Month: June 2008

ICUP

Seeeeee

I see you! Do you see me?

I got contacts this weekend. I used to have them, then I ran out of them in my year of not spending, and didn't get around to replacing my contacts until this weekend. Everyone at work kept saying, "Are you wearing makeup today?" Okay, yeah, I wear makeup every day. I guess you couldn't tell with the Coke-bottle spectacles.

Anyway. I'm gettin' weird about my blog. Ever since I started blogging, at the end of every month I'd have more readers, according to my sitemeter. Which is a thing that counts your readers. Do not get it if you don't have it. You will get weird like I have.

Back when my readers went up every month, it was kind of like when I used to weigh less than 125. I just always weighed less than 125, so I never thought about it.

Then last month, I ended the month with 12, 247 readers. Which, by the way, are we not supposed to talk about how many readers we all have? Is it like money, which is another thing I never understood why you aren't supposed to talk about it? Well, here I am, bein' a rebel, talking about how many readers I have.

So, you'd think 12, 247 readers is pretty good, unless you're Dooce, or, you know, The Nester, who gets like 8 million readers a minute. But the month BEFORE last, I had 12, 275 readers.

Just like the day I got on the scale and weighed 134 all of a sudden, I started actually thinking about it. I started thinking about how many people read this blog. This ridICulous blog.

Today is the last day of June (the last day of the MONTH. Not the last day of me. I hope. Unless I have a dramatic obedience school injury tonight) and as of this writing, I have 12, 024 readers for this month.

NOW I AM OBSESSED! WHY ARE MY READERS GOING DOWN?!

Even more important, why do I care? I never started this thing to get readers. I started writing last year because Marvin kept telling me to, and I sent this blog to 15 people. So why now am I so interested that everyone be reading me and noticing me and talking about me and featuring me on TMZ.com?

Maybe I should remove the sitemeter. Sure. Maybe I'll remove barrygibb.com from my favorites page too. And then I'll get silky Asian girl hair and unicorns will mate in my patoot.

Are you reading this? Are you looking at me? 

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Opine

Is it okay to let your dog chew a pine cone? Cause clearly I am letting her. And photographing her while she does it. Look how proud she is of her find.

Pine_3

Is someone going to send this in to Animal Services and Tallulah will be ripped from me for abuse? Somebody needs to report me to Lawn Services. LOOK at how that lawn needs help.

If I hadn't spent eight-and-a-half hours proofreading statistics yesterday, perhaps I could have turned my attention to the yard. But no.

Oh, and SAVE THE MONEY? SAVE IT? Look, I learned a lot of things from last year's no spending experiment. I still use one lipstick at a time, and only when it is cutting my lips do I buy another. I still haven't replenished the wardrobe, and I take my lunch to work a lot. And how do you think we came up with a down payment for this house with the dry lawn? From not spending, that's how.

But this freelance project. Oh, it is terrible. I have to have a reward at the end or I will die of sadness and ennui.

Save the money. Hah!

But that is not why I gathered you all here today. I did want to tell you that a faithful reader sent me some vegetarian recipes and Marvin, who has suddenly become my wife and personal secretary, is going to make one of them. Yesterday he got me three sides from Boston Market, so I could enjoy me the Market and not eat meat.

He also went to the store the other day and got me all the food I had mentioned in the past several days: strawberries, spinach calzone, salt-and-vinegar Pringles. I know Pringles aren't healthy. But I had just gotten off the treadmill and had no idea he was going to present them to me, and it was almost as good as if he had presented me a baby lion.

Okay, but here is where I need help today. Can anyone come proofread a textbook? No, no.

The problem is Ruby. My beautiful black cat, who no picture does justice. She is 12, or she will be on Tuesday, (same day as Princess Diana). But instead of Dodi being the trouble, doodie is.

I have had Ruby since she was eight weeks old, and this cat has NEVER gone outside her litter box until now. We have moved six times, other cats have come and gone, and she has had asthma, but NEVER has she screwed up.

Well. As I have mentioned, someone has been peeing on the bathroom throw rug. I suspected her, because sometimes there would be large pieces of black fur on the rug, and her asthma has been acting up, which makes her shed.

Marvin just took her to the vet for said asthma yesterday, and the vet said she's fine. Now, my suspicion is she is doing this because Tallulah is much bigger and she was away from Tallulah for two months, and last time she lived with this dog, the dog was a bitty puppy and not scary.

OR, she is sick and it's not the asthma.

So, seven minutes ago, as I sat to write this, she came in here, meowed at me, AND POOPED! She dropped Mrs. Brown off at the pool! See how handy it was to have you all send in your poop phrases yesterday? It was like Providence.

I think she could not be more obviously trying to tell me that something is up. I mean, other than cross-stitching me a sampler: "Mom! I am miserable!" this was the best she could do.

So what do I do? Do I go back to the vet? Put a diaper on her? Have a blog giveaway after all? Sign up to win a poopy 12-year-old kitty! Squeamish people need not apply!

Ahhhh

We're going crazy, over here.

Some bloggers do giveaways. I do poop-ins.

To anyone who was worried I might be crappin', I'm fine. I had only given up meat for a week when I had my carnivorous extravaganza.

When I was in high school, I spent many a dinner at my best friend's house. My friend's brother Buddy and I spent an inordinate amount of dinnertime thinking up all the pooping euphemisms we knew. Why her mother didn't stop us is beyond me. At any rate, 25 years later they all still kill me: building a log cabin, laying some cable, got a turtle head poking out. And so on.

If you know any others, I beg you to mail them in. I need fun, over here.

I have begun my treacherous next few weeks of working full-time during busy season at my job, driving 40 minutes home, then working on a FOUR-HUNDRED-SIXTY-PAGE BOOK at night. I did not even realize it was that big until last night when I proofread the table of contents.

Does anyone have any of those big jugs with the XXXs on them? Send like 50 of those while you send your poop euphs, too.

Last night it occurred to me that this extra work is something I'm doing because I was too scared to say no. It is not work I have to do to pay the bills. That's what my regular job is for. So I asked Marvin, "Can I just buy myself something good with this money?" and he was too afraid of me to say no. I am a little testy as of late.

I'm gonna have at least a thousand dollars to blow, which will be a nice thing dangling in front of me when I spend sunny weekends and warm, firefly-filled nights bent over a statistics book. It will kind of be like the time I ran a marathon, and my mother promised me she'd have a bottle of champagne for me at the end. By mile 19, it was like that thing was on a stick dangling in front of my head, you know, like donkeys and carrots or dogs and rabbits or whatever.

When I finally crossed that finish line, I searched the crowd for mom and her bottle. Where was mom? Where was my champagne? WHERE!?!?! WHEEEERRREE!?!?! Then I saw her.

"Honey, I left the champagne in the car."

It is one of those things I will never get over, like the time my father had my cat put to sleep when I was six. Which I'd tell you about but for Father's Day this year my father said, "How about for my Father's Day gift I never have to hear about that %^*#@ dead cat again?"

So I am not allowed to tell you.

At any rate, I looked on the Internet for what I might buy with my torturesome freelance money. And now I wish I hadn't looked. Because of course I found the most beautiful ring you have ever seen. The most beauuuuutiful ring the world has ever created. And it's too expensive. 

Go look at it. It's lovely, isn't it? And I don't need it. I have actually bought myself two, not one but two, ruby and diamond rings over the years. But oh! It's so pretty!

Anyway, I'd have to work like 50 hours on this book to afford it, and it's only gonna take me 40, probably, and no I am not going to lie to the client and say, "It took me exactly $1700 to proof this book. Hmmm." Maybe instead of an invoice I could just send them that link.

So what I'll probably do is get something for the HOUSE, which, zzzzzzz. My mother suggested it.

But of course she is the one who deprived her only child of liquid after that child had run 26.2 miles.

But meat is so TASTY!

Someone once told me it is funnier to read my blog when I screw up, so today will be a laugh riot. You will be stitching your sides. Is what you'll be doing.

King Henry VII called. Wants me to stop eating all the meat.

Oh, you guys. They had a cookout at work. And the guy doing all the cooking works in my department. And I have the office with the sink. So all morning, he was cooking the five-bean baked beans with bacon, he was cutting giant red fat tomatoes for the burgers, he was setting out the brown mustard, RIGHT IN MY OFFICE. And the two enormous grills? RIGHT UNDER MY WINDOW. It was like The Last Temptation of June, there.

And I ran really hard last night, and didn't eat much for dinner because I am busy, and so I was STARVING. STARVING, I tell you. Those hikers who were gone 11 days? Not nearly as hungry as I was.

By the time noon rolled around I was like a pack of lions on one of those jackals in the nature shows. I was totally on my haunches, growling and pulling with my teeth.

Oh, that hamburger was good. It was clearly ground round or whatever expensive hamburger meat is. And those beans! I know I of all people should abstain from beans at work, but I snorted them, I rolled around in them, I tossed them about like Ann-Margaret with the chocolate in Tommy.

It was delicious. The coworker who thinks I'm weird said, "You seem awfully…happy."

You know what I said, right? Num, num, num, is what I said.

Oh.

But I am DONE now. It was a SETBACK. I had stir-fry for dinner. With nice carrots. And our good friend rice.

And by the way, it is getting to be the busy time at work, and naturally the place I freelance for sent me a 400+ page book to proof. I wrote them today and said after this, I cannot read books for you any more and for a while I can't even read flyers for you. Get over it. Go eat some meat, I told them.

They seemed relatively okay with it. They seemed like they are going to try to sneak in a book or two, but I will not fall for it. I can't work 10-hour days at my real job, then drive home and proofread, which is actually what I am going to be doing for the next 14 days, but then I am done.

I am done with meat. I am done with too much work. Done done done. Dun-dun-DUNNNN!

The delish ran away with the spoon

Spoon_4

I couldn't get a picture of me spooning with Tallulah, as per Kathy R and ceb's request, but here I am spooning Francis. BA HA HA HA HA!

Who enjoys her own self?

And who would be happy to see Francis sitting on his eleven million dollar black stuff with cords?

I have to be brief, which is what I used to say to my mother-in-law every time I left her a message at her old job, because she used to work in the men's underwear division of a store. I am not kidding you. How fun it was to hear her say, "You've reached Barbara Gardensalad in Men's Underwear." Oh! The visual!

My mother-in-law in her tighty-whities aside, I have to type this, then go get more peaches at the store, then run. I am behind schedule because I came home and went right to bed till now, when I woke up spooning the cat.

So, here is why I think I'm depressed without knowing it. First of all, I am tired all the time. And I have no ability to concentrate whatsoever. Aren't those signs of depression?

A few months ago, I got a book back that I'd proofread and I did horribly on it. I thought it was a fluke, but the little proofreading they've given me at work? I have made really dumb mistakes there, too. Like, not noticing periods at the end of sentences, which is something I would never do normally.

What is wrong with me? Am I tired of proofreading? Am I just tired? Is it a tumor? I just wanted to give someone the chance to say, "It's not a tumaaaa."

Okay, off to peach and run. Just one more thing. We are having a huge cookout at work tomorrow with hamburgers and baked beans with bacon in it. Oh, help. Doesn't that sound delish?

The dog who hates me

Last night at dog obedience, the instructor said she wanted Tallulah and me to go off in a corner and make out. She said Tallulah was way more interested in playing with Rosie the Boxer than she was in me, and that I had to teach her to tune in to me. Calling Tokyo. Come in Tokyo.

Now, naturally, this led me to believe that Lula hates my guts and wishes anyone in the world had plucked her from that trailer park other than me. And it didn't help any when we stood there for 65 hours and she looked at everything in the world but me. Perhaps I am hideous to her. Perhaps every time she sees me, the Beauty and the Beast theme plays in her head.

So tonight I made her look at me before I posted.

Force

Could she look more apprehensive? WHY DOES MY DOG HATE ME? You get dogs because they have to love you, because they are dogs. As opposed to cats, who are waiting for their paycheck for living with you.

Do you like how I added the hearts, to kind of force that loving feeling? She is like every ex-boyfriend I ever had. I am SO trying to make her jealous tonight at the dog park.

I know that I have not delved into any of the topics I said I would, and as you can see, I have retained the ding-dang job no matter WHAT rule-breaking techniques I try. I am wearing nothing but pasties and a headdress tomorrow.

Okay, so my diet. My nonkilling, slaughterhouse zero diet. First of all, my groceries were cheap. I got 47 million of those little containers of every pasta made, where you just add hot water, for lunch. And I got fruits and vegetables. And also Fig Newtons. My grocery bill was 24 bucks. For me, that's good.

Also, I ordered the veggie patty at Subway, and is it ever tasty. And also last night we had spinach pizza, which was similarly delicious. So all in all, it's been good other than when I saw the beef ad and almost died of lust. But, yeah, why must there be so many tomato items in vegetarian food? You got your spaghetti sauce, your salsa, your tomatoes on sandwiches and in salads, your V-8. I am expecting to have a hole in my esophagus by Friday.

What else did I say I wanted to mention? Oh, yeah, the neighbor! Hang on! Let me show you what she did to my cupboard.

So, I knew my neighbor was an artist, and I had told her that once we unpacked, I'd love to have her give us visual-skills advice. So she came over Saturday afternoon and we were together till 10 p.m. I am not even kidding. At one point, we were at her house, and I noticed on the wall all these plaques and awards because she is an interior designer. Me too. So we now have a whole makeover plan for this house, which will take years but it's exciting.

Here is how my cupboard/shelfy thing, because I am an interior designer and I know all the words, looked when I set it up:

Kitchen

Here's how it looked after she played with it:

Fixed

I wish I had skills. Mad skillz. I don't even know what that phrase means.

It is time for macaroni and cheese, so I must go. I have not forgotten that I have to write about how I have either been lobotomized or I am depressed, and also how annoying I was at 24.

Because apparently it wouldn’t be a day unless I blogged from work

When I get home tonight, remind me to discuss:

  • How I spent an inordinate amount of time with my next-door neighbor this weekend, and it turns out she is an award-winning decorator and I need to suck up to her more.
  • How many tomato products must one consume when one is vegetarian?
  • What a pretentious twit I was in college.
  • And, can you be depressed and not know it?

Okay, talk to you at 5:40 ET. Unless they finally fire me for this, in which case I’d assume I’ll get home earlier.

I also don’t like Pina Coladas

Today I got my roots done, because Hostess Ding-Dongs called. They wanted their creamy white center back. What gray roots? Yeesch.

I got home from my rootage and I was so proud. I got right on the webcam, because I am obsessed with myself.

Rootswin

This photo didn't exactly capture my nice new roots as much as it captured Winston and his squinty self. And also Marvin's musical equipment that I don't understand. All I know is all his stuff is black and has many cords, and I have never seen a black-with-many-cords-themed room in any decorating magazine. But I digress.

Rootsdone

Theeeerrre we go. No gray roots! I am young again! And by the way, my hairdresser said her parents were nearly 50, but they were young at heart. Tipped her 48 cents.

So, I was all proud of my roots and my blowout, and I was debating not running because I didn't want to ruin said blowout, which right there makes me stupid. Yes, her cholesterol was 796 when she died, but what smooth hair!

Meanwhile, Marvin said, "Let's go to the park with Tallulah!" "Okay," I said, wanting all of Greensboro to see I was no longer Spalding Gray drinking Earl Grey with the Legend of Greystoke.

Right when we got outside, the sky said, BOOM! "Gee, it looks a little stormy," I said, the Wicked Witch theme starting up quietly in the background. "No," said Marvin, who once mistook a crying kitten for a bird. Who once, in the middle of the night, thought the sound of a car flipping over in front of our house was really the ocean crashing into the shore, even though we lived 20 miles from the ocean. "Let's go," he insisted.

The sky was a nice shade of purple as we approached the park, the all-tall-tress-and-giant-metal-statues park. BOOM! the sky repeated. Helen Hunt and Bill Paxton drove by in a pickup truck as Marvin got a concerned-looking Tallulah out of the car.

BOOM! CRACK! the sky insisted. All the other park-goers were rushing past us in droves, as well as all the woodland creatures, searching for higher ground. "Come on, Tallulah!" Marvin sang brightly. She raised her eyebrows at me.

I'd say we were five minutes into our walk when we must have somehow managed to walk directly under the Hoover Dam. Karen Silkwood had less water doused on her then we did in that moment. You couldn't even talk, because if you opened your mouth, you'd drown.

Of course, this was the moment Tallulah decided to relieve her bowels.

And guess what? The trash can at the all-lightning-rods-all-the-time park? Had some sort of raccoon-proof trap door on it that you had to read the directions to get open. Who wanted to hang her Target bag of poop right on the electricity-attracting arm of one of the statues? But no. I was a Brownie; I have learned to leave nature as I found it. I actually stood in that driving rain and read the stupid instructions.

Anyway, we are home. We look like this:

Nofun

You can't tell, but I am so winning a wet t-shirt contest, and Lula looks like a terrier, her fur is so sticky-uppy. She hates us.

Inshock

I not leave house, never.

Our house. In the middle of our street. Actually, it’s pretty close to the corner.

Am I the analiest wife from Analville, Analbama? Or are Marvin's towel-folding techniques unacceptable?

Badtowel

And let's none of us do the thing where we all just feel grateful a man has folded a towel. It's as much his job as it is mine. Except that he clearly has an emotional block about it.

I have, in the exasperated past, just told him to not fold any towels. I have told him to just come get me, and I will do it.

Towlenice

And look. Mine don't have military precision or anything, like old lady towels. Can someone tell me how old ladies get their towels so tidy-looking? And their sheets? Have you ever looked in any old lady linen closets, or is that just my hobby? And why do old ladies all like Pond's Cold Cream? Does anyone under 78 use Pond's?

Ooo, speaking of which, there's a man I know at the dog park, named Mister's dad. We all just know each other by our dog names, and then add the unfortunate "dad" or "mom." Anyway, Mister is a black, calm giant Schnauzer and so cool, and he is owned by a black, calm giant man. It sort of cracks me up. I like to think of myself as a fun blonde, so maybe everyone thinks I am like Tallulah, too. But probably not. Well, the going-straight-for-everyone's-crotches part, yeah.

Were you waiting for me to tell you this giant Schnauzer uses Pond's Cold Cream?

Anyway, Mister's dad works weekends at a retirement community that sounds really fancy, and it has independent apartments, then independent living, then assisted living, then you are old and gonna die soon living. He was telling me about all the funny old ladies and next thing you know old Jed's a millionaire and I am gonna volunteer there. I was missing my old ladies. And their tidy towels.

And in case anyone is burning with curiosity, last night I had spaghetti for dinner, which is probably a rookie new vegetarian thing to have. And for breakfast I had Barbie cereal. Marvin had it too, and when I woke up and opened the bedroom door, the whole house smelled like Barbie cereal.

I am certain Jackie Onassis had similar problems.

Oh, and I already own the book Fast Food Nation, so I guess I will read it after I finish my Anne Lamont book. Does anyone else totally worship Anne Lamont?

Anyway, we are really almost done unpacking boxes, and now we just have to make things pretty. We have nine million, seven hundred and fifty thousand knickknacks. How old are we? There's hardly anywhere to set down our Pond's.

Shelf

Here is our shelf in the hallway. We had just been cramming stuff there for yucks. Now I have to think of something real to do with it. I mean, I could use all the shelves for the all-knickknacks, all the time thing we got going. As it is, the Filofax, photo of Marvin's grandmother, Tiffany's box, reading glasses, tarot cards theme is looking nice, too.

But I am pleased with how I arranged the shelf in the kitchen:

Kitchen

That's just our everyday china, along with some pretty pieces we've gotten over the years. And do you like our eBay phone? We heart ourselves. When's the last time you DIALED a phone? It feels so retro. It's kind of hard to dial when you have Pond's Cold Cream on your fingers, though.

Okay, need to get over the Pond's.

Nine grain

Fran_2

I am home right now with Francis, even though it is 1 p.m. I left work cause I was sick, dog. I was sicky-sick-sick.

I woke up with a migraine this morning, which always annoys me. I had run the night before, and made sure I got my eight hours, and put in my mouth guard so my top teeth wouldn't come out my bottom jaw in the night, and I wake up with ROWR ROWR ROWR in my head. That is what a migraine says as it throbs. ROWR ROWR ROWR.

Migraines tend to be on one side of your head or the other. Now, for me, if I have a headache on the right side, it hurts a lot, but isn't that nauseating. If it's throbbing on the left, I have less pain but more nausea. Do not ask me why. I did not ask for my body to do this to me, just as I did not ask it to make my midsection bell-shaped or marsupial-pouched.

So, I took an Imitrex, which, thank you, God, for drugs. Good American drugs. I have tried acupuncture, biofeedback, aura cleansing, past life readings, finding my totem animal, meditation, Chinese herbs and relaxation CDs to get rid of these migraines. And you know what works? The good people at GlaxoSmithKline, that's what works.

Visualize GlaxoSmithKline. All we are saying is give prescriptions a chance.

And by the way? I wish that list of alternative medicines was exaggerated for comic effect, but it isn't.

Anyway. I take an Imitrex. I go to work, because I have only worked there two months. By the time I get there, my stomach is not pleased with me. Also, I was working with someone else, and I noticed I really couldn't get my brain to, you know, work. After each step in what I was doing, I had to think. "Now, what do I do, again?" My coworker must think they hired the child of Pia Zadora and Forrest Gump.

Did I ever tell you that once during my marathon training, some teenager yelled, "Run, Forrest! Run!" at me? This is why I don't have kids.

Eventually, it was time for my 10 o'clock break. I'd estimate the time was 10 o'clock because I am Sherlock Holmes, over here. At this point, was head was so dizzy that I thought, maybe I shouldn't walk. But maybe I'd feel better if I walked. So I got up and ambled over to where my walker friends are, and it just occurs to me one of them is named Jim, so he is Jimmy Walker, which is killing me just a little. Anyway, by the time I got over there, the back of my mouth started watering and I said, oh no.

I have not barfed since 1982. And in 1982, I was drunk on Andre pink champagne so it didn't matter that I was barfing. But I would rather watch a Reba marathon than barf. I am HORRIFIED of it. I would rather attend an all-Cupid, Draw Back Your Bow-all-the-time dance marathon than barf.

I do not know why all my examples involve marathons.

So, I left. I did not want to be ill at work. I drove home very motionlessly. See? Everyone who's afraid of emailing me because you think I'll proof your email? I just said motionlessly. Calm down.

I slept until just now, when I got up famished and ate leftover pepperoni pizza with the pepperonis picked off, which was the best I could do considering I haven't bought non-meat food yet. Then I had a peach, because I have 7,000 peaches, because I told my mother-in-law that I like yellow peaches, and when you tell that woman something she gets it for you in droves. I wish I told her I liked gold bouillon.

I was eating the peach when Marvin, who was still sporting his pajamas and I am not resentful of his summer off at all, totally tripped on absolutely nothing. I mean, he was in the middle of the hardwood floor with nothing around him for miles. And the way he flung his hands in the air? He looked exactly like Jack Be Nimble. Which I was trying to tell him but I was choking on the peach.

So that's my first 24 hours as a vegetarian. Oh, and an anonymous commenter, whose initials might be my mother, wants vegetarian recipes or food ideas. Nothing with cilantro, please. I'd rather go to a drum solo marathon than…oh, you get my drift.

No makeup, I’m a vegetarian. Is a dreamcatcher next?

Nomakeup

Here's my radiant self, after a whole day of wearing no makeup at work.

And I made a stupid mistake at work today, too, that vexed me, and someone said, "You look so drained. Don't beat yourself up about that mistake."

Okay, I really wasn't drained so much as I was without eyeliner. And I'm enjoying my gray roots too. Glad it wasn't Bring Your Jude Law to Work Day.

Other than forgetting to wear makeup, I had another major event in the past 24 hours. I have decided to become vegetarian.

I love animals. And not in that way. Cut it out. But really, I am up there with the major animal lovers of the word: Pamela Anderson, Tippi Hedrin, Dr. Doolittle, Oscar Mayer. So why do I eat them?

Several times in life I have walked up to those dreadful trucks that have the livestock on them. I do not mean that I was walking on the highway, I mean at rest stops and such, where I earn some extra cash on the side. And have you ever looked inside those containers of pigs or cows or chickens? They are CRAMMED in there, and they look like they know exactly what's going on, and it also doesn't look very clean.

Also, one time Marvin was watching one of his interminable documentaries, and they showed a pig being killed. Did you know a pig has the intelligence of a three-year-old person? I am telling you what, that pig knew what was up.

So last night I saw another of Marvin's sad documentaries, and there were pigs being transported on one of those trucks (it was a documentary on truckers. I am telling you, that man would watch a documentary on radishes if it were available), and they looked so sad, and I said that is IT. I am DONE eating meat. Done.

I did it before, not eating meat, for like three months. Then my stepsister got married, and they served prime rib at the reception. And oh, did it look good. So I had me some. "Num num num," I said. Then I noticed Marvin wasn't eating his prime rib. "You gonna eat that?" I asked, earning my last name. "Num, num, num," I said, minutes later.

Then my stepsister felt too nervous to eat. You know what I had to say about that.

Num, num, num.

Three hours later I was back at the hotel, and MONKEYS were flying out my arse. Oh, I was ill. Apparently you can't just eat meat after not eating it.

And what does that say, by the way, that you have to build up a tolerance in order to digest meat? That can't be a good sign.

And can I just mention that after being in the bathroom for hours, HOURS, I finally exited the bathroom and flopped onto our hotel bed, pale and shaken, and MARVIN MADE HIS MOVE. Now, seriously, could I have been less appealing at that moment? He also made his move the day I had my wisdom tooth removed.

I do not know what to tell you about Marvin. I can't wait till I'm old and infirm. He will be SMITTEN.

So, I'll let you know how it goes. Going vegetarian. And I'll try not to be one of those "I can't believe you're eating meat, have you seen the inside of a slaughterhouse" kind of vegetarians.

But really, have you seen the inside of a slaughterhouse?

In Chris

I am typing you between the bodies of Francis and Lula. Fran is on my left, saying, "Hsssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss. GrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOrrrrrrrr" and Tallulah is trying to pretend she doesn't hear it while attempting to eat my peach.

It's relaxing, is what it is.

Today I am going to address the subject of proofreading, because people keep asking about it as a career choice.

My main concern — and I know I have said this before — is that you think it is a relaxing job where you read all day. Or that you think, I love to read, so I'd love love love proofreading!

Yeah, not so much. With proofreading you have to slowwwwwly look at every single letter, making sure all is spelled right. Then you have to look at it again to make sure it is the right font, the right leading, the right kerning, and then that it makes sense in context.

Then you have to think of any related stuff you have read before and make sure what you just read makes sense in the context of the related thing you read however long ago.

Then you have to make sure everything you just read matches the style guide of whatever company has hired you.

Does this sound fun? Okay, then, you may enjoy proofreading. You may also enjoy being the person who spreads the sawdust on vomit, you giant freak.

You have to be screamingly detailed and always paying attention. You can't skim and you can't not totally concentrate on the task at hand. When you're proofing, I mean. I suppose the poor elementary school janitor can let his mind wander.

Just today I was proofing something for a friend for his church, and he signed off "In Chris" instead of "In Christ." Now, I'm sure Chris is a nice guy, but In Chris is probably not how you want to end a letter to churchgoers. But it'd be so easy to just be at the end of the letter and bleep over the fact that it said Chris.

Also, proofreading will ruin your eyes. I have 20/500 vision, which means something 20 feet away? Looks like it's 500 feet away for me. Sexy.

And people want to know how I got started. Well, I have a degree in English, which always makes employers happy but between you and me has nothing to do with proofreading. I read books and pretentious poems. I never took a single grammar class.

So, anyway, there was an ad in the paper for a proofreader at a publishing company, I sent my resume, which basically said hi, I have an English degree and now I'm a receptionist because that job seldom interferes with my drinking, and for some reason they called me and I took a test and I was in.

So, that's the whole story of what it's like and how I started. Oh, and I have seen pay ranges of anywhere from $100 an hour somewhere fancy in LA to $8 an hour for some job on Craigslist. I sent that guy an email and said shame on you. I'd say the average is 25-30 bucks an hour in big cities and 15-20 bucks an hour in smaller towns.

And now my in-laws are here so I can't tell you about how Tallulah found a dead squirrel and brought it home to me. If I were Granny Clampett, we'd be all set for dinner.

Phone home. And also phone the pizza delivery place while you’re up.

I got no time to talk to you, girl. But yet, here I am. Coming at you from the NC.

Tonight is the deadline for my freelance proofreading project, which I have not worked on in two days because my in-laws are here. They are currently in Tiny Town, however, as Marvin decided to torture them by taking them there for a visit.

Actually, they're going to a concert at my old church/workplace, and all my Tiny Town peeps are gonna be there and I would dearly like to see my peeps. How cool am I with my use of the word "peeps"? Do you see a whole church full of marshmallow parishioners?

Anyway, my plan was to finish up this Herculean task tonight and then send a nice email to the publishing company saying okay, thanks for all the work through the years, but I work full time now and I cannot proof for you any more, even though the extra $10,000 a year comes in pretty handy around here, Bub. (That was a line from It's a Wonderful Life.)

But yesterday I got an email from that very publishing company, thanking me for all I do, this Bud's for you, and saying what an asset I am. Certainly I've been an ass to many, but an asset? Hardly ever. So now I feel too bad to quit. I am too legit to quit.

Someone is free associating all over the place tonight, isn't she?

I like how even though I have a giant, looming deadline and a dog who needs walking, I took the time to take a picture of my ET finger.

Phonehome

It's a pen that lights up. I couldn't get it to capture the lit finger look. What do you want from me? I'm no Steven Spielberg. But do you enjoy today's business casual attire? I am also celebrating my Ann Landers flip. If it ain't broke, don't fix it.

No one takes advantage of you without your permission.

Perfume should be a reward for being close.

Those were all the Ann Landers gems I could remember.

Wake up and smell the coffee.

Okay. Seriously berserk today. Goodbye. Wish me luck in the proofin'. Beeeee gooooood.

Riding the wagon wheel coffee table with Clark Gable

I am home from work, and Bitey the Pit Bull is in here with me. She is spread out on the concrete floor, cause why is it always so hot in the South? You never saw Scarlett O'Hara looking perspire-y, except for the day Atlanta fell, and anyone would be sweaty if your whole town was on fire. And you were sitting next to Clark Gable on a wagon.

Do you have a list of favorite men from different times? Or is that just me? I have Clark Gable circa 1938, Jim Morrison circa 1968, Barry Gibb circa 1978.  Years ending in "8" are apparently good for men. Oh, and Cary Grant anywhere from 1940-1965.

My in-laws are in town and will be here shortly to go to dinner. I am sorry to say that we will likely be returning to Pastabilities. I am only sorry to say it because the name still makes my asshole pucker up and twitch, as my grandmother used to say. Other than the dumb name, the food is delish.

Also, my mother-in-law said I could just not blog about it if I got dessert yesterday, but I did have one bite of pots de creme — one bite of the vanilla and one bite of the chocolate. But that is ALL. And we were sitting outside at dinner yesterday, and as a result I felt not all that hungry, so I had three side dishes of vegetables for dinner. The fact that one of those vegetables was some creme-filled, pretentious version of scalloped potatoes is beside the point.

Aren't scalloped potatoes wonderful? Who invented them? Could you ever get tired of them? I don't think I could. Whenever I am at a buffet, I go for the potato/cheese things first, way more than I would sweets. Am I alone on this, like I might be alone on Barry Gibb circa 1978?

And I guess after all that waxing about potatoes, you will all be glad for me when you hear that the nurse at work is starting up a Weight Watchers on site. I am excited. I remember back in 1992, at my first real job, they started a Weight Watchers and I wanted to join up just to be like everyone else, and they wouldn't let me because I weighed less than 127. I want to go back in time and date Clark Gable, then slap myself.

By chicken of the sea, do they mean tuna is AFRAID of the sea? Cause that would be a stressful phobia.

In Marvin's continual quest to make my brain snap, he produced an entire shoebox of pictures yesterday, thereby rendering my weekend of organizing our photos completely useless. I'll have to redo everything.

However, I did find this photo, which I love.

Sunjunk

It makes me miss LA, but all our LA photos make me miss LA. What I particularly love about it is that in all the sea of people in that city, Marvin was able to find the one person in the crowd completely irked at him. I was probably wanting to get to some particular place, like the aura-reading booth, and he was probably taking 7 million pictures. (We were at Sunset Junction, a street fair in our old Silverlake neighborhood.)

I can't remember if this was the year my aura was pink or amber. It was, however, the year we found the very desk I am typing on. It's an old teacher's desk, and it even has a pencil sharpener attached that I recently banged my leg into really bad.

Anyway, we are making progress on unpacking, finally. And I mean that in sort of a "royal we" way, if by "royal we" one means Marvin did all the work and I got a pedicure. I also ran 50 million errands yesterday and then came home and proofread. I am back to checking the changes that zealot proofreader makes. She tried to hyphenate the term "standard deviation units," which may not mean much to you, but it drove the woman who sent me the book — and me  — completely out of our gourds.

Also, I forgot to take Tallulah to her make-up session of obedience training. You have no idea how completely awful I feel about it. And ironically, I was AT PetSmart yesterday getting tags and such! I was at the very place I was supposed to be, with her.

I am way overwhelmed. Have I mentioned I have to quit with the moving and the freelancing?

Oh. And someone is peeing on the throw rug. None of these cats have ever peed outside their box before. So someone is mad about something.

At any rate, I have indeed stuck to the not drinking soda at restaurants, so in just 18 days, we'll see if I lost a pound. Now, doesn't that just give you something to live for.

Oh, and for the Chicken of the Sea person, who slayed me, that necklace is a little magenta jewel made by a woman I used to work with. I have always thought the mermaid from Chicken of the Sea was hot, so thanks. But I never  noticed her necklace! You spent way more time staring at tuna cans than I ever have.

In case anyone is thinking that I have gone berserk, J wrote in and said the necklace I wore last post:

Necklace

looked like the necklace the Chicken of the Sea tuna mermaid is wearing:

Mermaid

There. Now doesn't that make me seem less berserk? And why would she be encouraging people to eat tuna? Hasn't she made any friends with the tuna while she's down there? What a sellout. Isn't she remotely worried that she'll get caught in one of the tuna nets? And why does she do that with her hair? Doesn't it get everywhere while she's swimming? Perhaps she never gets in the water anymore, what with her Chicken of the Sea duties.

All right. Me and my argyle dress are out of here.

Sheer Drama

So as you know, if you tuned in earlier, I was at work today when I noticed my shirt was comPLETEly see-through. I was in the bathroom, in the natural light, and when I saw all my innards like I was Slim Goodbody, I said, "Please God, let me have just developed Xray vision."

I spent all morning afraid to go back to the bathroom, or to get coffee, or to let my boss see me. Oh, I was mortified. I decided to take a photo of the mosquito netting I decided to wear to work. We are totally, TOTALLY not supposed to have cameras at work, or even camera phones, which is ridiculous because every phone on planet Earth has a camera anymore. I guess they are afraid we are going to photograph some top-secret thing, like a middle-aged woman flashing her Jockey bra to the world.

Here was the fine photo I took.

Ugh

I don't know if you can see the grimace. I do not mean that I had the McDonaldland character with me. I was grimacing because the phone made a HORRIFIC "click" sound that you know it didn't need to make. It's just for effect. It totally sounded like I was Princess Di and the paparazzi had entered my office. At any rate, my boss didn't hear it, or she ignored it, as she does most odd noises emanating from my direction, if you know what I mean.

So, I ended up having the least-relaxing lunch ever, including the lunch hour where I had the Gortex implant put in my lips, as I RACED to the mall, the one that has Chick-Fil-A. I have to tell you that this mall may be the most depressing place ever. Suffice it to say, I saw the softer side of Sears today.

Shirty_3

Obviously, this photo was not taken at Sears, or at Sears Portrait Studio. I had to wait till I got home to take a photo, because I did not want Girls on Film to strike up again at work. Nice shiny face. What heat?

Anyway, this is the first item of clothing I have purchased from Sears since my Toughskins in 1973. I kind of like it. It has a crochet thing at the top. Wait.

005

Who just totally took a photo of her own cleaval area?

I bought the shirt in the "Misses" section. Does that mean, you know, big and tall? Or does it just mean old? And speaking of old, I am enjoying my flappy triceps in this photo. Yeesch.

So that was my drama. Oh, and speaking of drama, I have none going on with dcrmom. For a few months, I was writing a weekly post on her Chic Critique blog, but I got too busy (and by the way, I am TOTALLY gonna quit freelancing, too. It is ludicrous to work this much. If you can't drive with a broken back, at least you can polish the fenders. I enjoy writing all this underneath my bosoms like this.) so I had to quit.

Readers of both blogs thought maybe we had a Crystal Carrington/Alexis Whatever-Alexis'-Last-Name-Was girl-on-girl fight or something. But the fact is, dcrmom is still my first blogging pal. If we had had a Crystal Carrington/Alexis Whatever fight, she would totally be Alexis, because she has dark hair and I have "blonde" hair.

Who won that fight? Did Crystal? I want to win. Ooo, plus, I'm the good girl, right? And dcrmom is the, how shall we say, fussy one? Oh, I love this scenario.

I never actually watched Dynasty, even once. Did you? I have seen that pool scene 450 times. The gays love that scene. If dcr and I got into a big girl fight and we knocked each other into the pool, do you think a bevy of gay men would cheer us on? Cause I am so there, if so.

Okay, I have to  stop already. Marvin actually lives here now (and has interrupted me 48 times during this crucial post), and we are going to Pastabilities, which if you ask me is the most annoying name for a restaurant, ever.

But look who else is home? Didn't she get big this week? My murder-y Pit puppy.

Bitey

Nice Sears shirt, mom. Here, let me eat your throat out.

Shameless orange ink girl

As I have said before — and really, what HAVEN'T I said before? — we have a full-time nurse at work, whose objective in life is to fix us should we be sick or injured, and also to provide us with preventative medicine tips. I love her.

And I have only gone to her once, or maybe twice, with hypochondriacal illnesses in my two months there.

Anyway, she sends us helpful newsletters each month, and she built us a walking track (not with her bare hands. She is this tiny, cute thing about four feet tall), and she has been sending us healthy grilling recipes each week since it got summer-y.

Oh! And she has put little heart-healthy stickers in the vending machine, next to the smarter choices. Which I always appreciate when I ignore her and select the Famous Amos cookies.

So, today said nurse has left table tents in our break area, with little hints and things. Have I mentioned I love her? One of the hints was that if you consume just 175 calories fewer each day, you'll lose a pound in 20 days. Which, if my math is correct, adds up to about 740 pounds a year.

Well, I can do that! What's 175 calories? It's about a third of a bag of Famous Amos, is what it is. So, I have decided to give up all soda, which I always think I don't consume much of because I am never one of those people with cans of Pepsi at her desk, but which I always get with fast food, which I consume about 80 times a week.

I will let you know how it goes.

Speaking of work, recently all the editorial staff got together and decided everyone needed their own color of ink, so that when five people are all commenting on the same document you can know which idiot decided to write "First Annual," for example. Oh, the idiot who uses green ink. Okay!

(Y'all know how I feel about "first annual." Do not write in and tell me it's okay. Do NOT write me and tell me it's okay because you PLAN to have the event every year. You will be planning your first annual funeral, is what you'll be doing. Which I know really makes no sense. I get tense about first annual.)

So, they gave me…orange ink. Orange.

I seriously cannot think of an ink color I would want less than orange. Had they said to me, you need to use your own bodily fluids because we are all out of ink colors and instead we'll know it's you because we'll run a DNA test, I'd be happier. Orange  ink.

And you should SEE the beeatch who got pink. Oh, she was happy. "I have Barbie pink!" she squealed. Oh, how I wanted to Skipper slap her. Which, again, I know makes no sense.

Don't get me wrong. I actually really like Barbie pink girl. But she STOLE MY COLOR. I AM BARBIE PINK GIRL! I am not orange girl. First annual orange ink.

I hate everything.

However, I do have some exciting news. I was fooling around with my Google homepage today and I found the coolest site. It is called "Strange things in Google Maps" (http://www.mapofstrange.com/) and when you click on it, you can see really cool aerial shots from all over the world. Like, right now there's a place to click in Africa? And you can totally see this really colorful street bazaar. Oh, it is beautiful. It is way beautifuller than orange ink. Go look!

When I write tomorrow, Marvin will officially live here. Oh, and does anyone have any good ideas on where to put a litterbox so a dog doesn't go in and Almond Rocha in it? Thank you. I stole Almond Rocha from one of your comments. I am shameless. Shameless orange ink girl.