Boob sweat, or there goes the neighborhood

How awesome is that. I bet the property values fell audibly on my street this morning. I went out to pull weeds in the front beds before they dried out too much from the frogstrangling rains we got this week. The bad thing is that this side, with the dirt and the scratches on my arm that make me look like a wrinkly fat old cutter plus beaucoup boob sweat, is actually the good one. Feel sorry for the neighbors who were looking at my back; the shirt climbed up with the same alacrity as my pink granny panties so they got a real treat. I saved the hoarded Lortab for tomorrow; I intend to get high and make Easter dinner.

Dooce Community was no help with preventing me from going postal

 Last Friday I had some minor oral surgery that went completely sideways and made me swell up like a mumps patient and lie around moaning in pain. I did that for about four days. So,then I stopped the thing I was doing at the first of the week, which was preventing my couch and my Lortab from being stolen. By sitting on the couch to keep thievy thieves from stealing it, and eating all the Lortab to keep stealy stealers from thieving it. Worked good, too, but I was about to high-security myself into needing a doctor's note to go back. So back I went on Wednesday.
I was sorry I had acted so rashly by nine am. By ten-thirty I was burning up my text message contact boxes, whining to every friend and relative I had that MY FACE HURT  and MY CO WORKER WILL NOT STFU.
I put my earphones in my ears reluctantly, as, ummm, MY FACE HURT and just acted like I turned the music on because I've gotten her to leave me alone before. When I got home that night I posted on dooce community that they needed to think of things I could do to keep from going postal on this harpy. They were all, "Tell her to be quiet."
We are dealing with crazy and annoying of an advanced and higher order here and "shhhh" is not going to cut it. This female has: made repeated racial slurs and ignorant attacks on the President directly to me, AFTER I told her I'd stood in line for hours for the privilege of voting for him, would do it again, and felt it best if we not discuss politics. She fights on the phone with someone EVERY DAY. She will yell at the cable people for cutting off her service for nonpayment for hours and hours and then tell me the story like I am supposed to side with her. Pay your bill, bitch. She seriously just talks to hear herself talk, and will talk to me with my back turned to her even if I am speaking on the phone before she begins a thought. She takes the required beeper off her ample person and leaves it on her desk and goes away for an hour. For some reason, she is the only person who does not get in trouble for not wearing her beeper. She has told me that she peed on her pee pad and just went to the bathroom to change it.
"Be quiet and let me work please" is not going to change her.
I suppose loosening the wheels on her chair would be wrong. Maybe I will just start farting with my earphones in like I don't know I'm doing it.

Jon and Heather Armstrong's Divorce

Some of the folks on the Dooce community website have wanted to discuss it, but older/wiser/better compensated for their time heads have prevailed. Of course, Internet strangers should be allowed to have private lives, even after they pull back the curtain a little before dropping it.
I don't think most people wanted to gossip or declare Team Jon or Team Heather. I know I have an odd feeling of knowing people I can't possibly know, just because they are talented writers and convey a sense of their lives through their writing and photos. Harder to figure out is why the news bothered me so much; I really identify with Jon's grief for his years of effort and the effect the divorce will have on the kids.  It's probably easier to take the news of divorces in our real-life circles because you can see a lot of those coming; body language tells people all over church when you least realize it.
Plus, we were all rooting for them, all the time, glad for the good stuff and howling at their tormentors when Maytag or the crazy homeowner or Mormons deserved it. It was part of the Dooce experience; so much that we got used to being chastised for mentioning that Heather stopped being funny about a year ago. That was the "f" word that could not be named.  So now we know why she stopped being funny, and there's a weird sense of guilt about acknowledging that, too; like she wasn't dancing fast enough for us while her life was crumbling somewhere else.
I wonder what Leta thinks of what the internet says about her family. She is certainly a good enough reader to know. I couldn't stand the thought of being a preacher's wife with the public life that entails, so I can't imagine a fully public life on the internet.

Not truly and completely dead

Whoa, who knew somebody would keep looking here?
That is nice.
I stopped blogging for a while because work was itself and specifying what is so frustrating about that particular hamster wheel would most certainly get me dooced.
Anyway, the refi came through with just a few slam down the phone and scream moments, the roof got replaced in the same fashion, and the fella deflected my plan to hire a window professional but now he has all my new ones in.
I had oral surgery that went poorly Friday and am sitting on my couch, windows open to the early Spring, robins chirping, new Boston terrier buddy snoring next to me. Lortab and doggies ftw.
Oh, the dog story!
Christmas was nice; the girl and her dear boyfriend were scheduled to fly in for a bit. I was shopping a few days prior and on my way to the gym when a van crossed in front of me at a red light. It turned on to a busy four-lane street and was followed in hot pursuit by a Boston Terrier, running desperately behind it. I enraged three other citizens turning around to follow the dog, in an attempt to prevent its death in the street. I found it panting and exhausted at a store parking lot. He came to me when called and jumped in the car. He was so adorable and well mannered I hated to put up posters, but I did. While my fella walked him around the neighborhood in search of his owner, I put up posters on all the cross-streets that were the direction from which he had come. I told my child about him and she was all full of longing: oh, a dog for Christmas. My fella, a cat person to the core, fell for him during their walk and hoped out loud the owners would not call. I was astounded.
The owners called four hours later. There were some iffy things that happened before they showed up, twenty minutes late from a purported address three blocks away. They drove up in a car that was past beater status three years ago. They got out, smiling, and the dog rushed to them happily. As they thanked us, my heart sank more; both of them were skinny as rails, pale, with telltale meth spots on their teeth, and the guy had some picked spots on his face and neck while the girl had half of one eyebrow missing. My lovely, dear little dog was going home with his meth-head mom and dad. Nothing to be done, he obviously loved them.
My fella did not notice the meth signs. He was super quiet for a few days, though. Christmas came, and my daughter enjoyed her visit although she mourned the lack of a dog in the house. I told her about keeping the secret from my fella about the meth use; we sighed over the little dog and gave him up to the universe.  It was a year since Lily died and we both start crying when we think of her. I hauled the kids back to Dallas for their return flight and came home to a quiet house with two cats. Back on the hamster wheel I went.
About two days back into the New Year at work, my cell buzzed with a number that seemed familiar but I couldn't place it. It was meth-head girl; they could not keep the dog and needed fifty bucks. Sold.

My fence is currently torn down for renovation, so the fella keeps the dog for now. He is a huge hit; the adult neighbors offer to babysit so he won't be lonely while we are at work, the neighbor kids beg to play with him, and the golfers put the clubs up to watch him play soccer with us in the back yard. He is good around the cats, all six of them, and he loves to ride in the car with us and snuggle in the recliner with the fella at TV time. I do not love him like I loved Lily; missing the puppy stage leaves a little hole. But he is a joyful addition to our lives.

My Cat Is A Republican

Today was my favorite holiday of the year. Since I no longer work nights, I have to say Fall Back Sunday, or the end of Daylight Saving Time, is custom-made for me. I can sleep a whole hour late and no one could possibly care. Except the cat. Her reaction to my sluggishness led to a groggy epiphany.
My cat is a Republican.
I've got one living here in the house.
Proofs:
She does not believe in time change or climate change or hope and change or any change. She frowns on all matters of change.
She looks out for her own interests with fierce intensity; her food wants are paramount and must be attended to. However, when she has been nicely fed with my resources, she then turns her eye to my own meal. She obstructs my ability to feed myself by throwing herself into my legs, then once I have overcome her opposition and prepared a meal, she demands to see if mine is nicer than hers, and wants a portion.
Her behavior is generally environmentally unfriendly, as she declines to poop and pee outside where it is biodegradable. If I take the catbox away so she will go outside, she merrily proceeds to spoil my belongings to suit her preference.
She is automatically afraid of and hostile to anyone who wears anything on his or her head.
Although she brings foreign lizards into the house for her pleasure, she outsources most of the spider killing to the wild rangy outside cat.
She is, as Teddy Roosevelt put it so succinctly, a fat cat.
I don't think my TV gets Fox News but I am going to have to watch where I leave the remote.

Cheering

I just completed my first week at the job I've been on for a year that entailed just doing the basic job description; no covering for other people, no teaching new people, no endless meetings for projects that never start.
It was a pretty sweet gig, actually. My fledglings call me for database type questions but I don't mind that. The other person they are designated to call, the "Educator", is completely clueless and calling her would just be frustrating to both of them.
The lady at the Credit Union said my refi went through but the assessor didn't call me this week and the CU lady didn't return my call of inquiry. I am going to keep on her, though, this house might fall in if I don't get some shit fixed. I am dreading cleaning up for window installation but it will be nice to not have actual wind blow through the house in the winter.
I have lost 14 pounds. The "saggy fat suit over muscle" look is what I am going for and I am ignoring the folds of skin sliding down my midsection. Excelsior!
I wonder if I should get one of those compression garments they have you wear after lipo and wear it. You can get anything on Amazon.

The Douchenozzle Chronicles Vol 3

I stopped in the manager's office today at the gym. She was sitting at her computer looking sadly at the screen. I asked her if she had heard about the hot tub follies over the weekend. Indeed she had, and was about to handle that situation as soon as she solved the problem in front of her. Oddly, it also had to do with the ladies' locker room. She seemed mournful and without hope.
"What else could be going on in the ladies' locker room? My word!" was my inquiry.
"Nudity," she said hopelessly. "Someone was offended because the ladies in there have nudity when they are changing and it makes this person feel uncomfortable."
Wait, what?
"Hold on a minute. A woman is complaining that the women who are changing clothes in the clothes-changing area make her feel uncomfortable?"
"Yes," she sighed sadly. "And I can't think of a thing to tell her."
I pondered briefly and a helpful thought came to me.
"Tell her if she thinks those naked women are bad, just take a look in the hot tub of a Saturday and she will really get an eyeful. Those naked old ladies will look positively tame."
We both hooted like old Southern ladies love to do.  Then she grew sad again.
"I can't tell her that."