Vanity

Here's another thing that fucks me off. Zits.

I can accept the aging process. I can accept the gray hairs that have started to sneak onto the scene. (Three, at last count. I've named them: Lupe, Hermione, and Steve.) I can accept that I'm getting some laugh lines around the eyes. I've earned a few lines and wrinkles and scorn the use of Botox, Collagen, whatever other bullshit anti-aging technologies are out there. If you are willing to inject fucking anthrax into your body for the sake of an unmoving forehead? Go for it, dumbass. But when you glow in the dark or find yourself with a terminal illness from that shit hitting your bloodstream? Don't come crying to me.

I think people should age gracefully. Worrying about it, and going out of your way to prevent it only makes it worse. IT SHOWS when you can't accept it, and it SHOWS when you're doing shit to yourself to try to fool people. Here's something you should know: YOU FOOL NO ONE.

I'm aging okay, despite those visible signs of being in my fifth decade. Those physical things...they're part of life. Okay, good.

But you'd think it'd be a trade off NOT to get any more fucking ZITS. I've always had good skin, though pale and sometimes a bit pasty when my diet and sleep schedule aren't the healthiest. It's smooth, soft, clear. Most of the time. But every once in a while...as if to mock me in my arrogance...hello? What's this? A SPOT? Damn you, little clogged pores... damn you to HELL.

That said:

I've done enough thinking about this, and whinging about this, that I have created names for the three types of zits: Peepers, stingers, and screamers.

Peepers are the wee fellas that pop up in that little crevace* between your nose and cheek. They don't hurt, and once you realize they're there, you just scrape a fingernail across them, they go 'pop,' and they're gone, leaving no redness or soreness behind. If you're going to get a zit, this is the easiest all around.

Then there's your stingers. These don't really show to the general public, but you find out they're there when you inadvertently touch it while scratching your face or something. All it takes is light contact and it's like an invisible wasp has just taken umbrage at your face, and nailed you. "YEEEEOOOOWWWW! What the fuck is that?" I'm dealing with a stinger right now, right there on my chin. Others cannot see it, which is, I suppose, some comfort. But the little bastard hurts. And it's RUINING my day.

The screamers are the worst, both in terms of pain and vanity. They hurt, they show, if you touch them, they get worse, and THEY. ARE. UGLY. No make up can cover them, and no zit cream will help. They LAUGH at zit cream. "DO YOUR WORST" they say, as they tuck into the zit cream feast, and get bigger and redder and more arrogant. Fuckers.

Other than that, all is well. YOU?



*EDIT: Crevace? Cravasse? Fuck.

and you know what else?

I am very, very, very tired. Here I am at the end of a long, hectic week. This rabbit needs her beauty sleep. I'm going back to the warren for a nice evening silflay and then a loooooong nap.

Did you know that rabbits only sleep for about 20 minutes at a time? The lower down the food chain, the more alert you have to be. So higher predators, like cats, sleep about 18 hours. They don't have much to fear, so they can kip longer without fear of attack.

I think that's great in the wild, but domestic cats too? It sucks. Because my cats sleep all goddamn day, they think nothing of a rousing game of 'King of the Mountain' at 4 AM, using my sleeping form as the mountain.

Oh, and here's something cute. The kitten? The one that I was sure would be dead of a heart attack because of our house guests this week? Missed her routine so much she actually got INTO the tub with me this morning as I took my shower. She had soooooo much to say, that she couldn't say for two days, that she risked being showered on, to sit IN THE TUB to give me an update.

Enough fucking cuteness. It's almost 5pm on a Friday.

Why am I still sober? I'll fix this soon enough.

HUZZAH!!!!!

...well....DUUUUUHHHHHHH....

All right. My faithful friends have let me know that blogger DOES INDEED provide a way to find an old post that some idiot has commented on months later.

Well, dip me in breadcrumbs and call me a veal cutlet.

Still... because I still think it's incredibly lame to be commenting on posts that are so old they're crusty, I'll still disable comments on older posts. Because that's how I roll.

Rough week, people. In-laws in town, in my apartment. Picture the scene: Four adults, THREE CHILDREN, and three freaked out cats in a two bedroom apartment with ONE bathroom.

No sleep last night. We had screaming/crying/puking in the middle of the night. We've had baseballs bounced off walls. I've got a cat that WILL NOT come out of a corner of my bedroom, and will likely be dead of a heart attack by the time I get home.

Here's what I've learned:

1. I will probably never spawn.
2. Smoking is even MORE disgusting than I thought it was before, which is pretty bad.
3. Kids get up EEEEAAAARRRRRLLLLLYYYYYY. See #1.

These are well-behaved kids, too. Can you imagine if they weren't? I'd be up on charges by now.

Don't MAKE me go all through the archives.

Here's something that irritates the crap out of me: When people leave comments on posts that are really, really old, and are too cryptic for me to guess what post they are commenting on. When I get the e-mails that tell me someone's commented, blogger doesn't show the date or title of the post.

I've sent in the suggestion to blogger to do that, but haven't seen them implement it.

It makes me seethe.

Especially when the commenter is some sick, perverted fuck-face, like the pigeon-brained little pencil-prick who commented on a January post of mine, just calling me some nasty names. Had to search for an hour to find the post, and then... this creepy bastard's blogger profile link took me to one of those web sites that shows real executions, tortures, hangings and shit? Seriously...this person needs some help. Or my fucking steel-toe Doc Marten up his poop-shoot. I'll be more than happy to oblige if he presents himself.

COME ON, IF YOU THINK YOU'RE HARD ENOUGH.

So...henceforth, after a post has been up a week or two, I will DISABLE comments on it. I have already gone back and done this on every post of this blog right up until the last 5 or 6. So any new comments, if I can't figure out what they're referring to, will be easy enough to find.

And that's all she wrote.

Happy Easter

Despite my rejection of religion, and traditional Judeo-Christian "ethics," I like Easter. It's the overarching theme of spring and rebirth that does it for me.

Plus, I like rabbits.

Just got back from a sports bar, where I watched the Red Sox win, so I'm cheerful, and have a slight beer buzz, which is nice for a Sunday afternoon, holiday or not. Had a delightful second wind, put together a batch of chili for the week.

(Yes, vegetarian chili. Believe me, meat eaters, it's good. One tenth of the fat of normal chili, zero cholesterol, and all the taste. Ask my husband - he's a carnivore, and he likes it!)

Anyway, the point, before I go off on another tangent, is that this Easter got me to thinking...I wonder, if I could resurrect anyone, who would it be? Not like that horrid son in "The Monkey's Paw," I've thought of that. That wouldn't be very nice at all, would it? No one would thank me for that.

But having someone come back to life, healthy, normal, not partially decayed from the grave or stinky or anything. Who?

I'll go first. I would resurrect Joe Strummer.

How about it kids? Thoughts?

"YOU, SMARTASS...OUT IN THE HALL. NOW!"

Here's another one of those jokes that got me kicked out of Catechism class in grade school. Oh yeah, I'm hell-bound.

*************************************************
Picture the scene: Jesus on the cross, centurions all around, apostles at the bottom of the hill, weeping and wailing.

The apostle Peter hears Jesus' voice, faintly calling him. It's barely a whisper, but he hears insistence in it, and realizes he's GOT to get to the top of the hill to hear the wisdom Jesus has to bestow upon him.

So he starts climbing. Of course, the centurions slap him around a little, throw him back down the hill.

He hears the voice again. "Peter...Peter..." So he starts climbing again. Centurions are a little impatient by this time, beat him up a bit more severely, now he's got some bruises, a broken hand, maybe a broken rib or two. And back down to the bottom of the hill he goes.

Again, "Peter...Peter...." Desperate to hear whatever it is Jesus wants to tell him, he once again starts to climb. This time, the centurions decide to just let him. He's in too rough shape to provide any aid or chance of escape to Jesus at this point, so they decide it's not worth the bother.

Peter gets to the top of the hill. "What is it Lord?" he says, panting. "What is it that you wish to say to me?"

"Peter," Jesus says in a weak, shaky voice. "Peter... I can see your house from here."

Badoom, badoom, TSSHHHHHHHH.

RED SOX HOME OPENER.

The Sox home opener is a high holiday in my house. We take the day off (and the day after, for recovery) and get down there early for the carnival-like atmosphere. It's like a pagan spring festival.

Leaving in one hour. For the rest of the day, I will be at the game. They have a Guinness booth at Fenway. Any blogging, commenting, e-mailing that happens when I get back...I really can't be held responsible for.

Fuck running, fuck it, and the horse it rode in on.

Yesterday, at the beginning of what would have been a good, long work out, my elliptical machine broke. For the next five days at least, I will have no access to my cardio work.

So, this morning, I thought I'd run around the block a couple of times. Just got back. Just put my lungs back in my throat, and rubbed my knees down to console them for the MISERY I just put them through. Three times my bodyweight of pressure on EACH foot, on EACH STEP??? My poor boobs, too. They're not happy either.

Fuck running. Fuck people who run. Fuck the whole concept. Clearly, I'm not built for it. I want my elliptical back. Why can I be on that thing at high resistance for over and hour, and I can't run a CUNTING QUARTER MILE without puking???

People enjoy this? Fucking masochistic cunts.

I am buying a new elliptical and NEVER going through that again.

Guess I'll never be a rock star.

Yesterday, out of curiosity, I googled an old drinking buddy of mine, whom I have not seen in ...whoah, 10 years? We used to be great pals, worked together in a shit retail job at an Army Navy store that has since gone tits up. I thought for sure that he was here illegally (he is English) and has long since been deported or gone underground. So it was just idle curiosity that made me Google his name.

Turns out: Here he is! Living locally, playing in a band that is (evidently) considered pretty good. Looks like Dave's the front man and songwriter. Midget Jesus. Go figure, huh?

And then....THEN: ANOTHER old acquaintance has surfaced, AGAIN, playing in a band. Today, on the front of Boston.com, is a story about a Ramones cover band, and lo and behold...there's Bob, the front man.

That's TWO people, in 24 hours, whom I used to know, surfacing out of nowhere. Still playing music, having fun...

And my excitement this week is that today? After work? My husband and I are going to fucking COSTCO to buy products in absolutely STUPID quantities, and then we're going to a shitty chain restaurant for dinner and draft lager.

SHOOT. ME. NOW.


I need to get that fucking guitar fixed up...I'll probably never get out there and play in a band again, but it should be sitting next to the couch so I can pick it up and mess about with it from time to time. Or maybe...anybody want to form an 80's cover band?

Put your boobs in a vise first thing in the morning...

...and I guaran-damn-tee you, the rest of the day can only get better!

Mammogram. Sounds like something that should be delivered, doesn't it? I can almost hear Billy Connolly's voice, "Knock, knock....Mammogrammmmmmmmm."

Just had my first. Turned 40 and my doctor says, in her most authoritative voice, "YOU MUST HAVE YOUR BOOBS IN A VISE ONCE A YEAR." So who am I to argue. I'd just get a mastectomy if I even had the hint of breast cancer. That'd be all the incentive I'd need, and the insurance company would have to pay for it.

For, you see, I have NEVER liked having these stupid protuberances on my chest. They're just useless. Larger than is practical for my purposes. I know men like them, and I guess in a way they balance the wide hips for a figure that, evidently, is pleasing to the male eye. And probably has some evolutionary significance as far as attracting strong, healthy mates...THOUSANDS OF FUCKING YEARS AGO....and BEFORE the sports bra was invented.

And, yes, for a 40 year old woman, I have to say my girls are pretty much still high and proud, and not bad, if you like that sort of thing. But since I'm not breeding, and I would prefer NOT to have them bouncing around when I exercise or play sports...let's just say a D cup is a bit excessive. They serve no purpose, but to cause me pain, embarrassment and make it difficult to find a good bra.

Yessir, if I could, I'd have them taken right off...or at least made smaller. That's also IF I believed in going under the knife for anything not life threatening. That's another post for another day.

Having said all that, let's talk about the mammogramian moment itself for a minute. No, I don't like my boobs, but I did feel really badly for them this morning, round about 9:15AM. Squashed flat...FLAT I TELL YOU, in a vise, having their picture taken, without benefit of make up, soft lighting, or even a little feel-up to make them jump up and say "Howdie!" And the nurse did warn me, "Well, this is your first, you've never had a baby, so this is going to hurt."

Thanks, Nurse Marge. (Also another post for another day, why are nurses almost invariably overweight...and smokers? That's something that needs to be looked into. It just seems odd to me.)

And, yes, YYYYEEEAAAAAAOOOOOOWWWWWWW!!!! But only for about 30 seconds.

and really, ladies, it's not that bad. Just get it done. It's really a very small price to pay for peace of mind...early detection is worth...maybe your life, right?

Two aliens walk into a bar...

I tend not to take an immediate, definite dislike to people I meet for the first time. Nor do I find I'm immediately enamored of people right away. Believe it or not, I do try very hard not to make snap judgments without first at least having a few conversations, getting to know a person a little. I'm shy, an introvert, and appreciate a little understanding before people form any hard opinions about me...I need to warm up to people and find I like it when people give me the opportunity to be warmed up to. And having gotten to know people, I really find that I actively dislike very few people. If I don't end up liking someone, or being able to see eye to eye with them on SOME level, they remain at the periphery, not someone I spend time with, so therefore don't waste any energy hating them or even thinking about them much.

But eeeeeevery once in a while, I meet someone for whom the antagonism is immediate, definite, even violent. One such person is someone I met at a wedding a few years ago. It was the wife of a co-worker of my husband, and it was almost...chemical. She was flashy, glittering with shiny clothes, jewelry, make up, and biting ill-humor. The antithesis of me, in short. Proceeded to give me her expert opinions about everything, including the behavioral patterns and psychological imbalances in cats with calico patterns. "It's been proven," she said. (Erm... it should be noted that she does not own cats, but has several large dogs. While I...I own three cats, one of them a calico, the smartest of the three, and the one I think is probably smart enough to have a paper route, if she only had thumbs.) When I tried to say this, I was interrupted. "No," she said again, "it's been documented."

Fucking crazy bitch.

And this one that I've met a few times at a friend's house. A relative of hers, an in-law. This is one that is less crazy, but still...what IS it about this woman that makes me cringe when I'm in her company? Is it the sense she gives off of always 'sizing me up?' Maybe that's it. It just always seems that I'm on display, up on some kind of block, waiting for her approval or disapproval. And she's looking me over, ready at any time, with the slightest provocation, to give me thumbs down and send me to the lions. And I can find no common ground, nothing to talk with her about. News, current events, books, music, nothing. She's only a couple of years older than I, and yet...we're just worlds apart.

It's like...it's like two aliens, from different universes, coming together in one place, looking each other up and down and going " What the fuck are you???"