I was the recipient of a terrific compliment today. One of my co-workers told me that I "look like a model".
I didn't ask her, "a model of what?" Instead, I opted to just feel good about it, no matter how strongly I suspect that closer to the truth would be the addendum "...of functioning psychosis". Or "...functioning alcoholism" or "...post-feminist ennui".
Opiates make the retarded, gay showcat AFFECTIONATE. Maybe I should start at the beginning, lest you think I drug my cat for fun. Which, turns out, is fun and something to consider for the future.
Last night here at headquarters, I noticed Bartleby's lower canine heretofore to be referred to as the "fang" or "snaggletooth" was not in its normal position. It was sticking out of his mouth and curling over his lip. This was disconcerting, though admittedly, kind of bad ass looking. Upon closer inspection, it was falling out. I had a minor freak out. Picture rocking, petting and lamenting mortality.
We went to the vet today, where Bartleby bounced about the exam room like a cracked out rubber ball, knocked my purse to the floor, tried to stick his head in the sharps container and in this process, utterly endeared himself to my new vet. My new vet is awesome. I hugged her. It was an emotional day.
So the verdict was an abscessed tooth, more likely than not. She offered to extract the snaggletooth for $850 or I could opt to take him home, pump him full of opiates and antibiotics and wait for it to fall out on its own. I chose the latter. The major lesson today? Two words: pet insurance.
Sadly, there was nothing that could be done to fix the falling out fang, though she assured me that his other teeth are in great shape and the loss of said fang should not impact his quality of life or longevity. By way of explanation, she pointed out the fact that Cornish Rex are a British breed. (NOT my joke, hers.) Of course, other cats will mock him. Though I think it lends him some street cred.
If you'd like a preview of my weekend, it's looking like I'll be sitting home drugging my cat every 6 hours and waiting for his tooth to fall out. Glamour people, pure glamour.
I just came off a pretentious reading binge including Kafka, Heller and Shlain (lesser known but just as grueling I assure you.) In light of that I allowed myself some book candy. It's like high fructose corn syrup for the soul ™. My drug of choice? More vampire novels. I have stayed away from the Sookie Stackhouse True Blood series for many of the same reasons that I have never tried cocaine. I knew I would like it. See, moderation has long been a befuddling concept for me.
That's where I've been. I began book one last Saturday morning and I am now finished with book 9. Yep. And book 10 does not come out until OCTOBER. This would be the upside to cocaine, at least there is always a plentiful supply of cocaine, wherein vampire novels are dependent on authors and publishers.
If you wondered where I'd been, there you have it. Reading stupid vampire books. And by stupid, I mean AWESOME.
In the alley behind my office building a spied a 1950's era office chair sitting forlornly next to a dumpster. Upon closer inspection, she was in perfect condition save a minor rip in the seat. She's a big girl, constructed entirely of metal with rolling wheels connected to a swiveling seat with a back. She didn't have arms, but neither did the Venus de Milo, and that hasn't held her back at all.
Delighted, I tried to lift her in my arms and run giddily down the alley. Alas, she's a heavy girl so I had to settle with pushing her down the alley, trundling more than running.
I introduced her to my office, explained that she was a rescue and then named her Margaret. Margaret had proved to be a fine addition to the office, quiet, unassuming and sat upon from time to time. Until Friday, when in a fit of productivity and wearing flip flops I flew past her, catching my little toe on one of her casters. I mentioned that there is nary a plastic part on her solid, post-war frame? There was crack, a flash of blinding pain and then an exodus of expletives. My toe is solidly broken which impacted my Friday night plans, as even if I could have worked past the pain, it would not matter because the toe is so swollen it wont fit in any of my shoes.
Margaret is on notice. Quiet, nice, keeps to herself JUST LIKE A SERIAL KILLER. I have my eye on you Margaret.
Saturday mornings do not really happen for me. It's my sleep schedule. But every once in a blue moon (which is when two full moons occur in the same month, statistically every 2.7 years, so slightly more frequently than that, but I digress) I wake up prior to noon and all wound up. When I awaken all wound up I tend to pick a fight. Sometimes these work out, thankfully the fight I picked with my landlord this weekend paid off with a $200 a month rent reduction.
Let me hear you say HALLELUJAH.
LA rents have plummeted, so this is the time to pounce. A note on timing, if you can wait until a few units are empty in your building that is best as the landbeast is at his weakest. You always want to pick off the wounded gazelle, not the fat, lazy lion with the blood of a fresh kill still drying on his fur (in this analogy that would be a strong renters market with full tenancy).
I accomplished this financial coup with a vitriolic letter outlining the abundance of comparable rental units at a much lower price than what I'm paying coupled with a laundry list of all my landbeast's past sins. I feel like a superhero, if there was a superhero with PMS who wrote bitchy letters.
Alright internet! Go out and reek some havoc. Best of luck!
In the past year I have sobbed three times. Once last June when I made a dubious reading choice: Marley & Me. Spoiler Alert, the retarded dog dies. Which threw me right over the edge. Stupid retarded dog.
Then I cried three weeks ago when I read that the Cornish Rex lifespan was 10-12 years. Bartleby the retarded gay showcat is 9. Hence, more tears as I cradled his hairless, five pound body and rocked and sobbed. That alone took a year off his life, poor thing.
I think I was overdue for a spring cleaning of the tear ducts. Tonight I sat on the stoop and imbibed copious amounts of red wine while my neighbor and I discussed the travesty of death. She recently lost her Grandmother, I lost my Father, Mother, both Grandmothers and a Grandfather (though not recently). I sobbed. I even wiped snot on my sleeve. In conclusion, I miss my Dad. And drinking this much on a school night was ill-advised. Additionally, crying really fucks your sinuses.
It's cool. I'm good now for another year.
For the record, not a fan of acronyms. So much so, that I'm looking for someone to blame. I was going to try to pin this on the Amish, but luckily, I found cause to blame the Swedes. Do you know why IKEA is capitalized? Yep. It's an acronym: Ingvar Kamprad Elmtaryd Agunnaryd. DAMN YOU SWEDES! Perpetrators of modular furniture and acronyms, I have my eye on you.
My acronym lexicon grows steadily, while my patience with this bullshit decidedly wanes. This week I had to add RT (retweet) and DM (direct message). These are not even fun acronyms.
These are fun acronyms:
BGPSD
Big Girl Potty Sit Down. Moderately more amusing to throw this one over your shoulder as you shuffle off to the ladies room.
MFAR
My Fingers Are Retarded. This one is for typos. Rather than apologize or spend precious seconds retyping portions of your missive, simply tack this on the end. Em gets credit for this one as a joint creative venture undertaken over IM when we both should have been working. (IM, see how insidious these bastards are?!)
They can be confusing as well. I give you IRA. Irish Republican Army or Individual Retirement Account? In context at my tax appointment this year:
What were your IRA contributions?
I don't support terrorism. Wait. Is that tax deductible? Because I'd be open to donating next year.
Stuff not to give to people:
musical instruments to other people's children
includes all woodwind, brass and percussion. Unless of course you are very very angry at the parents, then do it up by throwing in a harmonica, a tambourine and a tub of red vines to fuel the intensity of the musical genius.
knives
there is a superstition concerning the gifting of knives. Something about the knives "cutting" the friendship, therefore, it is customary for the giftee to give the gifter some nominal form of payment. A penny will do. Thus ensuring the continuing health of the relationship.
weight loss or dating site memberships
You're implying something here. Don't call your loved ones "fat" or "spinster".
This past weekend, to celebrate the holiday of memories and dead child soldiers, I played a drinking game version of kickball. It was some of the most fun I've had in years.
Here's the premise: drunken kickball, played with a half filled cup of beer at all times. You kick with your beer, run with your beer and field with your beer. Additionally and traditionally, second base is a keg or a cooler of beer. Any poor sportsmanlike behavior necessitates that all the members of the opposing team douse you with their beverages. Play time: 3-5 hours.
Please, go out and arrrange a game, you will not regret it.
official rules here: http://www.jacobin1.com/sloshballrules.html
I have a terrible book hangover. It was a great book, actually, I just made the questionable choice of staying up until 2AM to finish it. It's called Gargoyle. Read it.
And then write me so we can compare book hangovers.
