Friday, December 30, 2005

Needs hypnotism...will travel

Well, I just finished my morning run with Theresa, where we solved many dating problems (for her and our friends) and were convinced we had all the answers. Now I'm home again, where my relationship is hogging the bed and isn't making the coffee for the fifth time this week. Heh! That'll show me!

99% of the time, I look over at my giant bed lump and get all mooshy. But, he better get off his lumpus and help me find my goddamned earrings. Heh again.

At least I'm not as hysterical as last night, although I suppose it's always a good sign to actually recognize your hysteria. I am also aware that I probably should have told him, "If you don't help me look for them, I'm going to get even more upset." Because boy's are stupid. Throw rocks at them.

Late night insanity

I am losing my mind. And no this is not wedding trauma. In the past, let's say six months, I have lost my grandmother's diamond and platinum wedding band, which I have had for about ten years without so much as placing it in the wrong box. And apparently between Thursday night and today, I have also managed to lose my great great aunt's faceted onyx earrings. And I just don't DO that. I can be absentminded. I'm not arguing with anybody over that. But I don't LOSE jewelry. My family is going to murder me.

So I was tearing the apartment apart looking for the earrings...and the ring STILL, working myself into a froth of self-recrimination and convincing myself I was going insane, when A.S. comes home, begins eating MY cheese and totally ignores the panic I'm in. I realize he's been out with the boys and probably is beer sodden. I don't care about that. But if I came home and he was in a frenzy, I wouldn't just sit there chewing and staring like an IDIOT and not saying anything while he lifted the bed singlehandedly. He could have at least ACTED fucking concerned! BLINKING would have helped. GAH!

This is probably all a product of having had my space invaded, even by someone I love (please see the June post about my mother and the underpants) for a prolonged period of time. And keep in mind that my apartment is about 600 square feet and is suddenly harboring two people and the porch plants (in from the cold) and all of the Christmas loot. There isn't room to MOVE in here right now, and it's driving me crazy. The earrings could be covered in the rubble that has enveloped every stationary surface in my place. So I'm losing my earrings, my mind, my personal space. I'm about to fucking freak out!

I'm not breaking up with anyone. I'm just ranting on my blog to keep from crying and ripping my hair out. I need a little fucking understanding and I'm not getting it. Fucking men. Fucking bats. Fucking stuffy head. Fucking early onset Alzheimers. Where are those goddamned earrings!?!?

Thursday, December 29, 2005

One track mind

Wow, I have gotten NO WORK accomplished in THREE DAYS! How amazingly unproductive of me. But while typing out guest lists and potential first songs and bridesmaid lists and flower choices, I keep admiring the way my ring flashes in the fluorescent light. So pretty.

I am helpless but to obey the power of the One Ring.

Yesterday, in between searching for photographers online and vandalizing the leftover office Christmas treats, I had to go visit the allergist to see what the fuck is going inside with my head. Two months of sickness is making me wither. I could be Darth Vader’s stunt double and James Earl Jones would weep with jealousy.

At 1:30 the allergist and her team of sadists began the extensive interview process, reviewed my CT scans, tested all my vitals…then at 2:30, the stabbing began. STAB! STAB! STAB! And they had to do the stab tests sloooowwwly, lest I suddenly go into anaphylactic shock. That was super fun. I highly recommend it as a way to spend your ENTIRE AFTERNOON. And the nurse kept coming in and applying more needles, and she kept saying, “Hmmm…surprising.”

Not nice.

And then she’d say, “I’ll be back in 15 minutes, don’t scratch,” which even if you’re not itchy, makes you want to writhe around on the wool carpet, grunting like a dog in a dead squirrel (was that too descriptive?).

So the lesser stab tests shows…NOTHING! So they move on to shots under the skin. STAB! STAB! There were so many, she refused to tell me the total number. I look like something out of the Matrix, I have so many holes in regular rows all over my torso and arms. I’m HIDEOUS! At least my fiancé, A.S. (hee), was properly sympathetic when I got out of the shower this morning. And by sympathetic, I mean a look of sadness and empathy, rather than shrieking and covering his face in horror whilst waving me out of the room.

Anyway, those tests also came up blank.

The suffering! The woe! All in vain!

Apparently I’m allergic to something atypical (it’s the fucking bats, people.) and they can’t test me for it without doing some research. So I’m on massive steroids and sprays and pills and all kinds of fun things, which, hallelujah, have rendered my nose operable for the first time in 57 days.

Last night, I could smell my fiance’s minty fresh breath. Please realize that there has been no prolonged smooching for some time, since it has the same reaction as X-Men’s “Rogue” with her paramours.

(.2 seconds into smooth) Can’t…breathe…must…come…up…for…air…dyyyyying…

I lie around gaping like a fish after each bite of food even. It sucks.

Anyway, last night incurred lots of smooching. Lots and lots. And then this morning, I could SMELL! And TASTE! And I went for a run without collapsing in a ditch panting and begging for mercy, and when we ran past the waterfront park, I could actually smell bacon cooking. It was heavenly! Cheese tasted like CHEESE! Coffee tasted like COFFEE! The shnozberries tasted like SHNOZBERRIES!

Also, with the four hours spent being stabbed and abandoned, I got on the horn and booked the reception site, the church, the minister, the florist, the band…and I think that’s it. Today I booked a caterer. We’re having Spanish food and sangria (plus a regular bar) and lots and lots of CHEEEESE! Mahon, Manchego, Cabrales, Idiazabal, Iberico, Urgelia, Garrotxa, Valdeon…bring it all! God I love cheese.

So I guess maybe I haven't been totally unproductive. Just unproductive at work.

Monday, December 26, 2005

Sparkly: Short Version

Friday morning, A.S. and I decided to go for a walk in the woods at Dixie Plantation. It was a gorgeous day, warm and sunny, and my first time off since he's been in town. We tramped through the fallen leaves and watched as the dogs gamboled up the path ahead of us, frisking around merrily in the sunshine. While they went for a swim in an old rice field and bounced through the cypress knees, A.S. had his arms around me, resting his chin on top of my shoulder. And under that oak tree and sunlit sky, A.S. pulled out a red box with a diamond ring and asked me if I would marry him. And I said, "Yes."

Sparkly: Long Version

So Friday morning, A.S. asked me if I would like to go the beach. Imagining my neighbor's beastly cur dog, which I am sitting for while the Sexy Attorney is in Guatemala, streaking down the beach, disrupting a dozen family picnics and causing a violent upheaval amongst the villagers, who would attack with pitchforks and torches, I said, "Hmmm, no?"

So we took sweet Little Belle and Daisy the possum dog to Dixie Plantation instead, since it was simply gorgeous outside, and my first day off in FOREVER. Leaving town, we had an issue of potential karmic backlash involving a bag of doritoes and a gas station attendant undercharging us...we had to turn around and go check the receipt in case she would have had to pay for it out of her measly earnings. She hadn't, which made the extra stop somewhat irritating for A.S., and then, what with all the turning around, Daisy got carsick and puked in the back of A.S.'s Outback. Belle looked horrified and leapt into the front seat and gave me the Twist Mouth for forcing her to sit back there with a vomiting cur in the first place.

Then we got stuck in traffic and A.S. started foaming at the mouth, which is really unusual for him. I'm normally the one swearing hysterically at other drivers and vibrating the steering wheel. Meanwhile, I sat there in the passenger seat, knitting and talking about the time when we broke up and rattling on about nonsense and tralalala. After all, it wasn't my car that got hurled in.

When we got there, I helped A.S. by holding up the rubber matt for him to rinse off, and the nastiness came right off. Only A.S. didn't wait for me to hold the matt away from me before rinsing, so it all ran into the toes of my running shoes, which was very chilly...and gross. Still, I didn't much care about all that, although A.S. was properly apologetic. I must have been in an extraordinarily zen mood.

At last, we tramped through the fallen leaves and watched as the dogs gamboled up the path ahead of us, frisking around merrily in the sunshine. We strolled along the avenue of oaks and chatted about San Francisco and Christmas presents and happy things. While the two pooches went for a swim in an old rice field and bounced through the cypress knees, A.S. had his arms around me, resting his chin on top of my shoulder. And before I knew it, he pulled out a red box with a diamond ring (three round brilliants in platinum) and then gently turned me around and asked me if I would marry him. And I said, "Oh my God!"

And then I said, "Yes!"

And then the dogs went forgotten and shivered in their wet coats while we gazed in mesmerized fascination at the ring and the trees and each other and asked a million questions.

A.S. Did you suspect?

Jemima: Not at all! You're very sneaky! Did you ask my dad?

Of course!

WHEN? When did you ask Daddy?

Yesterday, when I helped him clean up after my party.

That was smart. Was he nice to you?


Were you nervous?

Not as much as just now.

You didn't seem nervous. Were you afraid I'd say no?

That's what my mom asked.

No way!

Yeah, but I told her I was pretty sure you'd say yes.

Why were you nervous?

I don't know. It was a big moment. I actually almost forgot to say anything.

You did?

Here, let me try again. Will you marry me?


Oh. Good.

Hey, guess what!


We're getting married!

Holy crap!

You're my fiance!

You're MY fiance.

Were you mad I didn't want to go the beach?

No, not mad. But I had this whole spot picked out.

I would have gone. I feel so guilty.

Don't feel bad. This is a perfect spot. Hey...nice ring.

And so on, ad nauseum...

Then we went and had champagne at my parents' house, my neighbors' houses, his parents' houses, a Christmas party, at a Spanish wine bar (three bottles) and then peach moonshine when we got home. And it's been like that ever since...DRUNK!

Man, we have been drunk since Friday at 3:00 without ceasing, stopping go or collecting $200. He just came in from the dove field and asked me if I'd like to go to a half dozen Christmas parties, and then we both started cackling like morons. We're staying in tonight and grilling. And not drinking. Much.

I also went and looked at churches today with my mom and sister. For like...two years. I had two country churches in mind, and they were at opposite ends of the earth, so we were in the car for about four hours and peed in the woods about six times. I liked to think that I was marking my territory. So we're getting married June 10th, and there may be cows at my reception. SO THERE!

Monday, December 19, 2005

X-Mas = Xanax

If you had stuck a fork in my eyeball on Saturday, it would have been the nicest thing that happened to me all day.

I had to go to the MALL (shudder), which was completely filled with short old people, with giant perms shellacked to withstand gale force winds. They surrounded me in the Belk’s men’s department, waving shirts at me and demanding Stafford oxfords, while I suffered a sinking spell and grasped a display of men’s tidy whities for support. “I DON’T WORK HERE!” I shrieked, flogging them with a display of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer ties and stampeding for the NE (or was it NW) exit. I was so befuddled that I accidentally purchased half poly boxers for A.S. Rather than return them for 100% cotton, he’s just going to have to chafe. Because. I’m. Not. Going. Back.

So, synthetic fiber aside, I am now officially finished with Christmas shopping. *ting*

We here at Rutledge Place have exchanged gifts, and I think mine were received okay. I brought all the boys mugs from The Jones Pottery in Ashville, where my friend Matt Jones has his studio in the barn next to his house. His ceramics are beautiful, with all of these natural glazes and local clay. For the girls I bought knitting lessons, so we’d all have an excuse to do something together. I’m bringing wine (white) and cheese (mmm, cheese) and have purchased gift cards for them for the lessons. I’m a little concerned that I should have bought everyone needles and a ball of yarn, but I didn’t know what color they’d want. Maybe I should ask Molly at Knit to include that as part of the gift and bill me afterwards. The envelopes with the gift cards were pretty cute—I tied them closed with this multi-colored yarn and made little yarn balls on one end and hot glue gunned colored toothpicks together to look like knitting needles for each gift. The only person I’m not sure liked it is my neighbor Wes’ girlfriend. She’s awfully nice, and I thought she might like to get away from the house (she just moved in with him from NY) and hang out with some girls. But knitting might not be her thing. Oh well, she feigned pleasure at least.

Speaking of knitting, A.S.’s scarf is so beautiful, I could barely stand to wrap it and put it under George, our Christmas tree. By the way, “George” is French and has an accent, so A.S. has been speaking to him in French, which cracks me up. Over breakfast yesterday, he kept talking (en Francais) about what a bright future George has, perhaps in a park, with flowers, children…maybe even cows. “COWS?!” I said, “Where the hell are planning to take George?”

George is about a foot tall with tiny lights and tiny ornaments. We are very fond of George. A cow pooping on him could kill him.

Anyway, A.S. is going to luuuurve his scarf. He is also getting slippers, since he covets my sock monkey slippers, and about 12 pairs of boxers. His underpants are all in tatters, which is so sorry. If we get in a car wreck, the paramedics will think I don’t love him.

Everyone has been asking me if I think A.S. will propose this Christmas, and frankly, I don’t want to think about it at all. It is extremely unlikely that he will do any of that until after he graduates, which is a pain in my ass planning-wise, but I refuse to be one of those nagging women begging for a ring. I do have my pride. But what really sucks is that I wasn’t thinking about it very much until three people brought it up in a single day, and now it’s on my mind and driving me crazy. I’ve done that before, and it just leads to disappointment and surliness. With that mindset, if he bought me a G5 and a trip to Venice, I’d still be pissed because I didn’t get a proposal, and that’s just silly.

His 30th party is nearly upon us, and I have started to get that queasy feeling that means I’m forgetting something or someone. I have to make chili and cakes for 40. My dad’s already bought firewood and has ordered the oysters and beer. Mom is making dip and cornbread. A.S.’s mother is bringing wine. I am picking up tombstones and vulture balloons. WHAT ELSE IS THERE? GAH!

I also spent HOURS last night making oreo truffles. The only ONLY good thing about them is that they make me hate oreos with a passion usually reserved for right wing political figures. And if anyone has seen me polish off an entire bag of oreos singlehandedly, they know that I must be really sick of making truffles. They are for work friends and people I don’t see very often, and also for those people who drop by unexpectedly with a present and make me feel awkward. So I have about 40 baggies of little truffles and the sight of them makes me stiffen and wretch. Bleh. Bleh. Bleh. The only reason I still make them is that everyone LOVES them and begs me to make them, and I figure that once a year, I probably deserve a little suffering.

Monday, December 12, 2005


Don't you just luuurve it when doctors actually show concern for your ailments? Rather than nodding, mumbling and writing you a potentially useless prescription, I like it when they raise eyebrows, ask questions and make appropriately sympathetic noises. Well, my doctor was VERY dismayed that I had been sick for 38 or so days and agreed I should see an allergist and also slapped me on Augmentin, which should kill every last bacteria in my entire body, say Amen, say Boomshakalaka. And I saw when she wrote out the allergist referral, she wrote "AND BAT GUANO" in all caps, just like I typed it. See, I'm not the only one concerned about the possibility of hystoplasmosis. I got nothing against bats, but their poop, I no like so much.

Anyway, they drew mass amounts of blood. Like vats of it. Gouts of it. It was like a colossal draining, a letting if you will. I don't miiiind it so much, and on someone else I could care less. But I can't really look at my own. The time before last when I donated blood, I was either low blood sugar or just went all goofy, but ultimately I passed out and had convulsions. Boy, people sure are nice to you after they've watched you bounce about on the floor with just the whites of your eyes showing. All the cookies you can handle. Then the last time I gave blood, the untrained volunteer forgot about me, and I sat there, with my little baggie swelling and swelling at a most alarming rate, and I finally picked it up and trotted around until I found someone who knew how the hell to cut the thing off. Fortunately for me, after you spend any amount of time in an African country, they're not so keen to take your blood anymore. Too many creepy crawlies, so i haven't donated blood in years. Huh, nothing a little Augmentin can't handle.

At any rate, I'm certain that I'm on the mend, which is great news. Even better news is that my sweet little Aloysius is getting maaaarried. It's like that little girl in Father of the Bride, when Steve Martin looks at his daughter and all of a sudden she's four with pigtails and announces she's met a man and she's engaged and they're in love and getting marrrried. Only I didn't know Aloysius when she was little. Nor am I that much older than she is to have flashbacks of this sort. But still, I hadn't done more than look at the picture before calling and shrieking hoarsely in her ear (imagine Marge Simpson's sisters shrieking), "OHHH MY GOD! I CAN'T BELIEVE IT! I'M SO HAPPY FOR YOU!" What's funny is that she started out having such a crummy year, what with being usurped by the Asshat Former Boss and temporary poverty. And now, she's moved cities, started a new career, bought a house and embarked on a new life with her love.

I'm so proud of you, Al, and happy for you!

Sunday, December 11, 2005

The Dog and I...

...are sitting on my newly upholstered couch watching Two Towers and lusting after Aragorn. Well, I know am. She's just tending to her personal hygiene, which leads me to believe she is also.

Why does Liv Tyler speak in this dramatic whisper for the entire trilogy? I love her, and she's a hot elf, but she does overdo the whisper. And Elrond is and will always be Agent Smith from the Matrix, no matter how many elves he plays. I keep expecting him to say, "How can you french my daughter, Mr. Aragorn, if you have no mouth?"

And Cate Blanchett just sucks in these movies. It's like listening to Cher sing with that crazy electronic booster. It's. Just. Not. Real.

Got up and went on a 8 mile run with the CTO and his wife, and it was cold as a witch's left tit in a brass bra at the bottom of a thirty foot well on the north end of an iceberg. Jesus, it was cold. Coming across the Cooper River Bridge, you could actually lean on the Arctic headwind. Starbucks has never tasted so good.

Then I came home and started the cleaning again. Vacuumed, mopped, dusted, took everything off of every shelf and cleaned it all, cleaned the curtains, washed the blankets...I even cloroxed the damned walls. And guess what, I still feel gross. Maybe all that vacuuming just stirs up the mold and dust mites and whatnot. My apartment is like the snow globe of allergens, dammit. The doctor is seeing me first thing tomorrow, and I think I'm going to collapse sobbing on her feet and beg her to do something. ANYthing!

And I HATE cleaning.

Actually, to tell you the trust, it still doesn't look all that tidy in here. Heh. That's kind of funny actually. The futility of cleaning.

I finished A.S.'s scarf yesterday, but I've forgotten how to cast off, so I have to wait until Tuesday to take it to the nice Knit ladies to help me, because they're CLOSED Sundays and Mondays. CLOSED! (drawn out wail of dispair) And I have to buy some more yarn to do the fringe, and I can't remember how to do that either. Amazing how the mind goes. But I hate waiting! I'm so close to being completely done with it, and now I have to wait. Boo.

With what little sense of smell I have left, my simmering pot of split pea soup smells awfully good. I wish it was done now.

Saturday, December 10, 2005

The Blog of Ingratitude

Here was my Christmas list this year:

The Silver Spoon cookbook
Black dress coat
iPod armband
Christmas ornaments
Aveda makeup products
Brush pants for hunting

Here is what my mom will actually get me from that list:


She asks for and receives a specific Christmas list from me every year, and then I guess she rolls it up and smokes it, because every year she just takes a flying leap into the alternate Christmas Present Universe.

I asked her for a black winter dress coat a couple of years ago too, and when I opened the box on Christmas morning, expecting wool, I got…velvet? She had handmade a floor length silk velvet opera cape lined in white taffeta. Gorgeous yes, but oh so practical for those business meetings in Kansas.

Does Mom actually imagine that my lifestyle requires this kind of drama? If only!

The year I asked for a new suit, she was thrilled to find me a high ruffle-necked black corduroy Anne of Green Gables-esque poufy thing she found in Nova Scotia that was neither cool nor retro nor Goth nor classic...just very ugly. I don’t know what goes through that woman’s mind sometimes. What made her look at THAT and say, “Sarah must have it!”

Shit, I’d take cash if she’d give it to me and let me go buy my own damned coat. I actually even showed her the one I wanted on Bluefly and she said, “Oh, I already got you something [red flag], but I’ll go in for half if you want a coat.” WHAT THE HELL! That was the one thing I told her I really really really wanted (and needed). I’m pretty sure she purchased some wretched pink tweed skirt and brown quilted jacket for me, although she passed it off as a gift for my sister, who won’t like it any more than I will. It even had shoulder pads. DOOOOOOM!!!

Apparently I am not the only one whose mother smokes a little holiday rock and then goes shopping. My friend Bear says, “My parents know by now to not go off the reservation when selecting presents for me. I am the world's absolute worst actor when it comes to feigning joy at receiving gifts like the Drakkar Noir gift set, or a set of Pooh Bear candles.”

I guess those would be right up there with holiday sweaters, since all three of those items are guaranteed not to get you laid by any decent woman ever again.

Anyway, I decided to get Mom something she can’t help but love this year, a raspberry colored cashmere cable knit sweater. And no, I’m not knitting it. If I tried that, it would end up looking like a straitjacket and take me two years to make. But maybe when she gives me a mustard yellow, sequined, llama-fur, lace trimmed, matador’s jacket instead of the plain black coat I asked for, she’ll feel guilty as hell and give me the receipt.

See…I’m going straight to hell for pooping on the spirit of Christmas.

Friday, December 09, 2005

I'm touching his present right now...

After picking up groceries for our cheapass potluck holiday work party, and immediately before racing off to my former English teacher's Christmas party with the awful hors d'oeuvres and jug wine, I popped into my new favorite store, Knit ( I've been meaning to go in for ages, but it's always closed by the time I get off work. But I read in Skirt that they had a Stitch N'Bitch and would be open late.

The store is so great and full of these really wry and funny women and their very small dogs. I bemoaned the fact that it had taken me so long to come in, and the owner told me to just call and she'd stay open late if I needed something. And she even asked where I live (about four blocks away) and then said, "Oh, I can deliver there."


Deliver? Is ANYONE this friendly anymore? I want to quit my job and work with the nice knitting ladies.

So I finally decided what to get A.S. for Christmas--I'm knitting him a scarf. I've done about a foot already tonight in this gorgeous grey alpaca wool. It's soooo soft. I'd forgotten how therapeutic knitting and crocheting are, since I haven't made anything since high school. I have these new bamboo knitting needles that click so nicely and make me want to drink tea, and still not get a cat, and I don't even want to go to sleep, but just knit all night long.

Thursday, December 08, 2005

The sneezing had got to stop

I used to enjoy a good sneeze. You know, it was a little break in the tension, a justifiable explosion that almost always elicited a response, at least a “Bless You” if not a “Jesus Christ! Are you OKAY?” (I’m a loud sneezer.) It was pretty satisfying. However, after nearly a month of sneezing about a hundred times a day, let me just say…I am over the sneezing.

I keep a roll of toilet paper on my desk now, and I go through about a third of it every blessed day. My trashcan overfloweth. My coworkers glare at me and douse themselves in melon-scented Purell. I’m tired and haggard and look like hell. My nose is peeling. I wake up all night long to sneeze. I’ve taken antibiotics, Mucinex, Sudafed, Tylenol Allergy Sinus, Vitamins, Immunity Boosters, cleaned my house…what more can I do?


It's got to be this house, since I feel awful half an hour after walking through the door, and worst in the morning. By one o'clock in the afternoon, I'm usually feeling normal again, having been away from this den of snot for about five hours. It's probably the five years' (bless me, I sneezed again) worth of bat guano dust I've been breathing through the walls and floors. Mark my words, they're going to make a CSI episode out of me one of these days. And when they do, I want all of you to tell the blonde agent, "The landlord knew!"

Wednesday, December 07, 2005


The Architecture Student turns 30 on Sunday! He’s taking it a little hard, probably because he never thought he’d be thirty and still in school, so to cheer him up, I am planning the most marvelous party. I wish I could figure out how to post pictures and change font from this Mac (none of my options actually show up in my New Entry box anymore), because the invitations are fab. I scanned this photograph from the Sexy Attorney’s foyer, with this toothless old geezer in a Parisian café, grinning wickedly from under his beret. Then on the back, I printed:

He’s ancient! He’s old!
He’s feeling the cold!
So for his soiree,
wear your toupee,
your best cane or wig;
old age is the gig!

The Dress is “Geezer.”

I know the poem is rotten, but I was under serious time constraint…as in “five minutes because they have to go out TODAY.” So A.S. is aware that I am throwing him a party, but he doesn’t know everyone will be wearing wigs and canes and suspenders. Boy, is he going to be mad. This time of year, tombstone decorations are very reasonable. Apparently there are big vulture balloons you can purchase that say something like, “Your youth is dead.”

Anyway, I’ve invited all of his closest friends and family, and a few of mine, and we’re having an oyster roast with chili and beer, and cake and cookies, and a big fire in the biggest syrup kettle I’ve ever seen (like a shallow, cast iron bowl used for making cane sugar). It’s as big as a tractor tire. Anyway, Mom has redone the backyard, so we’re all going to my parents’ house for the party. It’s going to be excellent…although about a week and a half after his actual birthday. On his real birthday, he’ll be staring bleary-eyed at his thesis project, preparing for his huge presentations on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. Gross. What a wretched way to spend a birthday.

From here on out, I decree that all birthdays should be spent on tropical islands nursing fruity bevvies with little umbrellas. All those in favor?

Tuesday, December 06, 2005


Ahhh, soup. I know Bonfires doesn’t like it, but I have to say that on a rainy crap day, there is nothing quite so nice as a bowl so hot, it steams your face while you eat it. Right at this very instant I am hovering above a bowl of bean soup, all cozy in my sock monkey slippers at the kitchen table, just me and my PowerBook and my vat of soup. I soaked the beans overnight, rinsing and swirling and draining and resoaking, and removing all beans that weren’t pearly and unblemished. Then I made a mirepoix, chopping everything so fine, weeping from the onions, and browning my salty hambones in the heavy cast iron skillet until the kitchen smelled positively heavenly.

Don’t you just love that word?




Then I simmered the stock overnight, barely stirring, skimming off any fat, so the broth was clear and rich, waking up to the kitchen windows all fogged up from my soup sauna. Then it all went into my crockpot (first time use), layering beans/broth/shreds of ham, three hours of cooking on Low, and the resulting bean soup could raise the dead. I’ve actually been driving home for lunch so that I can sit in front of my lovely antique gas heater in my gold velvet armchair, eating soup in relative peace. It’s like a mini winter holiday every afternoon.

Of course…then I have to go back to the shouting.

Sunday, December 04, 2005

Hee Hee! Blervghsjanadf!

Ooh, very good tree trimming party at the Sexy Attorney's. Brandy Alexanders + champagne + Nantucket Sleigh Rides (not sure about the Nantucket part) and lots of hors d'oeuvres...salmon and brie and shrimp and bean thingy (not all together). So much boozey goodness. And you should see my new Christmas cards--George Bush viewing the body of the late Pope, with a thought bubble, saying, "Who killed Santa?" SACRILICIOUS!!!

It was a lovely way to end an excellent weekend of camping and hiking and scromping (lovely college word) in a tent and buying fabulous ceramics from a potter friend. A quick shower and festive getup and then someone hands me a frozen, ice creamy bevvie with nutmeg and vanilla ice cream and a heavily laden holiday brandy buzz, and man, I LOVE living here. The Wench started an accidental drunken racial slurring (insinuating that all black people must know each other), which made all of us launch into some kind of tirade, like asking the Sexy Attorney why she didn't have a sombrero tree topper and how strange it was that she is Latino and yet has a law degree. I think I asked her if she bought her degree online, and we all snorted Brandy Alexanders out of our noses. Wench was a great sport, as always, even when we called for another "Brandy for the Bigot!" In all fairness, she was wasted, and I think something came out wrong without her realizing it, and Vince aside, we're all pretty damned liberal around here, poor thing, so she really got it. And drunk. Let's not forget drunk. Ben was photographing everyone's cleavage--convenient for him, since he's 6'7". Ooh, and he brought the gay merman ornament for the tree. Amanda brought the Jesus sock monkey. Even the dog was drunk, since she got into everyone's empty glasses. We all directed Daisy to keep one paw on the floor at all times.

Sounds like Amanda is downstairs listening to Angst Rock right now. My floor is vibrating.

We also looked online to see if any good bands are playing for New Years this year. Alas, none are. We checked Seattle, Austin, New York, Chicago, Prague, Paris, London, someplace in Spain I am too drunk to remember, San Francisco, etc, etc, and NO ONE is playing. What the? I guess we just lucked out last year...

Oof, so tired. Oh and out of champagne. Boo.

Thursday, December 01, 2005

Saddlebags and Eyebags

So my eccentric godmother says to me tonight, "You look tired." Considering I was taking her to Harry Potter, you think she could have reserved judgement until I'd finished signing the credit slip. Harumph.

Well, I am tired. I've been staying up late reading (Five Quarters of the Orange, which was fabulous.) and getting up early to go running. And sneezing. Let's not forget the sneezing.

At least I've been using my fancy gym membership, rather than just pouring the money down the drain...along with the delicious Aveda products they have in the showers. Ooh, I finally used one of the gym showers tonight. And because my mother would be so paranoid, yes, I wore freaking flip flops. She's made me so petrified of public bathrooms, I couldn't sit on a public toilet and actually accomplish anything for a million dollars. It can be quite crippling really. But I actually left the gym smelling like a rose today, with freshly blow dried hair and newly applied makeup. God, I'm such a starlet. However, my paunch remains undiminished, dammitohell.

Architecture Student apologized for being a turd on the phone last night. AND he's going to meet me in the mountains, so I only have to drive 4.5 hours instead of 6. At least I have downloaded more books to burn on CD, so i'll have something to keep me occupied. And it's Don Quixote, so I think I actually have about a month's worth of listening...the narrator better be stellar.

Tuesday, November 29, 2005

grump, grump, grump

Christ, had to go to the dentist this morning for a filling on a top, most inaccessible molar. Ended up only needing to be smoothed, not filled, but the effing dentist slashed my gum and it hurt and bled like the freaking Inquisition, and now my mouth tastes like shit...that flouride crap combined with ground calcium smell. Gross. Am feeling very sorry for myself, although I should be grateful they didn’t have to drill (shudder).

Don't you think it's a little rude when the dentist applies the vile flouride goo and THEN tells you, 'Oh, by the way, you can't eat for six hours. Byee!" It was 10 o'clock in the morning, and that meant I couldn't eat anything until FOUR O'CLOCK! If I'd have known that beforehand, I would have eaten more then toast. Maybe a whole loaf of toast. With bacon. So by about three, I was having sinking spells and wanting to die in general, and every time I'd look at my coworkers, I'd envision them as Oreos and had to resist biting their heads off and dunking them in milk. And why is it that when someone says you CAN'T eat, instantly you NEED to? Like when you have to have some procedure and the surgeon says no food after midnight...I'm always ravenous at about 12:30. (I say always as though it has happened more than once.) Anyway, by 5:30 when it was time to leave work, I was about to snap off my own arm and sit there all wild eyed with this twitching, flapping arm sticking out of my mouth. I figured while my coworkers ran amock shrieking in horror, I could loot their desks for snacks. Fortunately, my friend The Wench rescued me and took me for pimiento burgers....Mmmm, I get a warm feeling just thinking about it. Pimiento cheeeeeeese.

Is anyone else totally pissed that they booted off Kim from America's Next Top Model? They kept the thief and threw off the lipstick lesbian? What the?

Also, A.S. was being totally irritating tonight. And I KNOW that my friends who may or may not read this are rolling their eyes and saying how ungrateful I am. Well, I'm ALLOWED to be annoyed with him sometimes. Plus, this is MY blog. I can tell when he's calling from the studio, because he's four beats behind the conversation at all times. And he answers everything with, "What?" before catching up. And he's incapable of making a decision because he's thinking about fourteen other things at the same time. And since the topic we were discussing was whether I would meet him in the mountains on Friday night or drive two hours out of my way to meet him at his apartment and stay there until Saturday (thereby wasting time that could be spent romping in a tent), I think he could afford to pay just the slightest amount of attention. After all, it is my weekend too.

Grump, grump.

Oh, and I have to take my cable box in for repair because it's only showing half of my channels. This is just what I've been dreading. I do without cable for almost 30 years, and then I have it for six months and it's become NEEDY. It needs repair. It needs to be paid. It needs upgrading. Maybe I should just cancel the damned thing. All it does it make me watch vile shows about dead people and keep me awake all night--CSI and Law and Order and Special Victim Units and the Closer and such. How revolting.

On the bright side, I get paid on the first, and my raise should kick in retroactively! Hooray! And maybe I'll finally get paid for some freelance work (I won't hold my breath)! Then I can maybe actually buy Christmas presents for people. At this rate, I'll be able to afford a nice bar of soap for everyone. A small bar. Unscented.

Monday, November 28, 2005

Turkey Coma

Is anyone else out there still eating turkey for at least one meal a day? It makes me feel awfully guilty that I didn't send people home with leftovers. But in my defense, I was drunk.

It was fabulous having everyone over for dinner, and the sheer volume of food was fairly impressive. Architecture Student and I had been slaving over the stove for about five hours when everyone got there, and I have to say, my vegetarian gravy was rock star perfect. In fact, the Lacto Pescetarian ate it as soup tonight, although she had to call me and tell me that she was really enjoying it...until she thought hard about it and decided that it might be a stain on one's character to eat a bowl of gravy for dinner. Anyway, it was all mushroom stock and roasted mushroom puree and toasted barley, so there wasn't anything bad in it. Hard to believe anything could taste that good with neither butter nor cream in it. Almost all of my recipes start with "take a stick of butter." It smelled heavenly, but I think Amanda was the only one who ate any. Everyone else took the meaty route.

For all of you who have been over to see Nothing But Bonfire's Porncake, let me just tell you that it was I who ate the last gigantic piece, sitting in front of the television watching Boston Public and not even bothering with a separate plate. ME! ME! ME! And yes, I ate it directly off of the giant glass pedestal cake plate. But I did use utensils.

Speaking of the Porncake, I was at the gym tonight, scrutinizing the fourth packet of cream cheese expanding on my thighs, when I realized with horror that my BOSS was downstairs. Yea Gods, the horror! Do YOU really want to see your bunghole employer whilst wearing yellow short shorts and all sweaty from the elliptical? Me neither. The other coworker was in there as well, so I was sort of obligated to go speak. WHO WANTS TO SOCIALIZE OUTSIDE OF WORK? Gross. Anyway, at least they weren't witness to my falling into the inner workings of the elliptical and being savagely mangled. I'd never hear the end of it. How in the hell are you supposed to be able to read the latest issue of Vanity Fair if you have to hold on with both hands?

So I am determined to be svelte in time for Christmas, since apparently running a marathon makes you blimp out. What the fuck, people? What kind of cosmic joke is it that I have run 26 miles and trained my ass off, only to have aforementioned ass come back with friends? I have, like, FOUR asses now. And a paunch. It would help if the people in my office would cease with the Krispy Kreme, pumpkin pie, chocolate chip cake distribution, the homecooking mother fuckers! I have all the will power of a crack addicted gutter monkey at fraternity rush.

Monday, November 21, 2005


Isn't it funny when you go to the gym and see people who have absolutely no idea what they're doing who make you feel totally smug and superior? I saw a girl on the elliptical who had the resistance set to "concrete slurry," so she had to hold on with both hands and heave-ho to make the step go back down. Later on I saw her on the rowing machine with the weight set to, "Jemima's weekly cheese purchase," so she had to arch her back and stand up to pull it down. That just can't be very effective. Still, she didn't have so much as an ounce of cellulite, so maybe her technique isn't so bad after all. Hmph.

Unfortunately, I noticed a coworker who has joined the same gym in the month since I've set foot in the door, and apparently he goes ALL THE TIME. Now I like this person just fine, and he's awfully funny, but when you're all sweaty and gross and wearing grey cotton, do you really want to see your boss' right hand man? Still, I did notice his so-not-corporate armband tattoo, which kind of brings him down to earth.

So I'm feeling quite pure, as though I have worked off at least one of the fourteen dozen chocolate chip cookies i ate today at the office. I fully expect my new jeans to glide sleekly over my hips when I try them on tomorrow.

In other saintly news, my apartment is once more a sterile environment, vacuumed, dusted, polished, mopped, filed, sorted, Good Willed and thrown away. I'm sure A.S. will ruin it five seconds after waltzing through the door, because instantaneous mess is one of his many talents. However, i care not as long as he'll exercise other talents while he's home. After all, I am making Thanksgiving dinner, therefore I deserve copious amounts of talent.

Speaking of dinner, great huzzahs to Jemima for avoiding the Thanksgiving brouhaha with the excessive amount of family due in town this Thursday afternoon. Everyone is going to my sister's in-law's house, where there will be loud televisions and even louder twin boys (age 2) and about 30 people and asparagus salad with MAYONNAISE. Any of these things would be enough to make me sink into a bog of horror and dread, so I have invited A.S., two of my neighbors, Nothing But Bonfires and her boyfriend to dine avec moi. I'm not certain if Bonfires is technically allowed to eat turkey, since she's British...or is it firecrackers on Fourth of July? ...anyway, she can do whatever she damnwell pleases, since she's making her caramel toffee porncake (quiver, flutter, pitter pat, swoon). It used to be cheesecake, but after I started having sex dreams about it, I rechristened it "The Porncake." Oh, the caramelly, deliciousness...

Amanda is making her macaroni and cheese casserole (MINE! ALL MINE!), and I am making butternut squash roasted with fistfuls of garlic cloves and also shrimp pie with wine and puff pastry crust. God, the whole concept makes my toes curl and my eyes go all steamy. I am so thankful for Thanksgiving.

Sunday, November 20, 2005

A Satisfying Day

Ah, my floor is now covered in a pleasing array of bags. I hate me some shopping, but this time I had a list! The main purchases, which are making me particularly happy, are various Aveda eyeshadows and Phyto hair serum and a new pair of Lucky jeans with a black belt that should make my ass appear, if not small, at least perky. The eyeshadows and hair stuff are the second beauty purchase I have made that excludes animal-tested products. No more Clinique and Mac for me.! I do miss the Mac packaging, but Aveda has nice metal compacts that are refillable, so less waste!

We have a new Urban Outfitters now, but I have to say that 45 minutes after watching my neighbors browse through the piles of ridiculous crap and cheap, ugly clothes, I wanted to throw myself in front of a bus. It makes me feel like I'm five again..."CAN WE LEAVE YET? UUUUUNNNNGGGGHHHHH!!!!! I'M BORED! I HAVE TO PEE! I'M HUNGRYYYY!!! WHIIIINE!"

Vile Dog

Rather than spend another night looking after Old Tampax, I called its owner and said that she had gotten into my NEIGHBOR'S trashcan, and "God only knows what she got into." I figure it was best that he not associate his dog's ass with my almost ass with me sitting only a few feet from his desk. It's just not necessary. So Andrew is going to have to follow her around and APPLY himself to the task of cleaning up her cottony poops (Holly, that's as close as I could get to "applicator.").

Fucking dog.

I've just returned to the sanctity of Rutledge Place (where my neighbors handed me a pint glass of mimosa and some fried oysters with grits and garlic scrambled eggs. Goddammit, I love my house) after a night tending the Bean in her feverish, tantruming state. And USC lost to Clemson, so all is doom and woe and a great wailing over all the land. And of course, A.S had to call last night to rub it in.


Jemima: Hello?

AS: Hi, how are you?

Jemima: Okay... [waiting for the taunting]

AS: Did you see the game? The CLEMSON vs. Carolina game which USC did not win and Clemson did win and you lost?

Jemima: Hello? Hello? You're breaking up! Are you there?

AS: What? What!

Jemima: [CLICK!]


Jemima: Hello?

AS: Did you just hang up on me? [incredulously]

Jemima: What are you talking about?

AS: Well, I was just saying that USC...

Jemima: Wait! I can't hear you!


Jemima: Stinking sore loser, hell! You the bitch that got hung up on!

Friday, November 18, 2005

Woo would never have done this to me

What a vile way to wake up in the morning. Not only was there the panic followed by the horror followed by the fury closely followed by despair. This disgusting, revolting, hideous dog snuck into my bathroom last night and ate all my tampons. And the tampons. They were used.

You may ask why I don't flush these things, and it's because of the old plumbing. You may ask why this dog is still gimping around my apartment--and by this, I mean why is she not dead. Well, because she's not mine.

But I really did not enjoy calling the emergency vet and disussing the number (3 to 4) and absorbency (regular) of these tampons with a kind, yet obnoxiously amused woman.

And I sure as HELL am not going to enjoy instructing my coworker, Andrew, that if his old dog can't shit, grab the little string and pull.

Said dog is pacing around and licking my hardwood floors, and every time I screech, she gives me this long-suffering, martyred expression. Fucking dog. Woo may have been foul enough to roll in dead turtles, but she never interfered with feminine hygiene products, for chrissake.

NEVER BUY A LAB, PEOPLE!!! Buy a mix breed, buy a poodle, I don't fucking care, but Labs are putrid, pig-type dogs that are not to be trusted.

Haha, her stomach is burbling. Serves her right.

So anyway, rather than explain to Andrew about the tampon eating, should I just say that my neice is sick and I had to run take care of her and I didn't want to leave Alex so I brought her with me and I'll bring her back on Saturday, when God willing, all of the cotton will have passed? He's back at six and who knows how long it takes to get that out.


Tuesday, November 15, 2005

Can't run faster than Charlie the Horse


Forgive me for shrieking, but I am bowed up with leg cramps. Stupid pointy heels. I shot out of bed at four this morning clutching my calf and swearing and it's only gotten worse. And yes, I've eaten bananas.

Not nice.

Then I had to get up at six to run for the first time since the marathon (lazy bastard that I am). So spent all day dragging around in a fog with three hours' sleep PLUS had the completion of my six month (nine month actually) review. The boss was interrupting me left and right and screaming at me about some unfinished project when I decided things were getting entirely out of hand. So I said, "May I please finish what I was saying...You're sitting here yelling at me about X, Y and Z, which you will recall I asked you to assist me with six weeks ago with constant reminders since then. I am one person doing the work of about six, plus half of your sales research. If it was so all-fired important, then you would have made it a priority and responded to my about that raise."

So I got my raise, retroactive to August (sweet) and actually made him apologize. Of course, then he went off and yelled at his poor acocunt execs. At least I'm not those poor guys.

Right now I am also taking care of a coworkers yellow Lab. She's a sweet old girl, but quite unable to get up and down my stairs alone, as she's about 12. But I certainly don't want to stay at the male coworker's house, because that's just kind of ew. Is it mean to make the old dog sleep at her house alone if I go there to let her out about five times a day? She's pacing around my apartment at the mo, and I think she needs to go out, but I'm a little concerned about carrying her down three flights of stairs in the rain. Groan.

Sweet Revenge

The last twenty-four hours have involved several run-ins with the law.

My housing situation is pretty sweet, which I think I've mentioned before. So, my neighbors and A.S. and I were in the Back 40 roasting some oysters and enjoying a pleasant bonfire last night, when suddently the dogs take off like their tails are on fire and race off to bark at the firemen who are traipsing down the driveway. The Lacto-Pescetarian, who I have decided to call Amanda, because that is her name, and Vinny went off to go chat with them. They agreed that our fire was legal but said that there had been a complaint from one of our neighbors and that if the neighbors complained again, we would have to put it out.

So they five of us went back to drinking our bourbon and chatting merrily and eating more oysters, and an hour later, the firemen are back, all four of them deeply apologetic. Apparently the biggest ass holes in the universe, our hypocritical neighbors, had complained again. So Vince goes into overkill mode, dumping vats of ice and spraying it with the fire extinguisher, while these poor hottie firemen sit there wringing their hands, surrounded by sexy girls eating oysters who are deeply inebriated. We invited them to join us, figuring that would really chap the evil next door neighbors, but they were on duty. So then we asked them to please do the siren when they left, since that was bound to piss off our neighbors more than our little party, so they tooted off around the corner to great huzzahs from us.

Anyway, to make a long story short, this meant war. We have put up with so much shit from these neighbors of ours. They bought the house next door a little less than five years ago and built a little house behind it to live in while renovating. That took a year of cement trucks and hammering and workmen. Then the big house took three more years of lead paint chips, yard destruction, masonry saws at 6:30 a.m., scaffolding blocking the driveway, perverts looking in the windows from their roof, a ruined antique brick driveway, spilled cement, etc. So they have some serious goddamn unmitigated gall to act offended when we sit around to a harmless little bonfire now.

First, it is a well known fact that they hate frogs...or probably nature of any kind. Bring on the toads. We are going to set up a toad and tree frog breeding farm in the backyard. And we're buying some of those remote control frog noisemakers which we will somehow attach outside their bedroom window. Next we're tossing wildflower seed in their front yard so they're ridden with weeds. Also, up till now, we've ignored their deeply obnoxious yip dog, Strudel, the most horrible schnauzer. From now on, whenever Strudel yips, we're calling Animal Control. (They used to pawn her off on various of my neighbors for weeks at a time while they went on vacation, and have conveniently forgotten how obliging we've been to them in the past.) We've also already purchased a fire cage, gotten approval from the fire marshall, called for permission for an oyster roast tonight, and had a very ostentatious inaugural burning tonight, while they paced to and fro up and down their stairs, peering out the window. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! Fuckers!

If anyone else has ideas for various other non-arrestable ways to annoy the neighbors, by all means, let me know. Trust me, they deserve it. They are genuinely awful people.

Oh, speaking of awful, I also got pulled for speeding today. But I only got a warning, and the cop was awfully nice and understanding. See, two types of law enforcement, and they've all been friendly and on our side.

Friday, November 11, 2005


A Snart is a combination of a sneeze and a fart. But it wasn't me. Apparently everyone in my office is sick, including my boss, (and that wasn't me either, unless wishing made it happen). We need to hire someone to cropdust the building in Lysol, because it's just a pit of germs and disease and pestilence and snot. Anyway, I was strolling by the receptionist's desk to fax something and damned if she didn't snart. Fast U-turn.

I'm presently sitting in the local Mini service department waiting for this useless shower of bastards to fix the same problem they've apparently ignored for two straight visits in as many weeks. I sent a Bite Me letter to their national headquarters, and while I ordinarily wouldn't think this would do any good, Mini actually seems to very on top of things like this. They'll probably fire everyone in the office by 5:00 today. Dammit, I hope so. When I'm back in next week, it'll be nice to see some new faces around here.

So A.S. gets into town this evening, which is wonderful. However, my apartment is filled with dust and molds and mites and germs, and my nose looks like a coke addict's and I probably have sick breath. Plus, my little visitor has finally arrived (thank Christ, I can stop eating cottage cheese and hot pickle and granola and chocolate all at once) five days late (stupid marathon) but better late than breast feeding. So I'm really terribly attractive, bloated with processed foods and PMS complexion. And really, the squalor of Jemima's house is kind of incredible. I'm trying to figure out how I can clean the fridge, do a week's worth of dishes, take out the trash, vacuum, clean the bathroom, and do laundry all in the 45 minutes I'll have between work and his arrival. And that will be the bare minimum it will take to make it habitable for a decent person. I've just been building a wall of mess around me for days...tissues, soup bowls, candy wrappers. There are rings of the stuff around the couch, bed and potty.

I am a bad, bad person.

Thursday, November 10, 2005

Oh the incompetence

So I get to work early, right, to get that press release finished by 8:00. It was good stuff too, if I do say so myself. Very aggressive writing, punchy, dripping with nuance. Anyway, I send it to my boss, fully expecting him to leap on it and turn it around so we can get it to Puerto Rico immediately. Because after he ruined my night and left me voicemails and emails about what an emergency this was, he's definitely going to pounce on it right away...or by noon...or by afternoon...or maybe by freaking close of business???? WTF?

So I finally badger him into scanning it (several emails later) and he sends it back saying, "There are some spelling errors (chose) comes to mind."

Chose? CHOSE!?! The ass clown doesn't think that "chose" is an actual word. Not to mention, you can clearly see he has no effing CLUE about normal sentence structure. DICK! HEAD!

There weren't any goddamn typos in that press release. This is the guy who frequently tries to instruct me to use the word "architected" in business language, so I don't think he's in any position to give me proper direction. So I send it to the CEO who approves it and off to Puerto Rico it goes, and then my stupid boss decides to finally respond to my email hours after I mailed it to him, telling me not to send it until we've had time to talk and he can provide input. Frankly, I don't want his input. It's going to be stupid anyway. Plus, it was just too damned late. But he was in such a foul temper (I don't know why, since presumably he got more than a couple of hours' sleep, since he was NOT AWAKE writing press releases), I thought I'd better wait to tell him the CEO already gave me the okay.

Would it kill the fates to just give me a competent boss for once?

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

And may I add...

...that I owe Marcheline a cyber hug. She makes it nice to be back.

Oh Boy...Asshat's Back

I have a new Nerve (you may recall the old boss, a massive incompetent ass hat). Well my new boss just called me while I was in the middle of bathing a three year old (babysitting, not my three year old) and said he needs a press release written right now. It's NINE O'CLOCK AT NIGHT! At the time, I didn't even have my computer with me. I'm also sick. And tired and snotty. And my ears hurt. And they only pay me to work from 8:30 to 5:30, and I think that's ample. Granted, I spend a large part of that time reading blogs and web surfing, but I comfort myseld that I'm keeping abreast of the global technology trends. Anyway...I was looking forward to taking an extremely hot shower, slucking back a hot toddy and some Amoxicillin (God, I'm hot) and going to bed. Now I'll be up all night working on a press release that won't get approved by our client for about a month anyway, while I will get shat upon by the new Ass Clown every twenty minutes until it gets the stamp of approval (like any of this is my fault). I wonder what would happen if I slipped a Xanax into his Red Bull. The man needs to CALM THE FUCK DOWN!

And I don't have my computer electrical cord, so i need to come up with something brilliant in 2:45. Dammit. I'm so screwed.

I have a question. Is it lazy of me not to want to do this press release? This is, after all, my job. Is it unreasonable for me to think of my workaholic, yet extremely moronic, boss with disdain right now? Is it okay to give him the mental finger right now? I don't want him dead or anything, but a nice hemorrhoid wouldn't come amiss.

I wish that A.S. were around for me to whine to. He's awfully comforting and manages to calm me down and pep me up at the same time. That and he makes good coffee. Sigh...

More KD

Okay, I'm sick and have PST (Preparing for my Special Time) so I think I can be forgiven for wallowing in a touch of self pity. Am currently feeling like my apartment is too gross for words, I've eaten nothing but crap today, I could die and no one would know or care, and my throat is all scratchy and my head hurts. Several of those complaints are related, since I am looking around at the piles of Lik-M-Aid and Laffy Taffy bars and Ben & Jerry's Peace Pop wrappers lying about on the couch, where I have been planted for most of the afternoon. And clothes from the weekend's trips and luggage from yesterday's excursion to Kansas are littering every surface of the bedroom. It's so cluttered in here, with the minutia of almost 30 years of living crammed into three dinky rooms...which leads me to believe I am a dismal failure for not being able to afford to just buy a house. I will rent forever in this house that is collapsing around my ears. Call me Miss Havisham.

Also, my dermatologist has prescribed Retin-A because I AM OLD. Apparently my birth control pills are causing my skin to age and freckle in a really uncharming, non J Crew model cinnamon sprinkle type way. This is so unfair. And my Ob/Gyn says that undoubtedly pregnancy will do the same thing to me. Great...something else to look forward to someday. I'll have tits that give me whiplash and a brown skin-moustache.

Well, I have nothing to worry about, since I will be hiding in my closet for the rest of my life, starting now.

The really fun thing about Retin-A, apart from peeling and not being able to get your eyebrows waxed ever again and the basic annoyance of having to use it every night and not being able to even think about sun....where was I going here? Hmmmmmmmm....oh yes, it actually makes your skin worse for awhile. Don't you wish they would give you a time frame for that? You will look for a troll for approximately six.... days, weeks or months???

Anyway, I think I need a different career. For one, I just can't keep up with the manicures and polished shoes and coiffed hair. I wonder what I am qualified to do. That I wouldn't get sick of within about a year. Here is what I am good at:

Let's see...
Finding utterly bizarre things online (bacon scented air freshener, anyone?)
Dispensing unwanted advice
Discovering strange yet exotic vacations
Bleeding at any contact sporting event
Cooking under various conditions, including bears and hurricanes
Remembering what I was eating on almost any day of my entire life
Telepathically knowing when there is a spider on the ceiling without even looking
Catching toads
Running a very long way
Planning self improvement
Purchasing good cheese (the rind of which is also littering my kitchen table from the quarter pound of it I ate earlier)

Tuesday, November 08, 2005

Kansas Disease

I have Kansas Disease. This is where you fly to Kansas and instantly some woman with a mudflap hacks Virginia Slims breath all over you and you promptly keel over and die. I have a sore throat and a headache and jolly green giants coming out my head. Sucks.

I have an ironic observation to make. I was visiting this big insurance company, right? Well, every single woman I met in there was at least 75 lbs overweight. It didn't bother me personally, and I got along great with them, although I felt really embarassed the one time that i joked that some situation or other gave me a "heart attack." Because these girls are on their way. But I think about how many diseases in this country could be prevented with health lifestyle and exercise, and the freaking high cost of health care and the lack of insurance investment in these preventative measures...and here I saw the root of all evil. Their cafeteria was in the basement, all dark and creepy with no windows, and everything there was fried, slathered in gravy, saturated with transfat (I talk like i even know what that is). And this is a company that judges the health risks of millions of Kansans. DOOM!

Oh, and can I just explain how vile the breath of the man sitting next to me on the way back home. Everytime he exhaled, I felt my flesh melting. I even offered him gum, a mint, an Altoid...but he refused every one of them. Is it rude to shake people and force them to chew gum?

Sorry for the rant. Like I said, I'm sick.

Sunday, November 06, 2005

Long Time No Blog

I've been gone so long, I feel like cyber space has a dial tone.

Here's what I've been doing. Last weekend, I ran a marathon. Tomorrow I have to go to Kansas for work...for the day. Ew. Friday I was in Clemson visiting A.S. in his empty, monastic apartment. Saturday I was in Charlotte to visit godchild, friends and to see Cirque du Soleil (v. awesome). Today, I drove home and am packing. I'm already tired.

What's in Kansas? I bet it's just cold there and I won't like it. I think I should go into the Library Sciences. I bet they don't make you travel to stupid places if you're a librarian.

I'm debating taking a different job, because the one I have now is hideously boring and unfulfilling. But A.S. and I are discussing moving to San Francisco next fall, and that would mean two jobs in one year, which always looks bad on a resume. What to do...

Saturday, June 11, 2005


Oh, my poor haid. I don't know if it's the tequila or my dusty apartment. Saw Ryan Adams last night. Sucked. Sadly.

Planned to go out in the boat today, but it is blowing like hell outside because of that hurricane. A.S. went surfing this morning and said the waves were over his head. He actually dropped into a barrel (that doesn't happen here) and jumped the wave! And then he went to buy a new surfboard...he came home with his hair all mussed and his shirt inside out and a strange glint in his eye. And when I went upstairs later, his new board was in my bed.

Are you thinking what I'm thinking?

I've been replaced. New board, I dub you "Slut." Ironically, she's all white. Mmmhmmm, not likely.

Tuesday, June 07, 2005

Hic...oh hell

I have the hiccups.

And it's all Little Miss Nobody's fault. I got them halfway home from her place after she got me drunk (deliberately) on red wine and forced me to snuggle her dog all night. It was a devious plot, LMN! You satyr!

So am loaded, and you just TRY crutching up four flights of stairs on crutches. With hiccups. And a big roach attacked me on the second to last stair and I nearly had to start all over again.

Hic. Hic. Hic. Help me, Jebus. I'm going to die. Hate hiccups. Horrible debilitating, full body, torso pulsating, tonsil whiplash hiccups...sounds like cat with hairball.

Also, LMN got me addicted to Six Feet Under, my new favorite show which will take me from mere Satanic Cable Subscriber to full blown zealot HBO Junkie. Thanks. Thanks a lot.

Anyway, I have a doctor's appt tomorrow, and MAYBE Old Dr. Poke n'Prod will will tell me to dig out my tap dancing shoes, and I can call LMN and beg her to run with me again. She will doubtless mock me for my Igor-esque running gate, but I WILL PREVAIL! DAMMIT!

Ooh, drunk. Going to bed. Snar.

Friday, June 03, 2005


Well, I can't sleep.

I've gotten so much done today, but I feel like I'm fighting against an avalanche. And my ambition seems to have deserted me. Much to my boss' chagrin, I left work at 1 today (doctor's orders). He had me there until 7 pm the night before, so I didn't feel so guilty about leaving. And I worked until 8 besides, and then picked it back up at midnight just to make myself stop THINKING about all of it.

I have an 8-hour roundtrip drive to our other office with the head of human resources, who is a lovely person, but kind of intimidating in her niceness and perfection. I'm such a catty bitch and I'm sure she'll think I'm insane. Plus, I'm skipping my boss' latest marketing and sales strategy meeting. It's going to reflect badly that I'm not there (although I truly NEED to be at the other office) but I can't say I'm not sorry to rehash the same damned tired topic and make more lists and schedules and priorities. Fuck planning.

I feel like my frustration with the foot, work, relationships, my future is turning into panic. I'm so restless that I want to prowl around, release some tension, but I can't. So my frickin heart starts pounding and I want to cry or yell or do SOME thing, but I can't. A.S. is asleep now, and I had to hobble into the bathroom and sob quietly so I wouldn't wake him up. I'm sure he'd be nice and comforting, but I feel like some uninteresting sort of vampire, bleeding him of the will to care.

Also, my mom and I had a BIIIIG fight yesterday and I'm still down in the dumps about it. We’ve been getting along really well for the last two weeks, but Wednesday morning she was being unexpectedly very very emotional, and I was extremely tired and incoherent from not being able to sleep all night. Not a great recipe. I like to think that we hashed out some things.

She kept wanting to leave and blowing up and saying stuff like, "I just can't do anything right," etc, but I persevered and wouldn't let her leave and kept saying, "That's not very helpful and it's not true anyway."

For instance, at one point she was saying something about how neither of my parents ever know when I'm going to be accepting/enthusiastic or bored/irritated about their ideas, and she didn't know why they ever bothered asking me to do anything. And I know what she's referring to, and this one issue is ridiculously stupid but will never cease. And I said, "Generally, when you call me at 7 a.m. on a weekend, I'm not going to like it. It doesn't have anything to do with you or the idea or whether I love you or not. I just don't like anything at all at 7:00 because I’m sleeping."

(and I WOULD turn my phone off, but my cell is my only phone, and she'll leave 16 messages and I'll be convinced someone is dying...)

And that sent her off on another weeping tangent about something irrational, like how I don't love her. And I said I did, even at 7:00—although it made me really mad. And she said I don't treat my friends that way, and I said, "Well, my friends don't call me at 7 a.m." and she said something horrible like, "Well, your father and will try and treat you more like a friend than family then."

Honestly, sometimes it's like talking to a wall.

Anyway, I said she didn't have to go to such extremes and that that was a terrible thing to say and that it was just an example of how sometimes she seemed like she was pushing my buttons deliberately, because as my mother, having observed my habits and behavior for 28 years, she ought to know that I don’t like being woken up. And she said she never realized I wasn’t a morning person.

I chose to ignore that.

I promise you, I was really TRYING. Trying to be honest, yet kind, and as patient as I know how to be. And I said that it was kind of a matter of respecting people as individuals. What I meant by bringing my friends into the discussion was to say that I wouldn’t be any nicer to them at 7 than I was to my family, but that my friends seem to have grasped that morning is just not a good time to call me, and so they wait until later. So why was it so hard for my own mother to respect my personality and differences and try to communicate with me more effectively? If she has a great idea and wants me to like it, why not wait until 10 and give me a chance to respond like a normal person? We had talked that into the ground, so she started weeping about something new.

Then we talked about why I’m so surly when she’s just trying to help. And that was harder. But I said that sometimes when I really needed help (like laundry or rides to the doctor) and asked for it, she snaps at me, and I feel bad for asking too much of her. And then she does other things that I don’t ask for and don’t need, like rearranging my closet and folding my underpants. And I said that refolding all my clothes didn’t make me mad exactly, but it's an example of something that usually pisses me off. And I thought it was a little weird. She seemed completely flabbergasted that I didn’t think it was rude for her to walk in and ignore a pile of something sitting around. So I said that I really appreciated all her help and that I would have starved to death over the last few weeks and wallowed in my own squalor and dirty sheets with no clean pj’s, and that the things I really needed help with, I asked for. If some pile of junk was actually bothering me, I asked her to fix it. If it didn’t bother me, I probably wouldn’t ask and I wouldn’t think it was rude of her to leave it. Some of her busy work stuff just makes me nervous.

That made her mad and she went off on a tangent about never helping me again, but I kept trying to work it out. We finally ended the conversation with me saying it was okay for her not to come over and clean and move things and flutter around (I didn’t say flutter) and ask me if I needed 500 things, but just to come over and sit and talk to me about stuff. She tried to take that into the realm of “You never think I have anything interesting to say,” but I kind of nipped it in the bud by saying, “I appreciate you just being here more than any of the meals or laundry or errands.” Hopefully Mom and I are going to get along a little better, although I have slim hope that everything will be perfect.

So we talked, and I'm going to try to be more understanding and listen more. Not to be pessimistic, but I kind of doubt she's going to do anything differently long term. We've been having this same discussion, although in perhaps louder tones, since I was about eight. Her martyrdrom drives me crazy, but perhaps it's me criticizing what I hate most in myself.


Tuesday, May 31, 2005

Memorial Day Haze

I wish it were still the weekend...the long, sultry, glorious weekend. A.S. and I took off to his parents' country house, where it was all peace and quiet and the croaking vacuum frog. They have a beautiful view of the Intracoastal Waterway and a big yard full of oak trees and a long dock over the marsh into the creek. So Saturday we left at about noon with the pasta maker and his parents dogs and all our stuff and it was like throwing off all the tensions of the last weeks. The Lacto Pescetarian and the Sexy Attorney came out to lie on the dock and drink beer and holler at their pooches. The damned dogs kept jumping off the dock and swimming off into the hinterlands, which is really alright, because they're not stupid enough to drown and they WILL come back...but the peace and tranquility was frequently punctuated by "BELLA! DAISY! COME HERE! NOW! NOOOOOW!" and then the sounds of snorts and mocking laughter when the dogs blatantly ignored all arm waving and screeching. Dogs are funny.

The next morning, my two neighbors, plus two of my favorite people who used to be neighbors, showed up to go sailing on A.S.'s parents boat. It's an old 30 foot Sandpiper (I am estimating the size, because really I have no idea) and we motored up the creek and then unfurled the sails and popped open the champagne and had a FABULOUS time. We sloshed our way through the mimosas and screwdrivers and bloodies and beer, and had quite a jolly little adventure. And I didn't have to move my foot and the bemini top was down, so no sun on it either, so medically it had to be just as good as staying at home, right? Well, my doctor didn't say so, but what the hell does that quack know?

He did finally take the vacuum off today, and I have quite a scanty little Ace bandage on it now, that makes no noise whatsoever and requires no tubing. I also have new wooden crutches because the aluminum ones fell out of the back of the truck on the way back from the country and were demolished. It was a sad, sad fate. A.S. was mostly annoyed because we didn't realize they were gone until we were all the way back home and had to drive ALL the way back out there only to find them a sixteenth of a mile from his parents' house in little bits in a ditch. It was like Stand By Me. He was a little jerky about it, and I think he's had just about enough of me for now. So I've given him the week off... Don't call, Don't write. Well, he does have to call, but I don't want him doing anything else for me for awhile or he's probably going to break up with me for some non-needy bitch with six pack abs (whom I will promptly name Evangelina Vagina).

So back to work today. It was awfully scary and sucky and I have so much to do, I could have been there for a month and not gotten it all finished. I'm so fired.

Boy is this blog boring. I'm going.

Friday, May 27, 2005


No dice.

Doctor says I have to keep this vacuum thing on through Tuesday at the least and will look at it then and decide if it can come off. So I get to enjoy the croaking albatross for the entire holiday weekend. Joy.

Why the fuck is this such a big deal? It's a FOOT! You know, if this were a gunshot wound, I might understand. But it's not. It's a goddamn measly foot, and I can't do a fucking thing without it. @#$%^&*!!!!

I was so bummed, I was [--] this close to crying in the doctor's office, which is just too humiliating. I asked him I could take the vac out in the boat and he said no to that too. So while everyone else goes out in the salt air and sunshine (and swims and water skis and trots around on the sandbank), I get to sit. On the porch. And do nothing. Some more.

A.S. will be nice about it I'm sure, but I don't think he can take much more. I know I can't. And I'm hoping against hope that his evil friends J&J, this cutesy mod couple who are about the WORST friends known to man, aren't going to come out to the country to join us. They're in town for a wedding, and he asked me to go out with them tonight and I declined...somewhat politely. Well, very politely but probably too quickly. Anyway, they probably won't call him, because they're THOSE types of friends. All they do is bail on people and mooch and are so shallow and boring. They don't DO anything. (I'm not really one to talk at the moment, I know.) Really, they have no hobbies or interests or wit. All she can talk about is shoes, which is super interesting for about 2 minutes. And I'm sure they'd make me feel really embarrassed over having this gnarly vacuum thing and they can just fuck off and go to hell.

A.S. can invite the entire world to the country house for the weekend, just please not them. And I mean that. In fact, I hope he does invite a crowd, because then I won't be obligated to be cheery and upbeat the whole time and can read my magazines (Thanks Sexy Attorney!) and my new books in guilt-free peace. I almost wish he were going without me so I could stop feeling guilty for being needy and dependent. Maybe I should come down with something...

In better news, since I was out already, I went and ate lunch with my parents at this outdoor restaurant. The waiters were horrified by my tubing, but to hell with them. I was OUTSIDE! And my dad took me to Barnes & Noble, where I got the first of two collected plays of Neil Simon and the new book by Sue Monk Kidd, The Mermaid Chair. I loved her first book, The Secret Life of Bees soooo much, I never wanted to finish it. And then I went to the spa store and bought some more of my favorite shampoo and conditioner: Aveda Rosemary Mint with Sap Moss conditioner. The big bottles with the pumps. And this delicious lip and face sunscreen with sparkly gold powdery stuff. Yum. Today cost me about $150, but since i haven't bought anything in years and years, I thought I deserved it. The rest of my earnings must be spent on foot related medical business, so I might as well have something I can actually enjoy.

Thursday, May 26, 2005

Craptacular Conference Calling

I've had conference calls ALL DAY. And while I held my teensy cell phone with my shoulder, I tied ribbons around the invitations to our second office grand opening, hand addressed them, addressed the second envelope, stamped and return addressed them... and licked them. All 100 of them. Son of a....

It was almost as bad as being there. I do hate me a meeting. I especially hate it when people call meetings to plan agendas for other meetings. And people at my company LOVE THAT. Let's have a PLANNING MEETING. Deliver me, oh lord, from people who only plan and never do.

I did get my own back, when a certain person I work for asked me for the fifteenth three-month plan in two weeks. I asked him what he did with the 15 that I already sent him, which on top of fighting with him yesterday made me feel pretty good. Hmph. I like him generally, and he's great at his job. He just sucks at my job and needs to quit telling me how to do it.

So A.S. came over last night, and I feel terrible for him. I mean, I'm sick of me, so he must be stark raving mad by now. He comes here every morning to make me coffee, because he is a saint. And he makes the best coffee EVER. And he comes by after work to eat dinner and shoot the shit. Not that I have any shit that needs shooting, because the only interesting thing I do all day is read people's blogs. Otherwise, it's just work and lying around with my vacuum wishing I could go surfing. And he was so grumpy, poor thing, because he feels stuck in a rut. And I told him, "Welcome to my world," and I wish I hadn't said anything. I meant it humourously, but I think I should have just shutup and let him vent. Instead he felt bad for whining when i'm the one who's hurt. And he GETS to vent. Jesus, what that boy has put up with lately! And he still finds me attractive despite having put on about 8 lbs (none of it muscle or in good places) and having a big tube sticking out of my foot. He even SLEEPS here, which with the unceasing froglike noise of the vacuum is a big sacrifice.

DING! DING! DING! Folks, I think I have found a winner!

Anyway, I told him to go out with his friends last night, because there was no sense in two people sitting around feeling sorry for themselves. And off he went, and I watched crap TV, which bored me, but less so than lying in bed. And he's going out in the boat with boys tonight (SOB SOB SOB!!! BOO HOO!!! JEALOUS APOPLEXY!!!), and then Saturday morning we go to the country. So maybe he will feel less rut-ish. For that matter, maybe I will too.

I've been reading Bathroom Reading's blog, and he had an interesting post about a blogger who's been uploading pictures of his wife. And I mean PICTURES, people: nekkid ones, graphic ones, and really lurid play-by-plays about their sex life. And I realize that we're all kind of exhibitionist and voyeurs for both keeping and reading other people's blogs, but where does one draw the line? How much self censorship is a good thing? I like to think that withholding some information about your marital and amorous relationships is respectful and sacred. And while this pervy guy's relationship with his wife might be more open than some, I can't help but think that he might not respect his wife so much as objectify her. I wish I could figure out how to link to BR's post about it, but my mac won't let me. You can get there from my links bar though.


Got in a fight with my boss yesterday. That always sucks. But at least I stood up for myself (on one foot), although I'm not sure he gets that just because I'm a female doesn't mean I have to do his busywork for him. I like my job, really I do, but I miss writing full time. And I definitely miss having a good relationship with my coworkers, and one where you didn't have to worry about people passing the blame on stuff to make themselves look better. Maybe I'd forgotten how much I disliked the big corporate lifestyle. I've done it before, and although this is certainly different in a lot of ways, so much of this nitpicky BS (certain fonts for certain documents, constant meetings, buzzwords) I could do without.

Some of my neighbors came up earlier to set up the wireless connection, which should allow my entire house to surf the net at will. Sadly, even though we called in the city's biggest web geek (seriously), it didn't work. It was pretty great watching them try though, even if only the joy of having some fresh personalities in my apartment (two more days till the next doctor appointment). They're going to try again in a day or so.. the geek has to reconfigure something.

A.S. and I are going to his family's country house this weekend. I can't WAIT! Change of scenery, here I come. I'm hopeful the doctor will say I can cut off the vacuum and maybe put a bit of pressure on it. I need to ask about going out in the boat! Vibration might not be what i need right now, but the idea of getting sun and wind and light and fresh air has me so excited. Oh, and his parents are out of town. Nice. Of course, we have to take care of their dogs, but I'm actually kind of looking forward to that.

Observation: Crest White Strips really work.

Tuesday, May 24, 2005


Architecture Student is speaking to our chicken in French. He is slicing it over spinach with fresh rasberry vinaigrette. Oh, you should see him. And hear him. I love this boy!


The doctor's appointment went great. He did say another week of bedrest, but said I might be able to get the vacuum off by Friday (sweet holy Jebus). He also said I could go running within the month. A MONTH, PEOPLE! I was dreading this whole dissertation about having therapy and whatnot and taking it slow and "maybe by the end of the year." But a month! I nearly kissed him...wouldn't have been too terrible, since he's pretty hot (mrow). Ohmigod, I'm so excited now, I want to go pirouette around my apartment. He said he could tell I was a healthy person and said that this must be making me crazy, and that I ought to be up and about by the middle of next week. So Alexandrialeigh, I hope you haven't been running too much, because 1.5 months of sitting has not improved my stamina. Still, it's almost time to lace up my brand new, unblemished pair of trail runners! Hoorah!

I may have to crack open some wine to celebrate. God knows something has to make data entry (why is this MY job?) from home more interesting. I cannot believe they're getting their public relations manager to do CRM data entry on our competitors. I mean no disrespect whatsoever, but this is an EA's job. I realize they've never had a PR person before, but I really think my time would be better spent, and their money as well, if I could devote more of my time to press releases, press events and case studies than tooling around doing CRM. What a waste. Oh well, they're probably going to fire me soon anyway. Too much to do, too many meetings to discuss doing it rather than actually DOING the work, and too much busy stuff that I don't have time for, combined with being a gimp and not sitting at my desk or getting on the road. Wish that Assistant Editor job was still open.

Monday, May 23, 2005

Men Suck Ass

Sorry Bear, this wasn't directed at you, particularly not after your lovely post avoiding the blow-job-offering trollop.

But A.S. called me to see how my day was going and said he was "suffering major internet withdrawal after a solid week of not checking" and was off to pay mass amounts of money to go online in a nearby coffee shop. Since I have internet here, I offered to let him use it. And since he refused, I naturally assume it's because he's e-mailing Evangelina Vagina, the craggy whore avec moustache whose boobs are probably bigger than mine.


Why is this all it takes? Boy am I feeling ULTRA exciting and attractive and cool and fun now. He's spent so much time slaving over me that now he's having EV withdrawal? Fuck him. Fuck the world.

It's 2:15. Is it too early to start drinking? I have wine. It's only a short crutch away.

(By the way, Bear's blog is Does anyone know how to make the toolbar appear on a Mac? All I got is spellcheck and picture uploads?)

Oh, and Blue Cross admitted they were ass holes and are only making me pay PART. Fuckers. Fuck. Fuck. Fuckety-fuck.

Blue Cross must die

Just heard from my home nurse that Blue Cross is claiming my foot injury is a pre-existing condition and they aren't covering any of my medical expenses. Let's see, I became eligible for their insurance on April 1, hurt myself April 16. Nope, not pre-existing.

(rolling up sleeves)

Somebody's getting their ass kicked.

That aside, I'm a little panicked. Let's see: emergency room visit, three orthopedist visits, four plastic orthopedist visits, surgery, surgeon, anesthesiologists (God, I butchered that), vacuum thingy... I'm so helped if they become massive super wanks and refuse to cover this. I will sue them until they are all dead. And I can, because my aunt and uncle are both partners in mean scary firms, my uncle is also a judge, my boyfriend's dad represents the hospital I was carved up in, and somebody's ass is mine if they don't ante up. What am I paying them for?

Sunday, May 22, 2005

How can I be tired...

...when I haven't done ANYthing?

Here's what I did today: woke up to my mom calling about 7:45 and ignored her phone call. Went back to sleep until 10, when A.S. had to leap straight out of bed and into his pants, etc. because he had his cousin's christening in 30 minutes. Then I had a friend come help me onto the porch where I sat in a beach chair with my foot up in the air for about an hour to get some sunlight. I also ate boiled peanuts and inspected my fig tree (Newton) for caterpillars and read another year's worth of Dooce archives. Then another friend helped me inside again, where I sat on the couch and watched bullshit TV all day. Then a third friend came and helped me from the couch to the bed again, and here I sit. Riveting, isn't it?

God, I'm fucking bored.

I miss Woo and running and strappy shoes and sandy toes and surfing and going out in the boat with friends and getting to be on top and cooking my own food and taking the stairs two at a time and not starting every sentence with "Will you please...?"

A.S. went out in the boat with his friends today to this deserted barrier island, where we've tried to go like EIGHT TIMES to find the most misto surf spot and he found it and surfed it without me. WITHOUT ME. God, I almost hated him a little, even though he's been nothing but nice to me all week. He's shown no signs of resentment or irritation and hasn't treated me like an invalid and is constantly offering to run errands or entertain me. I am so ungrateful. But I kind of wish he'd be a little pissed at me. Because I am. I'm pissed with me. I'm PISSED OFF.

The Accident (the official version)

(flashback sequence, April 16, a grisly tale)

A.S. wants to go surfing to help me get my mind off Woo, and because he just wants to go surfing every day. We head out after my friend's baby shower, and he lends me his longboard, now named "The Blue Shark." I eat it several times in the water that day, partially because I suck and partially because his crappy board is top-heavy and tends to nosedive if you forget to scoot backwards before popping up. I catch another wave and start to pop up, realize I need to be further back, scoot, try again, and then scoot some more (in the space of about three or four seconds), and the fat-titted bitch dives under the wave and somersaults. I dive to the bottom to get out of its way and actually don't even feel exactly what happens. Anyway, I'm goofy-footed, so the leash jerks the board back towards me, and the fin on the bottom slices off the top of my left foot.

When I come back up, I can't tell what I've done, but I know it is very very bad, and then feel the flap floating back and forth in the water. This feels rather nasty. Now in neck-deep water, I lift my foot above the surface, put it right back down and decide it is past time to go in. I must look ghastly, because the nice hippie stranger surfing nearby asks me if I am okay and need some help. My bearded savior takes the unwieldy longboard and hands me his nice, lightweight shortboard, and I hop onto the beach. Then I see that all the skin is hanging over the front of my foot and see all of my tendons, and my toes look like they have turned inside out. [Everyone seems to think that the salt water must have stung, but honestly, when all THAT other shit is hanging out, who gives a FUCK about salt water?] I sit down and put my head between my knees and start shaking, and Hippie John says, "Oh my God!" and grabs me in a big bear hug.

My main worry is that A.S. might not have seen it happen and could be hard to find, since all surfers are hard to identify from the beach. But I look up and saw him jogging down the beach with his board- I've never been so glad to see anyone in my life [not that I can actually speak]. So he gets to us and says, "What happened? Did you hit your head on the board?" And I sort of mumble, "No." And he says, "Are you okay?" And I say, "No." And Hippie John says, "Dude, look at her foot." And A.S. drops his board and sits down hard and says, "Oh shit."

Then he piggy-backs me to the boardwalk and drapes me over the railing while he fetches the car. This horrible medic who is malingering in the area stops by to tell me that it looks REALLY bad and I will have extensive nerve and tendon damage and never regain the use of anything and will probably end up with a blackened club foot. I exaggerate only on the club foot remark. Wherever that bitch is, I hope she has ingrown pubes.

So A.S. and Hippie John help me take off my wetsuit, and what a treat that is. And then we go to the hospital, which takes about 30 minutes, and I writhe around the whole time moaning, "They're going to poke it!"

[And they did. Endlessly. And they're still poking it. I'm like their little pink voodoo doll. So they reattached everything and washed it off and sewed it all back into some semblance of a foot. But the skin kept on dying, and the doctors kept on poking, and I've been on bloody awful crutches for a month, and last week I had a skin graft. So that's the story. Any questions?]

Saturday, May 21, 2005

I've been helped

Do you remember in grade school, about the time everyone was wearing jams and saying "rad," that there was a little saying about "being helped?" As in, "My dad caught me smoking Granny's Salem 100's and now I'm so totally helped!"

Part of this is fun. People come to visit me. They bring me chocolate. They tell me news of the outside world, and their talking mercifully drowns out the sound of my croaking foot vacuum. I love my friends.

Some of this is not so fun, and this is the only place I can vent my ingratitude and surliness and frustration.

A.S. is the sweetest in the world. This morning, he made me French toast when he didn't even want any. When I asked for milk, he asked "short glass or talll glass?" He also still says he loves me, even though I've put on about 7 lbs. and got maple syrup on my neck from eating lying down.

And then he helped me.

He reorganized my living room, putting things in what he thinks are their proper places. I have a feeling that part of this is because his mother had her first visit to my apartment yesterday, and as she wandered from room to room looking at things (while I lay in bed wondering what the hell my living room looked like after a month of crutches and bedrest and no thorough cleaning) and said "You have a lot of STUFF in here." And A.S. tells me I need to sort through the two foot pile of magazines by the sofa, and threw away all my gift bags and brought in my paperwork to sort through and moved my computer printer to a dark and inaccessible corner of the living room and put THINGS in the little dovecote cubbies of my fold down desk (I have a SYSTEM), and I lay here in my bed and thought, "THIS IS MY APARTMENT AND MY MAGAZINES AND MY GODDAMNED COMPUTER PRINTER AND I PAY RENT HERE, BUDDY!" But out loud I said, "Thank you, my angel pie. That was so thoughtful. When you have a moment, will you please replace the printer to its former location?" And he said, "But you never use it!" And I said, "Nevertheless." And he said, "But it's the first thing people see when they walk in!" And I said, "Still." And he said all suspicious, "When was the last time you used it?" And I said, "I can't remember, but it's because it's out of ink." And he said, all superior, "We'll put it back when you get some more ink."

Excuse me? We? WE?

So I said, trying to keep the frost from my voice and heart, "Angel lambkin, please just put it back. You don't have to do it right now or even today (yeah right, it BETTER be today). But. I. Really. Want. You. To. Put. It. Back." I think I hurt his feelings.

So between him moving my shit and my mother refolding my underpants, I've been HELPED. I'm on the edge here, people.

Friday, May 20, 2005

Ahhh, Clarisse

My skin graft attachment looks so very Silence of the Lambs... very, Jame Gumb-esque.

It rubs the lotion on its skin, or else it gets the hose again.


Friday List

Jemima is a shameless present whore. Here are ten things nice people have sent her:

1. Bouquet of snapdragons and peonies (A.S. said they were "Pekingneses"
2. Bouquet of roses and snapdragons and Gerber daisies from people at office
3. Biscuits from Mr. Burbages and a DVD of Finding Neverland (vg)
4. Oatmeal peanut butter cocoa cookies that make you regular as well as taste good
5. Gift bag with bizarre movie trivia game, weirdo rumikub game (what the?) and ultrastink pink perfume--but, hey, it was a nice gesture
6. Two giant blow up photos of Woo's eyes and the tip of one of her soft, brown ears- my favorite
7. My new surfboard, The Surf Taco, which will never ever eat my foot. Well, actually, I paid for that, but it was still delivered and I like it
8. An omelette from my dad, WITH coffee
9. A shower curtain with hula dancers which I have been in love with for AGES (thanks Lacto Pescetarian!)
10. Bottle of Spanish wine that will go GREAT with my Percoset


This morning my mother came over and organized my closet, rearranged my chest of drawers, and folded all of my underpants.


I've had to distract her from bringing her graspy hands over to my bedside table, but the Lacto Pescetarian, who is much cleverer than I, instructed me that this is the wrong idea. Rather than freak about her rummaging through drawers, let the woman find "something" she won't like and she'll quit opening things at my house altogether. So I may have to go online and find the biggest, gnarliest, glow-in-the-dark dildo known to man. That'll learn her.

And if that fails, I can always chase her around with a vibrator and clonk her over the head with it. WHAM!

Yeah, I'll do that in my "free time." ...Free time, my ever expanding patootie. Everytime I check my e-mail, I get buried under another avalanche of work. And I'm concerned because my doctor today told me it's going to take TWO WEEKS not just one before I can get out of bed.

First of all, I'm going to get fired. Secondly, I'm going to go insane. So I'll be unemployed and schitzo, but my apartment will be organized numerically, alphabetically and color coordinatedly by my even more psycho mother...including my brand new collection of glow in the dark sparkly sex toys.

The doctor changed the dressing on my foot today. It's currently attached to a vacuum device that is keeping my skin graft from, er, falling off. I was expecting either a plastic bubble or some sort of black rubbery sock (since most medical devices, case in point, my former walking boot, are EXTREMELY unattractive). But my foot looks like it's been shrink wrapped with a very long irritating tube poking out the wrapper and this ice cream sandwich box-sized black vacuum that croaks like a frog once per second. It gets very angry if I stretch and sounds like a duck. If I'm lonely and want a cuddle, I imagine it's a purring cat. K.Lo, I wish you could bring Miss Kitty for a visit. She might think my foot was friendly.

Anyway, this device is called a Wound Vac. You have no idea the humiliation it has already caused. I had them deliver it to work the day before my skin graft, because I figured it was small (portable) and easier than waiting for four years at my apartment like waiting for the cable guy. So I'm typing away at my computer and I hear this redneck hollering "WOUND VAC" for the whole office to hear. I pop my head over the cubicle walls, eyes rolling and see him showing the damned thing to the horrified receptionist and shrieked, "Shut it! Shhh! Get over here." So here he comes over looking like fucking Father Christmas of the medical supply world with a little black case PLUS a ginormous clear bag filled with 45 boxes of medical shit. Lord have mercy. So he sat there blabbing away about wounds and seepage and sponges and other unsavory things in a very loud and indiscreet fashion, while I pleaded with him to go away and be quiet. I looked over at the team near my desk and they're all wide eyed, watching me and mouthing, "What IS that?" The horror!

Apparently some air conditioner repair guy invented this thing from some AC foam and an aquarium filter, and it heals wounds 50% to 70% faster and is now living on his own island somewhere. My surgeon, who is the best in the state at reattaching hands and fingers and such, swears they're amazing. They also have a surgical device called a Bear Hug that is nothing more than a plastic quilt attached to a hairdryer that keeps patients' body temperatures up on the operating table better than anything else ever invented. I had one of those too, but I don't remember it. Apparently I also had a big tube shoved down my throat too, which I am glad as hell I don't recall, but my throat still hurts like a sonofabitch.

Architecture Stud is being very sweet to me, other than not wanting to spend the night (keeping me company only) because the wound vac is so annoying. He brought me flowers and fetched stuff from work and other things. He is snoozing here beside me right now, and I'm afraid the approaching thunder storm and the stupid asshole neighbor outside on my porch and the skil saw half a block away are going to wake him up. He looks so pretty when he's sleeping. Well, he's pretty all the time. He hates it when I say he's pretty.

I am trying my damndest to get along with my mother, but I swear she thinks the surfboard cut off my head along with my foot. I was getting out of the car, and cracked the door while cars were still whizzing past and she SHRIEKED at me, "AHHHH, OHMIGOD, WATCH OUT! BE CAREFUL!" I jumped 45 feet and hissed at her, "Good God, woman! Just because i'm on crutches doesn't mean I've gone retarded too." She makes me feel like my heart is going to jump out of my chest and all my veins are standing out like a thoroughbred's and my brain will explode and my nostrils will suck in a car...and all because she is trying to HELP me. I need therapy. And while we were at the doctor, she was acting self righteous about something and said, "I really think know-it-alls are the worst kind of people." I snorted and though, "Takes one to know one, bitch." Of course, I'm one too, which is something A.S. can't stand, and I TRY not to do it. Mom has no clue.

The place where they took the skin off my hip is about four inches long, and probably was about an inch and a half thick, although they've sealed it all up, of course. It actually hurts much, much worse than my foot. But the glue they use nowadays makes it safe to shower, so at least I don't stank.