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Archive for the ‘the people I love’ Category

bust it out

Tuesday, April 12th, 2016

I had food poisoning once before. It was three days after Crockett and I met, and on my 28th birthday.

And then I had it again, this Saturday.

And Sunday.

And Monday.

Food poisoning is SUPER and not at all repetitive and boring and terrible, don’t listen to anyone who tells you otherwise.

I have recently become closer with a chick at work, and when I showed up this morning she asked me if I needed a cork for my ass. How do you go from knowing someone for two years and doing nothing but complimenting their shoes, to talking about your potential need for preventing butt leakage while at work in the span of a few weeks? I’m genuinely asking, because it’s such a weird phenomenon, right?

Maybe we weren’t ready before. Stars not in alignment, ducks not in a row, etc. Maybe I wasn’t in the place for new friends since I was still in friendmourning for my friends from my last company. Maybe her shoes weren’t quite cool enough yet. Maybe all a good potential friendship really needs to push it over the line is the opportunity for commentary on bodily functions. Like, if she’d asked me for a tampon a year ago maybe she’d be my (nonexistent because we’re not doing bridal parties) maid of honor right now.

Or maybe she’s just always ready to talk about corks in asses. I don’t know her life. Yet. Bet I will though.

scritchy scratchy

Wednesday, January 6th, 2016

Maida is really feeling her oats lately. Possibly because I switched the dogs to raw and freeze dried food? (PSA: it’s literally no more expensive than the good kibble I was feeding them before. I don’t really know how that’s possible but I’ve run the numbers twice and am a month into it and it all checks out so …. you know, if you have dogs, maybe look into it if you’re curious. You just have to remember to take the raw stuff out of the freezer and mix the freeze dried stuff up with water and stick it in the fridge every couple of days, easy peasy, and it feels like taking good care of them.)

Anyway, she’s been a goddamn nutball, and she’s so out of practice that she’s doing very ungainly things like falling off curbs and sticking her tongue up my nose when she tries to lick it.

‘Feeling your oats’ is kind of gross, right? The phrase? I’ll look it up in a second, but it, like, super feels like it’s about balls, right? Either that or rubbing your stomach so hard you can literally feel your breakfast?

Ok looking it up brb.

I was actually pretty sure, by the way, that I was going to google the phrase only to discover that it was something my mom invented, but nope, it’s a thing. It’s actually literally a thing that refers to how horses act after they get oats, so Maida feeling her oats after she eats her new food is very apt. Nailed it, self five.

(Wasn’t this fascinating? Other than looking at places to get married and wedding dresses (looking at EVERY wedding dress, starting to think separates, cause I’m a kicky gal) Maida being all goofy is literally the most noteworthy thing happening here. We are a simple folk.)

good face bad face

Thursday, December 17th, 2015

Maida has an excellent little face. That’s important, because we were just at the vet for the fourth time in five weeks (and only that long because I put off last week’s appointment), and if she didn’t have a great little face I wouldn’t have something adorable to look at to remind me of why it’s worth it to do all her appointments and pills and stuffs.

Like, I had to ask a girlfriend recently if I could bring Maida to her NY Eve party, because otherwise I’d have to be home at 9:15 to give her medication. She graciously said yes, but I felt like a dummy. However, Maid’s med schedule is one of the dominating factors of my life at the mo (and for the foreseeable future).

The biggest deal is that she has to take seizure medication every eight hours. The margin of error for that is pretty narrow, because the half life of that particular medication is 3.3 hours in dogs. Plus side, her seizures are under control! Minus side, 5:15 am, 1:15 pm, and 9:15 pm are sort of gospel times in our household. (Doesn’t have to be those times but you try to distribute eight hours in a way that makes sense with both a full nights sleep and a work day.)

Anyway, she has new morning eye drops for her ongoing eye infection (replacing the three kinds of eye drops we’ve already tried), plus her old routine of twice daily potassium bromide and two traditional Chinese herbal meds (vet prescribed!) and the three-a-day Keppra. Plus other, soothing, eye drops at night.

The point is that it’s very helpful to see her lil face while organizing (and of course funding) this pile o’ treatments, cause it’s an amazing face and you only have to glance at it to want her to be healthy and happy. (I used to know someone who used ‘you have a good face’ as a compliment and damned if it didn’t usually work for him, by the way.)

On the other hand…

(When is ‘drop the mic’ appropriate? Not here, I guess?)

I was making notes today, for my own reference. Things to do and buy and prepare before Christmas, etc. I sat down a few minutes ago to review them.

One of the notes just says ‘how much I hate adam driver’s stupid face‘.

What did I mean by that? Did I intend to write about it? That seems mean. I don’t know anything about him, in real life, only from Girls and that movie with Tina Fey and Jason Bateman. (I mean, I am writing about it, but I like to think I didn’t intentionally plan to just write about hating one dude based on his complacent, supercilious lookin’ face bones. See, now I’m weaving it into a (weak) narrative. This is was less insulting.)

No matter what my intentions were, I think it’s safe to say that if it came down to it, Adam Driver could not count on me to treat any epilepsy he might find himself with. His is not a lil face that I love. Not a face that makes me want to make sure he’s healthy and happy. More, and I’m disappointed in myself for this, a face that makes me want to bite his nose just to see if he’d look less smug.

So, you know: Maida=good face, Adam Driver=bad face.

party like it’s goddamn CHRISTMAS

Wednesday, December 16th, 2015

Sometime in the last eleven months, I lost half a Christmas tree.

Here’s what happened.

Last Dec 15th, I moved into a new house. At that point, I put up the five (six? five.five? I don’t know) foot pre-lit fake tree from Target that I’ve had since my age started with two and Agnes and Dean were just twinkles in their doggy daddies’ eyes. (I assume dog’s eyes twinkle when they’re thinking about puppies. You know, like how everyone’s eyes twinkle when they think about puppies. A Santa-style twinkle, not, like, a dirty twinkle. We’re talking about puppies here. Also, I’m sure Maida’s doggy daddy’s eyes twinkled too but she was already born when I bought the tree.)

So the tree was up, and then last January 17th, I had a housewarming/birthday party. At that point, the tree was down. The tree box was under the garage stairs.

This recent weekend after Thanksgiving, I pulled out the tree box. (See, Crockett won’t put up the tree until Advent starts cause his dad wouldn’t put up their tree until Advent started. It’s a cute tradition right up until the second I want to put up the tree and it ain’t Advent yet, but in this case Advent happened to start on the day I wanted to treeify the place, so everybody won! Except…) The tree box had half a tree in it.

The top half, if you’re wondering.

The bottom half has vanished.

So one of four things happened.

  1. I put the bottom half in a trash bag because I was too lazy to smoosh it into the box, and me or someone else accidentally threw it out. Possible! Unlikely, though, because my bags are white and it would have been a pretty clearly pokey, tree like, green-needly looking bag.
  2. It’s somewhere in this small house that neither Crockett nor I has thought to look. Possible, but only if I was drunk or something while putting the tree away. At this point we’ve looked everywhere but the attic, and I don’t recall ever entering my attic in this house. Like, ever.
  3. Someone from the housewarming thought it was a souvenir? A pokey, useless, three foot tall three foot wide souvenir?
  4. Thieves.

It’s obviously 4, and I know why.

This happened to someone ELSE in 2015, and they took my tree bottom to replace theirs. Theirs was probably lost to yet another family doing the same thing, and so on and so forth.

What happened to the first family’s tree bottom, you ask?

Those damn reindeer.


Anyway, we bought a new tree, because we ain’t thieves like the legions of tree stealers before us.

Anyone want a tree top?


hell on heels

Thursday, October 22nd, 2015

If I were to tell you that on a plane about 1/3 of the way through your torso, roughly in parallel with your spine, I (emotionally) felt something like a cheese grater, you would think I was an insane person.

You’ll notice I didn’t end that sentence with a question mark or the word right. It’s an insane thing to say.

But, and I’m sure literally no one (everyone) saw this coming

I totally said that earlier tonight.

Fortunately it was to Crockett, and he’s sort of predisposed to work through these moments with me. However, these moments are getting more often and closer together. (Does it seem weird that the opposite of fewer and farther between is not an idiom? Yes, it does.)

He’s sort of stressed about a variety of work and adventure things that are happening, and his energy literally felt to me like a cheese grater in a specific part of his body. ‘HIS ENERGY FELT’. I not only wrote that just now, I said it out loud earlier.

My ideal explanation of what’s happening is that I’m either psychic or am newly suffering from/blessed with synesthesia. 

The actual explanation is that my hippie mountain town roots are finally taking hold and there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s a shame, but what’s an aura-seeing, emotional-cheese-grater-sensing lady to do?