blue_canary

Tractormania!

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HOLY LORD! WE FINALLY WON THIS SHIT!

Dang!



Sean Hannity is every bully ever all rolled into one.

I finished my training in the fields of dog walking and cat comforting at the Humane Society. I am officially a volunteer. After putting in a couple of hours over the weekend, well, let's just say I more fully appreciate why people stay at home and watch Project Runway marathons on Bravo. Firstly, because Project Runway is awesome! Secondly, it does not involve staring into the eyes of a dog whose owners left it for a variety of lame brain reasons including but not limited to "moving", "chews carpet", and "destroys blinds".

To the Human Race: JERK!

I spent just over half an hour petting a beautiful golden retriever named Eartha. Her owners gave her up because they were moving. I realize it might be too harsh to call those people evil, but I do feel they are a special sort of traitor. The poor thing was so scared...trembling, crying, but still wagging her tail when she was pet. I don't feel that bad for the cats, because they'd find a small, dark place to hide in of their own volition if they had a proper family (that's what I tell myself, anyway). The stray dogs also fall into the category of Slightly Easier to Look At considering their lives probably suck less at the humane society, where, unlike on the side of a highway, they are walked, played with, and fed daily. But the dogs that come from a warm home with a yard and their people just kill me, because they had something to lose, and they lost it, and it's not fair.

Anyway, if anyone wants a sweet golden retriever, please visit the Humane Society of Huron Valley, Ann Arbor, and ask for Eartha – on the condition you take her with you when you move, or else face my wrath. Because I will cut a bitch.

I don't remember what "warm" is. I'm also losing the connection with its cousins grass, trees, and sunny skies.

I've always thought that Seasonal Effective Disorder was one of those fake disorders for rich suburbanites. But now that I've spent the last, oh, million or so days in a perpetually negative, mopey, whiny, bitchy, depressed, unmotivated, and otherwise shitty mood? A mood which, by the way, is consistent with the sky and the ground being the same shade of slush gray?

Well, just drug me already. I'm an American, god damn it.

Here's a special tidbit I didn't put on myspace: ever since my employer, AMG, was taken over by the Borg -- I mean, Macrovision -- people have been jumping ship left and right, always saying it's not because of Macrovision before they hit the water. Which, naturally, means it's totally Macrovision in every way there is for it to be Macrovision. I kind of want to leave as well, but I need, like...skills...to do that. I feel a bit trapped.

One thing I don't like about having an 8-to-5 is that it forces my weekends to be more about home maintenance than R&R -- and I don't even have a house! I spent virtually all Saturday and Sunday unloading and reloading the dishwasher, doing laundry (yuck), putting away laundry (YUCK!!!!), getting an oil change, cleaning the apartment, cleaning the bird cage, making dinner, cleaning up after dinner, etc. Normally I'd have a riding lesson to offset my double life as Molly Maid, but the "arctic blast" we are experiencing prevented that from happening. I did manage to work out on both days and attend a volunteer orientation class at the Humane Society, which I didn't realize was four minutes away from my apartment until very recently. I figure this is a good way to rent a dog or cat for a few hours a week since I can't have one of my own at this point in time.

I also got a sweet pair of pants for $4.80. I know the clearance rack in the Kohl's juniors section is kinda low rent, but PANTS! IN MY BUDGET!

I had a fitness assessment today (courtesy of a new, fantastic, and astronomically expensive local gym). It worked out as such: I am "well above average" in the categories of strength, endurance, arobic capacity, and flexibility. My blood pressure and resting heart rate are awesome. I work out for 1 to 2 and a half hours six days a week (horseback riding and ellipitical/treadmill/stationary bike), placing me in the 99th percentile of active adults. My caloric intake is on the low side for women of my age and height.

My body fat percentage and weight, i.e., what I care about, are totally fucking average bordering on shitty. I know I'm not allowed to have body issues because I'm not FAT fat and carrying on as though I am is offensive to the obese. Well, sorry, The Obese. The Average have problem areas, too. They are called hips, thighs, and butts. And maybe it's not politically correct or particularly Girl Power of me, but I DO have body issues and I DO FEEL LIKE A FUCKING COW SOMETIMES. Especially since the holiday six pound statistic hit me pretty hard this year (add four pounds to that and you'll see what I mean). Since a rather traumatic post-Christmas weigh-in I've cut all the fun out of my diet and increased my workouts by a gazillion percent. I've lost a whopping 2 pounds.

I don't get it -- I didn't even drink any eggnog!

One more thing. You know the vanity sizes everyone talks about? How you go to Old Navy and fit into a size 2? I fit into the same size at Old Navy I do everywhere else...so...shut up, everbody!!

I'm back from NYC and I had a blast. I plan on going back in the spring and invading the lovely Gracie and Noah's space again. The only downside is that I woke up with a really ghastly cold the day after I got back and I feel like a walking, talking pile of poop and vomit peppered with yak B.O. (No, I don't know what that means, either. It's the Theraflu talking. Also, I think certain animal names are funny; yak is one of them, wildebeest is another.) I suppose it's better to have gotten it now than while I was in NYC, but it's hard to thank God for small favors when I want to decapitate myself.

Anyway, I think I saw Andy from season 3 of The Apprentice, but I'm not sure. Whoever it was looked like a tool. I also saw Lance Bass at a club and hatched an elaborate, ultimately unsuccessful plan to talk to him. I just wanted to ask him about his appearance on the most surreal television show since Twin Peaks: Animal Planet's The Pet Psychic. Sadly, each time I got close enough to make my move, he was whisked away. I don't think it was because of me, though I'm open to the possibility. Later in the trip, I ended up at an awesomely seedy bar in the East Village, where Gracie and I were stared at by a dirty old man – and not just a garden variety dirty old man, but a New York dirty old man. I have pictures, but because I forgot my digital camera and had to buy a disposable one...they're like real physical pictures that were developed and everything. It's totally prehistoric! I'll see if I can get them scanned onto a disk at CVS, or something.


I got an "I (heart) NY" t-shirt. Fuck off, I do I what I please. Now I need an "I Miss NY" shirt to go with it, because dude, I miss NY.

I keep smelling puppy breath. I don't have a puppy, or a dog, or dog food, or anything that could be associated with the smell of puppy breath. And yet...

I've sniffed my entire body to make sure it isn't me. It isn't. Maybe it's a sensory hallucination from all the hype about Ellen Degeneres' dog. I wish sensory hallucinations didn't smell like partially digested Alpo.

I sold Erma the Saturn yesterday. She went to a happy home, but I am seriously grieving this car. Even though she had 82,000 miles and a habit of fogging up when it rained; even though I hate driving and want to move to a big city not for the nightlife or culture, but so I could have readily available public transportation...I'm going to miss that car. I teared up a little when her new owners pulled away.

The good news is that I'm the new owner of a 2002 Focus with a mere 20,000 miles. Corbin's grandmother can't drive anymore and I got it fo' free (except my insurance went up and it needs new tires and an oil change -- but still, FREE!). It's fun to drive but it doesn't feel mine yet.

Also, I changed my hair again. It doesn't really look different from the last picture I took because photobooth and the lighting in our computer room don't make for a good combination, but rather than dark hair with auburn highlights I got auburn hair with almost black highlights. Oh, and bangs:

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Please comment on this -- it took me forever to write and I require validation.



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Well, that's it! I've officially entered my late twenties. Poop. Luckily, I've invested in a really good moisturizer and I drink a glass of red wine each day, which, according to Oprah, are essential ingredients in maintaining one's "emotional" age. I'm not one to contradict Oprah. I figure having the maturity level of a 14-year-old boy and the body of a 28-year-old female average to about 22. So, if anyone asks, I am 22.

I pulled in a unique set of gifts including a motorcycle helmet, a Victoria's Secret gift card, a Target gift card (for $5 – don't break the bank on account of me, AMG), and the second season Fraggle Rock DVD set. So, if you need me, I'll be watching Fraggle Rock in nothing but new underwear and a motorcycle helmet.

Pennington, my poor cockatiel, is still recovering from the trauma of having his nails trimmed on Sunday. I wish I didn't have to put him through it. Amazingly, he totally knows when he's going to visit my dad, who gives him Cheerios and cuddles, versus when he's going to the vet's, where they grab him, put him in a towel, and hold him upside-down while a horrible whirring thing messes with his feet without his explicit consent. It took me ten minutes to get him into the carrier. HE KNOWS.

That's it, I think. In honor of my dual Geminian nature, I give you:

Nice motorcycle chick:



No more Mrs. Nice Motorcycle chick:

I felt like something was missing this morning. I checked to make sure I had my bag (I did), that my wallet was inside (it was), my glasses weren't MIA (I was wearing them), and that I hadn't left my lunch sitting on the kitchen counter (I didn't). For a nanosecond I considered the possibility of having forgotten to wear pants, but that wasn't the case, either.

Finally, I realized I was missing the weight of a backpack. True, I haven't carried a backpack since 2001, but having shouldered 20+ lbs (I carried all of my books at once because it decreased the probability of leaving the one I needed at home) almost every day for five years, besides making me permanently slouchy, must have become part of my consciousness, or something.

Ah, college. I don't want to go back and I wouldn't want to do it all over again if I had the chance, but I loved it and I miss carrying my trusty green Jansport backpack with the iron-on She-Ra patch.

I wish I could take credit for this, but I can't. Someone from the Television Without Pity Message boards expressed my feelings about Lost better than I ever could:

What Jack should have said to Ben.

"So, Ben, old buddy, old pal, let me get this straight.

"You find out you have a spinal tumor, two days before the crash of a passenger plane that includes a spinal surgeon among its passengers.

"You need me to operate on you.

"So: rather than rush to the site of the crash, and offer what help you can, and along the way tell me that you need a spinal surgeon, you screw around with us for more than three months.

"You infiltrate us with spies, and steal away people in the night, and kill a few of us while you're at it, and kidnap the pregnant lady.

"And still you don't tell us.

"And even as this tumor continues to grow, along your vertebrae, you manage to get yourself captured by us. And rather than admit THEN who you are, you claim to be a rich balloonist named Henry Gale, and keep up this silly imposture even in the face of torture.

"And then you escape.

"And then you capture three of us, and cage me, and do I don't know what the hell else to Kate and Sawyer, for days and days on end, because, as you tellme now, you wanted to break me; you wanted me 'willing' to help you.

"Here's a news flash for you, Pilgrim.

"You're an idiot.

"Had you shown up at the site of the crash and told me about your problem, I would have helped you. I'm a Doctor. It's what I do.

"Had you shown up at any time during that first month and told me about your problem, I would have helped you. I'm a Doctor. It's what I do.

"Had you told me, at any time during those weeks you spent as our prisoner, about your problem, I would have helped you. I'm a Doctor. It's what I do.

"Even when you captured us, and dragged us all the way over here to this little moonie community of yours, and told me about your problem, without indulging in all of this bullshit, grade-school brainwashing of yours, I would have helped you. I'm a Doctor. It's what I do.

"I never had to LIKE you, you bug-eyed little prick. I'm a Doctor. It's what I do.

"Now, even though you've proved yourself not just a sadist and a paranoid, but an exceedingly stupid one -- since all this time you spent forcing your people into wearing fake beards and so on, that tumor's been continuing to eat at your spine like a carcinomic Pac-Man, and you've been reducing your chances of survival on a daily basis -- I can only say that, yes, you shmuck, you idiot, you bastard, you pop-eyed dictator, I will operate on you. I'm a Doctor, Einstein. It's what I do.

"But since you want me MOTIVATED TO DO MY BEST, you will answer this one simple question, first.

"Ready?"

"Okay. Here's the question.

"(Deep breath)

"WILL YOU PEOPLE JUST STOP WITH THE ENIGMATIC BEHAVIOR FOR FIVE MINUTES ALREADY
AND TELL US WHAT THE F--- IS GOING ON, ON THIS ISLAND?"

First and foremost, if you've called, wrote, sent me flowers, or wished me well in any way at all: THANK YOU. I appreciate it so much.

I can't say too much because I'm at the end stage of a dose of vicodin, meaning I can write with relatively few typos until the area formerly known as my appendix makes its voice heard. The short story: I was moving a plate from the counter to the cabinet on Tuesday night when one of my internal organs went rogue. I recalled the curried tofu I'd eaten the other day and figured I would be writing an angry note to Whole Foods after a long night of puking and misery. There was a long night, and there was much misery, but no puking. I felt a bit better in the morning and chocked it up to, um...gas. It's the truth.

Around 12:00, the pain rebounded and it was excruciating; it was like a movie with me clutching my stomach, crying, moaning, etc. I called Mr. Tracie and told him I was calling 911, but he was nearby and took me to the ER. The admittance person at St. Joe was a bitch. I know they get a lot of riff-raff, but I was in a pretty sad state. And she's all, "I'm sorry, we don't have any beds! Go ahead and have a seat in the waiting room." I know this is very soap operaish, but just as she said that a doctor went by and said FIND ONE. NOW.

A few minutes later I'm in a bed. After 5 or 6 hours of blood tests and really unpleasant, embarassing exams, they gave me a CAT scan and said it was appendicitis. Despite the fact that my insurance EXPLICITLY STATES that they will cover emergency care if the patient is rushed to the nearest hospital due to no other alternative, and despite the fact that St. Joe's is an Mcare provider, there was a fucking glitch AS I WAS BEING WHEELED TO THE OR. So my last thought before going under was, "Oh fuck, I'm gonna get a $30,000 bill." It was all resolved by morning, thank Dog.

I'm back home, appendix-free and...well, in a whole lot of pain. But honestly, it's so much less than it was, I'm not too upset about it. The worst part of the deal is I can't ride horses for a month. :( I hope to be back at work by Tuesday at the latest, although I may be calling someone for a ride since I'm not allowed to drive on narcotics.

I am drunk

really drunk

I smell like smoek

but it's 2006!

One day I'll do a real update. Until then, pictures of my bird:

Vote for Penny (D-MI)

Kiki has died. Grief doesn't even begin to describe it.