In other news, now there is a beard alphabet.
The Beard Alphabet is Awesome
The past decade has brought huge advances in the field of typography.
In other news, now there is a beard alphabet.
In other news, now there is a beard alphabet.
Furthermore...
...it is generally not calming to tell someone going into surgery the following day, "my, you're an odd duck!" just because that someone has had more surgeries than fingers and a preexisting non-genetic medical disorder of unknown causation. Where's my lollypop, nurselady?
Today is Monday; Tomorrow is Apocalypse.
This is a very personal sort of post, one I will contemplate even "publishing" online because of its very private nature. It is a journal entry in the purest form. So bare with me as I expose my vulnerability.
Tomorrow I have surgery. It really sort of pisses me the fuck off, because I can't have a drink of water after midnight, and I don't check in the next day until like 10:10, and that's a whole lot of water and Denny's I could be enjoying, but oh no don't have a drink of water because we're going to stick tubes down your throat later.
See, this is really personal shit here.
Super Cheesy Parked Car Photo Booth Action Time
Kid treated himself to a final cigar last night - which I congratulate him for doing, since he's basically quit cold-turkey, amidst extreme pain, during the past week. While he chose his prize, the kiddo and I goofed off in the car (as we are known to do at times).
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| Something shady's going on here... |
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| I have a sunny disposition |
I Paint Everything
The apartment manager didn't think I'd do it...
...but of course, I did. (I never get my deposit back anyway).
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| Time elapse magic!!! |
We Rock Out...
...all the way to preschool. The kiddo (not to be confused with Kid, kiddo is an actual child-person) is on air-drums, I rock the air-bass. People look at us funny, but it's because they wish they were in our band.
Pre-Op Date Night
Dearest Kid,
I understand it's important not to get sick before surgery, but if you wear a face-bandana to the bookstore, then I'm going to wear a ski mask.
Sincerely yours,
Sassy
Pacing Postscripts
I quit smoking last night. Smoked those little cigars until they were gone. Since I really ought to not smoke after the surgery -- to avoid fusion failure, so I hear -- why buy more? So yes, I quit. Fuck you, I hate you all. But I say that with love and grumpiness.
It's Quiet Time.
There are times to talk and times to listen. Times to watch and times to DO. Now is a time in my life for me to watch (not do, not fix, not distract)...and time to listen (not sing, not speak, not relate, not even empathize...just listen). This is quite difficult for me, as I rarely shut up or rarely stop doing anything. But at the same time? Extraordinary. This multitasker doesn't know how to be still anymore, unless she's tied up in a yoga knot.
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| Shel Silverstein Gets Me |
Because I Want To
I have just finished going through my first pre-operation appointment as an adult. All of my other surgeries were before I was 18 years old, so naturally, I didn't have to do shit to get ready for them. My folks filled out all the paperwork, and while I'm sure I had to undergo the same stuff to be "cleared," I don't remember it very much. (Probably the saving grace of my childhood is how much I can or can't remember.)
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| I have many such bracelets |
So yesterday was pretty strange to me -- here I am filling out my own paperwork; walking around this hospital to get all this stuff done; smelling that horrible, awful hospital smell. A bit surreal. But it made me think back on all those times I could remember, sitting at the desks with my folks bored out of my mind but too terrified to really act out because, unlike any other situation where kid-is-bored-wrecks-havoc, I knew I was about to have my head cut open and spliced back together.
Organ Donors
I'm just pleased as punch, folks: we're about to be gifted with a Thomas Transistor electric organ (by some incredibly generous and awesome pals from our college days). I feel extremely lucky and smug about this, although I've done nothing special to deserve it. With this addition to our small arsenal of odd (read: badass) instruments, I believe all hell will finally break loose, or at least I will stop knocking Kid's electric guitar out of tune while he's at work. (Maybe.)
This baby needs a name, so help us out in the comments. If we use yours, we'll make fun of you for a whole day - for FREE.
This baby needs a name, so help us out in the comments. If we use yours, we'll make fun of you for a whole day - for FREE.
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| Press my buttons, do it |
And I So Hate Consequences
Song sticks in my head, so you guys get to hear it too. Plus I really wanted to post a video on here, see how that works out.
I may make some changes to the site today, if Sassy is in agreement. So the words will be prettier to read. Blah blah blah.
Here There Be Tygers
I have two cats.
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| your pets aren't them |
My kitties are rather unique in that, to everyone else, they are the cutest, most adorable cats to grace the breath of creation. (This is true.) However, when I am inserted into the mix, things get strange.
Beer Flowers Are For Swooning
I got flowers last night; I love them! ♥ I can't tell you what the card said, though.
You can't get flowers cooler than these, so just don't try. It's futile.
(Thank you, Kid!)
Not Fully Realized
We say it a lot within the confines of a relationship: "I love you." We say it a lot, and for the most part, we mean it intently each time. But like any other repeated habit, verbal or otherwise, there are also times when it is said as a goodbye, or a hello, or a goodnight -- no less meaningful within the context of sharing, but not felt as intensely in those moments either.
Bureaucratic Athletics
I am readying myself for a surgery later this month. This is a difficult enough proposition, emotionally and otherwise, because these things typically hurt real good. Adding to the excitement, then, is the whole employment issue -- as in, keeping myself employed and my monies coming into my bank throughout it all.
See, you can't just get yourself all messed up and get some operational healing and come back to work when you damn well feel like it. That'd be too easy an explanation of what actually happens. In this "reality" of job-centric living, though, your employer believes it has to "approve" your time off.
Adult Education
I’ve learned a few things lately.
1. Being a nice person does not make me a team player.
Being a team player makes me a team player.
2. I’m no actress, but I sure know how to steal the show.
Active listening does not mean crying: it’s his turn to talk. Note to self: Self, you can talk about how much you relate later. Stop getting all weepy and emotional because you felt like that one time too. That’s nice. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it once you let him make his point. Now shut up.
3. Razorburn is acne for cheap people.
I’m not that clever for getting the cheap razors. Yes, I saved $4. Congratulations. Now I'll go use that $4 to buy some lotion to repair my demolished skin.
4. It's 10am and NOW I know what that smell is.
Note to self: try to run the sink disposal each night, but especially the nights you put steak fat in it.
And Another Thing
Dear Sassy, this movie you had an idea to watch and then purchased before we agreed to watch it and thus forcing us to watch, which is not happening now because you are in the bathroom, is making me long for the day my neck gets cut. Love, Ish.
I Believe In You
Oh, honey...you know ALL the answers, remember?
I'm sure you'll figure out where my laundry goes.
I'm sure you'll figure out where my laundry goes.
And sometimes I ramble...
Alright, so in about two weeks, I will be going under the knife again. Aside from the normal and expected feelings of trepidation, as well as the specific-to-self post trauma I have from the 10 previous surgeries, this signifies one very important thing: I have to quit smoking.
I don't smoke cigarettes. I smoke cigars...shaped and sized like cigarettes. (They were cheaper that way. Give me a break.) Ok, so over the years I may have gotten slightly carried away with what started as an occasional habit to take moments to myself, whether out back or out walking the city. It turned into a pack-a-day routine. Which, come to think of it, is probably worse for me than cigarettes.
All of that is irrelevant, really, because now I'm faced with another surgery, and quitting the habit is necessary for my successful recovery. (As will be the continual chanting of various swear words.) So I'm looking at this operation thing -- you know, getting cut in the throat to fix up this herniated disc and fuse the spine together with a cadaver bone and all -- and the main thing I'm fretting is having to quit smoking. Odd, that.
Maybe it's time I get some e-cigars or something. Or, you know, just quit.
Pseudo Goals
I feel like a blog should have goals, or at least pretend like it does. You might be surprised to know that in spite of being atypically absurd even on my best days, I still prefer to have goals attached to most things. It's the follow-through I struggle with. So, in light of us finally starting this blog we've been talking about for six months, I present you with MY set of pseudo-goals.
1. Be better at follow-through.
The hope is that I'll see goals I've written about, and hold myself to them. Or something like that. I'll get back to this later.
2. Choose your words carefully, think about what you mean to say/write.
Self-editing is good. Needing to do it ALL the time, not so good.
3. Stop apologizing for yourself all the damn time.
It was annoying when the girl on Next Food Network Star did it, so it's a habit you're going to break. I mean, if I choose my words more carefully, I won't need to apologize so much, will I? Right.
4. Don't get hung up on the formatting.
I've started blogs/websites several times, but never launch because I can't settle on the format. It's what I do for a living, but this isn't supposed to be work, you know? For example, I hate the default font for this thing. Within 5 minutes of setting up the blog, I was looking for ways to change it. Help! STOP ME, PLEASE.
5. Type longer sentences.
Re-reading this stuff is going to eventually give you a seizure, or people will think you are incapable of forming complex thoughts. I know, right? But it's not true. That's just how I think. I mean, if you put a few of the short sentences together in a meaningful way, sometimes that shit makes sense. I'm just saying.
6. It's my blog, I can talk to myself if I want to.
I do it all the time, I exist in my head. Are there people who don't do this? I want to meet them. Actually, scratch that. They're probably boring.
I'm sure we'll add more rules/goals/etc as time goes on, I think of crap like this in the shower.
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