Fresh, Hot Wastes of Time

I just posted a question in someone else’s blog about wondering if she felt better after having sicked it up and it got me to thinking. It is really hard for me to barf. I almost typoed “bark”, which would be wrong, because I can bark very easily.

Barfing is another matter. I hate to do it. I don’t care how much better I will feel afterwards, the nastiness of barfing isn’t worth it. There was a time when I drank quite a lot, as in 75% of a bottle of Southern Comfort. First of all, I will never drink it again. Second, I knew that things were going to be very bad for me unless I puked some of it up. And I tried. I tried mightily, yanking on my uvula for all it was worth, sticking my whole damn hand down my throat to no avail. Minor gagging, no upchuck. I stayed in bed the next day until 8 at night, except for occasional forays to yark. Oh yes, my friends, I did the technicolor yawn all the next damn day, compounding the hangover from that awful sickly sweet cough syrup of an alcoholic beverage.

My friend, an Englishman, was not only impressed that I had so much to drink that night but that I couldn’t bring it back up. I guess that’s something – impressing a Brit with one’s drinking ability.

So I guess I’ve got that going for me.

Latest weird searches that brought people to this site:

“girls underwear” sears
yatta video anger sanka
mistress trillian

Nothing quite as titillating as M.S.’s ‘gay men in girdles’ search, I’m afraid.

Bug bite update: very itchy, getting hot and hard in the middle. Settle down, Beavis.

I have the strangest earworm right now. My mind is playing Jimmy Buffett’s “Margaritaville” and adding tuba to it. Of course only having one voice, I can only hum the tuba part which amuses the 8 month old to no end. My mystery bite is getting bigger and itchier. I thought that bug bites were supposed to get better over time, not worse.

If the food in the butter case at the store starts talking to my husband, he’s likely to shoot it.
R.I.P. “Carolyn Keene”
I’m sure you’ve all seen the Stinky Meat Project by now, right?

I think I figured out what happened to me last night.

See, I was upstairs in the kitchen doing stuff, and felt like something was crawling on my arm, but I didn’t see anything so I figured it was just a stray hair. I went about my business, but a few minutes later I got this searing sudden horrible pain on the same arm and I madly paw at it but see nothing fly off. Now I’m seriously freaked out, because we had a wasp problem a month or so ago and I’m very allergic to them, and this thing felt like a wasp sting. My arm swelled up and got red and I chugged a couple of Benadryl, after which everything seemed fine and I forgot about it until just now.

But the thing is, we’ve seen 2 centipedes in the house today. It rained last night and they probably got flooded into the house. So now I think I was stung by a centipede. Nasty.

OMG, Ron Jeremy is on an infomercial pimping penis enlargement pills. That’s it, the world is officially coming to an end. Someone pass me the ice cream, I’m going all out for this one.

I just ate an $18 poboy from room service. Plus 19% tax, plus $2.50 delivery. Insane. But tasty.

I really need to go to bed. What in the hell am I doing up at this hour? And why won’t anyone leave comments for me?

Disturbing search requests, or “How did someone searching for ‘naked tiny pickle’ get to my site?”

I just went and looked at the amount of clothes I bought yesterday, I thought there were far more than there actually are. I’m bored as hell right now, trying to find something interesting to do, but completely obsessing on growing my blog readership. I have no idea why. Why do we want people to read our silly little musings? Is it an attention thing? People don’t want others to read their diaries, why their blogs?

Embarrassing moment: at dinner after I got married, I asked my uncle if he would like to dip his meat in my sauce. Of course I meant about our food, but I don’t think I’ve ever blushed that hard in my life.

There are rumblings that the government is intercepting messages from Al Qaida planning another terrorist attack on the scale of September 11. Tie that in with the missing cyanide and I’m glad we have a home water delivery service. Will we ever be secure again? Even now when I hear a plane flying low, I cringe. I remember the first planes that flew over the house after the ban on flights was lifted. I expected any one of them to come crashing down on us. And a couple of months later, one did crash in New York. My second daughter was 4 days old on 9/11, and while we watched the news reports, all I could do was just hold her tight and shake. Tears well up even now, writing about that horrible day. I think what struck me most was the next week… all the flags everywhere, all the television channels either pre-empted by news or off the air with a memorial page on screen, or (in the case of MTV) playing comforting music. Our 2 year old was in Houston with her grandparents and I was scared to death that we would never see her again. Who know what else was going to happen?

Yep, that pretty much secured the fact that I’m not going to fly for a long, long time, and even then only if I’m heavily medicated. I have enough problems flying as it is. I’m too much of a control freak to feel secure putting my life in some stranger’s hands.

Oh, wow, I just checked out the weather forecast for New Orleans next week. It looks luscious. I once went to New Orleans in August and it was like swimming through boiling water. The city is actually a bit under sea level, which is why their cemeteries have above-ground crypts, because the water table is so high that coffins will come to the surface if buried (shades of Poltergeist). What that means is that the humidity is so high that it’s hard to breathe… which is fine if you’re just sitting there at a bar getting sloshed, but there are so many fun places to go and shop and discover that it sucks to be benched.

I just found this business card in an old box that has the following written on it:

I’m kind of the “shy type” and this is really embarrassing for me.

It would be just swell talking to you about where you are from, and discussing the weather and things, then we could fuck.

Heh. And I found a short essay I wrote, too:

When I was a young child, my mommy, daddy, and I would go on weekend excursions down to the ranch. To me, the ranch held some form of mystique, for it was the place where we could set off firecrackers, take jeep rides through the wilderness, and, best of all, where I could collect rocks.

Rock collecting was my forte. I would toddle out of the ranch house with my brand new styrofoam cup and go down the hill to the firt road. There, all I would have to do was bend over (being close to the ground already) and dig through the warm sand to find colorful, sun-warmed treasures. Stones amazed me; they came in every size, shape, and color imaginable. My very favorites were the rose quartz.

When we got home, my cup (hand carried in the car) would be placed next to all the other cups on the top shelf of my bookcase, the ultimate high honor. These sandy, dented cups were my prizes, and I would scream bloody murder anytime anyone would suggest their removal.

As I grew older, I didn’t notice that the cups were disappearing one by one. I was much too busy for a few pebbles collected on a whim. In fact, I didn’t notice that all but one cup, with five rose quartz stones in it, was left standing until just the other day.

The reason I even looked at all was because I was cleaning out my room. I was throwing things away from the top shelf in my closet, the place where things deemed unnecessary by the maid are relegated. I pulled a box aside and noticed about seven dusty, styrofoam cups. I paused for a moment, faintly smiling, took the cups, and sat down on my bed, fingering the cold pebbles. I then carefully set them down in the throw away pile, where they became magnified, then doubled by a prism of tears.

~1988

I found some other stuff in that box, but I will dole it out a little at a time so as not to bore you all at once.

Rules of Life:

1. Never give yourself a haircut after three margaritas.
2. You need only two tools. WD-40 and duct tape. If it doesn’t move and it should, use WD-40. If it moves and shouldn’t, use the tape.
3. The five most essential words for a healthy, vital relationship “I apologize” and “You are right.”
4. Everyone seems normal until you get to know them.
5. When you make a mistake, make amends immediately. It’s easier to eat crow while it’s still warm.
6. The only really good advice that your mother ever gave you was, “Go! You might meet somebody!”
7. If he/she says that you are too good for him/her–believe them.
8. Learn to pick your battles; ask yourself, ‘Will this matter one year from now? How about one month? One week? One day?’
9. Never pass up an opportunity to pee.
10. If you woke up breathing, congratulations! You have another chance!
11. Living well really is the best revenge. Being miserable because of a bad or former relationship just might mean that the other person was right about you.
12. Work is good, but it’s not that important.
13. And finally… Be really nice to your friends. You never know when you are going to need them to empty your bedpan