Thursday, April 30, 2009
Anyhoozits, we went to the vet last night, which was great because it really takes Milo down a few notches. At home he’s King Milo and we’re all just his lowly servants, which means that he gallops around the house carrying objects in his mouth and we chase after, paper towels and Lysol in hand (lest he should feel the need to poop), begging him to drop whatever he has and hoping to god he doesn’t ingest it. But at the vet, he becomes this sweet, submissive, terrified little man who just wants to be held by his mamma and told that everything’s going to be okay. And the people at the vet’s office are all, oh, isn’t he such a sweet, well-behaved little thing, and we’re all, yeah, he’s real sweet until he projectile-poops into your slipper and then hides one of your BCBG patent leather 3-inch heels in the couch. And then they laugh and we don’t, and things become awkward.
So the receptionist finally call us up to the front desk to get our info, and she asks how he’s feeling and why we brought him, and then says, “did you bring a stool sample?”
Nobody told us to bring a stool sample, which is a shame, because I was up to my elbows in stool this morning when he crapped all over the floor and vacuum cleaner cord as I was leaving for work. Oh, stool we have aplenty, but apparently never when you need it. So I joked, “no, but give him five minutes and he’ll probably give us one.”
She didn’t laugh. Must have been a rough day at the office.
She finally responded, “Well, it might not be necessary” and told us to sit back down. And I’m thinking, wow, they have blood tests for everything these days, even parasites. That’s super cool.
Oh, how wrong I was.
We went into the exam room and our super nice, chatty female vet asks us the same questions the receptionist asks us. And of course, all the time Milo is glued to my side and as quiet as a church mouse, and I’m thinking that we should bring him to the vet more often. Like, every GD day. So we start talking about his tummy issues and she goes on and on about the various parasites he could have, and the whole time we’re chatting she’s putting on a latex glove. Just one.
And then she says it:
“Well, I hear you didn’t bring in a stool sample, so I’ll have to go in and get one.”
Uh...wait a minute here. You’re going to go and get a sample? Like from his butt? …Seriously?
And poor little Milo is looking up at me with those sad puppy eyes like, please can we just get OUT of here and I promise I’ll never poop again? and I realize that he’s about to get totally violated and I’m thinking, man, sometimes it REALLY sucks to be a dog.
So in she goes, and it was only for a few seconds but I swear I’ve never see Milo’s eyes get so big. We’re talking like Japanese animé big. I can’t imagine what was going through his mind, but it must have been something like, please, can we just get OUT of here and I promise….OMG WTF WTF WTF WTF WTF WTF WTF WTF WTF WTF WTF WTF WTF WTF WTF WTF, because that’s probably what would go through MY mind if somebody entered my personal space in such a way.
And then it was over and she had her…sample. We’ll know if he has parasites sometime this afternoon, and either way, Milo will live to poop another day (and he has…trust me on this one). But later that night Brian and I were running out to this local pizza/sandwich joint to get some awesome panini, so we decided to bring the dogs and while Jericho jumped right in, Milo took one look at the car and took off in the other direction.
Brian chased him down and threw him in the back seat of the car and said to me, “man, that dog has got to learn how to behave.”
And I said to him, “Well, last time he got in the car he got anally raped.”
And that pretty much ended up the conversation because what else can you say?
Sometimes, it really SUCKS to be a dog.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Why do I ride? Who knows? Maybe it’s because when I was 7 years old I decided that I wanted to have a great conversation starter for first dates:
“I break horses”
“Like, for riding”
“Oh. Well, that’s….different.”
Maybe it’s because I think scars look cool. Maybe it’s because I have control issues. Maybe it’s because I like the feel of power between my legs (oh, yeah, I went there). But whatever the reason, I mounted up when I was 7 years old and haven’t stopped since.
Of course, just because I’ve been riding for 20 years doesn’t mean that I’ve been riding well. I had my last riding lesson at the age of 18, just before I left for college, which means it’s been 9 years since I’ve had formal instruction. And although I’ve been picking up odd jobs training and teaching (because once you’re over the age of 25, hooking ain’t as lucrative), there’s something about a wildly unpredictable and out-of-control 3-year-old that puts riding function before riding form, if you know what I mean.
So back to my trainer’s I went yesterday to start some bi-monthly lessons. I say bi-monthly because lessons are HELLA expensive, because horseback riding is a rich person’s sport. Again, I have no idea how I managed to find one of the most expensive hobbies known to man, but I did, and now I’m paying the price, literally.
Well, the lesson went great…or…it would have gone great if my brain had been connected to my body in any way, shape or form. The problem with horseback riding is that it’s 90% muscle-memory. When you perform a maneuver, say jump a jump, you have no recollection of keeping your heals down or working the reins or folding into jump position over the fence. Heck, if you’re scared enough, sometimes you have no recollection of the jump altogether (aah, the near-death experiences of my youth).
So, while my brain was a well-oiled machine that was approaching a jump with confidence, control, and poise, my body was an unsightly collection of parts flying out at all angles and sending a crap-ton of miscommunications to the poor, patient animal I was mounted upon. Of course, the jump would be botched and the horse would be frenzied with my clumsy signals, and after I would finally calm him down, he would look back at me as if he was saying, “What the hell was THAT?!?” Hey, at least ONE of us can communicate well.
And the funniest part would be when my trainer would explain exactly what I did wrong. He would tell me that I was falling forward and giving him his head too early and not legging before the fence and yadda yadda yadda….and I the only thing I could reply was, “I know.”
I knew that I was leaning forward when I should be sitting up, relinquishing control at the wrong times. I knew that the take-off spot was going to be long and I should have legged the crap out of him to fix it.
I knew all of it.
My body just wouldn’t listen.
So, I guess rusty would be an understatement when describing my current riding ability, but hey, that’s what 10 years of riding babies and crazies will do to you. My mind remembers everything that I learned from 10 years of lesson and training programs, but my body has gotten older. And heavier. And turned into lot more fat and a lot less muscle. While I might still be a great rider in my mind, my body apparently has to re-learn, well, practically everything.
There’s things that we do and things that define us. Riding absolutely defines me, and I hope that when I’m 80 years old, I’ll still be a rider, even if it’s just in my mind.
Monday, April 27, 2009
The article, of course, is called Swine Flu: 5 Things You Need to Know About the Outbreak
OhMySweetJesus, don't even get me started on this crap. If I hear one more person freaking out about swine flu, I'm going to remind them that they have bigger problems to worry about - like me punching them in the face. And then...I'm going to punch them in the face.
They'll never see it coming.
My rebuttal to this completely straight-forward and not-at-all-alarmist article on swine flu, aka EVIL MEGA-VIRUS OF INSTANT DEATH AND ETERNAL SUFFERING, is this:
Swine Flu: 5 Thing I'm Telling You You Need To Know About The Outbreak, Bitch* (NOW GO MAKE ME A SANDWICH**)
*I added the extra “bitch” on the end of that to let people that I’m in control of the situation, and they need not be alarmed. I like to reassure the masses like that. It’s just my style.
**I added the "go make me a sandwich" part because I'm hungry and verbally abusive.
Swine Flu: 5 Thing I'm Telling You You Need To Know About The Outbreak, Bitch (NOW GO MAKE ME A SANDWICH)
1. Is this a flu pandemic?
Yes, yes it is. Because cases have surfaced in Mexico, the US, Canada, France, Hong Kong, New Zealand, and Spain, it is safe to assume that within a 1-week period, every man, woman, and child on the face of this earth will be infected with swine flu. None will be spared. Although governments world-wide will recommend the use of masks and duct-tape over windows, these measures will be useless against this virus that, although seemingly unremarkable compared to other types of influenza viruses, will probably mutate into an ultimate mega-death virus of hell that will lay waste to humanity. Don’t be fooled by the fact that only 23 out of 6.7 billion people on this planet have died from swine flu – that’s still a lot of people. That’s, like, a classroom full of kids. And as I stated, it is inevitable that all of them will likely succumb to this virus in an agonizing death of fever, mild body-aches, and maybe a runny nose.
2. What will happen if this outbreak gets classified as a pandemic?
First of all, I already told you that the swine flu is a pandemic, so you're obviously not paying attention and will most likely die in a matter of hours. Second of all, a better question would be, “what WON’T happen if this outbreak gets classified as a pandemic?”. The short answer is that you will die. I cannot stress this enough.
The long answer is that as the virus spreads, society will end as we know it. You will wake up alone in a hospital bed after suffering a concussion from a messenger bike accident. The hospital will be empty, as will the streets. Cars will be parked haphazardly with their doors open, and flyers identifying family members will be blown in a cold wind of despair. You will wander aimlessly until you encounter a pack of infected humans and narrowly escape with the help of a few new friends who, somehow, have remained uninfected. You will then team up with these friends on a long voyage out of the city and into the country, where the infected individuals are less likely to be. Or so you think. The country is, in fact, infested with these individuals, but as luck would have it, you avoid them and manage to be saved by a small collection of National Guardsmen. The National Guardsmen will then take you to an old estate that they have set up as a base-camp, and you will believe that you are safe until you find out that they have plans for repopulating the earth with the female members of your group. Escape seems impossible. Luckily, a member of your party who was taken away to be executed has gotten away alive and is coming back to save you. He will release infected humans into the encampment to destroy the National Guardsmen while you and your group escape deeper into the country to wait out the deaths of the infected humans. You will sew large banners alerting airplanes of your presence and wear ugly sweaters. All will be well.
And then you will die. Again, I can’t stress this enough. You will die.
3. Why have the US cases been so much milder than the ones in Mexico?
Because we are bad-ass Americans. Because we have Miller Lite and Nascar and shoot guns and put huge racks of lights on the top of our off-roading vehicles so that we can drink Miller Lite and shoot guns in the dark. Because we are the home of Chuck Norris and Mr. T and LL Cool J. Because These Colors Don’t Run. Because we have super-sized meals and extra-large SUVs and giant stores called Wal-Mart that sell everything you need and want and don’t need and don’t want and then some. Because we eat hot-wings with the EXTRA hot sauce. Because we celebrate our independence with meat and fire and explosives. Because we don’t let our gays marry. Because we have reality TV.
For all of these reasons and more, US cases of swine flu have been much milder than the ones in Mexico.
4. How ready is the US – and the world – to respond to a flu pandemic?
In response to this flu pandemic, the US has gotten in its car and quickly driven to the nearest grocery store, where it has purchased large amounts of milk, bread, and batteries. The US also got the last case of Poland Spring and managed to scrape together a few candles. So, in other words, pretty freaking ready. The rest of the world can suck it.
5. How scared should we be?
Be afraid. Be very afraid. You will likely be witness to the end of society as we know it before succumbing to a plague of locust, fire and brimstone hailing from the skies, and a 3-day Hanna Montana concert. You will likely become infected from swine flu, at which point your intestines will turn to goop that will leak from your orifices like runny tapioca pudding. Your limbs will fall off, one by one, and what’s left of your head, neck, torso, and midsection will be covered by pustules that will burst, attracting vermin to feast on your still-living body. Unable to fend them off, you will die of suffocation as thousands of rats descend on your corpse. There will be nobody to hear you scream.
But don’t panic – we have things under control.
And now, more on our Economy…
I wish I could quit you!!!
Leave it to me to start a blog with a gay cowboy reference…
Allright, now I’m just being silly. I thought maybe I could avoid Monday by having an awesome weekend, but I see that strategy never works. Still, it was a great weekend, and I regret nothing.
Well, it was a pretty good weekend. There were some downsides, including one cousin’s one-year-old’s birthday party which was really nice and it was great to see him and all, but involved the reuniting of divorced parents and their new significant others which makes things awkward (speaking of gay cowboys). Its not that they can’t be in the same room together, but when people divorce, it’s usually because they don’t want to hang out together anymore. So, stuffing them into a small-ish livingroom together with little or no distraction other than a crying 1-year old is not my idea of fun. Or theirs. Or their new significant others'. But hey, your cousin’s first-born son only turns 1 once, right? And at least there was cake…
Also on the agenda for this weekend was yard-work because our yard looks kind of like this:
(Minus the dragon, unless you count the aggressive beaver who has been eating our trees like nobody’s business. Yeah, we have a beaver problem. Doesn’t everybody?)
We made some progress in the yard, but it was hard to concentrate when you have a puppy who thinks he’s a living wood-chipper who has been put on this planet to dispose of every piece of wood found in South Jersey. I’m thinking of renting him out to landscaping companies. Of course, I’ll have to warn them of what comes out of the other end while he’s disposing of all that crap (no pun intended). And I wonder why he has gastrointestinal issues. Maybe he’s been hanging out with that beaver – that would certainly explain his zest for wood. Four-months old and already in with the bad crowd. Of all the luck…
We capped off the weekend with a recreational softball game (and by we, I mean Brian. Lord knows every time a ball come flying at me, I run the other way screaming. Except for volleyball. I rock at volleyball). We took Jericho with us to give him some one-on-one and away-from-puppy time. Jericho the Mighty Carpenter Bee Hunter, spent his time eyeing, stalking, and launching himself at bees (with me attached to the other end of the leash, unfortunately). Jericho the Pooper of Inappropriateness also managed to take a ginormous dump in front of Brian's entire softball team, and directly behind two old people sunning themselves in beach chairs. He’s a classy one, that dog - remind me to blog about that time he pooped in the middle of the field at the Fire Department Turkey Bowl Game and then grabbed a goal-cone and took off at top speed. He also tried his hardest to steal a soft pretzel from a little girl, so he’s officially a Bad Dog. Isn’t our little family fun? It’s amazing we’re allowed out in public.
The rest of the weekend was just spent staying cool. We refused to turn on the air conditioner because it’s April, for crying out loud. I’m not one to complain (snicker), but this heat is re-DONK-u-lous. Global Warning Nay-Sayers, meet Exhibit A: Four days of above-90-degree weather with 3 days of April to go.
Man, we are so F*cked.
So, all in all a pretty successful weekend full of gardening, recreational sports, and spending time in close quarters with hostile divorced parents. And dealing with a dog with constant diarrhea. And another dog who steals food from children. And a hungry, hungry beaver.
I heart my life.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
As a medical writer, it's my job to take information and reformat it for the appropriate audience, whether it's neurosurgeons or the general public. That's all fine and good, but some days, I like to take it a step farther. Ghetto it up, if you will.
That's because I'm a gangsta. I know, it's surprising. I may be wearing Anne Klein heels and a black Express black pencil skirt , but inside, I'm loitering on street corners and popping caps in people's asses and delivering Buck-Fiftys like nobody's business.
Seriously, I'll take you down. I'll take you down to China Town (we gangstas like to refer to Ben Stiller movies. Surprised? I was too).
So what this all means is that I may be spouting off about p-values and mortality rates, but inside, I just want to shank you for moving in on my turf. Nothing personal.
Here's an example of what's going on in my head at any given moment (You may want to secure any loose articles of clothing - it's going to be a rough ride):
What I'm Writing: Cytomegalovirus infection causes a series of direct and indirect effects that lead to increased incidence of graft rejection, opportunistic infections, and decreased patients and allograft survival
English: Cytomegalovirus infection can cause organ rejection, can open the door to other types of infections, and may even kill you
My Inner Street Thug: Yo, cytomegalovirus is mad wack! Dat virus be buggin in yo’ organs and shit. Dey may have to pull dat shit right back out ‘yo body before it messes you up for realz. Word.
What I'm Writing: Bendamustine is a novel cytotoxic agent that has single-agent activity in CLL and has shown activity in relapsed indolent B-cell and mantle-cell NHL when combined with rituximab.
English: Bendamustine is a new anti-cancer drug that has been proven to works well by itself in people with leukemia. It may work in some lymphoma patients who aren’t getting better with other drugs, but only when used with rituximab, another cancer drug.
My Inner Street Thug: Bendamusine be poppin’ caps in cancer cell asses on the solo tip in people who are dyin’ from crazy wack blood cancers ‘n shit. But sometimes bendamustine is a lazy MuthaFugga that needs to roll with rituximab in order to get bin’ess DONE, fool. Ya’ know what I’m sayin’? You GOT tah take care of bin’ess, straight up.
What I'm Writing: The rise in the incidence of C. difficile infection among hospital inpatients has been matched by parallel increases in CDI-associated cost, severity, and mortality.
English: More and more hospitalized people are getting infected with C. difficile. This infection is also costing hospitals more money and causing more people to die.
My Inner Street Thug: Yo. Laid-up dawgs with mudd-butt be in da hospitals mo’ and mo’ these days. Dis shit is straight up costing CRAZY bank, and fools are getting kilt every god-dam DAY by this crazy-ass bug. It’s off da hook!
What I'm Writing: The large amount of bradykinin released during acute attacks of angioedema is believed to be responsible for most symptoms, causing increased vascular permeability, vasodilation, and contraction of nonvascular smooth muscle.
English: Bradykinin is a substance in your body that can cause swelling and pain.
My Inner Street Thug: Yo, I don’t know what bradykinin is, but I DO know that it’ll fuk. yo’. shit. UP, son. You don’t want NON of dat bich in ya.
Personally, I blame my mother and her wack-job genes. She thinks she's street, although, if you've ever seen my mother, a 50-some-odd woman with short curly hair and a wardrobe purchased from Talbots, you might think otherwise.
But for better or worse, the women in our family are pathological in our belief that we can be down. And if you disagree, you'd better keep it to yourself, becasue we've also been know to cut a MF-er good when they disagreed with our thugness. So you've been warned. When my mom or I roll up flashing signs, it's probably best to just flash the sign back and walk away like you have somewhere important to be.
Trust me, it's easiest that way.
Apparently, I'm a balloon full of mayonnaise:
Result: You are a Balloon Full of Mayonnaise
You are a balloon. You are full of mayonnaise. Balloonophobes fear you. Mayonnaisophiles love you. Those who fear balloons yet love mayonnaise are filled with a sense of yearning and terror whenever you are near. This power is intoxicating to you.
Oh, I got a balloon full of mayonnaise, all right. (Am I the only one who sees the dirty connotation of this? Yes? Oh.)
Actually, I think this quiz is pretty ingenious.
Other things you might be if you take this quiz are A Chair and A Suspicious Looking Piece of Mail. My coworker got that one. Luck-EEEE!
So, if anybody wants to know why I bob laround lazily without much purpose, filled to the brim with something that seems to be slimy, and inherently evil...well...now you know why.
This chick would be well advised to stay away from me (unless she is a mayonnaiseophile):
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Milo decided to celebrate Earth Day early by taking a crap in my slipper last night. What does this have to do with celebrating Earth Day? I guess you could say he was trying to save the earth from his poop, so he deposited it neatly in my slipper instead of on the ground where it belongs.
Honestly, I have no idea whether I should be mad at him for ruining a pair of slippers, or just plain impressed that he managed to get an apparently watery bowel movement into the heel of a slipper without making a mess. It was actually a pretty amazing feat. Still, Bad Dog! And of course, now I'm trying to figure out if this act of footwear destruction is supposed to be some sort of message, or if Milo just happend to take a crap that just happened to land in my slipper. When I asked him, he just wiggled and rubbed up against me. Then he hocked up a piece of stick that he had been chewing on.
I had planned on celebrating Earth Day by maybe going for a run, maybe doing some laundry, and maybe buying a new pair of slippers. In other words, by doing what I always do (except for the slipper part, which only became necessary last night). But, alas, my grandparents decided to celebrate Earth Day OLD SCHOOL style by going nuts/fighting with their assisted living home/trying to move out. So I have to meet my Mom after work to get a game plan together for how we're going to approach this hot octogenarian mess. And maybe have some drinks, because we're gonna need them.
[Note to Mom: I love you, but if you pull this crap with me when you're old and crazy, we're going to go for a long car ride, at which point you will be deposited on the side of the road and I will drive off laughing]
[Note to Self: Leave note for future child specifying that when I am old and officially off my rocker, the child has permission to deposit me on the side of the road and drive away. Laughing is optional.]
Not the best way to spend Earth Day, that's for sure, but I gotta be honest, with all the rain we've been having lately, I'm not feeling particularly Earth-Friendly anyway. In fact, I'm feeling downright soggy and noticibely lacking in Vitamin D.
[Note to Earth: Either you need to stop raining or tell me where I can purchase discount lumber and a giant net for the construction of an ark and the collection of wild animals, respectively.]
And let me tell you about this rash on my back....
Okay, I'm not gonna do that. I've complained enough for one day. All I'm going to say about that is I have an M.D. boss who is stumped and an emergency appointment with a dermatologist tomorrow. YUM!!!!
I used to celebrate Earth Day by going to Earth Day fairs and turning off the lights and trying out this new-fangled thing called recycling (I don't know, the "c" might be soft) This year, I'm celebrating Earth Day by stepping in crap, wrangling the elderly, and breaking out into hives or something. FANTASTIC. Nothing says "I love our Earth" like throwing out perfectly good slippers and strong-arming old people. At this rate, I should probably just release some CFCs, kill a kitten, and call it a day.
HOORAY FOR EARTH DAY!!!
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
[Email correspondence, received April 20, 2009]
neGreeting From Laarnie .E. Enriquez!!!
Assalaamu alaykum wa rahmatullahi wa barakatahu"
I am Madam Laarni Enriquez, a native of Filipino nationality, and a divorcee. I would like to have a long lasting and confidant relationship with you, if possible entrusting my life time fortune into your possession, as now I am broken hearted and needs someone to trust, without remembering my past and forsaken experiences from close confidants and family. I need someone, who would take me for whom I am and as a life time partner, after making claims of my deposited life. Well, from your profile, I believe in me that you ought to be a very honest person.
I would like to give you a brief description of my life. I was once the mistress of our President, Joseph Estrada, and during his tenure in office, I was been used as a courier to depositing his funds, but due to the fracas I had with his wife, Madam Loi and her son, Jude, it causes a public embarrasement and people came to know that I had been having an affair with the President.
But, not quite long, I was arrested, together with his wife and son in connection with the 27th July, 2003, failed coup, which I did not have anything to do with, but was alleged that I have been habouring some of the dessident and arms in one of the villa, bought for me by the president. Now, I have been released and I am under security watch and seriously monitored. All, I wanted from you is to assist me make claims of some funds, I did deposited Belfast UK, As the other deposits documents have been consficated and seized by the government of Madam Gloria, the President. But this one is the only one they could not see, as I did kept the documents with one of my close confidant, who was also arrested.
The Amount being deposited is much about 20.2 million Euros, as this was the money that was supposed to be used by the President to aquires ome properties in America, Europe and All, I want from you, now is honesty and sincerity, As soon as this money is claimed by you, I will look for a way out and sneaked out of Filipina and travel down to meet you, So we can go into a life time partnership together investing this money in your country or anywhere else you prefer. Your's Sincerely,
Madam Laarni .E. Enriquez.
[Response, sent by myself on April 21, 2009]
Dear madam Laarni .E. Enriquez
Greetings to you as well. I have to be honest, I wasn’t sure what “Assalaamu alaykum wa rahmatullahi wa barakatahu” meant, so I had to google it. When spelled correctly (not to criticize your writing, but I’m an editor, so I pick up on these things. Plus, Google pointed it out), it means “Peace be upon you and Allah’s mercy and blessing,” right? Well, thanks. I’m not really sure if I believe in Allah, but if he exists, I can assure you, I could probably use his mercy and blessings. That’s super!
Thank you for trusting me without having ever even met me—that’s huge on your part. I’m definitely up to the task, and I think my friends would consider me a pretty trustworthy gal, but why don’t I tell you a little about myself, just to make you feel even better about our potential relationship. My name is Lily and I’m a 27 year old Capricorn. I work as a medical writer, and in my free time I like horseback riding, hiking, and turning in political prisoners. Ha ha, I’m kidding about that last one. No, seriously, I’ve never ratted out a political prisoner before, so you can rest easy. I also like to read and paint, although I’m not very good at it.
There is one thing I need to clarify, though—I’m not gay. You mentioned in your letter that we would be life-time partners, and I figure it’s probably just a lost-in-translation kind of thing, but in America, “life-partner” kind of means you’re in a homosexual relationship with someone. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But I have a boyfriend and am almost 100% confident that I’m a one-team player, if you know what I mean. So, just a word of advice—when you come to visit, don’t call someone your life-partner unless you’re doing the sideways mambo with them. People will get the wrong idea, trust me on that.
It sucks that you were arrested for something you didn’t do. One time in third grade, I got a detention for sticking a pencil through a girl’s hand (long story), even though it was Jason Katoula’s fault, not mine. It was so unfair! And that was only a detention, so I can’t imagine how pissed you must have bee for getting wrongfully imprisoned. BTW, have you considered a lawsuit? I don’t know how it works in your country, but in America, you can sue for that type of shit. Just something to consider…
But anyway, yeah, you definitely have a problem on your hands. And, wow, I am flattered that you are willing to entrust your life-time fortune with me. Seriously, that’s awesome and I won’t let you down. So how do we get started? How do I claim the 20.2 million Euros? Do I actually have to fly to Europe or can we do this in America? What’s the process like? And once we’ve gotten the cash, what do you want to do with it? To be honest, I’m not much of an investor (my 401k confuses me, lol), but I’m sure we’ll figure it out. I’ve heard that Mutual Funds are a good market to get into, have you heard anything about that? Maybe we could invest in, like, a restaurant or something. That would be so cool. We could call it “Laarni and Lily’s Restaurant.”
I dunno, I’m just throwing it out there. You can throw it right back if you don’t like it.
Anyway, we can talk about that more when you get here. I can’t wait, I’m so excited! Oh, and just a warning, I have a cat and two dogs, so I hope you like animals. They’re very friendly. Also, I’ll need to know when you’re planning on coming over, so I can request vacation off of work. Wait…what am I talking about? We’re going to be millionaires! I’ll probably quit my job as soon as we recover the funds, duh.
Okay, so, I’m really looking forward to hearing from you, and I can’t wait ‘till you come to America. We have some really cool stuff here. Do you like hot wings? Anyway, yeah, definitely let me know what we have to do next to get this money and HAVE SOME FUN! I’m totally psyched.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Okay, kids. I’m actually quite busy today, and we had a company baby shower over my much-coveted lunch break, so don’t really have the time to blog in leisure. Here’s my 30-second recap of the weekend:
1. Milo crapped on Jericho’s bed and peed in our bed on Saturday, so he's, like, 0 for 2.
2. Jericho appears to be rebelling in response to Milo’s presence, so he’s, like, 0 for 20
3. Now that the roommates are gone, I can finally walk around in my underwear.
4. Watching adult recreational softball is hilarious, especially when most of them are over the age of 40.
5. Also, the BF looks SUPER hot in his softball pants
Now, shut up and enjoy this ichy sloth while I incorporate the ten-thousandth round of faculty comments into a slide presentation:
[SIDENOTE: that baby sloth kind of looks like my grandmother]
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Friday, April 17, 2009
THIS is what I got:
Do we see the problem here? Now, granted, I like my sandwiches a little more plain-Jane than that overstuffed monstrosity pictured in the first image. But, lettuce and olives and godknowswhatelse notwithstanding, this is a little...erm...less than what I had in mind.
Self, let's not do that again, shall we???
Here are better pics of Milo, as promised.
Ain’t he a cute little bugger?
This day is not going well at all. I’m tired, stressed, moody, and uncomfortable for the following reasons:
1. Grandma went BACK to the hospital again last night. She and the hospital are getting on pretty friendly terms, as she’s been there oh, I dunno, maybe 5 times in the past two months. She’s having these spells, and they can’t figure it out. It’s nothing new, but it’s always upsetting, and I was with my mom and grandfather in the ER until late last night. Well, I guess it wasn’t THAT late, but it pushed my bedtime back an hour or two, which always makes me useless the next day. I got the 24-oz coffee at Wawa today.
2. As it turns out, Milo is a pretty vocal dog, which is hilarious, unless you’re trying to sleep and he’s groaning and moaning in your ear all night. The poor little guy has a viral kennel cough which just has to run it’s course, but in the meantime he’s coughy and phlemgy and uncomfortable at night. Which means he flops around a lot. Which means that every time he flops, he groans dramatically. All. Night. Long.
3. Despite waking up 30 minutes earlier than normal to give Milo some time to stretch before he got locked in the crate all day, I was running late and got very flustered. I had one of those mornings when you try on, like, 10 different outfits before you get one that’ll work, which just messes everything up. Plus, I had to give Milo an anti-poopy pill (he’s got some stomach issues), which was a whole other fiasco. I put it in peanutbutter and he gagged and spit it out (what kind of dog doesn’t like peanut-butter??). And then I put it in some pork tenderloin, but he was mistrustful of me from the peanutbutter incident that he refused to eat it (what kind of dog refuses pork tenderloin??). So, I essentially had to cram it down his throat. And then he hated me which made me upset.
4. And then he hated me even MORE when I tossed him in his crate and left for work.
5. And then I hated me because I knew he would be in the crate all day because today was Brian’s last tour as a firefighter and nobody would be home to let him out.
6. And then I realized that the jeans I finally ended up wearing after my 10 outfit changes are really too tight because I’ve gained weight and haven’t had the time to lose it, so not only am I thinking about my fatty-fat-fat thighs, I’m uncomfortable to boot.
7. And then I spilled coffee on myself when I got to work. DOH!!!
Hey, at least it’s Friday, right? Word on the street is the weather is supposed to be beautiful tomorrow, so we will definitely be getting our quota of fresh air and puppies on Saturday. And Brian will be home all weekend (and every weekend henceforward...and every night of the week) thanks to his new position as Fire Official. HOT.
So I just need to put my morning behind me and focus on the next 4 ½ hours of work so I can get this weekend started ASAP!
Happy Friday everyone!
Thursday, April 16, 2009
The downside is that he seems to have a little kennel cough and was obviously feeling a bit under the weather last night. I think he might have even been running a fever, but it’s hard to tell. Puppies are hot all the time anyway because they’re constantly growing, which produces a heck of a lot of heat. Well, either way, he was cooking last night! As I write this, he’s currently at the vet with daddy getting a good once-over, and hopefully some antibiotics for his cough, and maybe even a distemper shot too. Who knows?
He’s also a stinky boy who is in desperate need of a bath, but can’t get one until this weekend because he’s newly neutered and we need to give his wound another day or two to close up. I’m hoping he airs out a little more today, though, because while it was certainly adorable 10k that he was snuggled up against me all night, he definitely smelled a little like poop, which was less than ideal.
But, god help me, I already love the little stinker. He’s wonderful, and the perfect fit for our family.
Here are pics from my crappy cell phone. I actually took a few decent shots with the camera last night, but of course I couldn’t find the USB cable to upload any of them. So, you get the crap pics today. Sorry.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
A: Many things, but primarily, this little guy…
No, he’s not a goat. I know he kind of looks like a goat, but he’s a puppy. An adorable, 4-month old puppy who has mastered the “please take me home and I’ll be your best friend forever” look. Seriously, he has it down to a science. I didn’t stand a chance.
I have to admit, when I saw him tucked away in his cage at the animal shelter, I kind of wrote him off as “goofy looking.” Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure I actually said “he’s too goofy looking” to Brian when we walked by him. But we (and by we I mostly mean Brian and my sister, who came along for the ride) kept coming back to him, and then he picked up a tennis ball to play with and it was really sort of cute, so we asked to take him out of the cage to interact a little more and BOOM. Faster than you can say “adorable, heart-melting brown eyes,” I was done. Finished. Finito. He had me wrapped around his little paw. Of course, it didn’t help when he stood up on his hind legs and gave me wonderful, gentle puppy kisses on my face. God, I’m such a sucker for puppies. They’ll be my downfall, just you wait.
So, providing he gets along with Jericho when we introduce them after work (and I’d bet a significant amount of money that they will get along famously), we’ll be bringing that goofy looking goat/pup thing home. EEEEEE!
I’m thinking it’ll be a good fit. Unlike SOME PUPPIES that had until recently lived in our house, this one doesn’t seem the type to want to spend the majority of his day running at full speed around the house crashing into walls and putting everything in sight into his mouth. Which means he’ll probably get along well in a household with a crotchety (acting) dog and an insouciant feline.
My coworker says that shelter pets pick you, and not the other way around. I couldn’t agree more.
We just need to do something about his name. The shelter named him Jones, and I’m not feeling that. Jones is a name for a persnickety butler with a handle-bar moustache and a British accent, not a lil’ puppers who just needs somebody to love him. Brian wants to name him Goat (for obvious reason), but that’s just mean - although I DO suspect it’ll end up being an often-used nickname. C’mon people, I need help here. Any suggestions?
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
This morning I got up, got dressed, got my hair did, put my face on (as my grammy used to say), and headed into the kitchen to pack a lunch. I’ve had the same exact routine pretty much since I was a newly-graduated 22 year old (with the exception of a brief stint on disability which was, in a word, bombastic).
So, if I’ve been in the same routine, day in and day out, 5 days a week, for roughly 5 years straight, then…
How in the mother effing hell did I manage to forget to brush my teeth this morning?!?!?!
Thankfully, as I was heading out the door, I suddenly realized that I was not-so-fresh in the mouth area and quickly back-tracked to the bathroom to scrub mah teefs. My coworkers were, once again, safe and sound from my morning breath.
But seriously, guys, WTF.
I always joke that some day I’m going to leave the house without wearing pants, but lately it’s becoming less of “ha-ha-funny” joke and more of a “I’m joking to hide the pain” kind of joke. I have GOT to get out of this brain fog, or something seriously dangerous/embarrassing/career-ruining is going to happen. I can see it now…
One day I’m wearing mismatching socks (oh, wait, I’ve done that already). The next day I forgot to put on a bra. Pretty soon, I’ll be putting on my makeup with Crayola crayons and bringing in dog treats in for lunch.
The crazy’s ah-coming. I can feel it.
And in the meantime, I have poison ivy/sumac/[insert poisonous plant of choice here] to contend with. Brian generously passed it along after rolling around with the dog and then rolling around with me (giggidy). My official diagnosis is “Poison Whatnot,” since I can’t be bothered to go to the doctor because, really, what are they going to tell me that I don’t already know? Well, maybe except for this one thing on my lower back/upper butt:
[Haha, no kidding, I seriously just went to the ladies’ room here at the office to try to take a picture of it on my phone, but my crack is in the pic, and we can’t be posting crack pictures up in a public forum, now can we?!? Seriously, this is what I do here at work on my lunchbreak. I’m a sorry excuse for a responsible adult. But we all knew that…]
Without getting into too much disgusting detail, I have this—thing—on my backal/buttal area that started out looking like a mosquito bite, then kind of looked like a U-shaped scratch or tiny animal bite, and now its morphed into a raised oval spot of significant size and ichiness. Oh, the ichiness!!!
I’d love to show it to my boss, who is an MD and used to work in the emergency room, but I think HR would probably have a problem with me showing my crack to a coworker, especially one to whom I directly report.
(puhleeze, like she hasn’t seen crack before after working in an ER for years and years…)
Sooo, other than Alzheimer’s disease, Poison Whatnot, and possibly the Black Death, I seem to be puttering along well enough. My wrist is about 80% healed, which is great because I’m taking a horseback riding lesson tonight and I’m really hoping my wrist doesn’t detach from my arm while I’m yanking some goofy warmblood back from a dead gallop. So, providing that my hand doesn’t fall off mid-gallop, tonight should be a pretty good night.
Well, I am out of material, so that's it for today. Stay tuned for more asshattery…
Monday, April 13, 2009
I hope everyone had a great holiday. Mine went pretty well, other than for a few small bumps in the road. I decided to do the adult thing and host brunch at my house this year, which made me feel all warm and fuzzy (and stressed) inside to take some of the burden off of my mom. Easter also got a big thumbs up when my sister decided that she needed a break from being a graduate student and drove down in time to enjoy the festivities. Hooray!
Sunday was great because:
- I woke up to an Easter egg hunt that was pre-orchestrated by Brian before he left for work that morning
- At the end of the Easter egg hunt was an Easter basket filled with Tastycakes. TASTYCAKES!!!!
- There was a puppy in the house
- Brunch was served on time, and nobody died of food poisoning
- I managed to cook a quiche that was half with cheese, half without cheese for my grandmother who hates cheese (if you’ve cooked a quiche before, you know that’s no easy feat)
- I didn’t set the house on fire
- We had 3 different types of coffee creamer
Sunday was not so great because:
- Skittles messed up the Easter egg hunt by "relocating" one of the clues. We still haven't found it
- Grandma’s half of the quiche was still filled with mushrooms…which she is apparently allergic to
- There was a muffin incident *see below
- Brian wasn’t there because he had to work
- I received wwaayyy too many sugary, fattening things that directly counteract any efforts at the gym
Apparently, I’m also losing my mind because:
- I forgot to put eggs in the first batch of muffins and had to throw them out. Did I mention that they were from a box mix? How do you mess up a box mix?
- I forgot to coat the pan with non-stick spray when I made the second batch of muffins, so they lost their bottoms when I tried to get them up.
- All in all, three batches of muffins were made, and only one turned out okay
- I put the filter directly into the coffee pot, minus the basket when I made coffee for everyone. My sister later found the clean basket in the dishwasher and said, “Wasn’t this supposed to be in the coffee pot?” Whoops. What a mess!
You guys, seriously, I think I have Alzheimer’s. I mean, lookit the signs and symptoms of Alzheimers:
General confusion, disorientation, apathy, irritability, depression, anxiety, problems with language, math, abstract thinking, and judgment, personality changes with strange quirks or inappropriate behaviors, wandering, and hiding objects.
Did somebody say inappropriate behaviors?!? Also, last month, I put a smoke detector in the refrigerator. I'm not even kidding
Mom says that a bad memory runs in her side of the family. Brian says I’m just adjusting to going back to work, and my brain hasn’t quite caught up. I say…well…let’s just say that I’m concerned.
Wait...what was I talking about?
Friday, April 10, 2009
Granted, it’s with my mom, but don’t let that fool you – she’s a pretty fabulous lady who shares a penchant for talking like a sailor and giving high-fives, so it’s always a good time. Plus, she’s financing tonight’s activities, so really it’s a win-win situation: she gets the pleasure of my company, and I get to actually DO something on a Friday night other than have a pretend wedding for Jericho and Skittles again (kidding).
I know that some of you are thinking about that post I wrote about wiping my own ass and imagining me attending a classy ballet performance and raising your eyebrows dubiously but never fear, I can blend in with snobby, rich, and/or cultured people like you wouldn’t believe. That’s what happens when your parents start dragging your ass to operas and classical music concerts when you’re 5 years old; I may be a crass, loud, somewhat violent individual most of the time, but slap some nice clothes on me and put me in a performance hall, and you’d never know I wasn’t raised in Martha’s Vinyard. Yeah, I’m a woman of many talents, a lady on the streets but a freak in the sheets, if you will.
Ooohhh…that was definitely at TMI moment.
Also, as unlikely as it sounds, I was actually into ballet for a significant period of time in my childhood. Like, REALLY into it. I think I went to dance class at least 2 times a week for several years, maybe more. This was all before my horseback riding days when I realized that being outside and getting dirty and risking life and limb was the shit. So, while I haven’t danced in, oh, 17 years (god, that makes me feel old), I still have an appreciation for the art-form. I’m not even sure why I stopped, because I never really lost interest, but I think it had something to do with my dance studio closing down for the Christmas break and never reopening. I think they, like, up and moved to Arizona in the middle of the night or something. Shady.
So, tonight’s itinerary will likely include the three D’s: Drinks, Dinner, and Dancing. Only dinner and drinks will be with my mom (not very romantic), and the dancing will be left to the professionals, which is probably best for all parties concerned, because my mom dances like Elaine from Seinfeld and I dance like a stripper minus the pole. Weddings are uncomfortable, to say the least. But I guess that’s a whole other post now isn’t it?
My mom just called and had to cancel because she just realized that it's her and her fiancee's anniversary. Yeah...now you know where I get my crappy memory from. Mom, that's kind of important, dontcha think?!? But the tickets are bought and non-refundible. Anyone wanna go to the ballet tonight?!?
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Yeah, I know it's a crappy image, but it came from a crappy camera phone, so whattaya gonna do? I'll try to get some good pics tonight with a real camera so you can see the absolute crazy-ball cuteness that is her.
Molly came home last and I'm not sure who was more excited: Scott and Katie (her new owners), or me. I was super excited because, yanno, PUPPIES!!! Even better - RESPONSIBILITY-FREE PUPPIES!!!!
Jericho, on the other hand, was significantly less excited. And let's not even talk about Skittles, who was so *not* excited that she whipped out the claws on several occasions. Poor Skittles, she does not adapt well to change (or 20-lb puppies charging into her full-throttle).
Yesterday evening was spent puppy-wrangling as Molly tore through the house putting things in her mouth and generally just raising hell. She has this tendancy to throw herself into you, and by that, I don't mean just run at you full-speed. She actually gets a running start and launches herself at you. If you're standing up, she kind of crashes into your thighs, but if you're sitting down, she pretty much breaks her momentum with your face. Yeah...she's a handful.
Nonetheless, much fun was had because, let's face it, watching a puppy is more entertaining than watching TV. Jericho tried his hardest to not like Molly. He put on this sad face and grumbled and played the part of an old, crotchety man for the most part. But she managed to get him riled up quite a bit and on a few occasions he betrayed his growley exterior by actually playing with her. He'd then look up at me with this giant grin on his face...and suddenly remember that he was supposed to be miserable. He'd then tuck his tail between his legs and sulk his way over to the couch. What a nerd. Jericho is the kind of dog who may not necessarily like puppies, but they are really, really good for him. Well, that's my theory at least.
The best part of the evening was when she pooped in the house. Why, you ask? I'll tell you why. The best part of the evening was when she pooped in the house because I didn't have to clean it up. Because she's not my puppy. Nope, I stayed far away from that hot mess (literally), distracting Molly and enjoying the fact that I wasn't staring down a humongous pile of puppy poop. Hey, I've earned the right to gloat. If any of you knew what I had to go through with my other dog, Sage, you'd know that I earned my respite from paper towels and lysol and other cleaning products. I swear, if stuff wasn't coming out of one end of that dog, it was coming out of the other. And I know that those of you who have met Sage are cracking up right now because it's absolutely true. Don't deny it!!!!
I think I have a picture of her around somewhere...
Aah, here she is:
If nothing else, she's was a ridiculous looking animal, right?
And look what else I just found whilst rummaging around! A picture of Skittles in a pumpkin costume that was 2 sizes too small for her fat ass:
Okay, so that's about it.
Moral of today's post: pets are HUGELY entertaining. If you don't have one...go get one. You won't regret it.
And just a note - Easter is this weekend, and we get off of work early tomorrow (triple arm pump for that), so postings may be a little sparce - if not nonexistant - over the next few days. Or maybe they'll come fast and furious. I dunno. I guess it depends on if I motivate myself to actually get stuff done over my two-and-a-half-day weekend, or if I procrastinate (who, ME?!?!) and find myself on my laptop when I should be doing domestic-type stuff.
We shall see...
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
If you've come to this site expecting to be entertained by a quality post, I have the pleasure of informing you that nothing creative will be coming out of this brain today. I'm pooped!
I had one of those nights where you wake up to roll over and somehow just don't go back to sleep. My brain was kicked into high gear, and I don't know if it was because the room was a little too warm or because Brian was hogging up the bed or because Jericho was chasing rabbits in his sleep and his claws were tippy-tapping against the wood floor, but I just could not sleep last night. Like, at all. Between the hours of 1:30 and 4:30, I was more awake than I am on any given day at the office, which is SO not fair.
But at least I wasn't staring at the ceiling, stressing out over finances or anything (which I probably should have been doing because I have to pay taxes and deductibles and I own a car that is probably not even safe to drive). It was all good stuff that was going through my brain. A lot of future-type things have been figured out recently and directions have been decided upon and plans are beginning to be mapped out, which is totally awesome but not a subject that should be mentally broached in the wee hours of the morning.
I can't disclose much, but one thing that has FINALLY been launched is my career as an award winning novelist (insert snort of sarcasm here). I've taken that first huge step and finally have a few paragraphs down on paper - paper, in this case, meaning Microsoft Word - and as far as I'm concerned, that was the hardest part. I can't tell you how many times I've sat down to begin writing that thing and just froze in fear of failure. I mean, what if it sucks? And believe me, in all likelihood, it will suck. But I've decided recently that I need to give it a shot, if for no other reason than being able to look back at my life when I'm 80 years old and say "I once wrote a really crappy novel that nobody wanted to publish." Hey, it's respectible in it's own way, right?
And if you're expecting to read any of it here in my blog, that's a big fat "no way, Jose". Yes, I'm aware that being shy about my writing isn't exactly conducive to geting something published, but one step at a time okay? Geeze....
And did I mention the puppy?
Brian's brother and girlfriend are bringing home a puppy tonight. She'll be staying in the house until next friday, at which point the whole happy family will be moving into their own place, which is kind of sad because I've gotten used to them being around, but is also kind of awesome because we're all more than a little ready to have our own space. Sooo, the next week and a half will be full of puppy fun with zero puppy responsibility. Does it get any better than that? This is how grandparents must feel when they get their grandkids for an afternoon.
And who knows, maybe Brian and I will like having a puppy around so much that we'll get one of our own. PUPPIES!!!!!!!!!!
Okay, time to get back to work, but not before hitting the coffee station HARD because I'm definitly rocking out zombie-style here at the office. So I can't think of a better way to leave you than with puppies. PUPPIES!!!!!!
Okay, I know that last one is a seal, but it's effing cute, so I threw it up there. Don't judge.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
The gym is no different. In fact, the gym amplifies this habit to some exponential degree because, let’s face it, we’re all there to make our butts look better. It doesn’t help that we’re all ensconced in spandex, throwing ourselves over machines and bending over in deep stretches. And don’t forget about motivation. The motivation factor is huge. There have been multiple times when I’ve been on the treadmill, on the verge of hitting the stop button because I’m tired and sweaty and am just HATING the fact that I’m running, but I glance up at the butt…oops, I mean woman…in front of me and think either A) man, I want an ass like hers. I’d better keep going, or B) man, I’d hate to have an ass like hers. I’d better keep going.
Either way I keep going. It’s a good thing.
So I was at the gym the other day, running on the treadmill, and checking out the butt of the woman in front of me. She was on the elliptical and, according to the size of her ass, must spend the majority of her waking life on that machine. I was jealous. But I digress…
As I was staring at her ass, I noticed a lack of pantyline. Now, let me back up by saying that pantyline is any woman’s arch nemesis. Nothing kills a well put-together outfit faster than the bumps and lumps that reveal the make and model and (god forbid) color of the day’s choice of under-things. Of course, the most obvious way around the pantyline is usually the thong (with the less-obvious choice of going “commando,” but this route is impractical for a number of reasons that I’ll discuss at a later date). Permanent wedgie aside, thongs are a great way to look smooth and seamless and rockin’ in whatever pants or skirt you decide to wear. Of course they’re uncomfortable, but women have been sacrificing comfort for beauty for thousands of years (except for a brief stint in the ‘60s), and we are unlikely to stop now. So we wear thongs and suffer the string of fabric lodged between our cheeks because we know we look awesome and there is absolutely no line to spoil the vision that is our ass.
Of course, I personally believe there are exceptions to this pact we have made to sacrifice comfort for a nice looking ba-donk-a-donk. In my mind, the panty should prevail in any situation where the goal is ease-of-mobility over a seamless silhouette. I’m talking about the gym. Oh, I’ll do what it takes to look nice at the office. I’ll wear underwire and thongs and three-inch heels with pointy toes, but at the gym, all bets are off. I’m not there to impress anyone. I’m not there to pick up guys. I’m not there to do anything but sweat and burn calories and maybe rock out to Snoop Dogg on my MP3 player.
So why then, ladies and gentleman, am I expected to not have a pantyline?
As I stared at the woman in front of me, with her seam-free buttocks bouncing up and down as she “ellipsed” in place, I felt sorry for her. Obviously she had chosen to wear a thong to the gym, and was suffering terribly in silence. Cardiovascular assaults are uncomfortable enough without adding anal insult to the list. What was she thinking? After taking a moment of silence for her undoubtedly tortured no-no area, my eyes drifted to the right, where another woman was struggling on a similar machine. Now this woman had obviously…how do I put this kindly?...let herself go. She was not-just-a-little overweight and clearly out of shape to a pretty pathetic degree. I gave her a mental high-five for summoning up the will-power to take control of her situation by going to the gym, and was about to move my eyes to the next interesting thing when I couldn’t help but notice…her butt.
Her un-pantylined posterior.
A lack of visible undergarments on her backside.
Another thong victim. Wow, so sad.
But then, as I continued to peruse the butts of women around me, I had a sinking realization. Young and old, thin and fat, they all had one thing in common: no pantyline. A gym full of women, and not a pantyline in sight. My eyes searched the crowd in a final, desperate attempt to identify any seam that indicated an undergarmant beneath. Nothing. Not a one. And then came my second, equally disturbing realization: I was the only woman at the gym who was wearing panties.
Ladies and gentleman, I implore you. Are we no better than animals? Are our mating rituals so ingrained that we go to great lengths to appear sexually attractive, even when it directly competes with our ability to function in our surroundings? Are muscular strength and cardiovascular endurance not more indicative of reproductive health than a derriere that is unmarred by underlying garment seams?!? I ask you, what kind of society do we live in when a woman is expected to parade around a gym, smiling like nothing is wrong, taking great pains to work off that cupcake she had after lunch, all the while enduring a wedging assault to her backside?!?!?!?!?!?!? IS THIS NOT INSANITY IN ITS PUREST FORM!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?
But I guess I’m the only one who has a problem with this. I’m the only one at my gym who is disturbed by the concept of making a grueling work-out more uncomfortable than it has to be. So apparently I have no choice other than to join the ranks of the thong-wearing gym masochists at Active Fitness . That, or I condemn myself to be known as “that freak with the pantyline who always looks so miserable on the treadmill.” I suppose it wouldn't be such a bad thing. Sure, crowds would part for me, a thousand eyes upon my backside, mouths agape in horror, childering whispering and pointing at my pantyline, but at least I wouldn't have to wait for a treadmill...I'd just walk up to one and the person using it would turn it off and back away slowly, lest they disturb "that freak with the pantyline."
Freaks of the world, eat your heart out. Your horns and lobster-hands and gigantic tumors and hairy growths are no match for my pantyline.
Monday, April 6, 2009
The thing with medical writing is that to do a good job, your work has to be completely factual and practically devoid of creativity. After being a medical writer for 5+ years, doing my job is easy, but coming up with blog topics or ideas for new artwork or anything requiring creativity is a struggle, to say the least.
But since coming back to work after my unfortunate (but radical) accident, I seem to have developed the opposite problem. My creative juices are flowing, but I honestly have no idea how to write a factual, scientifically accurate newsletter or monograph. I mean, they want references for chrissake! From peer-reviewed scientific publications! This does not compute. Not by a long shot.
So yeah, I’m “working” insofar as I’m sitting here at my desk as a full time employee. Hell, I’m not even surfing the web or otherwise wasting my time like I used to do when writing about hospital-associated diarrhea and hereditary angioedema came oh-so-easily. Seriously, my nose is to the grindstone. Honest to god.
Problem is, I’m just not….*doing…anything. I’m reading stuff I wrote in the past, utterly impressed that at one point in time it seems like I had my act together, desperately trying to channel that inner professional that seems permanently out to lunch. I feel like I’m in a dream, where I’m in a familiar place and everything appears as it should, but for some reason, I can’t get to a certain place or do a certain task or remember something that should come easily. Like when you dream that you're back in school, but you forgot to show up to class for, like, a whole semester, and now you have to take a test, and you have no clue what's going on. At this point, I half expect to come out of the bathroom and realize that I’m stark naked. And then I’ll wake up screaming. That’s how weird this feels.
I guess I should just enjoy it. Pretty soon this routine will seem tortuously dull and monotonous, and I will pray for a situation in which things seem bizarre or out of the ordinary. So I’ll ride this train for as long as possible. I’ll sit back and look around and just be confused and pretend I smoked pot during my lunch break because honestly, I feel kind of stoned right now. But all good thing must come to an end, and I’m sure it won’t be long before I’m sitting at my desk, praying for a natural disaster to come and disrupt the tediousness that is my job.
And in the meantime, there’s always baked goods. My coworkers brought in a box of donuts for my arrival. I was touched. I was flattered. I was hungry.
Never mind the fact that I had to change my work pants this morning because the pair I put on didn’t quite fit after a 6-week lay-up. Yeah, there was a whole lot of boo-tay going on up in there. Aah, the ironies of life.
So I guess it’s back to medical writing for me. And working out. And rising early. And commuting. And conference calls. And receiving a steady paycheck.
And donuts. Don’t forget the donuts.
Friday, April 3, 2009
She's a cat. She's young, healthy, and active. She has claws and teeth. She has great hearing and the ability to see in the dark.
This is the snake in the basement:
Rather, this is the only evidence we have that a snake lives in the basement because let's face it, if I even see that sucker, let alone have the ability to pick up a camera and photograph him, I'm bricking up the basement door and calling an exorcist in, just to be on the safe side.
Now, we don't know much about Ormonde (that's his name. Naming things makes them less scary), but we DO know that
A) he lives in the basement, and has for some time now, and
B) he's getting bigger, because this is the second skin he's shedded out of. Which means he's healthy.
Now, what do Skittles and Ormonde have in common? I'll tell you. When given the option, the both eat mice. Which brings me to my next point:
Given the fact that Ormonde occupies the basement and Skittles occupies the rest of the house, WHY THE "F" DO WE HAVE A MOUSE GOING THROUGH OUR CABINETS?!?!?
Gah. Leave it to us to inherit the only cat/snake combo that seems to have no problem cohabitating with furry rodents. This is ridiculous. Come on, guys!
Skittles, I know that you sleep for 22 hours a day and that the other 2 hours are usually spent dashing around the house in a puffy-tailed frenzy being chased by invisible forces that, judging by the speed at which you run, are hell-bent on skinning you alive, but could you...you know...spare a moment from your sleeping and senseless running to catch that friggin mouse?!? I promise, I won't even scream when you leave the dead carcass in my shoe. Hell, I'll roast it up, slather it with gravy, and serve it to you on our fine china myself. Just please....for the love of god....kill that thing so it stops shitting and peeing in my cabinet drawers, forcing me to run the silverware throught the washer repeatedly to keep me from shivering in disgust.
And Ormonde. I know we've kind of been trash-talking you lately because, let's be honest, you are kind of squatting in our basement and doing the laundry now gives me the heebie-jeebies. But here's your big chance to redeem yourself. I promise, if you eat the mouse, you can stay in the basement as long as you want. Just stay invisible and don't throw any parties. Oh, wait, are you poisonous? Probably not, but if you are, then you need to go. Well, kill the mouse first, then go. Consider it a going-away present.
In the meantime, Brian says he's going to purchase some sticky traps to catch that little varmint. I'd say our chances of catching him are good, considering he's been routing through our drawers for 4 nights in a row. Mouse, prepare to meet your doom. You'd better pray you step on one of those traps, because if our cat/snake posse ever gets its shit together, you're one dead rodent. ("If" being the operative word here).
Okay, I'm off to enjoy my last weekday of freedom by cleaning and doing laundry. I hope Ormonde does me a favor and lays low while I'm down there (eeek).
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Seriously, I know it's only April 2nd, but so far, April has really sucked balls. I went to get my taxes done yesterday. Not good. Did you know that the standard deduction for taxes is about $5800? Guess how much of it I got back this year. Zero. Less than zero. WAAAYYYY less than zero. I've heard that can happen, but I didn't think it could happen to me...I actually OWE the government money this year!!! And not just a little bit of money. A whole big spankin LOAD of money. We're talking 4 figures. And this is happening about a week after I just payed my divorce lawyer another hefty 4-figure check for services rendered.
I just threw up in my mouth a little writing that.
Also, while getting screwed by the IRS, I found out that my ex had been screwing me too. Well...screwing me MORE than he already has, which is really saying something. Apparently when we were freshly separated and still "friends," he lied to me about our stimulus check. He told me that because he had filed our taxes late, we weren't eligible for the stimulus package. Made sense to me, and I didn't question it, because I'm one of the most trusting idiots on the face of the planet. Well, lesson learned. Apparently we received a $1,200 check last summer, just like every other married couple in America, and he kept the whole thing. Now, this is not surprising considering the millions of other ways that A-hole screwed me out of money, but finding 2 months after the divorce that he had taken more....well...it still infuriates me. It shouldn't, but it does. Grrrrrrrr. Grumble grrrrrrrr. I'm festering and fuming and I can feel my eyes squinting shut and my head dropping between my shoulders like Mr. Burns. This is what my ex does to me, which is why I left his sorry ass in the first place.
You are pathetic. But you probably need all that money you took from me to buy friends, because nobody would hang out with you otherwise.
Okay, I feel better now. Sorry 'bout that, folks. I try to leave my "Ex-rage" out of my blog, but I'm feeling particularly vengeful today. It won't happen again. Unless I find out that he screwed me out of MORE money while we were married. And then he's a dead man. Am I kidding? Try me...
I'm also partifularly grumpy today because I'm fighting with my previous auto insurance company. I say past because I have since moved on to Geico (which gave me a better deal anyway) after dealing with the scandalous customer service at Liberty Mutual. Seriously, they are just horrible. This is the second month in a row that I'm paying for not only my car insurance, but also my Ex's insurance as well. Despite the fact that we are divorced, the title is in his name, and he's living somewhere in Philadelphia. Despite the fact that I cancelled my policy last month.
Dear Liberty Mutual
Go train your Customer Service Representatives on how to...oh, I dunno....do their jobs. And then get it through your big fat heads that I don't live in Voorhees and haven't lived there since February of 2008, so maybe you should consider updating my address. And then eat a dick.
Oh, and did I mention we now have a mouse going through our kitchen drawers one-by-one, searching for food and in the process pooping on everything? When you have a snake living in your basement and a cat living in the rest of your house, how can you possibly have a mouse problem?!?!? Skittles needs to get in the game. I'm considering not feeding her until she catches the mouse. Hey, you call it animal abuse...I call it a highly effective bargaining strategy. That cat is worthless.
Okay, I'll wrap up this little rage-fest. Serenity now and all the rest. I have many things to be thankful of, and I just need to focus on the positive. Like, for example, I get to go back to work on Monday. No...wait....that's not positive. Okay, how about the fact that I've lost weight thsi past month....oh wait, that was muscle I lost, not fat. Hmmmm.
Alright, it's not working. Here's a pretty picture I took while canoeing with Brian the other night. Now leave me alone so I can drown in my negativity in coffee and tastycakes. Breakfast is served
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Oh right. Taxes.
I hate doing my taxes. It's probably because my mom swore to me that "once you're out of school, you'll never have to do homework again, but since you're still in school, you have to do it."
I'm not in school, but I still have to do my taxes. What gives? I'm on to you and your lies, mom!!!!
Taxes are completely confusing to me. I really don't understand write-offs and W2's and 1044 forms and the like. Honestly, not a clue. And my taxes seem ten times more daunting by the fact that I was married last year to a man who used to handle the taxes, so I have no idea how he filed or how to file that he's (thankfully) no longer in my life. Just thinking about it gives me a headache and an anxiety attack.
Soooo...I'm heading to H&R Block to have someone more intelligent than I handle them. BRILLIANT!
Yeah, I know they were involved in some million-dollar scandal in 2006, but hell, scandal or not, they still know more about filing taxes than I do. Heck, the way I figure it, they are so freaking good at filing taxes, they found ways to cheat at it. Hence...the scandal. We have a winner!
So this morning will be spent trying to wake up with the aid of copious amounts of coffee. Since I'm going back to work on Monday, I figure I'd better get used to waking up before 10:00 am (stop rolling your eyes - you'd wake up at 10:00 too if you were off on disability for 6 weeks). It's not going so well. My body now believes that 10 hours of sleep is a reasonable amount, and anything less is an obscene suggestion. ugghhhh. must. wake. up. Have they invented a coffee IV drip yet? Get on that, people!
Once I'm fully awake, I'll be heading to H&R Block (but don't tell anybody, because technically I haven't been cleared to drive by my doctor yet), and then to my physical therapy appointment where I will hopefully be cleared to work and drive, and then I'll be driving home safe and sound and covered by my auto insurance company. Fingers crossed. Of course, if the doctor said I couldn't drive or work for the next month, then I guess I'd just have to stay home for 4 more weeks. What a shame lol.
But seriously, I have to go back to work on Monday. Which sucks. But I shouldn't complain, because at least I HAVE a job, which is better than a lot of people out there.
So I guess the moral of today's post is:
Being an adult and having "adult" responsibilities blows goats. Period.
Okay, I'm off to shower and do "adult" things. I leave you with a dialogue from Calvin and Hobbes:
Calvin: The TV listings say this movie has “adult situations.” What are adult situations?
Hobbes: Probably things like going to work, paying bills and taxes, taking responsibilities...
Calvin: Wow, they don’t kid around when they say “for mature audiences.”
Hobbes: I’ve never understood how those movies make any money.