Overheard outside a single-seater gas station bathroom in Springfield, Mass

"You got to let me in! This broad out here (she's referring to yours truly, gentle readers) doesn't know I'm with you."

"I can't! Veronica's taking a sh*t, and I'm turtling!"

I'm waiting for my car to be serviced. I handed the keys to the mechanic with a look that said, "I will not be judged. I keep a litter box in my car. And dill pickle-flavored sunflower seeds. These things are not for me, but they could be, and I refuse to suffer your reproach." In forty-five minutes I will write him a larger check than I would like and then turn on my heel, regally. I will appear taller than my 5'2''.

I wish I had so much more than my little monies to send to Haiti. I wish I had magical powers. I wish people weren't such fragile things.

off to an impressive start

It's a bad sign when I'd rather illustrate my state of mind with pictures of my cat than expend energy on analyzing my malaise. But here we are.

I've been feeling like this:

Or maybe like this:


I blame the 3700 or so miles we drove over the holidays. I went a little funny somewhere in Ohio. But I miss you. And I'll be back.

Fine, then. Happy jolly.

When nobody thinks it's a good idea to get a Christmas tree, you may have to get the damn thing yourself. Which I did. I picked it out, flirted with the cute tree guy while he tied it ineptly to my tiny car with ten thousand feet of string, and then drove veeeery slowly home. I hauled it off the car, into the elevator, down the hall and through the apartment. I got Snorri out of it, put it in the stand, took off the netting, got Snorri out of it, wrapped it in lights, covered it in ornaments and got Snorri out of it. I may have broken a sweat but was well pleased with my efforts. Then n.o.c. came home and said, "Wow! That's wonderful! I'm so glad we got a tree!"

We? I don't know what you're smoking, but I seem to be the one covered in sap. And you're damn right it's wonderful, fool. I don't truck with less. Merry Christmas.

The tree:

Cosmo from P-town:

From Edgecomb Potters:

From Vermont (and a tribute to n.o.c.'s perfect cribbage score):

And one Pete painted while he was in Iraq, dreaming of snow:

And the Snorracle, worn slap out from attacking the tree:

ambitious

Tonight I begin a baking extravaganza. I'm making these and these and these and these and these. Oh, and this. Lest you think my list a bit too too, rest assured that I'm also pulling out the Bisquick to make sausage cheese balls. Oh, don't even play. You know sausage cheese balls are good shit.

mewwsick

I'm covering for an art class. The students are making sock monkeys, most bizarrely. The teacher, who is apparently far more kind than I, lets the students to listen to the radio. So here I am, critiquing the size of sock monkey hat pom-poms and listening to sh*tbeatsforfourteenyearolds fm. I can't even f*cking tell which voices are digitally altered - can anyone be that nasal? How do they breathe?

All the students are whining along, heads bouncing to the mind-numbingly repetitive beat.

Yes, dear, those button eyes are just the thing for your sock monkey. Look how expressive!

What am I doing?

When life hands you unidentifiable citrus

If the phrase "time out of mind" applies to the contents of your refrigerator, perhaps it's a good occasion to examine your life.

OR, maybe it's time to cut this baby open and see how fermented lime(?) tastes in your holiday cocktail! Cheers!

In similar spirit, The Snorracle perseveres, despite our interfering.

Things goodish.

n.o.c. is driving; I am not.

Though I feel slightly nauseated after drinking a vat of diet coke, I am pleased to have resisted the chicken tenders, which are never a good idea.

Snorri does not seem to miss his testicles. He wears the cone of shame in a weary, resigned sort of way, but he still cuddles and snores and plays cutely with all manner of battable objects. My conscience is unassuaged, but I feel slightly less monstrous.

It snowed on Saturday.

mea culpa

Look. It's been a long time. A really, really long time. Long enough to justify deleting me from your blog roll. If you did, I understand. If you're still here, thank you. I'm sorry. You deserve better. You look nice in that outfit. I love what you've done with your hair.

I'd planned a lengthy post to explain my absence, chronicling all the things that have kept me from writing, but that would be boring as f*ck, and you don't come here for excuses. You come because you're supposed to be doing something productive, perhaps working or cooking or caring for your rabbit, but you want (nay - need!) to f*ck off for just a Few. More. Minutes. I understand. To that end, I will now provide you with some random, time-wasting information. And then I will be back. Soon. I swear it.

1. I've started taking cod liver oil because I have vague notions about Omega-3s and vitamin D, and surely anything so utterly repulsive must have enormous health benefits. Seriously, it tastes like walrus smegma and lemon pledge.
2. I took Snorri to get neutered this morning because I am a traitorous, self-centered asshole. I cried into his little furry neck until he pushed me away because I was embarrassing him in front of the cute vet assistant he was trying to cruise.
3. I have discovered that a messy desk and a harried expression are the best defences. I hide behind reams of unsorted papers, teetering stacks of books and a menagerie of unwashed coffee cups. I rumple my clothes and apply mascara to only one eye. I run down the hallways carrying impossibly large armfuls of books and papers, leaving a trail of crumpled parchment and uncapped pens in my wake. No one can possibly ask me to do anything else.

For what you wish, be careful.

Sometimes I wish I could catch a good, solid cold. You know, nothing too terrible, but something just bad enough to keep me on the couch for a few days, swaddled in blankets and cradled by pillows. So I was excited when I felt a little tickle in my throat last Friday. By Sunday, I had the full-bodied whoop of a lunger and a worsening sniffle. By Monday morning, I looked and felt terrible and was actually sent home from work.

Now, in my imaginary world, this should be cause for pajamaed celebration. You know, break out the hot chocolate and movies - it's time to recuperate! Unfortunately, my imaginary world generally fails to consider the crucial and unpleasant details of my real one.

1) Feeling like shit, well, it feels like shit.

2) Damned Protestant Work Ethic. Despite my dreams to the contrary, I can't bear the thought of skivving off, so I dragged myself to work every morning this week. And every morning, they promptly sent my pale, clammy, shaking, hacking (and on one occasion weeping) ass straight back home. "Stay in bed," they said. "Go away, death!" they yelled. "Why are you here again?" they implored. "I just don't know," I moaned. I don't understand myself at all.

3) My poor Snorri has had diarrhea since Saturday. We're talking five to six fetid puddles of ick a day. There was even one instance of projectile vomit. We've finally achieved a firm turd, but, let me tell you, it was a long time coming.

4) I have about four functioning neurons. Seriously - if it weren't for spell check, #3 would contain the word "puttle."

And I'm spent. Off to stare at a napkin for a few hours, and then I've got to get some sleep before I dash off to work in the morning, scarlet snot rag on my chest.

By the by - thanks for the kind comments on my new 'do. I cropped my face because I have an irrational belief that this sort of measure will prevent work-place discovery. And enhabiten, your home is absolutely lovely - congratulations.

The Price of Beauty

So, I saw Olga on Monday. Remember her? This time, she decided that winter was the perfect occasion for going truly short - she pressed the comb to the hair just above my shoulders and announced her intentions.

Olga: Here. And we add copper.
Me: I don't know.
Olga: Yes. Will be perfect.
Me: Copper sounds fine, but n.o.c. hates short hair, remember?
Olga: So, you have fabulous hair during day, at night you wear long wig. Yes.
Me: But...

But it was too late. Olga had decided, and she'd apparently decided on something much shorter than she originally suggested:

I love it. It's sleek and shiny and feels like an honest-to-god "style." I'm like a grownup or whatever. I check myself out in windows. Students fawn over me. I get compliments all the time.

Not, however, from n.o.c. While it wasn't as short as he'd feared, he told me last night that the cut was fine, but "it just makes you look average."

This was basically the most terrible thing anyone's ever said to me, so I killed him. Snorri loves the hair, and we're very happy together. Just the two of us, coiffed and adorable.

Joke's on you.

Last Thursday:



Suckaroo, motherf*ckahs! No cash, no nice radio, only a used litter box:

And a little Snorri for your evening:

And I'm rambling.

Once upon a time, I began my mornings around 3:30 or 4. I'd have a vat of coffee with Splenda (this is why I no longer use artificial sweetener) and translate like a motherf*cker until 9, when I'd head off to class. Each week I had five classes of my own (each met three times), three classes and three sections of the class I TA-ed, research for my advisor, and daily exercise. I always made time to exercise. I didn't make time to have friends, but I did stalk a very cute coffee guy at the Tuesday farmers' market, and I pretended that I knew the patrons who sat at my favorite cafe. I'd cook a small dinner in the evenings, work for a few more hours, and then I'd head to bed around ten, though I made sure to read one short story before sleep, just so I wouldn't lose all sense of propriety.

While I don't reminisce fondly about this particular interlude, I do frequently marvel at my former self. So driven! So regimented! So diligent!

I was just coming off this schedule when I met n.o.c., and six hours of sleep seemed like the ultimate frivolity - a selfish and slothful waste of time. Then we spent a solid month sunning ourselves and sleeping when the mood struck, and - *SHAZAM!* - that driven, regimented, diligent person decided that she was done with that shit, threw her book bag in the trash and cracked a beer. Last I heard, she was tanned like luggage and slinging cocktails in a seedy South American bar on a dangerous but beautiful stretch of beach.

Lately, I've been sleeping a lot - going to bed around 9:30, getting up around 6:30. I love it. In fact, it feels so good that I wonder if I might be happy just sleeping my life away. When I think I've finally gotten my nap out, I find that I can easily sleep for several more hours. I don't feel badly about this, although I do suspect that I'm being judged by some past me. I also feel a little duddish and phlegmatic when I come across someone like this, who is inhumanly productive and probably sleeps less on purpose so that she can do more. But, I was never into computers - or anything profitable, for that matter - so there's really no sense in comparing apples to wildly successful, techy oranges.

At the moment, I spend most of my time reading, writing, cooking, and sleeping. I'm basically a literate cat with culinary ambitions. And I think that's fine. I think. For now.

Because I'm sure as shit not writing anything worthwhile these days.

Read this.

The one where I talk about poop.

Last weekish, n.o.c. and I were having a lovely evening. We'd just finished dinner, so I went off to read, while goodhusband n.o.c. worked on cleaning up the kitchen. Snorri (a.k.a. The Snorracle of Smallfry, a.k.a. Snorrious Maglorious Bloodeagle Ford (not mine), a.k.a. ooooooohhhhiloveyouiloveyouiloveyou (mine)) was off doing what he does best - conquering cat trees, manhandling bottle caps, destroying feathered playthings, what have you. Or so we thought.

As n.o.c. prepped the coffee maker (he's the shit), he noticed the Snorrster scooting across the floor on his arse. Not having read 2,935 books on cat rearing (punny!), n.o.c. thought our little guy was just being a clown. I, however, realized that something, um, fouler was afoot. Sure enough, Snorri had managed to embed two hockey pucks of poo into his very fluffy and once pristine buttfur and then decided to drag ass across the apartment in hopes of scraping them off. To his credit, there was a poo circle (something like a crop circle) around my chair, so he had tried to attract my attention before embarking on his apartment-wide shit-smearing adventure.

Anyhoo, we eventually put everything to rights, and Snorri endured the blow dryer with aplomb (and a considerably less furry, but poop-free, rear end). We chalked the incident up to youth and abundant, Pantaloon-like leg fur.

But last night, after a delicious dinner of Cornish game hens (Snorri enjoyed Iams kitten chow and the smallest sliver of crispy skin), we settled into bed and Snorri frolicked off to take his evening constitutional. After I heard him exit the box, I immediately went to dispose of his deposit, because I am fastidious. Most unfortunately, Snorri had once again managed to - I don't even know how to describe it - it was like when you were little and you fell asleep with chewing gum in your mouth and it ended up in your hair... except, in this case, the chewing gum is multiple nuggets of poo and your mouth is a little feline ass sphincter and your hair is white fur. Too graphic? I just don't know anymore.

I tell you this neither because I'm weary of kvetching about work (never!) nor because I want to ruin your dinner - I just don't know how to proceed. Is the issue mechanical? Gastrointestinal? (I took in a sample yesterday.) Maniacal? What is he doing? Why is this happening? Help!

As long as I'm asking you for help with animals, please keep another furry friend of ours, M., in your thoughts - clap for her, give her the care bear stare, pray to St. Francis, smudge sage, whatever. Sweet little M. is having a rough go of things and could use whatever you've got. Thanks.

Guilt.

I feel guilty when I don't post. It's not guilt of the Southern Methodist, do-you-know-that-you-know-that-you-know variety, but, still, it niggles. If let it go on for too long, it's bound to spin into:

Shame (I have let you down. You came to me for amusement, and I failed you.)

Inadequacy (I am not clever enough to warrant your attention.)

Self-loathing (I'm a sham. I have never been funny.)

So, it's best if I just blog on the regular. I feel better, regardless of whether you do or not. (Though I really hope you do. And that's the baldest emotion you're going to get for a while.)

Lately, though, I haven't felt compelled to write much. It's not that nothing's going on, it's just that I'm consumed with a weird apathetic hatred that makes me boring and dangerous. Like a wildly venomous slug. I'm also really fucking tired, but who the fuck isn't, so that doesn't seem like a topic of conversation. But I persevere:

• Ninth graders think that circumcision is a rare and barbaric Jewish ritual. I have disabused them of this notion and given them permission to ask the men in their lives whether or not they are possessed of a foreskin. Consider yourselves warned.
• Snorri enjoys having a perch for his rear end when he takes a poo, so he often lets his turds fall just over the rim of his litter box. I find this endearing and amusing, and so does n.o.c., except that he practically vomits whenever he smells kitten shit. This does not bode well for the prospect of actual human offspring, since I am sure as shit (punny!) not changing all the rancid diapers.
• During last week's professional day, the dean of faculty began the morning by taking to the loudspeaker and commanding all teachers to leave their offices and march in the hallway. She then called out those who did not participate with enough vigor: "Ms. Lemplekins! I see you on the monitor! Get those knees up! You're only seventy-five!" She also sang the school song and a hymn.
• My dear, sweet, slightly insane mother would not stop cleaning last weekend, and now I'm convinced that she has the hantavirus. And it will be All. My. Fault.

That's the best I can do for today. I must off to work on my drinking problem and decide how best to be subversive and hateful without expending excessive energy or getting fired.

Happy Birthday to The Rog

I hope you're as happy as a rat eating shit from a broke fruit jar on a cheetoh.  May your year be fine as frog's fur, may difficulties pass as quickly as greasy string from a cow's ass, and may you have enough happiness that if you turned that happiness into gasoline and put it in a piss ant's motorbike, he'd make it a billion times around a BB. Much love. 

be careful, little hands, what you google

I was trying to come up with a good metaphor for my persistent presence in someone's life, so I googled "untreatable std".  Here's a tip, children.  Clear your google browser before showing anyone anything on your computer. 

Take that! And that!

When I'm having a shit day, I sometimes like to see just how unpleasant I can make it. And that's what I'm doing today - poking the bruise that is my life. 

To examine this day properly, we really need to begin with midnight last night, since that's when n.o.c. and I decided to stop at a Taco Bell because we were seeing double and nothing sharpens the senses like questionable meat coated in chemical hot sauce.  Then I slept for five hours. Now, somehow, I'm at work, and I loathe everyone actively.  I'm wearing pants that make me unhappy and ugly shoes.  I am unprepared for my classes, but instead of preparing, I obsessively refresh my blog roll and nytimes.com.  I have other, non-work things that need doing, but completing them would be too satisfying, so I perseverate over their magnitude.  It's a beautiful fall day, but I will not be coddled by sunlight.  Instead of walking up the hill for a salad, I sit at my desk with bad posture and eat a white bread bagel smothered with cream cheese. My tongue has a wax coating and my stomach churns.  I am despised by my body. 

bitterbitterbitterbitter

Today is such a f*cking shit smear.  Forget anything kind I've ever said about humans and get over my bullsh*t stance on not complaining. Here's why:

1) Two weeks ago, a three-hour and ten minute meeting to "brainstorm" about "process".  Then a fourteen-hour day, largely spent talking with parents about why little Susie is a "modest scholar." 

2) Then an eighty-hour week, sixty-four of which were spent in the woods with little idiots, talking about feelings and getting bitten by spiders.  EIGHT spider bites.  SIXTEEN tiny fang marks. 

3) This week, in addition to attending three after-school meetings and completing interim report cards (which is surely a punishment from the fifth circle of hell), I have been informed that the classes I was hired to make academically rigorous are now too hard, even though they are the same as they were last year.

4) Now, even though I have made it absolutely clear that talking about feelings is my least favorite thing, I have been "asked" to be a group leader for the "Difficult Discussions" program - a bullsh*t enterprise that trains students to be "issues facilitators."  I'm retching.  AND they meet at night.  For HOURS. 

F*ck it. I'll just scrap everything and teach the students how to macrame while singing kumbaya, since that is clearly where all this is headed.