see how I’m his fake wife?). Martie recently purchased one that I covet and the minute she gives even a whiff of letting me borrow it, it will be mine. That gray one there in the middle, it’s my favorite. That Titan’s one has a matching scarf Madre knitted for me. That pink one is for sleeping. Madre tried to borrow the purple one for just a week or two and initially I said yes, but as she was trying to put it on, I kept pulling it off and not letting go and eventually she just gave up and stuck it back in my closet. Some of them are specifically for use in the gym. Some of them are for house cleaning. Some of them are for dates (as if). Some of them are to be paired with jeans on casual Friday. Some of them have matching socks and t-shirts although all of them look good with a lacy camisole. That one up there with the bleach stains? You should know that the zipper is broken meaning I have to wrangle it closed with pliers, and it is two sizes too big, yet I cannot seem to part with it. You want me to go on? No? Really?

What were we talking about? I think I got ever so slightly sidetracked with the hoodies and now have forgotten the entire point I was trying to make. But, uh, I’m on a budget (perhaps it was how you can have a no-money fun weekend? By cleaning?) and I have addictions and these are first world problems.

The end.

P.S. I also have a wrapping paper addiction and am on my second year of a three year wrapping paper purchase ban. I also seem to have great affection for the long sleeved t-shirt. If any of you forgot to buy me a birthday present and feel pretty bad about it, I could give you a few suggestions.

P.P.S. Also, pajamas.

I Am On A Budget. And I Have Some Addictions. These Are First World Problems. (Part One)

I realized a few weeks ago that I have a Chap Stick addiction. I’m not even kidding. I never thought of it as an addiction, of course, because come on, flavored wax? An addiction? Anyway, I was in the airport heading back from Tampa and the TSA agents made us empty our purses of not only traditional liquids but also any lip goo or balm of any sort. I ignored them – always smart. When it was my turn to go through the feel-up-pat-down, they asked me to empty my handbag of all lip products (they were not joking) and go through again.


The contents of ONE bag in my purse. This does not include my emergency hidden stash, what is at my desk, and the lip stuff stored in the cabinets around the house.

This is a sad state of affairs.

I was laughing about this at work with one of my co-workers who I will call Daisy, and as I was rolling on a layer of Palmer’s Cocoa Butter Lip Treatment, she said, “You know that is addictive, right?”

“No, it isn’t,” I said, as I slathered on another layer.

“It is, look it up,” she says.

And so I did. Did you know there are websites devoted to this problem? I mean, pages and pages of testimony and quotes from Dr. Oz (who we all know is never to be questioned), and therapy centers. These websites give tips on how to quit the habit and explain why lip goo is bad for you. I was astounded. I felt so . . . . wrong. I had no idea it was such a problem! Right there I vowed to quit. No way would that be hard. Addictive, my foot.

Day One – I took my shower, brushed my teeth and instead of putting on Chap Stick after my face lotion, I left my lips alone. By the time I was done drying my hair, my lips felt tight and crinkly but I persevered. I drank some water to hydrate my skin and drove to work.

At work, my two favorite lip balms sat by my phone. I looked at them with longing, feeling like my mouth looked like the Sahara Desert, but I tucked them away into a drawer. I reasoned that if they were out of sight, I’d be alright.

“I’m giving up Chap Stick,” I announced to anyone who came to my desk. “That’s why I look like this.”

“Like what?” they’d ask.

“Like I’ve been sucking on a salt lick for days,” I’d say.

“You look fine. I can’t see any difference,” they’d say, and in my head I’d call them a liar.

Daisy checked on me throughout the morning. “You doing okay?” she’d ask. “This dry feeling will pass, I promise.”

Through dry, cracked, dead skin lips I’d croak, “Okay . . .” and she’d go off to get a Diet Coke.

After lunch, where I liberally used a dry, sandpaper napkin, I felt like I had taken a nail file and scrubbed the outline of my lips. I just knew I looked like my lip liner had done something very, very wrong, and I don’t even wear lip liner.

“I’m giving up Chap Stick,” I continued to announce throughout the afternoon, mournful and full of regret.

“Why?” my co-workers asked.

“It’s addictive. I’m an addict.” I’d show them the contents of my purse and they would nod knowingly.

I made it through the afternoon. I’m not sure how. I spent the better part of the hours between one and five in the bathroom, passing through all the water I drank trying to hydrate my cement-like lips. Daisy continued to check on me, offering support and cautioning me to have patience. “I promise, Jimmie. This will pass. You have to give your skin some time to adjust.” I said okay, all the while shooting daggers from my eyes at her. It was the longest afternoon of my life.

At bedtime, I flossed my teeth and drank another glass or two of water. I tucked away all my lip products in drawers so I wouldn’t accidentally use any of them in the middle of the night (I’ve been known to do that.) I went to sleep, dreaming of waxy-like substances in every flavor (except cherry because everyone knows that cherry-flavored Chap Stick is gross). Let me tell you, those were some fulfilling dreams.

Day Two – I awoke to lips that felt . . . .soft. Not crinkly. Not tight and not like cement. I showered and brushed my teeth and smeared on face lotion, drank some water and went to work . . . .

. . . . where I sneezed and split my lip because it was so dry and pulled so tight across my face that there was nowhere for the skin to go except to split during the sneeze. I opened my drawer and withdrew my two favorite lip balms. As I was smearing it across the general vicinity of the lower half of my face, Daisy walked in. “Jimmie . . . .” she breathed. “No . . . .”

I didn’t even feel guilty. Not even a little bit. I put the cap back on my Palmer’s Cocoa Butter Lip Treatment, put it by the phone in its place of honor, and then opened the blue tube of Chap Stick and rubbed it all around my lips, too, defiant and uncaring. There they sit to this day, proud, ever-dwindling, my best friends.

Call me what you will. I love lip goo.

P.S. I know I didn’t really cover the Budget portion of my title. Hold, please. This is merely part one.

Days (Day) Of Our (My) Lives (Life) – Best And Worst

Oh, y’all I think Tuesday was the worst day of my life.  (That might be a slight exaggeration.  The day I melted deodorant into my makeup bag was pretty bad, as was the day I had to have my car towed due to a dead starter and my neighbor, whose driveway was blocked by the tow truck for LESS THAN FIVE MINUTES, had a hissy fit about potentially being blocked in her garage for LESS THAN FIVE MINUTES on the off chance she might suddenly need to go somewhere which we all knew was ridiculous as she had, literally, just arrived home.)  (I read a lot of Faulkner in college.  You are welcome for the run on sentence.)

Tuesday morning I had the sinking realization that Seamus was missing.  I had a suspicion on Monday evening when he didn’t come galloping out from under the bed when I shook the treat bag, but occasionally he is moody and stuffs himself up inside the box springs to hide.  It isn’t unusual for him to forgo his happy part of the day (i.e. treats/peas) so that he can sulk alone.  I texted Martie about it Monday night and even she, who doesn’t like cats nary even a little bit, was worried and offered to call so that she could commiserate with me.  Tuesday morning I had to text her that it was official.  Seamus was gone.

When it hit me, I started to shake.  Seamus is older and slightly pudgy.  He’s weird and emotionally stunted.  He likes Murphy, treats and the white fuzzy blanket on my bed.  Once he sat on my legs and purred but when he realized that Murphy was nowhere to be found, he leapt off me and went under the bed.  Despite all of this, and I’ll say this at a whisper, Seamus is my favorite cat.  DO NOT TELL MURPHY. 

With tears in my eyes, I started looking under the beds and in the closets to see if maybe he had passed in the night, alone and wadded up in box spring.  I couldn’t find him anywhere and suddenly had the weird notion that maybe he had gotten outside.  I immediately rejected that.  Seamus, even when the door is open for hours on end, will stick one paw and one ear out the door, and like a kid dared to run into the cemetery, will immediately bound back into the house, all giddy and spastic as if he’d just done the scariest, bravest thing of his life.  In short, he never goes outside. With that thought, I left for work, teary-eyed and sad, still wondering where I would find his lifeless body.

Halfway out of my neighborhood, I realized I left my purse at home.  I drove back and ran in quickly to get it.  Guess who was standing outside the back door. Just guess.  That little turd had been outside gallivanting for two whole nights and when I opened the door to let him in, breath whooshing out of my lungs, he pranced around, clearly proud of himself.  I could have beat him.  I tried to hug him but he made a beeline for the food bowl so I settled for just rubbing his ears for a minute.  Since I was already late for work, I left him alone with his food and his friend.

When I arrived at work, I still had a bit of bile in my throat from the worry and then the sudden joy.  My legs were still a little shaky.  So when I happened to look down at the ground and saw that my jump drive, the jump drive that holds everything I’ve ever written over the last two years, the only jump drive that I own and the only place where my writings are stored, was mangled under the tire of a car, wet and covered in dirt, I started to cry.  I know I should have backed all that up.  I know that.  You won’t yell at me any louder or more harshly than I already did myself.  How it got from the bottom of my purse to the bottom of a tire on someone’s gigantic four door jeep is beyond me.  I just know what when I picked it up the mangled metal fell apart in my hands and I was devastated.  No way could I recreate all that work.  No way.

I dusted it off and took a look at it through my watery eyes.  The end that plugs into the computer looked okay and once I blew the dirt out of it, I stuck it into my laptop with my hopes lunging up and down.  I waited.  Then waited. Then waited some more.  It was nauseating.  After an eternity, the window for the drive opened giving me access to all my files.  They were all there and every single one of them opened. I immediately wobbled my way back to Katniss and said in a hoarse whisper “Give me a jump drive.  Now.”  She saw the look of panic in my eyes and handed over her brand new one.  I wobbled back to my desk and did the drag and drop into to the new device.  Then I ordered two more drives from Office Depot, one for me and one for her.  I’ll repeat the process again when it comes in, and then hide one away in a safe place and the other will be stuck in my bra at all times. 

Talk about a roller coaster.  Tuesday sucked.  And then Tuesday was glorious.  Best and Worst, all in 24 hours.  That was a lot for one day.  I need a drink.

Oh, BTW, this was Seamus when I got home last night.  I love that stupid cat. 



A Trip To Tampa, Part One

So I went to Tampa.  I didn’t get a tan.  This should not surprise you.

This also should not surprise you.  I met some strangers.  Woney flew out to meet me there, but other than her, I knew nary a one of these people I was to hang out with for three days.  I am an excellent judge of character when I get to know you over email and/or Facebook.  I totally know the difference between someone who says “I promise not to steal your big sexy hair products and to leave your virtue intact” and someone who says “I am in Nicaragua with my mum who is sick.  I am sad.  I love you, please wire money.”  What I’m saying is you do not have to worry about me meeting strangers and picking roommates from Craigslist.

There’s a lot to discuss about this trip so I’m going to have to do this in parts.  It’s a lot to process. Plus I had a tasty beverage or two  while there and so some things are fuzzy.  I’m such a lightweight.

The flight out was lovely.  Fairly uneventful.  Crowded.  The flight attendant in my section of the plane was a nice man, although a bit of an Eeyore.  I usually fly Southwest and if I’m lucky I’ll get a flight crew full of fun.  I like the ones who sing, tell stories, and generally put some pizazz in the safety messages.  This flight attendant was nothing like that.  Following is the conversation he had with me and my seatmates.

Flight attendant, clutching his drink order pad, to those of us in my aisle:  What would you like to drink?

Seatmate1: Ginger ale.

Flight attendant:  You said Diet Coke?

Seatmate 1:  No, ginger ale.

Seatmate 2:  I’ll have a Diet Coke, please.

Me:  Do you have diet ginger ale?

Flight attendant:  No, we have Diet Coke.

Me:  I’ll have water.

Time passed.  We ate peanuts.  We waited.

Flight attendant, clutching his drink tray, to Seatmate 1:  Here’s your Diet Coke. 

Seatmate 1:  I ordered ginger ale.

Flight attendant:  I wrote down Diet Coke.

Seatmate 1:  I’d prefer a ginger ale.

Flight attendant: <heavy sigh>

Flight attendant to seatmate 2:  Here’s your Diet Coke.

Flight attendant to me:  Here’s your Diet Coke.

I opened my mouth to say, “No, I ordered water” but I saw his face, his Eeyore countenance, and the sigh that was coming, so I took the Diet Coke and clutched it in my hand until the garbage bag came around.

Then I arrived in Tampa and met some strangers and had the time of my life.

And then I had a flight home.  Boy, it was a doozy.  The flight itself was fine, no worries there, I’m alive.  But Woney and I ran into something interesting as we arrived at the airport.  We saw loads of people wearing black and bright green clothing and on all that black and bright green clothing was a green sparkly logo.  Now I’m a big fan of all thing sparkly, of course, so I was instantly captivated until I realized that the logo didn’t really say anything.  Then I caught on.   Ohhhhhh.  Stare at the logo, ask a question about it and immediately get sucked into a sales pitch.  I hate that!  Even though my eyes were drawn to the shiny, I walked quickly and firmly away from all those people.   It was a chore, let me tell you.  They were EVERYWHERE. 

I handled the walking away marvelously until I walked the gangplank to get to my plane.  There, in the bouncy walking tube, I was accosted by a husband and wife team as I began the slow crawl to get to the plane.  She was decked out literally from head to toe in her bright green and he even had his sparkly logo on a baseball jersey.  Die hards.  They were all up in my personal space, yapping at me about their product*, handing me crap that I clutched in my sweaty paw until the flight attendant came by with the garbage bag.  They wanted my contact info, etc., etc. and I politely declined as I boarded the plane, grabbing the first seat I could find in relief to be away from the vultures. 

I sat down with a whoosh in aisle two and do you know I sat right next to another one of those varmints?  She tricked me.  She had on a regular old black jacket over her sparkly green logo and only unzipped it after I sat down.  I just sighed and took the information, clutching  it in my hand until the flight attendant came by for garbage pickup.  I hate that mess.  If you are going to sell something and turn into your product, losing all your former personality and charm, go away from me.  I do not want what you are selling.

Oh, and speaking of flight attendants and charm, on this flight I had a Ricky Martin-type guy who was adorable.  He rattled off his safety spiel and suddenly, right in the middle of it, said “If you have any questions, please find a flight attendant.  Unless they are naked.  Never trust the naked ones.”  And then he went right on about his business.

So I’ve given you the bookend information on my trip.  There’s more to come.  I just have to get over my lazy haze that I got when I was down there so that I can write it all up for you. 

*I’m not going to tell you what the product was because they annoyed me.  It isn’t a product you want anyway unless you like people eyeing you critically and giving you low self-esteem with their suggestions about how they can fix you.  I like you guys too much to subject you to that.


I Remain Unchanged

Yesterday was my yearly Doctor Appointment. You know, The Doctor. The Cookie One. The One I Hate. If you are new to me, think about it for a minute. You will figure it out.

I think everyone is always a little hopeful that time will grow me up, that I will no longer act like a two-year-old throwing a hissy fit in the toy aisle at Target when I go to The Doctor. No one is more hopeful than me, though. Every year I gird my loins, so to speak, giving myself pep talks and practicing some deep breathing and also praying. This year I was so hopeful that I did my makeup before stepping foot into that office. Used to I’d cry it all off and have to redo it so I learned that perhaps it was best if I just waited until after my appointment before glamming up my eyelashes. Not this year! This year I caked all that mess on and then drove on over for my appointment.

Want to have a recap of that visit with me? Let’s do this.

Did I unsuccessfully attempt to pee into a cup? Check.

Did I get huffy at the scale when forced to weigh in? Check.

Did I snap “Why in the world does that matter?” when the nurse asked if I was single, married or divorced? Check.

Did they give me a paper towel to wear? Check.

Did I lick the edges of the paper towel and stick it to myself in order to get maximum coverage? Check.

Did they measure my blood pressure? Check.

Did they have to re-measure my blood pressure after the exam to see if it came down to a non-near-death level? Check.

Did I use half a box of Kleenex for my snotty nose and watery eyes? Check.

Did I curse at The Doctor? Check.

Did I call someone a liar? Check.

Did I call another someone a liar? Check.

Did I mouth off to the scheduler and also call her a liar because upon making my appointment she told me that all doctors come in no earlier than nine, that it was the earliest appointment available, yet I could clearly see on the sign in sheet that my physician had been taking appointments since eight that morning? Check.

Did I go to work looking like bees stung my eyeballs? Check.

Katniss, my work friend, sent me a message today after witnessing my swole up eyeballs and beet red complexion and also my crappy attitude that read: I am so glad I am your friend and not your doctor. She has a point. I never cuss my friends like that.

So what did we learn here? That I am rock steady, never changing? You can count on me to be consistent? Check.

So Back To Glitzen

Sigh.  People just don’t appreciate the sparkle anymore.


That isn’t entirely true.  The postman did say the first time he saw Glitzen, “Nice rack.”  That’s something.


Filth Flarn $%#!^&**^#!$%@ toilet!

The end.


I Could Use A Little Calamine Lotion, Please

This morning I was having the epic struggle of “do I get out of bed and go to the gym at 5:30, or do I lie here and get porkier whilst sleeping an extra hour” when Murphy decided to stroll across my body.  (He is currently still housed with me. We are trying some new things to see if we can’t all get along without him whizzing on everything.)  He had just put his foot, claws retracted, on my leg when Seamus sneezed, causing Murphy to spaz, dig all million of his claws into my leg and use that traction as the springboard to launch him off the bed and into the window. So if you are wondering if I went to the gym at 5:30 a.m., yes, I did.  I said a lot of bad words first, though.  A very pleasant way to arise. 

There is a new character at my gym I’d like to share with you.  I’ve seen him a few times now, always in the same outfit which consists of tiny little short shorts, a miniscule tank top and royal blue Crocs.  I got behind him on the indoor track a couple of weeks ago and thought he had an odd approach to exercise as he was mincing around the track at warp turtle speed.  When he started high stepping on his toes, sort of swaying his hips side to side, I got the giggles.  I lapped him and noted that he was wearing sunglasses at the indoor track which could possibly explain his strange walk if I were willing to stretch that idea.  When I was approaching him from behind a second time, he suddenly threw his arms up into a ballroom dancer’s pose and began twirling.  My giggles instantly changed to fascination as I watched him practice his steps all the way around the track.   He seems quite talented and he seems to take it quite seriously.  All I can do is applaud him and be slightly jealous as I have all the grace of a thundering elephant. 

I haven’t talked much of my other outdoor activities lately although they still exist.  I choose to flag in my participation of those activities in high summer, see, because I am prone to sunburns and unflattering cheek flushes when I’m overly warm.  Basically I look like a human tomato and I don’t care how you cut it, that is not a good look.  I am not a fan.  I do whatever I can to avoid that look.  Plus it’s been so humid lately that it almost isn’t worth the trip out of doors for walking/jogging as I’m pretty sure breathing in the water we call air down in these parts will give me pneumonia soon. 

I have another Very Important Reason for avoiding the outside in high summer.  In case you are wondering, I am the model of safety when I am outside performing my calisthenics or what have you.  It isn’t that.  I know the dangers of being a lone person in the out of doors with no defenses other than a can of pepper spray.  I always stay on the marked path and never pick up rabid stray animals.  I also don’t waller around in poisonous leafy flora yet do you know I somehow contracted myself a nice case of poison ivy?  Or poison something.  I have no idea where I got it although the Greenway would be the logical assumption.  If I could smoosh all the affected parts of my skin together, it would be an area the size of a dime yet I feel as if I am dying a slow, painful, itchy death.  I wake up itching. I go to bed itching.  And because I am a grown up and can do as I like, I have scratched all the skin off my arms and now look like I have a case of weeping eczema.  I don’t care that it is only a dime-sized area of skin, it is killing me.  (I realize this might be a tad dramatic but it itcheeeeeessss. <whine>) 

I’m going to distract myself from the itching by telling you that Daddy-O and JiJi gave me a new pink pocketknife for my birthday.  It excited me to no end.  However, no sooner than I opened it, hadn’t even gotten the box fully torn apart yet, when Daddy-O said, “Quick, someone get the first aid kit!”  Seeing as how I bifurcated my finger within the first five minutes of owning my first pocketknife, and seeing as how I dropped the electric sander on my naked toe last summer, essentially filing the nail polish off that toe in one quick swoop and cracking the nail in a clean break, and seeing as how I contracted the raging case of poison something by touching nothing that was leafy and by barely going outside, I call that a fair statement. 

I was going to have a stellar ending for this, really wrapping it all up and bringing my point home.  But y’all, I just read over all this and have concluded that I am an alluring package.  I don’t get why I am still single.  Do you?  <scratch>

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