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You are supposed to comfort me in times of dismay.

Issue Date: Monday, Jan. 08, 2007

I am a sad person. Sad, so sad. I will give you reasons for my sadness and you will take me and hold me against your bosom or chest, pat my head (in a totally “There there…” way and not in a, “You silly little girl…” way) and soothe me.

Reason the first:
Do ya’ll remember me telling you about killing Mister’s computer command post and then him fixing it for me? He reinstalled 2039 songs back onto Herschel’s tiny little brain. Well, last week my boss heard about my plight and said, “Call me on your way home and we’ll go through my music collection and I’ll bring you cd’s to copy.” I was thinking, “BUT boss man! THAT is illegal!” So I said, “Cool.” And he brought me like 30 or 40 cd’s the next day to take home and “listen to”… not to copy them to my iPod library. No, no no. [Also, yes, yes YES.]

But alas, he brought them into me on Thursday.

(PS, still love Joan Jett.)

Before I left work for the haircut (love my hair stylist too) I started feeling all ucky. My vision was blurry and I felt all upchucky and hot. I was thinking, “No, I must not get a migraine or anything bad because I am not supposed to get that until I have my estrogen withdrawal headache the Sunday before I start my cycle… and today is Thursday. Not Sunday. This is bad. I do not start my cycle until Tuesday, last pill was last night.” Yes, I do carry on very lengthy conversations with myself about… well, myself when I am trying to rationalize how I am feeling and trying to talk myself into not having muscle spasms or cramps or headache/migraine/sinus headaches.

Myself replied a very eloquent, “Fuck you.”

My senses got all hyper and I could have smelled a butterfly fart but Oh, NO… I had to go into one of those places that sell out a large complex of individual salons to people who don’t want to work for Regis or Tony & Guy. A place that has the smell permeation of acrylic nails, hydrogen peroxide, perm solution and other such fragrant aromas. Mmmm.

My eyes were watering but dammit, I was going to get a hair cut. Before I went to have my haircut I hid the bags (and bags) of music within a dark corner of Samantha’s trunk/hatchbacky thing.

When I was done and my hair was sleek and shiny and about four inches shorter, I left and picked up dinner on the way home, making sure I called Mister to let him know that everything looked blurry. Smart no? Blurry headachy, driving and talking on my cell phone? Well, I just sorta wanted to let him know so he could track my whereabouts. Yes, it was that bad. “Susan?” What? “Why didn’t you have Mister just come pick you up?” Peshaw. Also, I needed to get home, and fast. So I also called my boss to tell him that I was all blurry and that I may call him and tell him that I was going to wuss out for Friday. He was nice and said that there was nothing important going on. And I said, “Good, because I feel like I’ve been run over.”

The next morning… yeah, I called him. “Not coming in, man.” “S’okay. See you in a week.” As he was heading off for a week of vacation.

Don’t you all wish you had my boss? Yeah, me too. I’m a lucky duck. He’s nice, and has amazing taste in purses.

So I have a week to rip all of his cd’s and then return them when he gets back from vacationing.

I stayed in bed most of Friday. I couldn’t really watch tv or read because of the blurry eye thing and my head hurt so much that I would whimper pathetically when I had to look up. Yes, the brazen act of looking up hurt my noggin. The puppy hung out with me and the cat stayed right beside me so I had company… and a lot of animal noises to accompany my dozing. Gah, it sounded like I was in the middle of a rain forest with all of the noise the cat was making with bathing incessantly and with the puppy chewing SO LOUDLY on his nylabone. Or, I could have been a little cranky.

When Mister came home that evening he was basically feeling the same way, “Eh.” So we both went to bed early. Saturday we went to CVS and I asked the pharmacist, “Do you have anything that will make my eyes stop hurting and my vision not blurry?” She said, “It sounds like you may have some sinus pressure.” And then she gave me these pills that were mink lined and had gold ingots inside of them, I took one when we got home and the heavens opened up and I could look up and thank sweet baby Jesus for better living through chemicals.

Also on Saturday Mister and I watched a bit of TV and this movie that he got from Netflix about this man… Well, you won’t believe me until I give you the plot from IMDB. The movie is called Keep the River on Your Right: A Modern Cannibal Tale and the plot outline is: “A retired gay anthropologist revisits the native cultures he studied in his youth.” Hmm. Now, I must also give you guys the plot outline from NetFlix: “In 1955, Tobias Schneebaum disappeared into the depths of the Peruvian Amazon. A year later, he emerged from the jungle naked and covered in body paint … a modern-day cannibal. Now, follow the stranger-than-fiction tale of Schneebaum's return to the jungle in 1999, 45 years after his original visit, to reunite with the tribesmen he grew to love and who haunted him for nearly half a century.”

Notice, in the Netflix one it fails to mention that Mr. Schneebaum is gay. Now, I love me some gay. But I was very interested when the movie showed up and I had never heard of the title. Mister has ordered it and was perplexed when Mr. Schneebaum kept mentioning, “These two men, are lovers. These two? Lovers. And these men are lovers as well.” While he was presenting a slide show of pictures on a cruise ship. Mister kept up the banter, “Well, isn’t that interesting?” And about an hour into the film he turned to me, “Do you think that Tobias is gay?” And just to fuck with him, I said, “No. Why?”

Don’t get me wrong. I am a documentary fool. I double majored in Sociology in college and I even have the five tape set of “The Human Sexes” by Desmond Morris, so Mister and I watch documentaries quite a bit. But I was intrigued in why he would order this one? Finally I fessed up that, “Yes, Tobias is gay. And old, and so cute… don’t you think?”

I am sure that Mister just ordered it because we went to see Apocalypto a week or so ago and we both thoroughly enjoyed it.

I think I am wandering around the point. Oh, yes.

Reason the second:
Sunday we stayed in, took down the tree, ordered pizza and yelled at the dog. We weren’t yelling at the dog for fun or anything but he did ruin (and by ruin I mean eat) a pair of Mister’s shoes, the carpet that is right up next to the tile in the foyer by the front door (holes, people… HOLES) and then pulled all of the shag part out of a square foot area of our bathroom rug. He wouldn’t eat any of his food, all he wanted were treats and water… and to lick the cat and eat carpet. Mister was ready to get rid of him by 4 pm on Sunday and I am so surprised that there is not an ad on Craigslist that says something to the point of: “Free to a good home, one small furry badger. 11 ¼ pounds of loving snuggling, teething, testicle having puppy. Please call me… DEAR LORD, PLEASE CALL ME NOW!”

While Mister was seething in the living room, the puppy was in his kennel and I was in the office ripping cd’s I noticed that where there had once been 2039 songs on Herschel that after ripping about 17 cd’s and trying to sync it that the computer hung up and now I have 2003 songs. Sweet.

Reason the third:
I was supposed to go to New Orleans for a large convention next Friday. Ya’ll know how much I love New Orleans. I have talked about it here, here, here, here… and here… and maybe several other places but ya’ll know, I love me some New Orleans. I have been looking forward to this convention because 1) I am attending, not planning 2) it is in New Orleans and 3) Food.

The reason I am sad is because of all of the danger that is bubbling out of that city. There were 14 murders last week. FOURTEEN. One of the murders was a woman who was killed 30 yards from the gaze of some New Orleans policemen.

I am working on canceling my reservations for the convention, the hotel arrangements and the tickets for the air travel but ya’ll, New Orleans is dying. The drug cartel is running rampant, the mayor is blaming all of this trouble on the schools (please) and the art, the music and the food will be casualties of war. I am so upset.

My coworker is still going. I don’t think it is the smartest thing to do, but that is her decision to make, not mine. I just don’t feel that it would be very bright to put myself in that sort of danger for a convention. I am trying to get all of my stuff (registration costs, ect.) transferred to the summer convention in Toronto. That? Would be awesome, as I have never been to Canada, but New Orleans, ya’ll… it just makes me want to cry.

Reason the fourth:
Have ya’ll seen the size of my ass lately?
The reason I ask is that well. I did this little search for a picture of these tee tiny little jean shorts that were worn only second to the hip white Levi jeans that I wore in this Blogger entry over here (3rd picture down, click to enlarge)… but those white jeans were hot baby. They even had a blue record on the back pocket with the word “DISCO” embroidered above said blue vinyl record. See? HOT.

But the reason that I was looking for a picture of myself in these tee tiny blue jean shorts was because I wore them and basically nothing else except a bathing suit for two years.

One summer when I went to camp… (please also see the link above… 2nd picture down) my mother was so freaked out that I would lose all of my clothes that she had so lovingly packed and written my full name in the back of the collar of each t-shirt and in the crotch or each tiny pair of panties with black permanent marker. She kept telling me, be sure to hang up my towel because if I didn’t it would mildew, make sure that I kept all of my clothes together or I would lose them, and, “For Pete’s sake, do not give your clothes away*!”

*I was one of those children. My nephew is the same exact way. One day my mother came to pick me up from school and I didn’t have my coat with me. She asked me where it was, “Did you lose your coat Susan?” “No ma’am.” “Well then, where is it?” “I gave it to so and so…” By the way, so and so is not a good name and my mother basically was all, “I bought that coat for you with hard earned money, why would you go and give it away!?” I meekly answered, “So and so did not have a coat.” Say it with me, Awwwww.

So I was so tweaked about not losing my clothes, having a mildewy towel and not giving anything away that when my mother and father came to pick up my sister and myself from camp (TWO WEEKS) my mother came into my cabin to help me pack. She opened my suitcase and there, inside, was each tiny t-shirt, tiny pair of panties and each pair of shorts still lovingly folded and in its place. I wore the same pair of shorts and a bathing suit for two weeks straight.

Yes, I showered. But I spent about 74% of my time in the pool or on a horse, so… um. Yeah, it was gross, but whatever. I was a happy girl. I didn’t lose or give away one thing… and my towel? Mildew free.

Where was I? Oh yes, the reason that I went in search of these pictures is because for Christmas I opened a gift from my mother. Inside was a box from Gymboree. I quipped, “Think it’ll fit?” and she was all, “Just you wait…” Oh, mother, the prankster. Inside the little Gymboree box was a pair of tee tiny jean shorts. The shorts. THE SHORTS that I wore everyday for like two years. Apparently my father has been doing some spring cleaning, in December, and for him spring cleaning means, “Woman, throw this shit away, I am not holding on to another twenty years worth of Southern Living!” So while spring cleaning, my father found this box of my clothing and inside? The shorts.


And with a dollar for size reference.

Here’s the real test. On Christmas Eve, I opened that package. And my loving husband took this picture.
With my ass for size reference.

Oh, and no making fun of my ass. You are supposed to comfort me in times of dismay.


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To understand this dear reward (above) at all, you must hie thee on and read gatsby’s grape ape entry and my comments.

And because of said comments he sent me my very own dream turtle in an email titled wee gift with these words attached, “my purple monkey is booked solid so i ordered you a tangerine turtle. hope he proves helpful.”

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