A Charmed Life

Beast Of Eden

An Open Letter To Eve, Mother of the Human Race:

Yo, lady! Yeah, you over there in the fig leaf. You know, we wear 'em a little lower on the hips, now. None of that tapered sh*t, either. Just sayin'.

I have a serious bone to pick with you. I am currently typing this with what feels like a Mack truck through my skull. Not a MAC truck, because then I would at least have makeup on, which I don't, because this migraine is making me feel like f*cking crap and lip gloss ain't gonna fix the problem.

Not gettin' it yet, huh? Almost forgot, we've evolved bigger brains since your heyday. Let me spell it out for you then... ORIGINAL SIN. You got to shake your tits at that asshat Adam and make him take a big ol' bite of an apple a day, keeps the Garden away, and *I* get to have migraines every month? Sister, you are a piece of work. You couldn't have held out for a cheesecake tree? We could at least have chilled out with a big piece and watched "Desperate Handmaidens" or something.

I'm wasting my time, here. I at least have something you don't have: a big bottle of Aleve and a Tupperware full of Oreo cheesecake truffles. (Whoops, I ate those already. B*tch. It's not like they grow on trees, thanks to you.) Oh, and a bellybutton. It'll look great in my bikini...soon as the bloating goes down.

Disrespectfully yours,

Your Great-great-great-great-great-great-great (how many "greats" are in 6,800 years, anyway?) granddaughter.

P.S. To Adam: I hope it was worth it, you perv. You realize it's all your fault guys have to put up with our crap.

Great Expectorations

You know you've had bronchitis one too many times when you don't need "spell-check" to spell "phlegm".  Or, for a laugh, when asked about the color of said expectorate, you answer, "lovely autumn colors".  Or, when the attractive X-ray tech down in Urgent Care, upon seeing you feverishly stumble behind him, asks if you'd like a ride instead, you cheekily reply, "No, it's late, and you're probably too tired to carry me piggy-back". 

I get weird when I have a fever.  For starters, my normal body temperature has never been 98.6, but 97.1.  As far as I can guess I am some strange sort of reptile.  Anyone who's ever been forced to share a bed with me knows that my feet are made of permafrost and invulnerable to global warming.  So when the thermometer reads 102.8 for me, my brain cells are turning into charcoal briquettes.  I should have realized how sick I was the other night, when out of nowhere I started hearing a song in my head...and it was rap.  And I was making up the lyrics.

Thus it is entirely appropriate that I was once again prescribed Promethazine cough syrup with codeine, the main ingredient in Homey's "drank" of choice, Sizzurp. One dose and I am feeling ghetto-fabulous with my new "bling" (hospital bracelet) and crack pipe, uhh, Albuterol inhaler. I am probably the only 36 year-old in history that had to read the instructions on how to take a "hit" and hold it in for ten seconds before exhaling. 

So do you think this was a bad week to rent "The Stand" on Netflix?  Tune in tomorrow, when hopefully I will accomplish something more productive than my cough.

Eeek, A Mouse

I'm not much of an athlete.  When I tore my meniscus in high school, I told people I'd injured myself on the football field.  Technically, this was the truth.  I simply neglected to mention that I was in marching band at the time and had hyper extended my knee marching backward over a color guard member's flagpole.  So when I tell you that I have to cut this post short because of a surfing injury, I should probably admit that my itsy bitsy teeny weeny underwired pink bikini had nothing to do with it. Microsoft is to blame, specifically my rollerball mouse.

I can't actually prove that web-surfing and typing gave me yet another ganglion on my wrist.  All I know is that I see stars every time I try to scroll down a page, and this is coming from a woman who had natural childbirth.  At least this time it's my right hand (I'm a southpaw).  The first time I hurt my wrist, I was taking a karate lesson from my then-husband.  I blocked him with a little too much enthusiasm, and was packed off to the base hospital for x-rays.  The doctor looked at me very seriously and asked me to tell him the "real" story.  At my puzzled expression, he clarified, "If your husband is beating you, you don't have to be afraid to tell us."  I burst out laughing and replied, "First of all,*I* hit *him*.  Secondly, if he ever laid a hand on me, he'd be your patient, not me."  One wrist brace and a prescription for "vitamin M" (Motrin) later, and I was on my way.  I've had a lump on my left wrist ever since, despite having the ganglion drained, especially since there's no practical way for me to avoid using that hand, which is the only real way to help the inflammation go down.  And I refuse to have surgery on my dominant hand.  I just constantly apologize for my lousy penmanship (admittedly never that great to begin with, so at least now I have a valid excuse).

A lot of lefties are more than a little bit ambidextrous.  I'm not one of them- I've always bragged that my right hand does little more than prop my head up when I'm tired.  Whoops.  My bad.  It's amazing that I never noticed that I need that hand to put on a bra.  Now getting dressed in the morning looks somewhat like trying to force a rubber band onto a water balloon.  Anything that bends my hand to more than a 20- degree angle either way makes me yelp.  Ever tried to pick up a wiggling 27-lb. toddler in one hand?  I should just lasso her with the bra, first.  Forget web-surfing- and since I'm not a scary Internet pervert, it takes me forever to type.  (Yes, I know, I should just shut up already, but my hand hurts and I can't sleep and I get twitchy when I don't write.)

On the bright side (you know the refrain by now, "and there always is one"), everyday hausfrau stuff like laundry ( now cruelty-free!), vacuuming and cooking don't hurt a bit.  (Dave, if you tell on me that I don't vacuum much anyway, I will karate-chop you with my good hand ;)  On the very bright side, I am getting many sympathetic kissies from the adorable blonde sprite who chirps, "Owie?? Mmmwwwahhhh!" and plants a wet one right on the wrist brace.  That almost makes up for having to pay $21.95 for the darn thing.

And, you know, maybe Santa will bring me a laptop with a keyboard mouse.

Don't Light A Candle For Me...

Hello out there!  I'm posting from the muggy Gulf Coast of Florida, where since late Wednesday night I have managed to:  sell my dad's house, find an assisted living situation for him, arrange his flight home from Italy a month early, find a home for his cat, get the A/C fixed, sell most of the furniture, get the grand piano moved and stored, and set up for a huge garage sale this weekend.  That, and take care of a very jet-laged toddler by myself.  All on my cell phone, with no Internet access save for a couple of trips to my wonderful realtor's office, and with various relatives calling me and screaming at me in two languages.  I rock =) 

But since this all wasn't enough to give me the nervous breakdown of the decade, San Diego is on fire.  It's in Escondido, and blowing in the direction of my house.  Which we just dumped $20K into, and which was supposed to go on the market today.  Some of my friends have already been evacuated.  So, keep them and us in your thoughts and prayers, please.  But for crying out loud, please don't light a candle!

Pitiful Manic Soliloquy

That's it, I've had it.  If there's such a thing as reincarnation, I'm comin' back as a guy.  It's a darn shame, because I think I've finally figured out the whole eye makeup thing, too.  Oh sure, some guys do wear eye makeup, but I don't want to be that kind of guy.  I want to be the kind of guy who can devour three large pizzas in a single bound and still go out for a Coldstone waffle bowl afterwards.  Oh heck, I want to be the kind of girl who can do that.  And, you know, still fit into my clothes.

Skinny people make me insane with jealousy.  And since I live in southern California, where achieving the mythical Size Zero is like getting a Ph.D. in Gorgeousness, I am pretty much bananas at this point.  (Ooh, peanut butter and banana sandwich...)  Is it so much to ask that I can have one stinking (eight-serving!) bag of dark chocolate-covered pretzels, one day out of the month, and not have the scale go up by three pounds the next morning?  How is it that I can eat (hold on, lemme check the bag...brb) :::munchmunch::: TEN ounces of pretzels, and gain almost five times that amount?  Scientists should really be studying my metabolism because apparently I hold the solution to world hunger in my genetic code. 

And what the @#$! is up with the zits?  I never got 'em in high school.  (I never got dates, either, was there some kind of secret code that they spelled out?)  Now that I'm old enough to need wrinkle cream, I'm supposed to blend it with Clearasil, is that it?  Tell me, what evolutionary purpose is hormonally-induced acne supposed to serve?  Don't mate with this woman, this week?  Uhh, I think the feral scowl on my face and the low snarling sound emanating from my throat as I protect my pretzels from all enemies foreign and domestic, is taking care of that possibility.  Not to mention, if it's not covered in salt, chocolate, or both, I couldn't be less interested.  It's a darn good thing I'm a human and not a deer, because I would definitely be venison by now.

I want a pepperoni pizza.  I want some Vosges-Haut salted caramel chocolate-covered marshmallows.  I want my ass to no longer be the size of Sicily.  I will also settle for two out of three, but I am so cranky, I can't decide which two. 

Ever seen a scale fly like a Frisbee?  Come over to my place tomorrow morning, and you just might!  On your way here, mind picking me up another bag of pretzels?

If I Were A Bitch, Man...

...there wouldn't be a fiddler on the roof, there would be a sniper, with a high-powered rifle aimed across the street to take out my neighbor's stereo.  What, you thought I was going to actually whack somebody?  Please, I'm only half Sicilian.  The fiesta-style music played at random hours of the day and night was fun at first, when I'd suddenly feel like I was at a carnival, minus the rickety roller coasters and the smell of deep fryers. Except, I like roller coasters and fried food, and being able to hear the music with all my doors and windows closed without even having a battered Snickers bar for my trouble is getting a tad old.  I'm sick of the bass line echoing up the street so that the earworm can't help but embed itself in my brain.  I already have to watch the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse every morning, so the mariachi music is just a bit too much. 

It's not about prejudice.  My father emigrated here from Sicily, and my two best friends in college were a Lithuanian and a Jamaican.  I didn't care for every single thing I ate or listened to from their native countries, but it was never crammed down my throat, either.  Opera is practically an Italian national pastime, and considered a fairly highbrow interest by many.  However, I'd never assume that my neighbors, cultured and intelligent as they might be, would not only care to enjoy my "Three Tenors" album with me, but at the exact same time as I want to play it- with my garage door open for added sharing pleasure.

So, the next time I can't sleep because the earworm is in my head instead of my tequila, I'm going to blast a little "Nessun Dorma", courtesy of my paesano "Lucky" Pavarotti, via the biggest speakers I can haul home from Fry's.  None shall sleep tonight, indeed.

Too mean?  Not at all.  I'll tell you what I told the nice deputy who rolled up yesterday to take my noise complaint.   I am the mother of a teething toddler and I have the Sprout network, dammit.  Push me, and I will go Purple Dinosaur on your ass.  Sing it with me, bitches.."I love you, you love me..."

In the meantime, can somebody go to the fair and grab me a deep-fried Snickers bar?

Betta Off, Dead

Dang.  One of my bettas is now, well, sleeping with the fishes.  Dave had noticed he wasn't doing too great last week but thought he'd make it.  Like my day isn't aggravating enough, and now I have to clean out a fishbowl.  Phooey.

Maybe when I get back home from my trip I'll find another resident for that bowl.  Good feng shui to have a water feature in the office and all that.  Probably only cost me, say, "two dollars..."

Cat On A Hot Tin...Pan?

So much for "Angelo's Kitchen"!  Last night Dave called me over to the stove to show me our adorable new kitten, sitting in the cast-iron frying pan.  "I wish we had the camera out", he said.  I started petting the photogenic feline when I noticed that he was not so much sitting in the pan but rather squatting in it.  There must have been at least half a cup of cat pee in there.  Luckily, once I took him back to the litter box and actually took the lid off and dug his paws into it, he got the idea and finished his ablutions in the proper locale.

He most likely got confused because we use a different kind of litter than his breeder and he couldn't smell his kind with the top closed.  But I have another theory.  The home where he was born is considerably larger and fancier than ours.  I think that when we brought him into our average middle-class neighborhood, he worried than he was in the poorhouse...and wanted to make sure that he had a pot to piss in.

It's Not Easy Being Green

Having to spend each day the color of the leaves is fine for a frog.  Or even a toad.  But in my case, it's a toe-d.  As in, the only shoes that are currently not painful on my feet are my green Keds mules.  And of course, not everything matches with green.

Normally I wouldn't mind.  My closet is full of varying shades of green to complement my eyes.  Olive, lime, citrus, khaki, spruce and forest, you name it, I have it. It makes my hazel eyes look green and my skin look peaches-and-cream.  It's my second-favorite color next to blue, which is in the other side of the closet to match Dave's eyes.  I think I've bought him shirts in every shade from aqua to navy.  What can I say, I like eyes.  But my poor shoes are turning into an eyesore.

My troubles started when I was nearly nine months pregnant.  I thought I would be real slick and get a haircut, manicure and pedicure, then go promptly into labor looking neat as a pin.  (All you moms out there, I'll pause for a moment while you finish choking with laughter.)  The aesthetician apparently cut the big toenail on my foot a little funny, and when my foot swelled in the summer heat my last week of pregnancy, it cut my toe and started an infection.  After weeks of limping and soaking my foot in Epson salts, I went to my doctor, who prescribed an antibiotic roughly the strength of a Tic-Tac, because I was nursing and couldn't take anything stronger.  Two more courses of the expensive breath mints and I was no better off.  I refused to stop nursing, so my only option was to have the entire nail removed. OWWWW.  Then the gauze stuck to the scab and wouldn't come off and I had to have that removed.  After a month of not being able to wear closed shoes in the middle of winter (thank goodness I live in southern California!), the nail finally started growing back.  Well, now it's grown back just a tiny bit funny on the side, and I dropped something heavy on that foot...you guessed it, I'm back at square one.  This time, I get to swallow enormous horse pills and get a referral to a podiatrist.  Aack!  Only old people go to podiatrists!  I suppose it's fitting, because tomorrow is my birthday and I am officially OLD. Thirty-five, which in the rest of the country is the new twenty-five.  If you live in southern California, it's the new forty-five.  (Kind of like how the old perfect size 6 everywhere else is practically plus-sized here.)

I guess it could be worse...my toe itself could be green!  And I'm almost positive that I've never seen an old person wearing lime-green Keds.

A Wrinkle In My Free Time

My sincerest apologies to Madeleine L'Engle aside, I have a serious household problem to iron out, as it were.  I have to pack tonight to go to WorldCon this weekend, and though I am enough of a nerd to be utterly thrilled to go to an enormous science-fiction convention, I am still enough of a girl to want to get there with my clothes relatively neat.  I have a great "geek-chic" T-shirt which will be the first thing to go into my overnight bag: it's a pink, fitted V-neck tee that states, "You can stop looking at my chest.  These aren't the breasts you're looking for.  Move along." 

But I can't be my hot geek-bait self if my shirt is wrinkled.  Which is where my favorite household product (even more than the spin cycle on my washer) comes in, Downy's Wrinkle Release Spray.  You spritz it on the offending wrinkles, stretch out and smoothe the fabric, and voila!  Instant ironing in a bottle.  Call it my tesseract in the ever-expanding galaxy of my chores.  Except that just like Farscape, Serenity, SG-1 and Star Trek, all good things must come to an end.  I guess I could gnash my teeth, since I already have a night guard.  I have three dogs and two cats, so I don't need to go out and get a hair shirt.  Because even if I did, I'd have to iron it.