So long, and thanks for all the fish

It's become pretty clear that it's time for me to close up shop. I've been feeling it for awhile but didn't want to pull the plug until I understood why. Well, I just figured out why.

I'm sure you're relieved to learn it's not you, it's me.

Believe it or not, this month marks five years since Mr. B and I made our re-acquaintance. This blog turned out to be a chronicle of those five years. Sad to say, that chapter of my life is over, along with the need to write about it. No idea where I'm headed, but I've found I've already left "here" behind.

Thanks for your patronage. Thanks for the virtual shoulder(s) to lean on. It's been quite a ride.
 

Fifty-seven

Happy Birthday, Mr. B. If you were here, I would make you a cake. Miss you.
 

Thankful

I know, I'm late to the Annual Thanksgiving Blessing Count. It's taken some considerable pondering and navel-gazing, but I realized that, believe it or not, I am most thankful for each and every Fucking Growth Opportunity that has come my way, as miserable as they have been.

Sounds crazy, no? But since I am still (relatively) sane, I can only assume I am stronger. As I stand here (well, sit here on the couch) staring down my 52nd birthday in a few weeks, I feel like I am doing OK. Damned OK, in fact. Probably better than I can ever remember... doing. Or being. Or whatever.

Now, that being said, I want to make it perfectly clear, Universe, that as grateful as I am for the opportunities I've had to grow and evolve and all that shit, I am NOT volunteering for any more missions in the near future. I'd really like to take 2012 off. Maybe give someone else the opportunity to buff up their karma. My Angel of Death and Mercy outfit is packed away in the bottom of the storage unit and I really don't want to have to go dig it out.

If there's a form or something I need to fill out to make that official, send me a link, OK? You obviously know how to reach me.
 

Just say no

Not buying what they're selling: What a concept, especially this time of year.

WTF am I talking about? I am talking about not blowing all the money we don't have in the next thirty days.

Confused? Leo sums up (much better than I ever could) the perfectly logical reasons for doing so... or, would that be not doing so?

Click below to read the rest of this radical and (hopefully) sanity-inducing post.



I'm in. And you? What do you think? Deep inside, is shopping your true "reason for the season?"

Hmmm?
 

This is the week that was

I do love someecards.com. Somehow they always know exactly what's on my mind.
 

Three bucks the hard way

Today, Lovely Daughter and I visited a large national financial institution I will call BoA to close a joint account we had opened a decade prior when she left for college. Since then, I have come to hate BoA, mostly because of the user-hostile policies that have netted them obscene amounts of dollars from this modest account through overdraft fees alone.

As we waited outside for the branch to open (at TEN O'CLOCK!) we joked that they will probably have to lay off several people once they realize this account is closed.

The door finally opened and we walked over to the counter to state our request. That simple act launched the most blatant and fascinating display of ass-kissing I have ever seen. Not only did the customer service rep act like everything LD said was the most fascinating thing he had ever heard (maybe it was?) but before he would hand her the magic slip that would allow her to withdraw her meager funds, he called over his supervisor to grill her, in a most friendly and concerned manner, about her hopes and dreams and goals.

Really?

Suddenly, after ten years of indifferent treatment and can't-win policies, BoA was now her Best Friend Ever! They Cared About Her and Her Life! It was a frightening yet wondrous thing to witness.

Those folks worked their asses off in a desperate attempt to keep her two-dollar-and-ninety-two-cent account. And they made sure we sat through their entire spiel, waiting for us to relent to shut them the fuck up.

But they lost. Eat shit and die, BoA. And I mean that in the nicest possible way.
 

Vogue

I could take a photo of her every day and they would all be hilarious.

What's going on in that brain, as she lays there and stares (and drools) for hours? Crickets chirping in the dark? The sound of howling winds racing across the empty plains?

Yeah. Gotta be something like that.
 

Diversions

How did I spend last night? Why, creating a WinXP virtual machine on my Macbook, watching Eureka, eating Kit Kats, and knitting, of course. Wasn't everyone?

No wonder I'm single. It's just easier that way.
 

Home again

In early September I moved the blog to Tumblr. I was certain the new and exciting Tumblr format would magically dissolve all my blogging blocks, much like each new and exciting Swiffer product will magically make me want to clean my house.

Yeah. It worked just about as well. Surprised?

So I'm back in my old, familiar Blogger home. I've moved most of the Tumblr posts (9/2 - 10/13) over here so you don't have to worry for a moment that you might have missed something, uh, interesting. I also turned comments back on. (I'm hoping the Mumbai escort services have forgotten about me.)

Unfortunately, my last Tumblr post still holds true, so here it is, slightly modified to fit the current venue:

I was afraid this would happen. I’ve hit the wall. I knew I had wa-a-ay too much energy after I got back from Boston, and I knew I would have to pay for that. And paying, I am.

I’m going to crawl into my burrow for awhile and, um, groom myself or something. Forecasts say it’ll be awhile before I am able to cough up anything new… aside from a random Facebook status update.

So keep the tender bits down and I’ll catch ya... eventually. I always do come back, eventually.

p.s. Oh, and you can breathe now. The rumbling from my Oct. 3rd post turned out to be just gas. I do still like the connection between blogging and IBS, though.
 

Star Trek Universe

Watching the first episode of Star Trek: Deep Space 9 from 1993. Just realized that the computer pads everyone is carrying look suspiciously like color Kindles.

Hmm…
 

She's gonna blow

I've decided that blogging is like having irritable bowel syndrome. Some posts are like explosive diarrhea: the pressure builds quickly until the moment you realize the shit is going to come out, ready or not, and it’s gonna have to go somewhere, regardless of quality.

Other posts start off normally enough, but something happens and the process s-l-o-w-s w-a-a-a-y d-o-w-n, causing it to gain mass and lose momentum until it culminates in a catastrophic event where the hard, dry, dense-as-a-collapsed-star turd must be birthed, even though you know it’s too big and will tear you asunder, or you will die.

We’ve known each other long enough that I feel comfortable sharing that there is blog post with the mass of a cantaloupe working its way through the pipes. No idea when it’s going to arrive, but you might want to don some protective gear.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
 

You may feel some discomfort

You’re going to want to eat as soon as possible, before it gets too sore.

— The orthodontist tech, after outfitting me with new wires approximately the diameter and flexibility of pencil lead.

The crypt-keeper

Lovely Daughter and I saw Freaky Friday the other day. As I watched the teen cavort and whine and snarl and generally act out in the mother’s body, I was somewhat mortified to realize that I act like that all the time. Being reminded that I resemble Jamie Lee Curtis didn’t exactly help my attempts at denial.

Who knew that anything featuring LiLo could be the source of such self-doubt?
 

Corn

Corn scares me. I like it to eat, but not to hang around in.

— Lovely Daughter, watching Harry and Ginny battle Helena Bonham Carter outside the Weasley mansion.

Today, I learned...

...that if you’re not looking, a chocolate glazed stick donut tastes just like its paler cousin. Comes in handy if they’re out of glazed stick donuts at 10pm. Which they usually are.
 

Lovely Daughter's big evening

With Bob the IV pole as chaperone, we casually strolled to the end of the ward, through the double doors, and over to the elevators. We scanned to be sure no one was watching, then punched the down button. When the door opened, we scooted inside, dragging Bob behind us. Rode down to the lobby, peeked out the door, then rode back up and strolled nonchalantly back to her room. We felt very wicked! Bob best keep his big yap shut, the snitch.
 

Reality bites

Is there anything sadder than sticking your hand in the bag only to find you’ve already eaten the last glazed munchkin?

I think not.

Tomato, tomato...

I say chili-mac, hospital cafeteria says American chop suey. I’m sure it will make an adequate turd either way.

Hard lessons learned the hard way from the School of Hard Knocks

This is a toughie. I reallyreallyreeeeally want to write about what’s been going on around here, and a couple of years ago I would have freely laid the whole thing out, whether you wanted to read about it or not, but I’ve got this notion bumping around in my skull that it might not be my story to tell.

That sucks because things to write about are hard to come by, you know?

But I do think that I can at least share my experiences, if I can find a way to do it without crossing some invisible boundary and violating privacy, blah, blah, blah.

So for the past five days I have been spending most of my time in a hospital room 2500 miles from home with my sick girl. There are actually two illnesses going on simultaneously, and progress has been see-sawing between the two. She’s been here over a week now, and still can’t have ANYTHING by mouth, not even ice chips. She was having ice chips last week and even graduated to the broth-and-jello diet for a couple of days until her body pitched a fit. So now it’s back to bag after bag of saline, and in between medication naps, begging me for "just one little ice chip..."

It really blows, but at least she’s no longer demanding to go outside for a cigarette. And she no longer believes she’s been kidnapped for medical experiments.

On another topic that may or may not be related in any way to what’s going on out here, I bought a bookto keep me from chewing the armrests of the plane seats on my trip out. It has turned out to be extremely educational and I firmly believe that anyone who drinks alcohol, might drink alcohol, or finds themselves furrowing their brows over someone’s relationship to alcohol (incl. their own) should read this book immediately. It’s that important. Especially if there’s a chance people with whom you share genetic material have/had issues in that general area.

Also, on another topic that may or may not be related in any way to previous topics in this post, did you know that what killed Amy Winehouse might have been alcohol withdrawal? Yes, stopping cold turkey without medical supervision can KILL your ass. Seizures, tachycardia, severe low blood pressure, hallucinations… it is terrifying stuff. Trust me on this one.

And, with alcohol consumption, can come other diseases to complicate things, like say, as a random example, acute pancreatitis. Another thing you do NOT want to fuck with. And you do not have to be a falling-in-the-gutter wino for decades to get these sorts diseases. The twenty-ton anvil can smear you to the pavement at any time. All it takes is for your body to get sick and tired of your shit, and that is unique to each individual.

So get educated and be safe out there, kids-of all-ages. Better to know the facts and not need them, than to worry for years, rationalize things based on severely outdated biases and data, expect people to exert control over behaviors they stand no chance of controlling, then get that phone call out of the blue.
 

Travel Essentials

The perfect travel evening. BTW, donut calories don’t count if you eat them in your jammies in a hotel bed. If you’re watching Miss Congeniality, you actually burn calories.

(I’m saving Hancock for later)
;)