Here's what I need to do: 1. Get Hobby, 2. Floss. Blogging just gets in the way.
Dying at Home
I have seasonal hair. It has been every color. Anything red is usually good. Even blonde was okay (will never bleach eyebrows again). My least favorite was the burgundy and pewter catastrophe circa 2001.
Porter, who used to do my hair, eloped with his lover a few months ago. They now live in Alabama. I know that I should hope that they are happy together, but a little part of me hopes that they break up so that Porter will move back here and do my hair again. I suppose, I could move to Alabama, but I really enjoy the convenience of electricity. I give them a year. He'll be back. Until then, I am doing it at home. I can't trust these curls to just anyone.
I bought a box of multi-faceted hair color. The directions recommended clean, dry hair. My hair was a little damp. I dried it upside down for a few minutes. When I stood up, my once bouncy curls stood out two feet from my head in every direction. I snarled like a model in the mirror. "Fierce," I could hear Tyra saying in my head.
This was going to be more than I could handle. I looked around for my phone. Due to my restricted peripheral vision I bumped into several walls and the bookshelf before finding it. Unable to get the phone directly to my ear through all my hair, I sent a text message for help.
Mist: 2ft afro. plz help. bring wine.
Mist: deepest mocha praline
G: red or white idiot
Mist: red. hurry.
It was over in a few hours. In the morning, I found bleach in the freezer, the bathroom looked like we chopped up a body, and my hair...nothing a yarmulke can't hide.
I may be moving to Alabama after all.
The CEO has proposed that I drop the formalities and simply call him "O." He calls me "1." That makes me feel special; like we have this special binary relationship. o1o1o11o1oo111.
I never had a lot of nicknames growing up. With a name like Mist 1 (short for One), who needs a nickname?
Dad (who wanted to be called "Flash," but had to settle for "o.d.") is the only person who ever had nicknames for me. Unless you count "I don't know what's gotten into you lately" as a nickname. That's what Mom called me.
Dad called me:
My talent/genius was coming up with nicknames for my friends (as well as the people that I liked a little less). There was "Goose" because I could not resist pinching that a$$. There was "Chicken Wing," because of that deformity (Dear G*d, please forgive me). There was Darkys Night because he was just so damn dark (seriously G*d, I am a community volunteer now, I've changed my ways). "Chief Nine Nail" only had nine toenails. "Buddha" because he had the best...um, belly...yeah, belly. "naeS," the dyslexic. I miss them all.
- Magumba. I have no idea where that came from. He later had a car with a MN tag, MGA ###. He said that stood for Magumba. That made me feel special at the time, however upon realizing that it was a randomly generated tag by the Dept. of Motor Vehicles, I feel sort of cheated. Will discus further in therapy.
- Huevos Revueltos. Scrambled eggs. And sometimes just Vueltos; short for scrambled.
- Ribs. I've always been bony.
Once, I was a competitive gymnast. I was A Force To Be Reckoned With. A Contender. A Powerhouse. My teammates called me, "The Mist." It was on my letter jacket. My last name was on the back. One. I felt so smooth back then. There is something about adding "The" to my name that makes me feel really, really cool.
I'm a Lumberjack
Yesterday, I had a taste for sangria. I went to J's house expecting my usual fix of fruit bobbing in wine. J had other plans.
When I got there, I knew something was amiss. Instead of my usual welcoming glass of fruity goodness, I found a pair of yellow work gloves (size small), a chainsaw (one size fits all), and a six foot length of rope.
"This tree is taking over everything," J said.
"Oh G*d no! Not the sangria!"
J looked at me sharply and handed me the yellow gloves. I watched as the rope was tied to a tree branch. "J, I'm thirsty. Really, really thirsty." I was ignored. My throat made a dry, rasping noise. "I need to check my email. I've left the blog unattended." Ignored again. I was beginning to feel desparate.
I found myself in the yard, standing directly under the tree branch holding the end of a rope. J started the chainsaw. "Let's think about this," I whined. J looked up, considered the shortness of the rope, and put down the chainsaw.
"We need sangria to do this job right." Finally, J was being reasonable. I breathed a sigh of relief and let go of the rope which dangled two feet above my head.
I waited (paced like a tiger in the zoo) on the porch for the sangria. J reappeared with glasses in hand. We drank and thought in silence. Looking thoughtful, J said, "you're going to need to pull the rope so that the branch doesn't hit my damn roof."
"What about my head?" I asked. J assured me that I looked fine. Satisfied with the answer, I retreated for the yard, wearing yellow gloves and flip flops (not a good look for me and yet strangely comfortable). I held the rope in my right hand and my sangria in the left. J cursed upon realizing that it is impossible to hold a glass and a chainsaw at the same time.
J cut. I pulled. J cut. I drank. J cut. I pulled. Finally, the branch came down. Directly on the roof.
J cursed about the roof. I complained about my excessive thirst. "Go home and put this on your resume," J snapped.
I took a batch of sangria home. Tomorrow I'll get on the roof. Provided there's sangria.
Also, I'd like to use the chainsaw.
I'm thinking about a career change. The phrase "career change" here means "getting a job." This whole in-between-paychecks thing has lost the novelty it once had.
My days consist largely of sitting in the coffee shop eyeballing the cakes and emailing people who actually work. Sometimes, I feed the geese and I have the occasional beer. The word "occasional" here means "for breakfast I have a..."
It's not that I crave order and discipline in my life. I satisfy that by showering at 3pm (discipline) and shopping online (ordering). But, I have tired of daytime TV. Unless I am living in the Dr. Phil House, it seems that I am just not interested in it.
The problem is that work involves, well, work. Something, that I am not suited for. At least, not on a regular basis.
Contractual work is okay. I like walking in at five minutes to 5pm and dropping off my latest assignment. I relish the envious looks of the full time employees who wish that they could do the same and in jeans with a large, gaping hole no less. But truthfully, I envy them. They know what they will be avoiding working on tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that...
I don't gamble, so I have no chance of winning the lottery. If I did win the lottery, I would still get a job. It's just that I would arrive late and leave early. I also might curse people out at random. And, I would probably steal my stapler and order another one from Office Depot.
The problem is that I need the right career. Rating hotels in exotic cities would be okay with me, unless the accommodations weren't up to my standards. Signing autographs would also be alright, but I suppose that celebrity status is a prerequisite. I would also really enjoy being First Lady, but I don't have a platform yet, nor am I married to the president.
Unenjoyment would be so much more fun if everyone I knew would just resign and we could hang out all day. We would sleep in, have beer for brunch, play darts, get pedicures, take a walk, dye our hair, take naps, and email the people who still actually had jobs.
As it stands everyone I know without gainful employment is either a.) awaiting trial, or b.) driving the kids to soccer.
If only I could run for First Lady.
I've never been good at counting calories. It turns out that it's a really good way to ruin my day. Also, it really annoys other people when I count out loud.
I have developed my own personal system to monitor my caloric intake.
1. Begin with the number of calories recommended for a woman of my size/age/level of activity (how many calories does typing burn?).
2. Assign random numbers of calories to each item that I eat in a day (I prefer round numbers, never prime numbers).
3. Add up my daily total.
I always make sure that my total is a few hundred calories short of my recommended intake. Sometimes this requires tweaking the numbers a bit. Then I drink beer to make up the difference. So far, it's working really well.
Sunday got complicated. I had to subtract calories for the celery in my bloody mary. But I had to add calories for that little bit of toothpaste I swallowed. I decided that chewing gum burned calories, but then I swallowed the gum when I was talking on the phone. Complicating the issue; I still had to mail a thank you card and would have to factor in the calories from licking the stamp and envelope.
I decided that a late thank you card is better than no card at all. I will send it today.
Must Not Sleep
I have nightmares. I've had them since I was a kid. Most recently, it's the dream about the beautiful butterfly in the street that I try to rescue. When I bend over to pick it up, I can see that it is feasting on a bloody bandage. I wake up sweaty.
Sometimes, I run out of things to have nightmares about. When that happens, I feel fortunate to have days like yesterday. It was the most disgusting day on record, and my nightmare material is renewed.
I sat in the park to feed the geese. Geese scare me a little, but I have a technique for when they get too aggressive. I threw the bag of seeds and ran, screaming loudly and flailing my arms. Eventually, they backed down.
After my brief run, I strolled over to the bridge overlooking an absolutely repulsive pond. I gazed down into the bubbling muck and rested my elbows on the bridge with a crunch. When I looked down, half of a crayfish was stuck to my sleeve. Paralysis. I gaped at my elbow for a second and then the antennae began to fish around.
I handled this the same way I handle every disgusting experience. I retched. I shook my arm frantically. The geese laughed and laughed.
I went to J's house to sit on the porch and drink homemade sangria (Directions: 1. Open box, 2. Pour over cut fruit). I rolled a giant log over so that I could sit more comfortably. Ants ran from every direction. Millions of ants. More ants than I have ever seen. All carrying tiny, white, maggoty larvae. One was on my arm. Another on my big left toe. I'm not sure, but I think they were on my neck and in my hair.
Again, I retched. Then, I danced around like a crackhead. I'm glad the geese didn't see me.
Spinach & My Russian Lover
The other night, amid all the E. coli spinach news, I went out for chinese food. I ordered the tofu soup. When it arrived, I noted the green leaves floating on top. I tasted it and decided to order something else than risk rectal bleeding for the second time in a week.
Always polite (yes, I'm still talking about me), I took the soup to go rather than send it back to the kitchen. I didn't want the kitchen staff to know that I was on to their attempt to kill me.
Last night, after the hockey game (Ilya Kovalchuk will be my husband, mark my words), I was hungry. I uncorked last night's bottle of wine and took a sip directly from the bottle (hockey makes me feel so girly). I scratched my ass and scanned the fridge. My options were:
I opted for a beer. Seconds later, still hungry, I put the soup in the microwave. I don't work for the CDC or anything, but by my logic, I figured that if I set the microwave to the Atomic setting, it should kill the E. coli.
- Carbonated water (orange and lime)
- Wasabe horseradish
- Minty Clinique lotion (feels so good when it's chilled)
- Beer (support your local brewery)
- Leftover tofu and E. coli soup
The skin on the roof of my mouth is falling off in large pink sheets, but still no sign of abdominal cramping.
I know that I should exercise caution and avoid spinach. I could have had beets and wasabe as a midnight snack. But then, what would I have to blog about? Nothing generates comments like rectal bleeding.
I am still waiting. Expect regular updates. Or maybe irregular updates.
As for the Trashers, Ilya played fabulously for me. He makes me so proud. Everything would be perfect between us if he knew my name. And that I'm alive. And ridiculously cute. Also, it would be nice if he was attractive. I am determined to ride the Zamboni this year to catch his eye. Coach Hartley knows I'm alive. At the end of Ilya's penalty, I stood up and screamed, "Let Ilya play!" He promptly put him back in. I am so influential.
No cramping yet.
P.S. If I die from the E. coli soup, tell Ilya that he was The One.
I Prefer to Live Alone
I had a roommate in college. We got along smashingly. The rules were simple. We got to school a week early and partied together. Then, for the rest of the semester, we completely ignored each other. It seemed like a good plan.
Still, it didn't quite work out. I'm sure that I was fabulous to live with. I have some obsessive compulsive behaviors, but nothing that disturbing. Just the usual food hoarding and hair plucking. Here's what didn't work for me:
Clearly, one of us had to move out.
- Her boyfriend, who never stopped talking (and who also never saw a problem with discarding used condoms under my bed).
- Seeing her across the quad in my clothes from head to toe.
Being the more mature of the two, I decided that I should move out to be with my Delinquent Boyfriend (DB). It was a perfect plan. "But Mom, I Love Him! He repaid his debt to society." Thus, my parents disowned me and I moved in with DB. I was ready to begin living in the Real World.
I need to explain that I never had to share a room with my sister. Just as I discovered that I didn't enjoy sharing a room with my college roommate, it soon became clear that I didn't enjoy sharing a room with DB either. It started with socks, crumpled up and stiff on the couch. Then it was boxers on the floor of the bathroom. I was not prepared for what I found one morning.
Mom was visiting. Naturally, she couldn't be under the same roof as DB and was staying in the Wyndham Garden Hotel. I spent the night with her. I woke up early and had a brilliant idea. I would stop home and cuddle DB before I went to class.
I opened the door. DB was sprawled out on the couch, completely nude (next to a pair of crumpled, stiff socks). That was okay. A box of VHS tapes with titles like "Rimmerama" and "Stir Fry Snatch" was next to the TV. That was less okay. A bottle of my expensive, imported body hydrating cream with real silk protein was lying on its side next to his foot. That was it.
And just like that, I was back in the dorms.
I have a lot of rules about food. Mostly, I make them up as I go along, but some have been with me for a long time.
1. I never eat anything larger than my head.
2. I only eat cute animals.
3. Anything I eat standing up doesn't count.
I used to be a vegetarian. It started with eliminating red meat. Then chicken. Then fish. Gummy worms were out due to the connective tissues required to make them gummy. Eventually eggs and dairy products had to go. I avoided honey because I didn't want to exploit the labor of bees. I was reduced to water and vitamins.
That's when I fell in love with the Butcher.
My favorite snobby gourmet grocery store was just across the street. I stopped in everyday to pick up items for dinner (ice chips, water, carbonated water, flavored carbonated water, water with added vitamins, etc.). Every evening, I passed the meats and seafood. I imagined what the ice would taste like after a day of absorbing the flavors of all those animals.
He was dressed in white. He seemed dangerous. Mostly becuase he was always splattered in blood, but also because of his gold tooth. I avoided eye contact, but I fantasized about what it would be like to meet him after work. He would bring a bag of fishy flavored ice to me and tell me not to hug him until he got out of his bloody clothes. I would peel off his hairnet and run my fingers through his locks.
One day, our eyes met over the glass meat counter. I was mesmorized. I bought lamb chops. The next day, a salmon filet. Filet mingon. Ground ostrich. Quail. Scallops. It went on for weeks. At last, when there was no more room in my freezer, I decided to talk to him.
"I just can't decide what I want for dinner tonight. What do you recommend?" I asked.
"Well, the tuna has been a big seller today. I don't really know, I'm a vegetarian."
I have been devouring animals ever since.
In b.e.d. with a Little Man
Jali's reading my mind. I never play these Little games, but this one was in the works already...you see, she's got this game she wants to play. A story that begins and ends in bed. The rule is that it must involve a meal. I feel like Slick Rick, sit back and enjoy my Little story...
I went to b.e.d. with a Little man the other day (I have never been out with a Little Person before). We had been planning this for two weeks, but I didn't know that he was going to suggest that we go to b.e.d. We've never been out before. I know it seems a Little fast, but in my defense, I've known him for Little awhile. He's married (y'all without sin can cast the first stone). He's been a mentor for me.
I got there first. I always do (I'm good in b.e.d. like that). I spent some time entertaining myself. Nobody seemed to mind as I took photos of the interior.
He's a Little Man. I wore Little heels. I towered foreheads above him. Admittedly, my forehead is rather large (no doubt due to my magnificent brain mass); but still I wished I had been in flats.
When he got there, he asked for a seat at a window. She only had large tables available. He said that we didn't need a big table. A Little one would be okay. I snicker under my breath. He ordered a bottled water. A Little one. I stifle myself. We talked about his Little wife. My Dad. Volunteer obligations. Weather. Guns and ammo (he has a Little .380). Life on the East Coast, in the South, and in the Midwest.
I am dying inside. I cannot resist the urge to make Little comments. But, he is important, and I am his guest. I keep my Little mouth shut.
We order a meal. It takes forever. As the food arrives, the server (Rebecca) informs me that the cook has broken his knuckle. My stomach flips as I imagine my knuckle and gouda sandwich.
We enjoyed our Little selves. I finished first. I always do. I let him finish. We licked our Little fingers. Rebecca asks us if we would like a Little dessert. I snort, and a Little snot comes out of my nose.
My Brother Vinnie
I'm a little uncomfortable that Mom refers to her cats, Vinnie and Sadie as her children. That makes them my siblings. They have unfair advantages. I'm not saying that I want to live with Mom, but I wouldn't mind if she bought my food or paid for my haircuts or gave me drugs.
Mom sends me updates about my furry sibling's lives. Here is an excerpt:
"E brought over some catnip the other night which led to Vin becoming a complete crackhead. I gave him a little taste of it and put the rest away in a bag which I placed in the bowl on the entryway table. In the middle of the night Sadie woke me up to let me know something wasn't quite right downstairs. I listened and heard a bunch of paper rustling, snuffling, groaning and flopping about. I went down and found Vin totally messed up, drooling--catnip spread all over, bits of paper bag caught in his hair--disgusting. This tells me Vinnie is not capable of social using--has to be cut off."
I remember when Mom found me like that once. I was grounded and had to promise to never hang out with certain friends ever again. Their parents were called. I had to attend a weekly meeting for the duration of my punishment. I couldn't drive my car. I couldn't go to the mall. No phone calls that weren't related to school. Vinnie is getting off easy.
The real reason for her email was that she was shamed by the vet. Vinnie is too fat for his carrier. I imagine that Mom puts Vinnie's tail and hind legs in first and then must use her foot to stuff the rest of the 30 pound cat into the Kitty Kaddy. The vet made Mom feel like a bad mother for making her feline child obese.
I told Mom to march right back into the vet's office and tell her daughter is well below her BMI so it balances it out. Mom said she wasn't sure that was helpful, and also the vet was kind of mean. "Mom," I said, "she's a VET. She doesn't know anything about people!"
I'm No Dummy
I'm not known for my intelligence. That's why I like to be in the company of idiots (no offense). It might be wrong, but it makes me feel good about myself. And really what's more important than making yourself feel good? Ahem...
S is not brilliant. She is stunningly gorgeous and remarkably conniving. The combination is why I love her. She is the type of girl who could be the Evil Emperor's Wicked (Yet Beautiful) Daughter. Also, she makes me look sharp.
We have nicknames for each other. She calls me "The Retardedest of the Smart." I call her, "The Smartest of the Retarded." Isn't that just the cutest?
She has been my best friend since we had SkyPagers. Once, I left mine in her Suzuki Sidekick (ragtop). She paged me to let me know that I had left it behind. When I didn't return her page, she figured out the flaw in her logic.
Last week she told me that she knew me like she knows the back of her ass. We deliberated this phrase for over an hour. If your ass is your backside, then is the back of your ass internal? We were both confused.
Last night she called me. She is getting married. She explained carefully that it is not a marriage of love. He needs citizenship. He is from Hawaii.
I didn't have the heart to tell her. Plus, I'm going to be Maid of Honor. The ceremony will be in Hawaii. Crap, my passport has expired.
I keep hearing how breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Yesterday, I thought I'd give it a try.
I am not a fan of breakfast food (unless you count mouthwash as a food). I am anti-egg. They are chicken menstrual cycles. I cannot be expected to eat that.
I bought turkey bacon and frozen orange juice.
In the morning, I stood in the kitchen in my robe and poured a cup of coffee. I am out of CoffeeMate because it is rather tasty with rum when you are in a bind. The effort of mixing three cans of water with the frozen orange juice concentrate was too much to bear. I decided to skip the juice.
I opened the package of turkey bacon and rolled up the floppy, pink slices and began popping them into my mouth. Right there, in front of the open fridge.
Never having worked with turkey bacon, I should have read the directions. Then I would have known that it is supposed to be cooked before consumption. The cooking step is critical and not to be omitted.
The pain came quickly.
Clammy, I read the preparation tips on the back of the package. I noted the cautionary statements and medical disclaimers. I called the 800 number.
"Thank you for calling the Jenni O/Butterball E. coli hotline. If you are experiencing mild cramping, please press one. Moderate to severe cramping, press two. If you are bleeding from the rectum, please continue to hold."
Anticipated wait time: 24 minutes.
I received my first blog-related marriage proposal on Thursday. I am certain that saurabh's comment is sincere. Plus, Rhinocrisy was a Blog of Note, so he is quite a catch.
I have been wondering why the proposals have not been flooding my email box up to this point.
I have considered posting photos of myself. But I want you to love me for my thoughtful insights on the world and my deeply important commentary on culture, society, politics, and shoes. I don't want my stunning good looks and nearly incomprehensible cuteness to get in the way. Also, I am humble.
As a modern woman, I thought that perhaps I should be more direct. I have drafted a post highlighting my positive attributes; including, but not limited to:
1. Curly hair
2. Regular flossing
This same draft also is painfully honest about my areas needing improvement; including, but not limited to:
1. Currently unable to think of any.
I am pleased that saurabh was able to see my many fabulous qualities without the aid of my modest post (which I am saving in the event that he is not sincere).
It dawned on me that the reason that I have not had a steady stream of suitors is due to a simple error on my part. I slight typo that I should have caught. The name of this blog should correctly read:
To Do: Get Hubby, 2. Floss
I must learn to proofread.
Mom remembers where she was when JFK was shot. I told her that it was a righteous memory; a part of history. All I'll have to remember, I said, was where I was when OJ led the LAPD on his low-speed chase.
I wish those words were still true.
I remember where I was five years ago.
Boa and Heels
I want a new pet.
I'm not responsible enough for a dog. Dog's expectations are too high. I need something that doesn't really give a sh*t about me, and yet something that is somewhat dependant on me. Something that I don't have to feed all that often.
I need a snake.
It's not that I don't love Wiggy, the guinea pig. It's just that...well, she's a rodent. And she bugs the crap out of me.
A snake could help me get out of this whole guinea pig ownership problem. Plus, I wouldn't have to worry about the first month's food.
I went to the pet store today to find the perfect pet for me. Fish are too complicated. I can't have a pet that requires pH strips. That's like science. I like science, but it usually ends up working against me (i.e. gravity). Birds are too nervous. Birds always seem to be on the edge of some kind of emotional break down. Plus, if one got out, I'd have to smash it on the wall with a fly swatter. I don't want to have to clean up all those feathers. Rodents are out of the question. I am over living with vermin. Lizards carry salmonela and eat crickets. Turtles smell badly. But a snake...a snake is the perfect accessory for me.
I asked to hold the cutest baby boa constrictor that I have ever laid eyes on. It wrapped itself around my wrist like a living snakeskin bracelet. It looked really good with my shoes. Also, it was on sale.
The pet store guy (Neil), answered all my questions.
Eight feet? 100 pounds?
- Yes, it does look good with your shoes.
- I think it likes your body heat, but I suppose it could also like you.
- We recommend frozen food. It's convenient and economical.
- No, I don't think it's a good idea to introduce it to your guinea pig.
- Well in that case, I guess it is a good idea to introduce it to your guinea pig.
- Probably about eight feet. No more than 100 pounds.
I can't get a snake.
Next to a snake, I would look fat.
I've had this blog for awhile now and it seems that I have not actually gotten a hobby yet. I have been flossing daily. Meeting only half my goal is not acceptable. Must Get Hobby.
With hunting season right around the corner, it seemed like a good idea to go to my local hunting supply shop.
I have been hunting only once. I was vegetarian at the time and I guess the guys thought that I was a downer (plus, I made a lot of noise when we spotted the quail), so I have not been invited on another hunting trip to date.
I want to be clear that I am not actually interested in hunting, but rather, I am interested in shopping for sh*t that I really don't want or need. That seems like a hobby that I can keep up.
I browsed every aisle. I had a lot of fun in the camping section. The sales associate (Earl) cringed when I climbed into the tent in my heels. He reminded me how much I love Not Camping.
In the apparel section, Earl gently reminded me that I had to wear 500 square inches of hunter orange as an outer garment above the waist. I informed Earl that I never wear 500 square inches of any material. Ever.
We moved on to accessories and hunting aides. There is a product called "Buck Licker." That's all I have to say about that.
At the rifle counter, Earl let me hold a Savage. "I believe the preferred term is 'indigenous,' Earl." Earl stared at me blankly. Then Earl's assistant came out to help. Earl's Retarded Assistant. Three levels of sporting goods and the cross-eyed kid works with rifles.
At the counter, I browsed through a free copy of the 2006-2007 Hunting Seasons & Regulations publication. I had no idea that the fine state that I live in has a Wheelchair Hunt. I cannot condone hunting people in wheelchairs. Sure, I want a good parking space, but still, it seems wrong.
Disappointed, I left without a single purchase.
Why You Got a Sh*tty Tip
I didn't have an appointment. Anticipated Wait Time for eyebrow wax/shaping: ten minutes. Everything was going so well.
I found the only magazine that I hadn't read and got comfortable. G smoked outside. I'd be nervous too, if I had G's eyebrows.
Five minutes pass. I still can't find the "How Nice Girls Have Naughty Sex" article. Perhaps it's for the best. Still, I have always been curious about nice girls.
Seven minutes pass. G is huffing nail polish fumes.
Ten minutes pass. Eyebrows growing ever-thicker. They will take over my face. I try not to look anxious. I will remain calm for G (wax virgin).
G is reading an article about the re-emergence of the "strong" (read: manly) eyebrow for fall. I look away in disgust. "Go ahead, join your Cro-Magnon brethren." If nothing else, I want to be supportive.
I go first. Her hands are soft. Her ponytail flops onto my chest when she leans over my face. Her breath is warm on my cheek. I think I am falling in Like with her. Then she says, "Wanna do the lip too?"
I do not have a mustache. I am covered all over with fine, downy hair. Soft. Like an apricot. It keeps me warm. Crumbs do not stick in the hair above my lip. It does not tickle Him when I kiss Him (ohmyg*d what if if does?).
I decline and mentally subtract cost of insult from her tip.
G and I leave. Brows perfectly shaped and a little red. G leans over and says, "mustaches are also in for fall."
Mist: You know those tri-color noodles?
Nurse Connie: Huh?
Mist: Like in pasta salad...
Nurse Connie: Um, I think so...
Mist: The curly ones...
Nurse Connie: Yeah. What about 'em?
Mist: That's what I'm coughing up.
That's how I described my symptoms to Nurse Connie, the dial-a-nurse when I called the 800 number conveniently provided on my insurance card. Connie, who is a Registered Nurse, tells me that she cannot diagnose any illness over the phone. I ask her if she can make an exception just this once. She cannot. I want to ask her what the f*ck she thought I called for. Of course, I want to her to diagnose my illness. I am not getting off the couch unless I need medication (or more alcohol/cough syrup).
Instead, Connie asks me a few questions to assess the situation. Fever? Yes. Moderate or severe trouble breathing? Yes. At this point Connie tells me that I have to go to the ER. I feel tricked. I'm not that sick. But she didn't give me "mild" as an option. Connie is making me stumble over my own symptoms. Suddenly, I hate Connie.
I get off the phone.
TheraFlu. Nap. Wine. Oprah. Nap. Tyra. Nap. TheraFlu. Phil. Nap. Wine. Nap.
Then in a moment of weakness, I ordered the Package Shark (comes with Power Scissors, $14.99). I wonder how I'll open the package.
I live with a rodent. A large, geriatric, albino guinea pig. By choice.
I rescued Wiggy from a nature center and she has been crapping all over my house ever since. She's pretty dependable. She eats. She drinks. She craps. She makes guinea pig noises.
Recently, I've noticed that she's been a little weird. It's hard to tell when a rodent's behavior is odd. Chewing on the cage is normal. Tossing her food dish around when it's empty is also normal. Standing on her hind legs and shrieking at me is disturbing, but normal.
Lately, she's been turning over her purple igloo. Every time I pass by her cage, the igloo is on it's side. Wiggy loves the purple igloo. I tried taking it out and she shrieked at me. I put it back in and she turned it over.
I decided to observe her last night while I was putting in her $90 eyedrops (I don't know how the f*ck the vet can tell that an albino guinea pig has an eye infection. Her eyes are always red.). I noticed that her nails are too long.
Wiggy hates getting her nails clipped. Almost as much as I hate doing it. Luckily, I have developed a technique. The key is to scare the crap out of her.
Now I have a geriatric albino rodent on the loose and a trail of carrots from the couch to the cage.
- I pick her up suddenly and lift her high into the air.
- Quickly flip her onto her back.
- Clip one nail.
- Wiggy screams.
- I scream.
- Wiggy scrambles to turn over.
- I throw Wiggy from my lap.
- I apologize.
- Wiggy runs under the couch to chew on electrical cords.
- I get the carrots out of the fridge.
"All of this happened, more or less." - Kurt Vonnegut
Location: Dirty South, USA
Yes, it is about me. Thanks for noticing.
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