Like a cat.

So, it's Friday. Which in my teeny-tiny world means it's time to clean the house. I don't do a fantastic job, but since neither the Gipester or I has ever actually had typhoid, I'm going to declare my housekeeping skills adequate.

I actually had a meeting this afternoon, so I wasn't actually planning on cleaning at all, but once I was dressed and ready for my meeting, I realized that I still had an hour or so before I even had to leave. So. I ran the dishwasher. Still had time. Wiped down counters in the kitchen. That took about 25 seconds, so I moved on to the bathroom. Wiped down counters and tub. I think, "The mirror needs Windexing." Is that a word? Hmmm? Doesn't matter. Still had time. "Fine," I think, "I'll clean the toilet." So, scrub, scrub. Clean. "Wow. The mirror is still really streaky... That's gonna drive me crazy."
So, I go get the Windex again. I had my reading glasses perched on the top of my head (headed to a meeting, remember?), a bottle of Windex in one hand and a paper towel in the other.

Now, in order to get to the top of the mirror over the sink, I have to get way up on my toes, which means my head tips back a little, just enough for my reading glasses to start slipping. We have ceramic tile in the bathroom, I really didn't want my glasses to fall off and break, so my knee-jerk reaction was to reach up to catch them. Guess which hand I used? Not the one with the soft paper towel. Nope. The one with the bottle of nasty chemical juice of death.

In my attempt to keep my glasses from breaking, I hit myself in the temple with the (surprisingly pointy) nozzle of the bottle. Then, because my brain was having a hard time processing what had happened, I turned my head sharply to the left to see what had hit me in the head and I sprayed myself in the eyes with Windex. And then my glasses fell off my head anyway.

I am effing AMAZING!!!

Happy Friday, chickens.

Wheee!

Today, my chickens, is May 1st. For any ancient Celts or NeoPagans in the crowd, it's also known as Beltane. Once upon a time, on Beltane, the ancient Celtic people would go out and start a big fire. And get wasted. And then have sex. This sounds like a holiday I can get behind. You throw in some marshmallow Peeps and I am totally down. Oh, and pie. I love pie.

Anyway, when Christianity wandered its way into the British Isles, much the way homeless people wander into the public library to use the bathroom, Beltane was discouraged and we ended up with May Day. You guys remember May Baskets, right? We made them in elementary school? Oh well, traditionally, May baskets are filled with candy and flowers and left on a neighbor's doorstep. If the neighbor catches you, kisses are exchanged. Oh yeah. Lots more fun than fire and hooking up...

So, in the spirit of the season, I am presenting you with a May basket full of the random crap that's taking up space in my brain pan. And since technically, you're catching me giving it to you, you can have a kiss. No tongue, though.

1. Wow. That was a huge lead-in. Sorry about that.
2. I listened to a couple argue for 45 minutes at the park yesterday. Guess what they were fighting about? Another woman? A missed birthday? Nope. She was giving him a huge ration of shit about how he never fights with her. Yup. A fight about how they never fight. These people need cable. I think her point was that she felt he was emotionally unengaged. But still. Yeesh.
3. It occurs to me from time to time that I don't know anyone's phone number anymore. You're all in my phone, but if I were to lose my phone and need to call someone, the only people I could reach would be my parents. And that's only because they've had the same phone number since I was 18 months old. If they move, I'm screwed.
4. Do any of you know a straight man who is over 35, has never been married, and isn't a complete sociopath? If so, send me his name. I have a bet running.
5. Why do boys constantly talk about boobs, I mean girls, no, never mind, I mean boobs, they've known before? I swear to Buddha, I've seen men get misty like they were talking about old Army buddies. I remember my college boyfriend named mine. I'm pretty sure he liked them better than he liked me. Weird.
6. Since were on the subject, I understand that boys like boobs. I'm a pretty big fan of them myself. I guess when I had them, I felt like I was part of the club, now that I'm an A-cup, I feel like I've had my girl card revoked. For the first time in my life I'm considering breast implants, just so I can fill out a halter top better than say...Orlando Bloom. How's that for an image? *shiver*

So, how was that for super awesome? I'd say more, but I spent most of the day painting a friend's basement and I think the fumes have disabled the section of my brain that allows me to focus, so I'll just say....oooh shiny!

Havin' trouble sleepin'

When I'm in bed, staring at the ceiling, counting the blades on the ceiling fan (one...two...three...four...five. Yup, still five. Same as last night), listening to the BF snore, and watching the clock as the night closes in around me, that's when I do all my deep thinking. Stuff like:
"Oh shit, I never took that orange out of my briefcase. It's been there for almost a month. Ewww. Take care of that tomorrow."

"Hmmm. I wonder if I should cook chicken tomorrow night? I'll have time to marinate it between work and my job interview, but I don't want to cook before I GO to the interview because I will 1. get chicken goo all over my interview clothes and 2. I don't want my stomach to make those weird Jabba-the-Hut digestive sounds while I sit in my interview."

"I wonder what happened to Michael? Actually, no. I don't really."

"How many calories are in a grape?"

"Argh. I left the sheets in the dryer. Fold those tomorrow."

"Will the fact that Hillary Clinton has done such a bad job running her campaign make it harder for qualified women to run for president in the future? Do Hillary's flaws undermine the feminist movement's desire for equality between the sexes by proving misogynistic toads correct about the inability of women to be organized, strong leaders? Or is she simply proving that male and female politicians can be dissembling bastards in equal measure, thereby bolstering the equality argument?"

"I love berry Lucky Charms. Love them. I could probably eat a whole box, a fistful at a time without thinking about it. Picking all of the marshmallows out and eating them in ROYGBIV order, of course."

"I wonder if I have OCD? I wonder if I have OCD? I wonder if I have OCD?" (Ha! I crack myself up.)

Anyway. I really do think all of this stuff. I think of these random products of my feeble brain as a fence that keeps the wolves at bay. I can hear them. In the dark, crying out with the voices I love the most. My mother, my father, my little brother, all cry to me of tragedies that might not ever come to pass. But might, all at the same time. They cry out with the voices of those who never loved me, and who number my sins and fears in perfect rhythm.

The wolves will howl, chickens. But they're quiet for now. So, I will return to my bed, curl up against the man I love, count the ceiling fan blades, and wait for the sun.

An open letter...

to the incredibly obnoxious woman who sat next to us at the movie last night,

You are a horrible person. Not like Hitler or Stalin awful. More like Paris Hilton, Lindsey Lohan, Paradise Hotel 2, awful.
I know I shouldn't judge. I should be a good progressive and try to figure out where you're coming from. There has to be a reason that a woman of your...impressive girth... looks at a pair of lycra leggings in Target and says, "Hell yes, I have to get a pair of those!"
Perhaps those leggings (which I'm pretty sure I heard weeping from the strain) cut off a huge part of the blood flow to your brain. Perhaps the part of your brain that is responsible for making good parenting decisions simply shut down to allow you to do things like walk, talk, feed yourself, and not soil yourself in mixed company.
Making fun of you is almost like making fun of the stupidest puppy in the litter. You know it's wrong to laugh, but there's something about the way the stupid little puppy periodically falls over on its side and seizes that is terribly, terribly giggle-worthy.
Seriously, though. What in the name of all that is holy (what is it that you worship, anyway, NASCAR perhaps? Nachos?) made you think that an R-rated horror movie was a good place for your two children? How old was the biggest one? Three? Maybe? Jesus wept, woman. Was Horton Hears a Who sold out, or are you just that goddamned selfish?
I have never believed that it does children any good to shield them from the pain and disappointment that comes from living in the everyday world. When a kid's goldfish dies, don't run out and buy a new fish, just to shield that child from pain. But really. What child needs to watch a woman cutting a flesh-eating vine out of her body and then, in a psychotic fit, stab her boyfriend in the chest? Fuck, woman! I had nightmares and I've seen damn near every slasher movie ever made.
Here's what I don't get. There was a time in my life, not so very long ago, actually, when I would have given anything. ANYTHING. to have a child of my own. Every day without a baby in my arms was an open wound on my heart. I couldn't watch movies with babies in them without crying. I would hold my infant niece in my arms, close my eyes and pretend with my whole soul that she was mine.
Apparently, it was a phase. A phase brought on by the intense loneliness caused by a bad relationship. You can throw whatever psychoanalytic bullshit at that you want. Still, the memory of that feeling is as fresh as if it were yesterday.
You have that. Two, really beautiful, little children. Be aware. Love them. And stop being a fucking idiot.
And don't talk during the movie. It pisses me off.