new logo? Very appropo for this month, methinks. Thanks to creative reader Amy for the new logo! Next new logo will be up on August 1st.
2004-07-01
An acidic and hostile place: since 1999
new logo? Very appropo for this month, methinks. Thanks to creative reader Amy for the new logo! Next new logo will be up on August 1st.
* * * They’re still doing road construction on the road directly behind our back yard. They didn’t start quite as early this morning – or if they did, I slept through it – but I’m wondering what the hell is taking so long. I swear, by now I could have dug the hole with a shovel, pushed the round cement thingies into the hole, and covered it back up. Well, I guess there’s probably a certain way to put the round cement thingies in the hole, which is probably why it’s taking so long. Which is why they’re the professionals, and I’m just sitting here bitching about them. I sure do hate it when they back up and the beepbeepbeep shatters my eardrums and my brain goes leaking all over the shoulder of my t-shirt, though.
beepbeepbeep loud enough to shatter the eardrums when they back up. So far as I can tell, they’re not actually getting much accomplished, but I can’t really see on the other side of the fence, either, so who the hell knows? I wish they’d get the damn job done and over with though, I DO know THAT.
Office Space and were watching O Brother, Where Art Thou, I decided that if Meester Boogers were human, he’d be George Clooney in O Brother. Then I sang “Iiiiiiiiiiii am the Stuuuuuuuuump of Constant Sorrowwwwwwwwww!”, which amused Fred to no end. Further, we decided that Spanky would be Delmar (Tim Blake Nelson) due to his less than brilliant brain, and Miz Poo would be Pete (John Turturro) due to her temper. Heh.
I, on the other hand, am a badass. I laugh in the face of the burning Lidocaine shots in the tender skin of my back! Haha! WHAT pain?” The doctor and the nurse were suitably impressed. “Why, you could PROBABLY do this whole operation without numbing the area at ALL, because I am SUCH a badass! But I know how you doctors like to wield those needles…” The nurse and I gave each other knowing looks. “Can you feel this? Or this?” The doctor said, apparently jabbing me in numbed areas. “Not at all,” I said. “But I’m such a BADASS that even if I completely felt that, I probably wouldn’t tell you! Because I LAUGH -” “-in the face of pain,” the nurse completed in a bored monotone. “Yeah, we know.” I heard the clank of instruments, and then saw a scalpel go by my face. We chatted while the big hunk of skin was removed from my back, and I mentioned the many sunburns I’d suffered as a child living in Guam, and how no doubt I was going to die from the skin cancer because my PARENTS DON’T LOVE ME, but that was okay, that was just FINE, because I am a badass, and I laugh – “in the face of pain?” the doctor suggested. “No! In the face of death! Ha! Ha!” A huge hunk of skin went through my line of vision, and the doctor placed it in a cup of some sort of liquid so that it could be sent to the lab and tested. “Make sure you tell them I’m a badass!” I insisted. “Yeah, I’ll get right on THAT,” the nurse said. “Okay,” the doctor said, and I saw more metal go by my face. As she worked, she gave me care instructions for the wound that she was stitching up. “Keep it covered for twenty-four hours,” she said. “After that, put Neosporin or Bactriban on it, and keep it covered for three days with a band-aid.” I immediately discarded the idea of keeping it covered for twenty-four hours, because I AM A BADASS, and BADASSES love their BBC “Coupling”, and the only time I allow my badass self to watch “Coupling” is when I’m on the badass elliptical trainer (how, after all, do you think I STAY such a badass?), and after I kick ass on the elliptical trainer, I’ll have to take a shower, which will entail getting the wound wet, which will entail replacing the bandage. But I’m a badass. I can handle it. The doctor began stitch number two. “And then you need to come back in ten days to have the stitches removed.” “I am SUCH a badass that instead of coming back in to have YOU remove my stitches, I’ll probably just take them out MYSELF with a pair of rusty scissors!” Somehow the nurse and doctor seemed less than impressed. “So, are you working tomorrow?” the doctor asked as she began stitch number three. “No,” I said. “I don’t work. I don’t HAVE TO. I’m such a badass my husband throws money at me every time he sees me! Sometimes I even pay the bills with it!” “And what did you do when you worked?” said the nurse. “I was an office manager,” I said, and then reflected upon what I said. “But I was a BADASS office manager. I made people CRY when I sneered at them!” Suddenly I felt a tugging sensation on my back. “Hey,” I said. “I felt THAT.” The nurse smiled. “We’re allllmost done. Just hold on to your badass horses!” I heard the snipping sound as she cut the ends off stitch number three. “So, did you like your job?” the doctor asked. “Yeah, pretty much except for when – JESUS CHRIST! WHAT THE FUCK?! OH MY GOD! WHAT THE GODDAMN FUCKING HELL WAS THAT??” I flailed around. “OW! OW! OUCH, GODDAMNIT!” “Oh,” the doctor said mildly. “I guess you felt that one too, huh? Good thing you’re such a badass. If you weren’t, I might numb the area a little more! You’re going to feel a little tugging…” “OWWWWW! OWWWWW! OH GODDAMN, MAKE IT STOP!” I screamed and flailed some more. “Hold her down,” the doctor ordered, not sounding nice in the least. The nurse threw herself across me to hold me down. I flailed the best I could, but the nurse was stronger than I’d expected. “Just one more!” the doctor said cheerily. “OWWWWWWW! OWWWWWWWWW! GODDAMNIT FUCKING HELL YOU BITCH I HATE YOU OWWWWWWWWWWWW!” “There,” the doctor said a few minutes later. “All done! That wasn’t so bad, was it? After ALL, you’re… what’s the word?” “A badass,” the nurse contributed. “I AM a badass!” I sniffled. “I am!” They snickered at me for a few more minutes, then I got dressed and left. Upon rethinking the incident, I am reassured that I really am the badass I keep insisting I am. Why? Because anyone ELSE would have passed out or even died from the pain, but me? Just a little yelling. A little sobbing. A little wailing and flailing. That’s right.
Secret Window the DAY it came out, and I have Reality Bites to send back today and “Coupling” tomorrow, which means that I’ll get Cold Mountain the day IT comes out, so I can force Fred to sit down and watch it with me. Whoo!
go donate. You’ll feel good and without all that caffeine in your system you’ll sleep like a baby tonight. I promise!
* * * I was awakened at 6:45ish this morning by a loud scream and then a stream of profanity. I woke up, listened for a moment, and then grinned and went back to sleep. It appears that Fred found the cup I left upside-down on the floor last night. When he picked it up, he found the big-ass spider I’d covered with it.
bitchypoo.blogspot.com as my own. Snazzy, eh? Just what I need, another site to neglect!
* * * “Baby,” I said. “I am at a complete loss. I have NO idea what to get you for Father’s Day.” “Oh, you don’t need to get me anything!” Fred said, shaking his head earnestly. “Well, I was thinking that maybe you could go get a massage, and we’d call it your Father’s Day present!” A considering gleam came to his eye and he thought for a moment. “How about a massage… and a cake from Peggy Ann’s Bakery!” he said. “Yeah!” We really REALLY like the cakes from Peggy Ann’s, and I’m no fool – I was NOT about to argue with that idea. “We can get yellow roses on it this time!” That night, while we were laying in bed, I picked up the phone. “Who are you calling?” Fred asked. I held up the shushing finger, and he said “Oh. Are you calling me?” “Hey,” I said, “Don’t forget to call Peggy Ann and order the cake. And make sure they don’t put any cheese on it. Love you!” Teasing him about his dislike for cheese on a salad just never gets old. And yes, I made him call in the order for his own Father’s Day cake. I also made him call it in for his birthday. I probably haven’t mentioned it before, but I HATE talking on the phone. This morning, Fred called me at least three times before 9:30. “When are you going to go get the cake?” he asked. “Go get the cake!” “STOP HARASSING ME!” I snapped. “You won’t be able to eat any of it until you get home this afternoon, so what’s the difference?” “I just want you to go pick it up,” he said in a small voice. “OKAY, I’m going! I’m going to the post office, and then I’ll get your damn cake. GEEZ!” After a stop at the post office and a stop to fill up my gas tank ($1.92 a gallon for the cheap stuff), I made the arduous journey to South Huntsville. It took about half an hour. “Hi!” the sales clerk chirped as I stepped through the door. “Can I help you?” “Yeah, I’m picking up a cake for And3rson,” I said. While she looked through the cake boxes, I glanced around at all the goodies on display, especially the smiley-face cookies. They had little pieces of fudge in a cup for customers to take, so I ate one, and then swooned. Fudge as good as in Gatlinburg! I looked up in time to see the sales clerk lift the top of the box, look at the cake, and then give me an odd look. Huh, I thought. I wonder if there’s a problem with the cake. She turned the cake toward me, and I stared down at it, waiting for what I saw to make sense. When I realized what it said, my face turned an instant bright red and I giggled stupidly. “Heh. Yeah. Looks good!” I said, paid as quickly as I could, grabbed the cake box, and beat a hasty retreat. In the car, I called Fred from my cell phone. “You are such a shithead!” All I heard on the other end was laughter.