Sunday, April 12, 2009

Dog Bed

Oh my bed. My bed so desperately wants to be my place of solace. Every now and then it manages that distinction, like last Saturday when I spent the day underneath the covers watching movies and playing on the internets. For the most part, however, my bed is a fairly gross place that no one wants to visit.

I originally purchased my bed to be this wonderful haven. I was so super excited to pick out the fancy bed from IKEA, one with a headboard, of course, then head down the hall to test out mattresses. I got the cutest sheet and comforter set, all Moroccan-inspired like the rest of my room d├ęcor intended to be. After many laborious attempts to put the damned thing together, and much assistance from Susanna, my cheap version of a craft-o-matic adjustable bed was finally done. And for a while, it was my sanctuary.

Then Ginger came.

I held my ground for a long time on the dog-in-bed situation, until Russell came along and guilted me into letting her sleep with us. It was over after that. Now, my bed is a pit of despair, covered in mud and hair. Gross? Yeah, I totally know. Don’t judge me.

The dogs always come first in my world. Even in my bed. I go to sleep every night, taking up less than 1/3 of my bed, with one dog on top of me, one dog in between my knees, and one dog next to my foot. My appreciation for beds in other establishments has grown exponentially, and nights that I get to stay at the Omni or Intercontinental (best beds in the world) or even when I crash with friends who snore a lot, I relish their comfy, clean, dog-free zones.

Hmm. Reminds me. I need to get the sheets in the wash.

Saturday, April 11, 2009


So yesterday was my first day to not write about the 30DOW topic, and I am totally bummed about that. So, rather than throw something down, I am going to get back to it when I have time.

However, I did do some other writing: 12 horoscopes and a David Sedaris write-up, so I still met the writing criteria, so I'm gonna cut myself some slack on this one.

Friday, April 10, 2009

April 10, 2009 ROLB

(unfinished post)

Hmmm. Guilty pleasures, there’s really no better kind. I think the problem with the pleasures from which I partake, is that I have no guilt over them. Maybe I have transcended the plane of existence in which guilt and pleasure intermingle. Maybe I no longer fear a thrashing by the Bible belt (or maybe I would really enjoy it). Or maybe I just fully embrace one of my life’s most profound mottos: “I just don’t give a fuck.” Either way, you will find me hard-pressed to feel guilty about my Love of Lady Gaga, my aptitude for picking up strange men in a bar, or my willingness to laugh when someone hurts themselves. It doesn’t make me a bad person. Well, maybe a little…

So, the one thing that is closest to a guilty pleasure on my plate is VH1 Celebreality TV. Sure, many people can claim that Reality TV is their biggest guilty pleasure, but other than Fox, no one can take the cake on this genre the way VH1 does. The combination of washed-up child stars, drugged-out porn stars, and watered-down idiots who gained fame by wanting to date shriveled up members of the California Raisins all form the perfect storm of fucking train wreck television. And I find it masterful. Scrumtrulescent if you will.

There’s the herpes-infested contest for hair metal “hottie” Bret Michaels: Rock of Love and the follow-up Rock of Love Bus.

Thursday, April 9, 2009


OK, so I haven't much time tonight to write, but I have yet to miss a day, so you get a little bit. I am a little sad that I am lacking time with such a great topic. I will definitely be going back to this one..

So, I am in the car, trying to think about some good words. I like the word 'smeg' as a scifi curse word. More like an insult. Like smog and egg together. Like "you're such smeg." But then I started thinking that I was pretty sure that there was already the word 'smegma.' So, I looked it up. And, um, ew. Am I stupid for not knowing what this was? Probably. Whatever.

p.s. that link is NSFW

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

Nerds will no Longer Live Long and Prosper

Austin, Tx-Leonard Nimoy, famous for playing Mr. Spock on the Star Trek television series and in the subsequent movies of the same name, is now famous not only for his acting work, but for a medical condition. After 43 years of constantly flashing the famous “Live long and prosper” hand sign for cameras and fans, Nimoy has developed digit-specific arthritis, with symptoms and treatment different enough from other types of arthritis that the condition has warranted its own name. He won’t die from it, but his Nimoynian arthritis will have major repercussions in his everyday life.

Nimoy recently appeared in Austin, Tx for a surprise appearance and screening of the new version of Star Trek, where he reprises his famous role. After sharing an evening with shocked and elated fans, and throwing a few of the standard nerd gang signs, Nimoy headed to a late dinner with his hosts. At dinner, he noticed that his hand was a bit shaky and that he didn’t have as much control of it as usual. The next morning, after flying home to California, he went to see his personal physician, Dr. Leonard ‘Bones’ McCoy. After many expensive tests, lots of poking and prodding, and consultations with other top physicians, McCoy had to reveal the bad news that his patient would have to find some other way to convey the universal phrase of peace and geekiness.

Nimoy’s former co-star and close, personal friend William Shatner came to be by his side while going through all of the procedures. Shatner was outraged at the prognosis that his friend would never be able to manipulate his hand to the famous crab-like symbol, and could not believe that his doctors could not do anything with plastic surgery to repair his condition. His outburst elicited Dr. McCoy’s retort, “Damnit, Bill, I’m a doctor, not a…oh, wait, I should totally be able to fix this.”

After undergoing treatments with steroids and other medications, Nimoy will face extensive physical therapy just to be able to utilize his right hand for daily tasks that require more localized use of his fingers, like buttoning shirts and handling writing implements. He can, however, look forward to the fact that he continues to receive a lifetime supply of Aleve, the arthritis pain medication after doing a commercial for them in 2006.

Nimoy’s current predecessor, Zachary Quinto, doesn’t seem too concerned about developing Nimoynian arthritis because “I do this other thing with my fingers in my role as Sylar on Heroes. I figure if I just make sure to not keep my fingers doing the same thing over and over again, and, you know, changing it up, I should be ok. If anything, I was worried about developing a little of the Sylaritis, if you know what I mean!” Quinto said.

Nimoy will be spending time healing with his family, and watching the finale of Fringe on May 12, where he will be playing a key character.

Sidebar: Among Mr. Nimoy’s crowning achievements in life, he lists making some babies, being an awesome Jew, donating the maximum amount allowable to Obama’s campaign, and sharing the birthday of March 26 with the almighty and awesome Laurie Lyons.
(haha, I didn’t know that til I was looking at his imdb profile)

Writer’s note: so, I had the idea for this “story” after Nimoy’s recent visit to Austin. While it is a fucking hilarious idea, I am apparently not the only one to have it, as Aleve actually paid him for a similar idea in 2006. I did not find this out until I was finishing up the article. Thanks for ruining my fun, Wikipedia.

This video cracked my shit up! Somebody REALLY loves Spock.

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

To Crystal

As I am sitting here, about to write about the animals in my life, I have four of the most amazing four-legged creatures I have ever met, lounging around me. Maggie, my cat is curled up on the table, her own version of a throne, as she looks down upon the rest of us. My two pups, Kyoko and Penelope, the silliest, cutest, oddest little dogs you will probably ever meet are curled around my right side, excessive heat being exchanged between all of our bodies. And Ginger, possibly the sweetest dog in the world, is lying at my feet, and oop, she just got a little belly scratch action…

If you know me at all, it is not at all surprising that I share my house not only with a human roommate, but four companion animals whom I am fortunate enough to get to care for. These girls are my world. I often sit in traffic, super anxious to get home, just so that I can hug them all. Yeah, kinda lame, but whatever.

I care for my girls and give them all of my heart, most of my lap (and the rest of my body at bedtime), and as much of my time and money as I possibly can. I do it because I love them and they love me (I do not subscribe to the notion that animals do not feel emotions similar to ours. I’m not a fool-I read books). However, in all of the years that we have had family pets, including ferrets, birds, cats, dogs, hamster, guinea pigs, etc., I haven’t always been that great to them. I can blame it on the fact that I was young and didn’t really know better, but what it comes down to, in all honesty, is that I was lazy. I was lazy then and I am lazy still, but then my sloth often led to my sweet, sweet English Springer Spaniel, Crystal, not getting as much quality care from me as she deserved. I didn’t pay attention to her as much as I should have. I didn’t bring her inside when it got a little cold out like I should have. I flat out did not treat her like such a special dog deserved. I often remember her and feel tremendous guilt about that.

I can never make any of that up to her. I can never make it up to the roosters that I amusingly and ignorantly watched fight to the death in the dusty sheds of South Louisiana. I can never give the lives back to all of the animals that I ate before 1998. All I can do is remember the harm that I caused or contributed to and do my very best to make sure that I never make those mistakes again.

I wish I had a picture of Crystal to put here. I think I have an actual photo somewhere, but no scanner. Instead you get pics of my girls now.

The little ones aren't actually demons, they just appear that way in this picture.

My pretty, pretty princess

Monday, April 6, 2009


Poisoned on a Bus

Fake nails, fake tits, short skirts, and weaves
Two skanks left
Which will he choose?


Five fingered assassin
Cut through your former brethren
Your cub awaits

Damnit, this totally doesn’t fit the “less than 17 syllables” but I am posting it anyway

Saul Tigh-my BSG Counterpart

It’s not the eye of the tiger you lack
Just the eye of a man
Drunken robot, eternal Adama fan

Sunday, April 5, 2009

The Plight of the Half-Gray/Half-Red Strand of Hair

disclaimer: this is off topic and not intended to be anything near good work. it is just some therapy that i needed right now.

I’ve always had a weird fascination with plucking gray hairs from their homes atop an aging head. I did it to my mother when I was younger, before she got smart and starting getting help from a box. She would always point to one and say “that’s from the time that you did such and such” (at this point I could fill in the blanks with so many options from the time she caught my boyfriend camping out in my closet to the time I got caught shoplifting). We would always laugh, her blaming her stress and aging on me, both of us knowing that her attempts to raise me alone were only part of the reason she was going gray.

I remember the day I got my first gray hair. Or at least the first day I noticed it. I was sitting on a bench outside, when my boss pointed one out. I immediately screamed and ran inside. Yep. There it was, attempting to hide amongst the sea of darkness to which it used to belong. I immediately yanked it from my head. It could hide at the bottom of the trashcan. I was only 22.

The women in my family are very lucky that we age very well. If you looked at my mom, you wouldn’t guess that she is 57. Our sprits probably play a decent role in this, but our genes definitely play an even bigger role. Our hair, however, tends to betray us in that area. Luckily, this is an inexpensive fix. I didn’t start dying my hair as a fix to me getting a few grays, but now I know that I can never stop dying my hair. Luckily, my best friend is a hair stylist.

I feel sorry for them, though. As I was standing in the mirror, tweezers in hand just a few minutes ago, I was staring at the tiny shaft in my grasp, and it told me a story. A sad story. The last time that I had my hair colored was a few weeks ago. My hair grows pretty quickly, and this piece of hair was half-gray and half-red. This tiny, dead piece of me reminded me of another dead piece of me. It reminded me of the night a few weeks ago and the unhappy events that occurred then, and following that night. Of the loss of something that I treasured and can never get back. It reminded me that just as my hair was losing the pigment that made it who it once was, I also lost something that made me who I once was.

I realized that part of the reason that I have been so down lately is that there are quite a few things changing in my life, one affecting the other, creating layers too thick for me to find their true center. They’ve all smashed into each other so much that I can’t figure out where the root of it all lies, but I have a good idea. But knowing the why and the where doesn’t really help. I can’t color over the problem with a simple dye job.

Saturday, April 4, 2009


I began to stir as the sunlight streamed through the slits in the curtains. ‘Good,’ I thought to myself. ‘If I am waking up before the alarm, that means I get to go back to sleep.’ I stretched my arm out across the bed to grab the clock, and noticed that it wasn’t there.

‘Huh. That’s a little weird.’

There wasn’t enough light coming in through the heavy curtains to be able to do any real detective work regarding my most needed but most hated nemesis, so I got up to turn on the light. A blast of cold air hit me as I pulled back the covers, and I wondered why the heater hadn’t kicked in. I shuffled across the cold floor, my hands rummaging through the air and along the walls in search of a light switch. They found nothing but more air and bumpy wall patterns, and I quickly began to feel a welling of fear and frustration inside me. I felt like I was in a cave, cold, lumpy, dark. I finally summoned my courage and moved my way across the room toward the small shaft of light peeking from behind the curtain. I quickly threw the piece of material to the side, and what I saw horrified me.

As my eyes adjusted to the penetrating light, I saw…nothing. Nothing that seemed familiar, nothing that told me that this was my home, that this was where I belonged. It was almost like waking up in bed with a stranger after a long night of binge drinking, but way, way scarier. I looked around for something that seemed like it was part of my life, but the rickety desk and half-empty ink well only mustered a vague remembrance that I was a writer. But those aren’t a writer’s tools. Those are archaic and uncomfortable. Where was my IKEA chair with lumbar support, my laptop with spellcheck?

Furthermore, where was my TV to tell me what the weather was going to be like today? My beloved cell phone so that I could send out a mass text to try to find out what the hell was going on? Hell, I would even settle for something as archaic as a land line right now!

I stumbled through the rest of the house, and found only the same confusing relics. Oil lamps. Wood stoves. Dried meats. (where the fuck were my veggie burgers?!?!)

I could only come to one conclusion.

In the feverish haze that helped me float off to sleep the night before, I had transitioned into a world of horrific nightmares. The only way that I could see to save myself was to climb back into bed. The plump down comforter was the only solace I could find in that entire house, and I realized that if this was not, in fact, an illness-induced nightmare, likely brought on by a double dosing of Tylenol PM, that I would rather just curl up and die under here.

Friday, April 3, 2009

My Dream House

My house. Is a very, very, very fine house. It doesn’t have much in common with most of the houses you see in the movies. Although, the one from Twilight is pretty awesome. The only thing my house has in common is that it is settled in somewhere that’s green. Though the rest of her house is pretty gaudy, Audrey got that part right.

My house is not a monster. It doesn’t have marble countertops and stained glass ceilings. It isn’t a picture of decadence. It is energy efficient and nestled in the middle of a lush forest that is just far enough off the beaten path, but still allows me access to the fast pace of a nearby city. I’m thinking California.

I have no particular plan as far as shape, size, or layout go. I just know that I have to have the following amenities:

-a very large theater room
-a garden tub and a magic shower; but, like the biggest garden tub ever built, in front of a bay window so that I can watch the sun rise from it
-plenty of guest bedrooms for when my friends come to visit
-a giant library, most definitely with those large, rolling ladders (I totally stole this from you JBee)
-a reading room that is more like an open-air garden; if it is nice outside, I want to be able to open the ceiling-if not I still want to be able to read surrounded by plants and nature
-a huge playroom for my cat and an even bigger playroom for my dogs
-a gym
-enormous, enormous closets
-a huge kitchen-but no marble countertops

OK, so maybe it’s bordering a but on monsterdom, but hey-it’s my dreamhouse-why skimp?

Thursday, April 2, 2009

Pain is not Gneiss

He sped up, pushing and pushing, wobbling as the two-wheeled machine intermittently became a three-wheeled machine, tottering between the bent training wheels. She chased after him, in the fastest way she possibly could. Her gait was more like that of the “zombies” in those silly English language movies that she avoided. There were no scenes of romance or drama in those types of movies, but she knew that her grandsons liked them, so she would occasionally rent them from the Blockbuster on the corner (it was only a 6 minute walk from her house).

Her feet were an outcropping hanging over the side of her chanclas like a West Texas igneous rock formation, craggy and dry. She could barely reach her own toes anymore, no matter how she attempted to contort her body, to try to make any effort at keeping them tidy. And the $40 that she would have to pay some Oriental lady at one of those shops was just not part of her monthly budget. Her disability check only came once a month, and there were so many other things that she had to do with it. So, she stuck with her weekly pedicure from her granddaughter who liked to paint her toes various shades of pink and red, but who could do absolutely nothing about the growth next to her big toe that only kept getting bigger.

She had so much more in common with those igneous rocks than just their resemblance to her feet. She, too, had gone through the tumults and processes in her life that made her blood boil, for both the good and the bad. She, too, had undergone outbursts, explosions, transformations. And now, it seemed, all of those things were gone. She had cooled to a point that life no longer flowed in her, out of her, or around her.

Don’t misunderstand. Those grandchildren of hers were everything in her world. She would do absolutely anything for them, but their lives weren’t hers. Their lives were just beginning. They were still full of the fire and passion and warmth that she longed to have inside her. But she had cooled. And she was a rock. She was their rock.

As she tried to quicken her pace, her robe came open a little, so that she could feel the heat of the passing bus float to the tops of her legs. She was just noticing this sensation when the horrible message travelled from her eyes to her (cerebellum). She saw it all happen right in front of her and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get there quickly enough to stop it. She watched as the cheap piece of aluminum attached to his bike bent, then buckled, because it just couldn’t hang on anymore. She watched as he tumbled, his body rolling onto the street and heard the horns from the cars begin to wail. She heard her own noises, mournful, shrieking, coming from her body in a way that she couldn’t control.

Her body took on a new life then. It remembered its old ways. What it was like to have fire, to have something ignite within. She changed then from a zombie to a superhero, pushing her body beyond any capacity it actually had as she swooped in to spirit him away before that car with the squealing breaks could touch him. She rolled onto the sidewalk with him in her arms, his face and hands scratched, but no broken bones, no split skulls, no pieces of him remaining behind. She held him and she rocked. And she rocked. And she rocked.

She looked down at herself through the muddy tears that had filled her eyes and she saw that she was bleeding. She had lost one of her flip flops in her heroic endeavor, and her sole had split open and bled, completely exposed. She couldn’t feel anything, though. Maybe the cut was just too deep and the location too old. Or maybe it was just because superheroes don’t feel pain.

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

April 1, 2009

Setting my intention...

The last time we did 30dow, my writing intention focused on making money. I still hope to do that now and in the future, but I realize that it can't be my sole pursuit.

So, my intention this time is to actually follow through with the point of this project and write every single day. I learned during SXSW that writing is not something that I have to do begrudgingly. I can get things written on a deadline, I can write them well, and I can enjoy them. So that is what I am going to do. I am going to see this as an opportunity and something fun to do. I am also going to get all of the topic posts written and posted ahead of time so that I don't let down the group and so that I don't end up resenting my duties.

Wish me luck!

(p.s. i tried to go to sleep after the internets ate my last attempt at this post, but damnit I had to get up and get it in!!)