Unfortunately, I looked on my Facebook account and immediately felt like pelting the outdated monitor that we have with a metal meat tenderizer.
Is there anyone, that doesn't live with a youtube or some other attachment sucked into their asshole, who posts on Facebook that hasn't been paid off by some lobbyist or corporate shill or, gosh, political websitesorosmoveondotorgorjonstewartorbillmaher, who could PLEASE just remove themselves from my FB account? Or, I could just delete my Facebook account and get on with life, which would be a much better course of action since it's the most incredible clusterfuck of unnecessary information EVER proffered in the history of the world of the innernets OR the world in general.
Not that it grates on my nerves or anything.
I believe I have a course of action. Soon.
Friday, October 29, 2010
A Tail of Tear, Part Fini
So, there was a snake and I smashed it and the lady with the kid dropped the kid and it stubbed its toe on a mossrock and I broke a fingernail wielding the hoe that smashed the snake. The end.
I got bored with this whole premise and ate dinner and had to give Dot a benadryl and finish the crossword puzzle, so that's what happens when great authors get sidelined.
I think the child inside removed all the studs from the chair, required braces and then the garbage men sued me, or rather, the story lady, and they all moved into a mansion and then got deported because I turned them in which would have been against my better judgment but they pissed me off with the tripping on the bag stuff. No sanctuary home here! But, they did do a good job of picking up the bags of razor blades.
The end again.
It's all true. Really. Trust me.
I got bored with this whole premise and ate dinner and had to give Dot a benadryl and finish the crossword puzzle, so that's what happens when great authors get sidelined.
I think the child inside removed all the studs from the chair, required braces and then the garbage men sued me, or rather, the story lady, and they all moved into a mansion and then got deported because I turned them in which would have been against my better judgment but they pissed me off with the tripping on the bag stuff. No sanctuary home here! But, they did do a good job of picking up the bags of razor blades.
The end again.
It's all true. Really. Trust me.
Dot update
Sweet Dot is snoring right now. She got stung by a honey bee or a wasp. One or the other which swelled her lip up to wrong proportions. So we gave her a benadryl. It didn't take effect until three hours later, but she is surely snoozing now.
But, of course, she has had a fun week. Mr. Froth worked three days straight and, while I and Frothlet #2 came home for lunch when we could, that didn't prevent her from finally, finally, discovering the leather couch. She didn't eat the leather, just the foam in the arm underneath the floppy cushion that attaches with velcro. So there's that at least.
She is now relegated to the kitchen where she can only destroy the carpet which she's already destroyed and where she can fling her wrapped boxes and taped paper bags full of enticements and where I harbor hopes of possibly repairing and refurbishing items that would once again make us look like real people live here.
Tomorrow I prune or reset rocks or clean grout or just bag it all and get my toenails did.
But, of course, she has had a fun week. Mr. Froth worked three days straight and, while I and Frothlet #2 came home for lunch when we could, that didn't prevent her from finally, finally, discovering the leather couch. She didn't eat the leather, just the foam in the arm underneath the floppy cushion that attaches with velcro. So there's that at least.
She is now relegated to the kitchen where she can only destroy the carpet which she's already destroyed and where she can fling her wrapped boxes and taped paper bags full of enticements and where I harbor hopes of possibly repairing and refurbishing items that would once again make us look like real people live here.
Tomorrow I prune or reset rocks or clean grout or just bag it all and get my toenails did.
A Tail of Tear, Part Whatever Since I Don’t Know How Long This Is. Like that.
There I sat, watching my youngest chew the metal studs out of the pleather chair that my mother-in-law had given us, contemplating.
Is the iron in the studs an enhancement for one so young, or is that outweighed by the sharpy pointy innards? Is the challenge of pulling studs out with baby teeth a life-affirming feat that he will carry with him like a pocketful of Sour Warheads?
“Hey! Don’t chew the pleather. Keep on task, dude.”
At that moment I heard a descending F-sharp scale howl from outside and sincerely hoped it wasn’t the garbage men tripping over our bags of used razor blades. When will they start recycling that stuff? When will they start training the garbage people to observe where they step and to stop bleeding on our driveway? The blood is a difficult complement to the gray of the existing mildew and should really have more orange in it to work as an accent. These sorts of issues expand on a daily basis and, while offering me a ton of time to philosophize, deliberate and define what should be and when, they detract from my goal of constructing a façade, similar to a slipcover for sofas, that would fit over a two-story single family dwelling, allowing internal decay to progress at will, yet foiling ravening covenant-crazed groups who have a racist, sexist, religionist bias against those items and beings that are simply a part of the circle of life. You know, worms, compost, grubs, roaches, rats, nutria, zombie beavers.
"Don't eat the pleather, sweetie. I can see you with eyes in the back of my head. I'll be right back."
I ambled outside, unable to run due to exacerbation of a bunion that even a two-hour session with flesh-eating koi hadn’t remedied, and noticed my new neighbor clasping one of her youngsters in her arms, high above the ground while squeaking something or other about a snake. I don’t know where her other youngster was, but it was apparent that she wasn’t inside the snake, since the snake was coiled and HAD been pleasantly sleeping and was skinny and non-youngster-filled.
To be continued…
Is the iron in the studs an enhancement for one so young, or is that outweighed by the sharpy pointy innards? Is the challenge of pulling studs out with baby teeth a life-affirming feat that he will carry with him like a pocketful of Sour Warheads?
“Hey! Don’t chew the pleather. Keep on task, dude.”
At that moment I heard a descending F-sharp scale howl from outside and sincerely hoped it wasn’t the garbage men tripping over our bags of used razor blades. When will they start recycling that stuff? When will they start training the garbage people to observe where they step and to stop bleeding on our driveway? The blood is a difficult complement to the gray of the existing mildew and should really have more orange in it to work as an accent. These sorts of issues expand on a daily basis and, while offering me a ton of time to philosophize, deliberate and define what should be and when, they detract from my goal of constructing a façade, similar to a slipcover for sofas, that would fit over a two-story single family dwelling, allowing internal decay to progress at will, yet foiling ravening covenant-crazed groups who have a racist, sexist, religionist bias against those items and beings that are simply a part of the circle of life. You know, worms, compost, grubs, roaches, rats, nutria, zombie beavers.
"Don't eat the pleather, sweetie. I can see you with eyes in the back of my head. I'll be right back."
I ambled outside, unable to run due to exacerbation of a bunion that even a two-hour session with flesh-eating koi hadn’t remedied, and noticed my new neighbor clasping one of her youngsters in her arms, high above the ground while squeaking something or other about a snake. I don’t know where her other youngster was, but it was apparent that she wasn’t inside the snake, since the snake was coiled and HAD been pleasantly sleeping and was skinny and non-youngster-filled.
To be continued…
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Happy No Breast Cancer Month
In the spirit of the never ending PINKNESS that is the breast cancer marketing arm (I really, truly, seriously do not like pink) I am contributing my, well, contribution to the breast cancer survivory cache.
And explaining why I haven't posted in a bit--never mind about work, meetings, more meetings, friends and relatives visiting for extended periods of time, Dot eating the rug and furniture and the tenement status of the house-- I submit for your perusal, not approval, because there is no approval for which to beseech...
September, October is my yearly mammogram time. It is now eight years that I have been cancer free. In 2002 I went through the obligatory lumpectomy, radiation, tamoxifen, aromasin, Zoladex shots and random bullshit that one goes through when dealing with bc.
In 2005 some atypical lobular hyperplasia was discovered in my other boob, not cancer, and, at the time, not a close relation to actual cancer, but attended by the clustered microcalcifications and following stereotactic biopsy and yearly MRI's, ultrasound, MRI's, ultrasound, mammos, blah. It IS a distant possible link to future problems, based on more recent studies, and I remember the radiologist from five years ago using the word "insidious." That was special.
Last year, after my ritual diagnostic mammo I was cleared to get the regular old screening mammogram. Yay for me!
So, as I approached this year's anniversary of THE TIME, I scheduled the mammo and, ritualistically internalized the on-hold angst and skepticism that accompanies any procedure that can determine how you live your life for months or years. The whole thing tends to creep up on you quietly, because, you know, there is no "cure," there is always the possibility of recurrence or popping up of new stuff, especially if you have had it before. It tends to make my mind stop up for a month or so, very similar to constipation, remedied only by thinking of things I need to do, like fix house shit, paint pictures, post on the blog, get my nails did. It also prevents me from accomplishing many of those things for a few weeks, because all I want to do is get on with the whole thing and get beyond.
Mammo was done and, rather than receiving the results immediately as one does with a diagnostic mammo, I had to wait the three to five days for results. That's cool.
Except, five days after I'd had the test I received a letter, a fucking letter, from my obgyn's office that indicated "Your provider sent a reminder that you need these test(s) done. Call us if you've had these test(s)." Dated two days after I'd had the test. So, I, in my ever paranoid state, wondered if they'd goofed by attaching a "screening mammogram" order (which I'd just had) and had meant "SOMETHING'S SUSPICIOUS AND YOU'RE DOOMED" and just fucked up. This was a Friday.
Nope. They had just received a reminder and had passed it on to me, crossing in the mail with the OKAY results from the radiologist who'd read my mammo and said, "You're good to go." Which the office hadn't pulled off the internets yet. Bitches, bitches, bitches.
Thank you for the personal contact, you bureaucratic fuck-ups.
Net net is, now I really have to concentrate on the crumbling manse and Dot-damage. Work will be what it will always be.
Oh! And Frothlet #1 got a job in his field! And Frothlet #2 has an interview!
That makes me happy.
Tomorrow, I'm wearing my mammo report instead of the ubiquitous pink t-shirts at work and they can get over their happy pink selves.
But, the great thing is, IT WAS OKAY. Constipation is in the process of abatement and now I have to actually DO things.
And explaining why I haven't posted in a bit--never mind about work, meetings, more meetings, friends and relatives visiting for extended periods of time, Dot eating the rug and furniture and the tenement status of the house-- I submit for your perusal, not approval, because there is no approval for which to beseech...
September, October is my yearly mammogram time. It is now eight years that I have been cancer free. In 2002 I went through the obligatory lumpectomy, radiation, tamoxifen, aromasin, Zoladex shots and random bullshit that one goes through when dealing with bc.
In 2005 some atypical lobular hyperplasia was discovered in my other boob, not cancer, and, at the time, not a close relation to actual cancer, but attended by the clustered microcalcifications and following stereotactic biopsy and yearly MRI's, ultrasound, MRI's, ultrasound, mammos, blah. It IS a distant possible link to future problems, based on more recent studies, and I remember the radiologist from five years ago using the word "insidious." That was special.
Last year, after my ritual diagnostic mammo I was cleared to get the regular old screening mammogram. Yay for me!
So, as I approached this year's anniversary of THE TIME, I scheduled the mammo and, ritualistically internalized the on-hold angst and skepticism that accompanies any procedure that can determine how you live your life for months or years. The whole thing tends to creep up on you quietly, because, you know, there is no "cure," there is always the possibility of recurrence or popping up of new stuff, especially if you have had it before. It tends to make my mind stop up for a month or so, very similar to constipation, remedied only by thinking of things I need to do, like fix house shit, paint pictures, post on the blog, get my nails did. It also prevents me from accomplishing many of those things for a few weeks, because all I want to do is get on with the whole thing and get beyond.
Mammo was done and, rather than receiving the results immediately as one does with a diagnostic mammo, I had to wait the three to five days for results. That's cool.
Except, five days after I'd had the test I received a letter, a fucking letter, from my obgyn's office that indicated "Your provider sent a reminder that you need these test(s) done. Call us if you've had these test(s)." Dated two days after I'd had the test. So, I, in my ever paranoid state, wondered if they'd goofed by attaching a "screening mammogram" order (which I'd just had) and had meant "SOMETHING'S SUSPICIOUS AND YOU'RE DOOMED" and just fucked up. This was a Friday.
Nope. They had just received a reminder and had passed it on to me, crossing in the mail with the OKAY results from the radiologist who'd read my mammo and said, "You're good to go." Which the office hadn't pulled off the internets yet. Bitches, bitches, bitches.
Thank you for the personal contact, you bureaucratic fuck-ups.
Net net is, now I really have to concentrate on the crumbling manse and Dot-damage. Work will be what it will always be.
Oh! And Frothlet #1 got a job in his field! And Frothlet #2 has an interview!
That makes me happy.
Tomorrow, I'm wearing my mammo report instead of the ubiquitous pink t-shirts at work and they can get over their happy pink selves.
But, the great thing is, IT WAS OKAY. Constipation is in the process of abatement and now I have to actually DO things.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Howdy DOO!
Wow. I've been absent a bit. That's what visiting friends, visiting chilrens, nice weather and dragging from work will do.
So, after discussing all of the things we need to do to make our house look like live people live in it, we've decided to discuss it some more. Make lists. Avoid doing. And then it will crumble about us and we won't have to worry. Perhaps I'll vacuum.
Whilst lying about in bed realizing I actually sleptish sort of last night I came up with an entry for the annual Bulwer Lytton contest and submitted it. The sentence called to me so I did it.
My fingernails look like ents have attacked. That's WAY worse than badgers.
I entered Dot in a newspaper pet calendar contest and the bozos are charging $1 for each vote. Looks like she won't win.
Back in a bit after deliberating on vacuuming.
So, after discussing all of the things we need to do to make our house look like live people live in it, we've decided to discuss it some more. Make lists. Avoid doing. And then it will crumble about us and we won't have to worry. Perhaps I'll vacuum.
Whilst lying about in bed realizing I actually sleptish sort of last night I came up with an entry for the annual Bulwer Lytton contest and submitted it. The sentence called to me so I did it.
My fingernails look like ents have attacked. That's WAY worse than badgers.
I entered Dot in a newspaper pet calendar contest and the bozos are charging $1 for each vote. Looks like she won't win.
Back in a bit after deliberating on vacuuming.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)