Damn-it! Just when I thought I had everything figured out with my wine diet things have begun to go terribly-terribly wrong.
I have always been allergic to sulfa. Generally this only poses a problem when being prescribed anti-malaria drugs and when drinking. I mean not when drinking water just when derrrinkin’. It seems sulfa is used in the bottling process of alcohol. At least that is what I have been told.
Usually when I have a reaction I just get really oddly pressure sensitive redness on my face. So if I brush my face with my hand or something I get a fiery-burning line of red on anywhere I touched. Yeah it’s weird. I often have odd streaks across my forehead while I try to be cool and mingle with a martini, which causes people to stare at me blankly. Then I get too busy staring at them staring at me and I forget what I am talking about and start to babble about my cats’ pooping habits or something. It is not pretty any way you look at it.
My husband calls my face technicolor. It reminds him of those hypercolor t-shirts from the 1990’s that changed colors with body heat. The ones my sister and I used our own hands on ourselves to make it look like when had been child molested.
Anyway I digress, you might wonder why someone with this reaction would choose a wine diet. To which my answer would be that I don’t let that allergy shit bring be down, I power through!
Until last night.
Ugh! It is all fun and games until your diet decides to try to kill you. I guess this means red wine and I are no longer friends. That will be my excuse next time my doctor chastises me for my weight… I wouldn’t be so damn fat if red wine hadn’t tried to kill me, you jerk!
I am totally winning at this life thing. I have recently discovered a paradigm shifting new nutritional regime. Ladies and gentlemen I give you: The Wine Diet.
It turns out that instead of snacking on bits of yum-yums such as candies and chips you can just get mildly trashed on wine every night. Evidently wine makes me forget to eat mostly because I am a bit dizzy and navigating to the pantry is too hard. This may be the key to a new dress size!
Plus the cats seem to approve, so you know all is well. Bottoms Up!
It turns out the best way to keep your house ultra clean and become a veritable domestic goddess is to start a blog. I even like writing. I really do, but it is freaking hard. In fact aside from exercise and taxes it is the hardest thing that I force myself to do on a quasi regular basis.
Lucky for me though it turns out I am a masterful procrastinator. My house is cleaner than it has been in weeks, and my husband is better fed than he has been since school started. I have even vacuumed the baseboards people, BASEBOARDS!
I finally ran out of laundry to do today, so ah here I am. Who knew that I would inadvertently solve all of my domestic woes just by blogging. #lickmyfloors #procrastinationpro
My cat Lucy has saggy boobs.
I figure when my boobs finally sag more than hers I will know it is time for a lift. Seems like reasonable measure to me.
How many times have you had a banana that is just too cold? Or perhaps you unfold that brown paper lunch sack only to find a mangled bruised banana mess looking up at you forlornly. You may just wish your nana were a little more stylish with its clothing choices. Or maybe you have a bit of a fruit fetish.
Well fear not for no matter your nana problems I have the solution. I have recently learned to knit…the banana cozy.
Fixing your problems, one banana at a time. You’re welcome world.
As a teacher a hear A LOT of excuses. So many of them I hear year after year, day after day. My mom didn’t do my homework. My mom lost my homework. I didn’t know we had homework. What is this homework of which you speak? My mom did my homework, but then she lost it. My homework was in my bag but now it is lost.
Sometimes I get fun excuses about why kids don’t come to school as well. My alarm didn’t go off. My mom’s alarm didn’t go off. I do not even know what an alarm is. Dad took me to see Star Wars and then pumped me full of sugar. My baby sister kept me up last night so my mom let me sleep in. My mom is not a morning person. School starts too early. I was up late last night while my mom picked the lice out of my hair.
Today I heard a new one though. One of my student’s siblings came to relay a message to me on the whereabouts of her brother:
Dennis was diarrhea yesterday so he is not at school today.
It is true that this particular kid can be a little shit, but alas I am pretty sure he hasn’t turned into a liquid pile of pooh. Now you may be thinking how adorable that a younger sibling would try to fill me in on the situation. Unfortunately though, this sibling is three years older than my student. Yeah! THREE YEARS!
I fear for our future.
Recently I have made an effort to be less furry. You see, it is winter and during the cold season I have the habit of letting my leg hair grow until it turns into luscious leg beards. A friend recently pointed out that my sasquatchian habit makes for some unfortunate wardrobe limitations as no one wants to see that kind of leg-stash peeking out from under a long skirt.
So I have begun to make a concerted effort to tame by leg hair by shaving more than once a month or two. It’s a sacrifice, but well what’s a girl to do.
However all this extra shaving has introduced me to some sort of razor voodoo that I find terribly confounding. You see the more dull that damn razor gets from mowing down my leg hair the more it cuts me. What is this shit! That is not the way the world is supposed to work. Sharp things cut people, not dull things.
Which is why I now believe that the people in the razor industry are clearly voodoo practitioners that have hexed their product to cut when dull so that I will have to haul my nicked up legs to the store to by some expensive ass razor refills. I call bullshit razor industry, bullshit!!
When I was just a little baby my mother noticed that my eyeballs were a little…off. It seemed that one of my pupils was much more dilated than the other. Fearing brain damage she rushed me to the pediatrician only to be forced to assure him that no, indeed she had not dropped me.
It seems instead of an angel kiss I had a birth defect called anisocoria, which causes my pupils to dilate unevenly. Luckily this is merely a cosmetic defect as it does not affect my vision, and besides I was even able to have a little fun with it. As I got older my sister and I lovingly termed my condition, “kicked in the head disease,” as it did give the impression of a recent trauma. I also discovered the joy of screwing with new doctors whom upon meeting me would ask if I had suffered a recent head injury. To which I would occasionally respond, “Like when I closed my head in the car door?” while letting a bit of drool fall from the corner of my mouth. Eventually I even learned to judge a doctor’s qualifications based on how quickly they asked me if I was brain damaged.
I felt pretty alone in this world with my defect until I discovered David Bowie! Ahhhh, I had found my eyeball twin at last! It seems when David was a wee British lad he did suffer a head trauma in a row with some of his mates. (Using British words is fun!) Anyway, after he recovered from the incident one of his eyes was permanently more dilated than the other…anisocoria!
When I learned that he had died so many people were having such visceral reactions to his death. Posting about how much his art and music had meant to them and affected their lives. I agree he was one spectacular guy, but I will admit I was sad for quite a different reason. I had lost my eyeball twin. I even shed a few tears (most likely from my more dilated eyeball, as that is the more emotional eye based on what I learned watching Antonio Banderas as Puss in Boots).
So Mr. Bowie, where ever you are, I hope you are enjoying matching pupils in the after life.
In case they needed it, I have written a new advertising slogan for the ice cream industry:
Ice Cream, for when your day was shitty, but you have ingested entirely too many pain killers, anxiety meds, and antihistamines to drink alcohol.
You’re welcome ice cream manufacturers of the world.
You have the toughest job on earth.
Sometimes I like to think I have suffered in the line of duty as a teacher, like when last Friday I found myself under a cafeteria table desperately tugging at the damp shoelace of a seven year old that had gotten stuck between the metal of a table leg. After much frustration and some mental cursing I managed to free the little guy, yes I had won that battle.
All was well and I was feeling rather like a winner until later when I ran my fingers through my hair. And they snagged. On goo. Dried goo. Goo that had congealed into a massive rat’s nest of miscellaneous cafeteria floor fluids. Defeated I went home that night to actually follow the shampoo bottle directions as I washed, rinsed, and did indeed…repeat.
So not that it is a surprise, but let it be know that I could never do what you have all in the line of duty. You have raced into battle, guns blazing while never leaving a man behind. Some of you have even suffered the terrors of Prisoner of War Camps, surviving horrific torture.
I on the other hand nearly water-boarded myself in the bathtub today. I was merely trying to self-medicate myself for a tension headache caused by a few rowdy students by taking a hot bath. As I soaked I placed a damp rag over my face to block out the light and steep. Perhaps I should have paid more attention to the actual dampness level of the towel. I soon realized that it was well beyond damp when I began to choke and sputter as I breathed in bath water. It sort of ruins the relaxation process when you inhale your people-tea bathtub water.
Anyway, thank you Veterans for being tougher than me, and providing us the freedom to get coated in cafeteria goo and water-board ourselves.