The answer likely will confound those who aren't fluent in TOGese. He said -- without provocation by me, mind you, as I was more concerned about him not driving buzzed up during a torrential downpour:
[*Sorta a la him, TOG tends to refer to himself in the third person sometimes. Not in a fancy-boy way, mind you; you just kinda have to be there.]
I can see y'all are like, "Wait ... what!?? That says nothing," and on the surface, you're right. Truth is, I could've called him on it and probably should've. At the same time, it's kinda like, you know, picking your battles.
Besides, I got mine, right?
In other news, here I was freaking out about moving my vanity site to Wiredhub from my old host when it turns out that they'll be able to do it with the greatest of ease! Love it when THAT happens. Now, I just hope I can keep a hold on the domain.
I can think of several people off the top of my head who won't appreciate a word this woman has to say, but I say "Read it, anyway," and then try real hard. She done put a fine point on it that even the biggest blockhead can understand.
So first thing I do after yanking* the offending raffia string out of Rube's mouth is call the 24-hour vet, where the perfectly lovely nurse tells me that I need to get him to ingest a teaspoon of hydrogen peroxide to make him barf. Oh, and that it'd probably be better if I brought him in so they can inject him with it, but it costs $75 for the office visit and whatever the treatment is, and you have to pay it up front. Well, hell, I was just excited to have $45 bucks to last me through payday, so that's not going to work, what else you got? She tells me -- nicely -- that I'd need to administer it myself. Ok, but I didn't have a dropper, so I call Poppy, who
Now, you know that e-mail that's gone around about what happens when you give a cat a pill? Eeeeeeyeah. Rube screamed, hissed, spit and growled as if we were eviscerating him without benefit of anesthesia, and it didn't help that he HATES Poppy as it is. Haaaaates her. Always has. Anyway, after about 20 minutes of chasing him to where we could shut doors and get him cornered, Poppy, cornering him in front of my bedroom door with a towel, finally got in him a full dose, after which he took off for under the kitchen sink, where I'm assuming he barfed, but I'm not sure because there was still an awful lot of indignant growling.
Poppy took off, so I thought then would be a good time to call the bride-to-be's mother to find out just exactly how long the raffia string was. (Of COURSE you'd think that calling her beforehand would be the first logical step. Shutup.) Long story short, the raffia was used to tie the burlap in place, and the string I yanked from his mouth? Was likely the whole thing intact.
I just felt a little lick on my foot from under the desk, so I'm assuming we're all good again. But I'm telling you, NEVER underestimate the power of a 15-pound cat, because that little fucker even swatted the dropper right out of my hand. And his brother eventually came out from under the bed, but not without looking around like he'd just survived the battle of My Lai.
See, Sammy is a perfectly lovely lady; she led my first expedition to the great mecca, in fact. We've been to Vegas together, spent many nights drunk and lamenting the state of the new biz, talked about stupid boys -- you know, everything that good girlfriends do.
But a couple years ago, Sammy made a pact with a devil, that devil being her friend Andy, who talked her into running the Chicago Marathon. From January to race time, Sammy trained, eschewing the levels of beer and crap-food consumption we'd all come to enjoy in those days while she was here. And oh! The running! There were talks of running 2, 8, 12 miles at a stretch! I thought she was nuts and told her so each time we hung out. I mean, there was no question that she WOULD complete the marathon -- which she did, and in the time she was supposed to -- but WHY? When there's beer to drink and pizzas with extra meat to consume!?!
Well, long story short, despite any protest by me, Sammy's running the damn marathon again -- only this time, it's personal.
See, her extended family has been beaten by the cancer stick, so she's decided to raise funds for research. Now, I personally think there has to be an easier way to do this -- bake sale? candy bars? -- but she clearly doesn't share my view. So, since she's so adamant about running this damn thing, I'm putting a button over there on my side bar so you can slip her a few bills if you got 'em.
I mean, at the very least, perhaps we can raise enough money to convince her to stop making the rest of us look like chubby slobs.
Her: Yeah, she looks like the good teacher type when she's stumbling around drunk, telling her husband to 'wipe it off so she can suck it.'
I am, however, a little bit sleepy. Still. So I bid you adieu and hot wet dreams until tomorrow.
He was dead asleep in this picture, too.
Of course, I'm now deeper into that time, especially since Mother and I got into a YOOGE fight tonight that made me want to throw her out of the damn car. (I didn't. But I wanted to, even more than
So I walk in, and Dad, who was pretty much comatose at that point, was set up in the living room with an oxygen tank and all that. Well, she was already talking to my sainted aunt about how he was for all intents and purposes dead, and upon hearing that I proceeded to have a complete and utter hemorrhage: "You know, he can HEAR YOU." And she was all like "No, he can't." Because, you know, even though there's really no knowing for sure how much a person functions while they're in a coma, her pain was more important than the fact that he knew he was dying and didn't particularly want to HEAR IT WHILE HE WAS STILL ALIVE. So to be a shit, I started telling him about the Cubs game that was on, and then I asked him if he wanted me to turn the sound up. And he inaudibly mouthed "Yeah."
-- Him discussing my panties during dinner at a Mexican restaurant.
Yeah, the platinum highlights aren't part of the deal, obviously. But for the first time in oh, I want to say 20 years, the "drapes" match the "carpet," as they say in certain circles (minus the buttloads of gray, of course). Not only that, but it's the first time in 15 years that I haven't been some sort of redhead, and THAT'S kind of freaking me out. I mean, I totally dig it, but I've been identified as a redhead for so long that this is way foreign. And it's really trippy how the color changes everything. Par example, my eyes are green, and when my hair's the red, they look olive green. But now with the dark brown, they look almost gray, and that's, like, whoa. Makeup ought to be fun the next time I put it on. Good thing I wear neutrals. I also kind of like the idea that with the brown, I could probably touch up the roots myself between high- or lowlighting; reds are tough to get right.
You know what else I really love? This. EWK used it on me as he was rinsing out the dye, and not only does it smell phenomenal, but oh. the TINGLING. (shudders with delight) Much more intense than with the Aveda stuff. I'm so totally buying some when I need conditioner again.
You're Lou Reed. God, you are cool, can I touch you so the magic
will rub off? You are perceptive, witty, and badass. You wear
cool shades, even at night, and probably wear
black more than most people. You don't give a
fuck what other people think, but you are also
very sensitive in the way that you pick up on
things that others don't. Sometimes you come
off as an asshole, but that's what makes you
cool. You are a poet, and you embody New York
City. You will still be hip when you are old,
and artists love you.
Which rad old school 70's glam icon are you? (with pics)
brought to you by Quizilla
Anyway, DtR was supposed to have gotten his "divorce settlement" (snerk), so you'd think he'd want to pay me the $550 he still owes me, which would take care of just about all the niggling little bills, but that would mean he would have had to get divorced in the first place, which we know hasn't happened. As if THAT weren't bad enough, you know how he was uber-coming on to me a week or two ago? Well, now that I kind of indulged him*, he goes all silent. I'm sorry, but excuse me, who the fuck does he think he is!?! This isn't college when I was despondent and on the rebound.
So, how am I going to combat this awful feeling? By changing my hair tomorrow. Don't know how yet, but I told EWK that I need to be shocked.
Info meme #1
Typelogic says I'm an INFP.
Check my weekly astrological groove here.
Give it to me, baby.
Pssst ... My birthday's Feb. 3, and I want this, and this, and this ...
The Make-Believe Oral Cancer Foundation (M-BOCF) is now accepting donations on my behalf. Won't you please help those of us who jump to hideous conclusions regarding our oral health and help me get a root canal or two!??:
/> Wanna make a bunch of money doing what you're doing right now?
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Broad said: Like I said, my feelings are complicated on the matter, so ... I’m interested, however, in Her Highness’ thoughts on… ...[go].
Caterina said: ARGH!!! Not to deny you your goddess-given right of reflections and wishing what might-have-beens, but this guy was straight up… ...[go].
Wholovesya? said: By the by, guess who was most nasty about the charitable giving? The frigging church. My church and my mom’s… ...[go].
Wholovesya? said: By the by, I’m not the only one I know. I have friends who work at soup kitchens because they’re… ...[go].
Wholovesya? said: As you know, I was a voyeur to the beginning of this, and I was loving your comment! I have… ...[go].
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script assistance by
This explains that large bit of type at the top.
Tagline by Ben F'in Mollin, talking about those times you wake up still drunk from the night before.
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