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: