I Am So Qualified

Recently I have realized there are several jobs for which I would totally kick ass at:

1. Ice Cream Taster (I never get brain freeze.  Perhaps I just have an exceptionally warm mouth…or I may be lacking a brain.  The jury is still out.)

2. Kitten Snuggler

3. Sloth Race Winner (That’s a race with all sloths…except for me…and I would totally win.)

4. Sofa Tester

5. Massage Therapy Test Dummy (People could rub my back all day long, you know, for practice.)

6. Cheese Maker

7. Movie and Television Critic

8. Professional Napper (I would get paid to take naps for people who don’t have time to take their own naps.)

9. Plastic Peeler (I will come to your house and peel that amazingly thin layer of plastic off all your new electronics.)

10. Palace and Castle Squatter (Have a palace, or a castle?  Need someone to live in it for you?  I’m your girl!)

I’m writing up my new resume now.

My Feet are Warm

I have had a new writing buddy for the last few weeks.  His name is George and he has been visiting while my parents are on vacation.  George is an little elderly man, but boy does he make a great foot warmer!  I’m telling you he is better than lamb’s wool lined slippers.  Every morning when I sit down to write George has plopped himself down right under my desk and on top of my feet.  He is so damn toasty and fluffy!  It’s spectacular.  Every writer should have one of these dogs!

I know it is hard to see from this picture, but I promise he has a head.

See here it is.

Unfortunately the interloper seems to have annoyed my original writing buddy.  She finds everything about this situation bothersome.

Unintended Adventures

Yesterday I went on an adventure and had a craniosacral therapy session.  I went thinking it was going to be a regular old “rub me down until I am loose like cooked spaghetti” massage.  It was not.  Apparently it is a kind of massage where the therapists manipulates the synarthrodial joints of the cranium.  This is supposed to flush your body of the toxins in your cerebrospinal fluid.  Now my pervious understanding was that all you had to do to flush the toxins was to sleep and your body would woosh away all the bio-trash.  According to the therapist that is true but stress and inflammation can cause your systems to struggle to do this on their own.  This was all news to me.   But ever the curious patient I let her have a go and treat me.

Instead of rubbing down my muscles Swedish style, the therapist moved my head about and pressed her fingers around on my face.  It was not unlike what you see blind people do when meeting a new person in the movies.  Then she fussed with my lower back.  At one point she was cradling me on the table like a giant baby with one hand under my head and the other positioned precariously under my bum-ish area.  I managed to stifle my laughter at the bizarreness of it all and surprisingly the session did seem to clear my sinuses.  And to be totally honest I felt a little taller when I stood up at the end.

Then when I got home I looked craniosacral therapy up on Wikipedia.  It unfortunately falls into the category of pseudo-medicine and its benefits are labeled as placebo.  Oops!  It was relaxing, but I think I prefer plain old massage to having my cerebrospinal fluid cleared.  Live and learn…live and learn.

My Shame

The Great De-Clutter of 2017 is not off to such a “great” start.  It turns out purging is much harder than I was first led to believe.  Today I tackled the cabinets under the kitchen sink. 

For god’s sake it should have been easy.  We are talking keep the Windex, toss the rusted over can of Pledge kind of easy.  One would think these decisions would have been straight forward.  They weren’t.

I never knew it was possible to spend longer than five minuted pondering the fate of two Brita filters. 

We don’t even use the Brita anymore!  The problem is I want to keep the Brita jug because it makes a good lemonade container in the summer.  So it seems like if I keep the jug I should naturally hold onto those filters.  Even though we don’t use it to filter water, those damn filters were expensive, and since I still have the jug it only makes sense to keep them.  Besides if there is ever a zombie apocalypse and we need to have clean drinking water I am going to be really pissed if in the midst of a de-clutter frenzy I tossed those damn filters.

So I am keeping the filters.  I suck at decluttering!

Things rapidly got worse though.  Turns out I am a total hoarder.  Don’t believe me?  Look at this…

Yeah, that’s right.  It must clearly own two houses except I don’t.  At least this proves I am brand loyal.

And then I made my most shameful discovery…

I have a Resolve problem.  Dear god looking at this you would think I own an incontinent zoo.  I do have two spiteful cats, and yes when my husband moved in they expressed their distaste for their new roommate by crapping on the carpet, but those accidents surely do not necessitate FIVE bottles of carpet cleaner!

After a bit of organization and tossing here are my results.

It looks pretty, and on the plus side it seems I will not have to buy any more cleaning products for the next ten years or so.

Shirley Jackson

Can we just all agree that Shirley Jackson was a fucking genius and hero for all woman kind?  I just finished reading another one of her books, Life Among the Savages, and yet again I find myself cowering beneath her brilliance.

Her prose flows so effortlessly I was done in a day, and left wishing for more.  As if that weren’t enough, her memoir is honest.   She wasn’t afraid to admit her vulnerabilities and show the world the realities of homemaking.  Shirley doesn’t omit her failures, instead she rubs them in your face as she makes fun of them herself.  She was unapologetic and blatant as she recounted the funny and sometimes awful moments of motherhood.  Shirley wrote more bravely than I can ever hope to live.

To top it off this woman was born in freaking 1916!!!  There was no women’s lib…there were not even votes for women!  Yet Shirley managed to raise FOUR children, which is a feat I cannot begin to fathom, but to also write 12 books and a bunch of other short stories.  And it’s not like she waited until retirement; she died at 48.  All this to say, Shirley Jackson is a god-damned national treasure.  Go buy all her books now!

The Great De-Clutter of 2017

Holy cow y’all.  A tornado must have hit my house while I was asleep last night.  That or maybe our house elves had themselves a destructive magical duel.  I don’t know what happened, but there is crap everywhere I look and I am positive little old me could not possibly be the cause.

No matter who created our house of horrors, I suppose it falls on me to fix it.  Ohh, the life of a woman.  So today I have commenced, The Great De-Clutter of 2017.

Painful as it may become I am determined to rid our home of all unnecessary things.  I downloaded myself a nifty de-clutter calendar and, watch out world, I am tossing stuff at every turn.

I’ll take a few photos along the way.  Fair warning, I suspect a few of them may be of my husband crying in the corner as I trash 20 years worth of gaming and car magazines.

Wish me luck!

No One Is Safe Here

My husband has had a cold for three days, and I think I am going to die.  I am trying to be patient, but he doesn’t even look sick.  I haven’t heard a sniffle or a cough.  Instead I just hear whining about how awful he feels.  I frequently walk into a room to find him wrapped like a granny in blankets laying listlessly in the fetal position staring at a flashing television screen.  It’s pitiful.

Perhaps I would have more patience for him were I not on day 42 of a never ending period.  Yup, it seems my uterus has thrown in the towel, said “fuck it”, and decided on her own accord to shrivel up and die.

To combat my offending lady bits I have been on massive doses of estrogen that the doctor hoped would fix the problem.  Unfortunately all the hormone seems to have done is made my boobs feel like open flesh-wounds, cause unrelenting nausea, and washed away any inkling of patience I once possessed.  So basically I am a grumpy, bleeding, bitch.

This does not bode well for a sick husband.

Cat’s Out of the Bag

My cat hates me for saving her life.  I give up.  I was just trying to get her out of the plastic bag she had crawled halfway inside.  Like any good parent these days, I did take a picture of her predicament first before stopping to render aid. 

Stupid me figured dying of asphyxiation wasn’t on her kitty-cat to do list for the day.  Instead of a thank you purr or nuzzle I got hissed and swatted at.  You’re welcome cat.  Don’t let her innocent furry face fool you…she’s pure evil.

Cake Spasm

I already like 2017 better because my short ass fingers can type it easier on the keyboard because the 7 is like a whole space closer to the right than the 6 was.  Yet another reason 2016 can die in a fire.

In other news, last night I was plagued by a cake frosting related injury.  At least I am pretty sure that was the cause.  After a day flinging the frosting I came home and became paralyzed.  Ryan says I don’t understand what that word means, but I am pretty sure I am using it correctly.  My entire upper right side was stiff and painfully reminded me it did not want to move.  It even hurt to lay on a pillow for god’s sake!  My neck, shoulders, and right arm seemed to be revolting to my new bakery life.  I had a stern inner monologue with them and explained the need to chill out and get used to the extra usage.  I think it worked.  Sometimes you just have to show your own body who’s boss.

I over dosed a little on over the counter pain killers and I am happy to report this morning I can turn my head to the right without screaming. That’s progress!  For those of you wondering, yes, I maintain my stance on bakery life—Still better than teaching!!!

Coach-Life Hacks

Today I wanted to write about how I am beginning 2017 with a fresh start.  I am doing a foot peel!  Then I realized two things.

1. It is really fucking impossible to take a picture of the bottom of your own foot and

2. NO ONE wants to see pictures of my feet anyway.

So I scrapped that idea and now I am going to instead discuss my new discovery during our vacation last month to Germany.  I was MIA in December for so many, many reasons   One of which was that my husband and I flew to Frankfurt and took a rental car to a bunch off quaint little German towns along the way to Munich.  It was painfully adorable.  We are talking little marzipan elves, festive Christmas markets, abundant Christmas lights, and copious amounts of sausage just to round things out.  Apparently Germans really freaking love Christmas.

The trip was great and all but what I really want to discuss is my plane related discovery.  I had a life changing moment on the flight.  Life. Changing. I have travelled all around the world crammed into a middle seat in coach spending hundreds of hours doing my best impression of a sardine while trying to stay dehydrated so I didn’t have to bother anyone to let me get up to pee.

Along the way I also discovered the dangers of wearing lacy panties when you are sitting on your ass for 11 hours trying not to move.  Horrendous pain erupted from my ass-al region as all my butt fat tried in vain to escape from the tiny holes in the lace.  Dear god it was awful, my lady buns had lace pressure tattoos for a week.  I’d complain more, but I realize how shittily entitled that would make me sound since frankly I should just be happy I have gotten to travel as much as I have.

Anyway, on this trip I experienced a coach class paradigm shift of epic proportions.  I discovered the poor man’s first class.  It still maintains the shitty food and crap service but look at this leg room….

And bonus it was a two seater so I got the window and hus-buns got the aisle.  In a word it was heaven!  I have never been so comfortable in all my flying hours.

Double bonus for me…I managed to put a picture of my feet in this post after all!  Maniacal laughter shall ensue on my part shortly.