Tag Archives: oversharing

giving hope, good life choices, I thought this was supposed to be easy?

embroider it on a pillow for me.

The fascinating thing, if I can back away from the emotions themselves, is how I describe them.

Choking, drowning, smothering, pushing me headfirst into a cement curb – these aren’t experiences I’ve ever had – thank whomever – and I don’t physically lose the ability to breathe, see or live.

And yet, the phrase “moving like molasses in January” was coined, it seems, for days like today, when talking myself into hanging up three tee shirts, putting on shoes or taking a towel off the floor are herculean.

I don’t feel desperate, gasping or broken. I am not so sad I can’t see, but I’m the physical embodiment of “been down so long, down don’t bother me.”

Down would be nice. An improvement.

The worst part? I’m in love. I’m madly, happily, disgustingly in love.

I’m making progress on life goals I let lie dormant for too long.

I sleep next to the person I want to spend my life with. Sister mercy, I want to create other people with this man. From scratch!

I am (what feels like) spitting distance from really tackling my chronic maladies and beating them back into the hell from whence they came.

I even lost three pounds.

And yet, the prospect of doing the laundry – which I have always enjoyed (that’s another why-am-I-psychotic post) – overwhelms me, sends me into the corner of the only sweatshirt still big enough to be comfortable and leaves me begging the dog for affection.

But they do say what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, and while I’d slap the cliché off the face of whatever bitch actually came up with that phrase, I can’t help but hope it’s true.

I could use some strong right now.

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good life choices, hey world. here i am., not about my hair, what sweet madness

navel-gazing: an exercise.

Do you despair over the things that make you happy?

I do. This is mostly because I’m an idiot.

There’s a little bit of maternal sense in there. (Thanks, Jane.) I mean, I wouldn’t agonize over something that didn’t matter to me, and I’m (finally) mature enough to make That Which Makes Me Happy a main focus of my life and my energy.

Except, of course, money. Universe, we’re still in a fight about that whole “currency” bullshit. Don’t think I’ve forgotten.

But I kill myself, deep in my cold, little heart, about love and writing and music and food and will I ever be able to do any of them right? And does that matter? And surely it must, because otherwise why would anyone of any sense whatsoever spend so much time so freaked out?

And with that logic leap we understand exactly how it is I came to be an idiot.

And now for a break in the regularly scheduled navel-gazing:

I thought maybe it might could perhaps be fair or kind (or inane?) or useful (or something) to tell you what happened and where I went and what I did.

During the months of May, June, July and August of the year of our lord (whose?) two thousand eleven, I:

  • Taught young chilrens between the ages of three and eleven music all day every day at a camp in this fair city of HotFuckingLanta;
  • Learned what it is like to be in pain and still function, not (or at least rarely) giving into the indulgence of suffering;
  • Filled my days with the worries of babes (and the silencing of my ovaries) and my nights with laughter and tears (yes, always tears);
  • Remembered that “holy” is how you treat someone else and “god” is what it looks like when you love;
  • Discovered that Marietta’s full of dumb people who play trivia with Jesus and Dunwoody’s downright cutthroat;
  • Learned that “leaning” means a lot more than Old Noah Webster ever intended and leads to things like heart-shaped earrings and late-night phone calls;
  • Weaned myself off narcotics (mostly) and developed a healthy Benadryl habit;
  • Bought a new toothbrush to set beside a new sink, where there’s a “my” side of the bed and a jug of my favorite coffee creamer (such an embarrassing vice!);
  • Decided I might actually be good at that whole teaching thing and found people who agree to write me checks and ask me for curricula;
  • Looked at my hands and realized just how much I like how they look when they’re entwined in someone else’s;
  • Found a someone else; and
  • Maybe – just maybe, might could maybe – have fallen in love.

Skipping right over that and hoping with all I’ve got it won’t terrify him that I wrote that here first, let us focus our attentions back to the lint in my proverbial belly button and analyze why I – the most aggressively forthright person I’ve ever known in any capacity – might be too anxious to say “love” out loud, but willing to cavalierly announce it here, in a space I feel I no longer inhabit comfortably, to all and sundry.

We know I’m not afraid of hearing my own voice. Ahem.

And we know I’m strong in my conviction that that which is felt must be shared.

The royal we, of course.

And – VOICE CHANGE! WOOT! – I’m pretty sure I could stand it if he didn’t say it back. After all, I know what I’m talking about and he might not.

Mine is a place of power, and yet.

Let me agonize some more, fair gallery! What if I’m bad at this? At love?

I think it might be what I do best – I love love. Lord, how I love it. The idea, the music, the smells, the tastes, the schtick and the expectations and the ridiculous standards we hold ourselves to!

But what if I’m no good? Who’ll tell me? How will I learn? Is it enough? Am I?

Is the way to your heart through your navel?

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not about my hair, The Book Of Jane, twitter, what sweet madness

Battle of the Guest Posters

Hi, Intern just coming to preface this… thing.

So Mer’s head sucked today, and she was all “I’m avoiding the world blog blog blog.” Very mopey. Her friend Kazz came over, though, and they did stuff. And she was chosen to write a guest post? I don’t know.

But then! The Book Of Jane is scheduled for Saturdays, so one of those also happened. Um. Yeah.

I’m not good at explaining things. Anyways.

The Battle of the Guest Posters!!! Yay.

In which Kazz loves the Blumoffs

well then.

Hello all you beautiful readers of the giant blogosphere! My name’s Kazz. (www.thewildkazzbeast.com) You may remember me from the insane post with photos of Meredith on lortab and my harrowing adventures with slappy the squirrel.

I’m here because Mer is lortabbed out agiain and Jane’s sewing machine is busy mocking her by altering how it’s threaded ALL BY ITSELF. No, I’m not kidding. or exaggerating. you thread it right and somehow, the thing makes it wrong. Don’t ask. I gave up trying to understand it and I can fix anything.

So I’m giving you today’s Book of Jane. And I really didn’t know what the hell to post about. usually i just post whatever comes to mind that amuses me that day… But today has NOT been very amusing. In fact… today has sucked horribly. Or… well.. it DID… until I went home.

Home is such a funny term, you know?

It’s one of those things that’s subjective… the kind that, you can live anywhere and say that home is there, but it may not actually FEEL like home. Then again, they say that home is where the heart is.. and many times.. I find that even if I’m were my heart is.. I’m still not at home. and those times, I’ll get quite homesick, and miserable.. and can tend to become weepy. (yeah.. I get weepy. and it is NOT pretty.. i leave massive snot trails on shoulders.)  Home has to have just the right combination of comfortable people, smells, sounds, etc. and it has to have the right energy. you can have all of the sensory bits in place and STILL not have it just right.

So today, when everything went to hell in a handbasket, I left and went to Mer’s house, because I knew I’d feel better there (well.. and I know she has a super capacity washing machine, and my washer has been broken for the last two weeks. If i can do that much laundry in as little time as possible, i’m all for it.) So I showed up, and she was in her bed. apprently, her migraine had come back full force according to her text this morning. I brought her my Bobster motorcycle goggles. theyre soft and cushy and put pressure in JUST the right place on the temples. she was pleased to have them. I should have taken a photo because they make ANYONE look ridiculous. like the bug man from mars. Its fantastic.

I hadn’t cried about my crappy day all day because well.. one whiff of weakness and certain people will be all over you like a rapist on a nun.. just itching to bite your head off.  So.. when Mer asked me what was wrong, I did what anyone would do. I burst into tears and put my head down on her arm. at which point the WHOLE SLEW OF DOGS rushed my face to lick me. At which point I moved to her boobs. My preferred spot anyhow, as anyone would know from my waxing story. So I got it out of my system. Went downstairs, got my first load of laundry in, and helped Jane in with ze groceries.

Mer came down, and we set to work making salmon croquettes. My daughter helped dry the dishes I was washing in the sink. Mer graced us with her fantastic snark, and amused us with her lortab-induced forgetfulness and occasional standing in the middle of the room, with bug eye motorcycle goggles going “now.. what was i doing?”

We chatted abotut he usual while cooking. Men, my kid, artsy shit, books, spices (I grabbed her butt when she was reaching for the garlic powder. I think everyone should have their butt grabbed once a day just to remind them they’re hot.) We shelled shrimp, switched my laundry over, and Mer had a nice laugh at me when I pulled the tangled mass of my bras and pantyhose out of the washer. She didn’t bother offering advice on it, she just took the mass of Victoria’s Secret push ups (there, I said it. I wear pushups. but they make my tits look F-A-N-T-A-S-T-I-C) from me to untangle. She tends to know when I’m on a day that I just wont have patience for those things. I pulled the hanging rack off the wall and fell over it three times before Mer asked what the hell I was doing and came in to see what the ruckus was. luckily, by the time she reached me I figured out how the damned thing worked, so I looked like everything was hunky dory. We ate in the family room around the coffee table. Autumn and I took the floor spots, which meant the dogs swung by to check out laps often for tidbits. Autumn was not a fan of the croquettes… but she did try them. After dinner, we hung out for a moment, and then I took Autumn to her best friends house to stay the night.

I came back to find Jane and Charlie hunched over the sewing machine trying to figure it out. Jane asked if I dealt with these things at all, and I informed her I haven’t really bothered touching one since I sewed three fingers together once when I was a kid with my toy sewing machine. Jane didn’t blame me. Mer was upstairs already, so I puttered about behind Jane trying to help her figure out what was wrong. In the process of trying to look at the other sewing machine to get an idea of what was supposed to happen, she managed to get it to thread itself incorrectly as well. They were conspiring against her this evening, I swear. Jane is amazing at giving advice about things. And she reminded me that I am a good mother. Period. And to stop trying to convince myself otherwise.

I took my things upstairs to set up in my little room for the night.. and started making my bed with the sheets that were there and it struck me.

Home.

This is what it’s like.

It’s calm. It’s hilarious. It can be a little bit boring…. and all of the machines in the house can conspire against you. It can be a little maddening because of the pantyhose that the washing machine thinks are delicious, or the Man of the house who cant seem to figure out how to zip the ziplocky part of the tortilla bag. It’s a chaos of dogs, and cats with ticks the size of corn pops that have to be removed, and sewing machines running amock and pittbulls and parolees on TV, and friends coming over crying about their day or talking about the crazy baptist wedding where no one could drink, dance, or have fun, but the brides father could rip the bride and groom a new one in his “toast”…

But its a place where the sounds and smells are familiar, where the people support you, even if they disagree with you, even if you tend to get a little too loud for their migraine. It’s a place where you can breathe, for once. It’s where you find unconditional love. And lump dog meat. at the foot of the bed.

The Book of Jane: Dubious Family History

I’m cheating a little bit this time. I will recount a piece of my family history, as told in two documents:
one a military report and the other an excerpt from an obscure book.

My father, Charles T. McNamee, Jr., was proud of his Southern heritage and of his family. As head of our
immediate clan, he did his best to pass on that pride. It took a slightly different form in my brother and
me – we certainly weren’t defenders of the Southern cause in the retelling of stories from the “War of
Northern Aggression”, as the American Civil War was sometimes known in our neighborhood. But I did
enjoy the stories. Here is the story of one of my forebears, one John T. McNamee, as reported by Col.
Frank A. Kendrick, Second West Tennessee Infantry, African Descent, on September 27, 1863.

Sir:

I have the honor herewith to transmit the annexed report of a scouting party which was sent out by me
on the night of the 27th ultimo.

One sergeant and 10 men of the detachment of Sixth Tennessee Cavalry Volunteers, stationed here, left
the lines at about 7 p.m., with instructions to patrol the roads toward Somerville to the distance f 6 or
7 miles, and discovered nothing until they arrived at Locke’s Mill, about 4 miles out, where they met 2
boys, aged about twelve and fifteen, respectively, who were acting as guides or advance of a party of 7
guerrillas, who were about one-quarter mile behind. The sergeant immediately formed his men across
the road a little under the crest of the hill and awaited their approach. The position of our men was such
that they (guerrillas) advanced within about 60 yards, when the sergeant called halt and immediately
gave the command to fire, and 7 of the number discharged their pieces at the approaching party, who
immediately wheeled about and fled toward Somerville, our men not pursuing, but advanced to where
they were when our men fired, and found one man mortally wounded, the ball taking effect in the right
side under the lower ribs and passed through his body, coming out at the left of the spine.

At daylight on Monday morning Lieutenant Smith (acting adjutant), with 20 cavalry, went out there,
and found that a citizen living near had taken the wounded man to his house, where he died during the
night, and from papers and his memorandum, which Lieutenant Smith brought in, he was second Liet.
John T. McNamee, Thirteenth Tennessee Regiment (rebel), and had been to Somerville visiting some
friends, and was returning with 6 recruits on their way south. McNamee’s family resides at Lagrange,
and from his papers and memorandum he has traveled through the country quite recently. He was
paroled at Nashville, Tenn. In January last.

From what I can learn of the position of our men, and with the knowledge of the number who were
coming, they should have captured the entire party, but they did not bring the 2 boys in with them, but
left the wounded man lying in the road and returned directly to the camp.

I have the honor to be, sir, very respectfully, your obedient servant,

Frank A. Kendrick

Colonel Second West Tenn. Infantry, A.D., Comdg. Lt. D. T. Bowler, A.A.A.G., First Brigade, Second
Division.

Now for another version of the story. This comes from A. J. Vaughn’s book Personal Record of the
Thirteenth Infantry. I don’t have a publication date, but it is obviously a period of time later. The book
lists John T. McNamee as a member of Company G (Gain’s Invincibles). This Company was raised at
Lagrange, Tenn.

“Lt. McNamee had been wounded and captured following the Battle of Murfreesboro (Stones River).
Following his release he had been detailed by Col. Vaughn to go behind enemy lines in Fayette County
to bring out recruits. He leading a group of such recruits south on the Somerville-Moscow Road; their
destination was North Mississippi which lay below the Memphis and Charleston Railroad. The “MC”
formed the lien between Confederate and Union held territory.

Compatriot Harry McNamee Ozier, kinsman of Lt. McNamee, has recently visited the sight (sic) of
Locke’s Mill. He relates that the Mill sight can still be seen; the hill referred to above is plainly evident;
and the old roadbed can still be observed meandering north toward Somerville and South into North
Fork River bottom.

Several observations may be readily ascertained. One, the fact that the Southerners were referred
to as guerrillas infers that they were not in uniform nor were they wearing any other identifying
paraphernalia. The point being that these men must have looked just like a group of local citizens on
there (sic) way to the mill. If so, then this is another instance of cold-blooded murder which may lay
at the door of the Yankee occupation. Two, the Yankee sergeant called halt and fire at the same time,
murder! Three, they checked his body close enough to determine the extent of his wounds, but left him
in the road to die, Murder. Even Col. Kendrick admonishes his troops for there (sic) conduct, leaving one
to believe that he considered it murder.

FORGET…HELL!

I’ve never had a lot of sympathy for the Southern “cause”, but I understood what it felt like to be on the
losing side. Some of my earliest fights arose from taunts of “Yankee” (I was born in New York City during
my father’s brief assignment at his company’s home office – we returned to Memphis before I was a
year old).

—

So, um… that happened. Until next time.

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i am serious and don't call me shirley!, The Great Autumn Headache of 2010, what sweet madness

In which the famous Kazz enlightens us on just how sick I really am. …Sigh.

Mer’s note: This was taken almost verbatim from the lovely Kazz’s burgeoning blog, The WildKazzBeast: The Life & Times of a Pinup Tomboy, but I felt I needed to reprint it here with a few, uh, “notes.”

Adventures with Mimsy Migraine Meredith, and how I know Mother Nature’s got it out for me.

Well. One of my closest friends who I mention ALL THE DAMN TIME is sick. Not just sick… but five-week-long migraine sick.

She was diagnosed with Fibromyalgia (an’ other stuff. Just sayin’.). This means she has to begin believing in the possibility that the disease exists. I’m not sure if she will, seeing as she is very steadfast in her opinions… but we shall see.

This migraine has scored her a FAN-FUCKING-TASTIC cocktail of drugs.

Lortab. Hydrocodone. Xanax. Steroids.

All.
At.
Once.

Yes, folks, my friend and “Jewish mom,” my voice of reason, has set off to LaLa land in her lavender and pastel mint green dirigible… possibly never to be seen again – but when she can’t sleep, she’s certainly productive… hand-washing and reorganizing EVERY PIECE OF TUPPERWARE IN HER CUPBOARD (yeah, those were the ‘roids talking)… and narc-texting everyone with incoherent messages that are so garbled and misspelled that it’s more like listening to Spanglish when you don’t speak Spanish. The point gets across… but there is no eloquence to the text. (I would just like to state for the record that we, indeed, did NOT have enough blackberries for the pie. Though the verdict’s still out on how Smurfette played a role.)

I’d also like to add she is still fully capable of correcting everyone else’s grammar… ALOT. ;) (despite the fact that I love you, I hate you very much right now. See also:  ALOT.)

The other day her Facebook post very simply stated that she was miserable (which has been the case for five weeks now) and that she needed Gatorade delivery. I posted I’d be there at lunchtime.

I called her to see that she was still awake and ask if she still wanted Gatorade. She mumbled/slurred (Slurrbled?) quite a bit… but I caught a “yes” in there somewhere.

“Oh, honey,” I said. “You sound AWFUL!”

She slurrbled some more. I asked her about her favorite flavor.

Then, clear as a bell, in what can only be described as a voice fitting a three-year-old DRUNK, she stated,

“I LIEK ORNG. YESH. FANKOO.” (One cannot be faulted for a love of orange Gatorade so profound it stays with her in times of great confusion.)

I asked if she could eat.

“Slurrble frizzle flurr.”

“Ok, honey. I’ll bring you food.”

“Murrfle.”

*click*

I got in my car. It was a lovely afternoon. Warm. Breezy. Sunny. This boded well.

Popped over to the gas station for two of the larger bottles of Gatorade from the cooler, and picked up a couple of Whoppers from the attached Burger King. I know, fast food isn’t good… but the Whopper is the least of the evils according to “Eat This Not That.” (wtf? More information needed, please. Would like to approach new DIETCOKEISPOISIN doc with such statistics.)

I was greeted at Meredith’s house by the barrage of dogs that loves to come and say hello… baring their teeth, NOT to be all growly, but rather… because they are trying to smile, like people do. (No, really, this happens. And it’s really fucking adorable. NOT CREEPY AT ALL, PEOPLE. I know what you’re thinking, assholes. It’s NOT CREEPY.)

I walked slowly so as not to break the dogs’ necks as they shoved their noses between my legs and promptly lost interest in my crotch in favor of the paper sack in my hands.

I started to turn back realizing I’d left my car windows open, but stopped knowing that being in suburbia, my car should remain completely untouched.

I wandered upstairs with the Gatorade and Whoppers, and stood by the lump of Meredith in her bed.

“Hallo, lady. I has for you Gatoradedness!”

She woke.

Her eyes only opened a quarter of the way.

“Mrrrflewufflehuh?”

“Yes, honey. Hi. “

I put the Gatorade on her bedside table. She put her hand out and flopped it on top of the bottle… then put the bottle to her lips without taking off the cap.

“Ah. Yes. Hold on, honey. You can’t get anything out that way. “

“I KIN GE’IT!”

“Ok. Here you go.”

She fumbled with the cap for awhile.

“Hey. I can’ ge’it. Can yoo open this?”

“Sure.”

I took the bottle back and opened it. She drank.

“Can you eat?”

“You know… They have me on so many PIIIILZ liek Lortab and Hydrocodone, and Xanax and stuff”

“I do. Are you able to eat?”

“This would be a lot more fun if I din’ feel like crap.”

This would be a lot more fun if she didn't feel like crap.

This would be a lot more fun if she didn't feel like crap.

(This would be a lot more fun if I didn’t feel like crap.)

“Yes, honey. Would you like something to eat?”

“Oooh. You have fooood?”

“Yes. It’s just a whopper… but…”

“Yay! You’re so goood!”

I got the burger and brought it over, and she patted the bed with her hand to beckon me to sit down with her to eat. The dogs took her invitation personally and Sammy jumped on the bed.

“Noooooo! Not youuuuuuu, Sam. Gerroff.”

And with a nudge, Sammy Bear was down. I sat.

She slurrbled quite alot about her new doctor, who is not ONLY a doctor, but an internist as well… And she believes that the unfiltered water is poison, POISON! Did you know its POISON? I knew it was POISON. And for her birfday, she’s asking daddy for an allergen test. Did you know they test you for 96 varieties of foods and protein structures and stuff and ohmygoshifeelsobadihaventpostedonmybloginforever…

Meredith will *always* tell it like it is. ESPECIALLY when drugged.

Meredith will *always* tell it like it is. ESPECIALLY when drugged.

Then, in the middle of talking, dropping bits of tomato onto her chest, and getting mayo on the corners of her mouth, she stopped.

Her chest heaved inward, and she made the sound of the child of King Kong and a T-Rex

And then relaxed, all in about a half second.

Ok, so maybe it took a full second, but in any case, this was… the most EPIC hiccup I think I’d ever heard. Her muscles were so relaxed, her body was doing hiccups in slow-mo. and then ladies and gents… came one of the highlights… a moment STRAIGHT FROM THE FUCKING EXORCIST’S CUTTING ROOM FLOOR…

Meredith rolled her eyes into the back of her head- put on her famous “GLAREFAYCE” and GLARED AT HER FUCKING HICCUPS. (It is kind of famous, really. There’s poetry.)

I couldn’t help it.

Here’s Mer.

I know she’s sick.

But she’s in her underpants. (They were festive, damn it!)

Drugged up.

With mayonnaise on one corner of her mouth.

Eyes rolled in the back of her head to glare at her hiccups, while all three dogs sit at the sides of the bed STARING INTENTLY at her burger.

I lost it. I just simply couldn’t help myself. I just about fell off the bed laughing.

Ordinarily, this would be where the glare would be redirected to me… However, she kept on hiccupping mid-sentence, and couldn’t manage to get a word out without being interrupted.

The glare stayed in her head.

We finished up our burgers and I mentioned I had to leave soon. Mer stood up and triumphantly announced her need to urinate. I offered her my shoulder to lean on, and she said “NOOO. I’LL BE FIIINE.”

And promptly tripped on the rug, forcing her to grab my shoulder. (It’s a very pretty rug, I’ll have you know. Really ties the room together.)

We arrived across the room and she thanked me and stated it was good to have someone to take her to the bathroom.

She sat on the toilet, still chattering, hiccupping and glaring at the innards of her skull.

*trickletrickletrickleSTOP*

“OOOOOOOH, NO!”

She declared, in her best drunkard slurrble yet.

“I KNOOOUUUUW you’re in there! I can FEEL YOU!”

*trickletrickletrickleSTOP*

At this point, a very exasperated, drugged Meredith sighed with a loud, “UUUUUUGH”

And leaned forward, effectively putting her head between her knees.

*WOOOSH*

“Oh, THERE you ARE!!!! See? A little puching halps.”

She sat up, feeling triumphant. And her stream was interrupted.

“NO NO NO! STOP THIS! YOU COME OUT RIGHT NOW!”

She cried, and began kneading/half slapping/half punching herself in the abdomen to make the pee come out.

So now we had a drugged up, weaving, hiccupping, glaring at the inside of her skull Meredith who was WIND-MILLING HER BLADDER in a desperate attempt to pee.

She finished, and I offered her my shoulder to get back to her bed.

She refused, and walked along, stopping in the middle of the to point out how amazingly squishy her rug is, and how its soooooo prittieeeeee! (Told you so.)

She sat on her bed.

“Look!”

She picked up a rolled-up graying t-shirt off the bed.

“This’s my t-shirt. Is soooo comfy.”

She flopped it over her face.

This’s my t-shirt.

This’s my t-shirt.

She tried to flop it on my face, too, but I dodged.

“Is so comfy.”

“Mer. Do that again. I wanna take a picture of that.”

“OOOOH! You know what? YOU SHOULD POST ON MY BLOG! You wanna post on my blog? You should. I suppose that I will be out for at LEAST a few more days, and I need someone to post on my blog! Will you?”

“Uh. Ok. Sure. I can post on your blog. Can I use the photos I’ve taken today?”

“YA! That would be HILARIOUS! You need to email Jenn.” (Let us use this bit of foreshadowing for tomorrow’s post about the many ways I have abused my online bestie in the last week or so. Ahem.)

“Jenn?”

“Yeah! Jenn! Jenn Dola! Like GRANOLA only JENNDOLA Her email is-”

And she says the email address. No spelling, no information on who Jenn is, or what I need to do… just “EMAIL JEN.”

“Ok, ok. I’ll email Jenn.”

Mer points to my phone.

“NO! EMAIL HER NOW!”

“Mer, honey, not a smartphone. I’ll remember the email and send her a note when I get back to the office.”

“Ok. But email her. She knows what to do. “

“You got it. Now. Back to bed with you. Call if you need me.”

“Okaaaaaaaaaaay.”

And the Slurrble monster laid back down to sleep.

Nini, loopy fayce. <3

Nini, loopy fayce. <3

I left her house, escorted by the dogs, still wanting to get hold of the Burger King bag to tear it apart for its meat flavored papery goodness.

I got into my car, and grabbed a couple of French fries from the fry cup I left in my cup holder. I took off my e-brake, set my car in reverse, backed out, shifted to first and started off down the street, and reached back to the back to grab my purse for some gum…

And touched fuzzy.

Fuzzy?

Wait.

I don’t have any costumes or props in the car… Why is there… “Fuzzy”? (Speaking of which, I’ve still got leftover sloth-colored fur of yours in my kitchen… just, yeah.)

And then I heard it. SCREEEEEEEE SCRITCY SCRITCH SCREEEEEEEEEEE.

Fuck. Me.

I slammed on the breaks and stopped the car, threw up my e-brake and opened the door, flipping the handle for the seat release with the back of my sneaker as I vacated the car and turned to see a squirrel, on a small pile of French fries in my back seat. Flitting its tail as a threat and scrittering at me like he meant business.

“NO! NO NO NO NO NO!!!!! YOU ASSHOLE! GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY CAR! THAT MY FUCKING TRANSPORTATION! GET OUT!”

He ran to the other side of the backseat.

Oh, hell naw. It was on.

Luckily, I have a hatchback.

I threw up the trunk, pulled the pin on the back of the seat and dropped it forward with all my weight on it.

Mr. fuzzy bolted out of the car, and was courteous enough to not drop his little raisinettes until AFTER he was out of my vehicle. (Thanks, Slappy!)

I got back in my car and returned to the cubicle farm that I inhabit for 40 hours per week.

I did email Jenn when I got to work… and miraculously, I got her email address right. And as I suspected, she had NO FUCKING CLUE what Meredith was on about. :) She said she would email her, but I let her know that she was likely not quite coherent enough to reply.

So. Mer. Here’s the blog post. Hot off the presses and fresh for you. Complete with photos you gave me permission to use, and a tale of natures hatred for me. <3

Does this count as a decent enough birfday present? :D

(…It so does.)

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