Tiny Indignities: Brought to You by Frankenboob

First, thank you. To everyone who has been so damn supportive and kind (and patient!) please know I appreciate it all.

Second, I'm ok. My awesome surgeon (who was VERY excited and happy in the pre-op room...something that I considered weird until I realized I WANT a surgeon who's passionate about his job) got it all. Both Francis and his sidekick have clear margins, which means the cancer hasn't spread outside the bits he cut out. My lymph node was also clear, which is a huge deal. Early detection, people. I'm a lucky girl.

Things are healing, I'm down to very occasional ice packs and ibuprofen, and I still can't do a hell of a lot (which makes me look at my kickboxing/MMA uniform bag AND, oddly enough, the remaining leaves in the back yard, with great sadness). I still don't know for certain about chemo. I don't see anyone for radiation until next Tuesday, so I don't exactly know when that'll start, but I suspect not until all my stitches are dissolved.

Tomorrow is my 2 week surgical follow up, although technically yesterday was the actual 2 week mark. Tomorrow is also my Oncology consult, because one of the door prizes for cancer is getting your very own specialty doc for pretty much forever.

I'm going through the intake paperwork for the Oncologist and am struck by the frank end-of-life preference questions.  Is it important to me to be able to feed myself. Is it important to me that my doctor tell me when I'll die. Is it important for me to not be a burden on my family/loved ones. Yeah. Morbid, I know, but here's the deal: Cancer is a disease that just progressively strips a person's dignity away, little bites at a time. I have a few (since the MRI boob-box debacle):

1. For a few hours on surgery day I was a radioactive superhero. Or at least Frankenboob was. Maybe not a superhero...could be the Hulk.Anyway.  I'm not as well read on gamma rays vs radioactive isotopes or whatever the hell was in those two little alien tracking devices the inserted into my breast that morning. All I know is after each one the nurse had to run a Geiger counter or something over me,which screamed (not me, the instrument) in the appropriate places. So I'm lying on a hospital bed in a darkened room with one boob just hanging out in the air for the doctor, nurse, and ultrasound tech (after he's stuck a needle in there twice...yep, I watched on the ultrasound machine) and the nurse had to wave a screaming wand over it. I mean, what better way to start my day?
2. After pre-op excitement (including yet another nurse who can't find my veins, resulting in multiple sticks and a delay in letting my peeps into the pre-op room to hang until I went to the OR), a 10 year old anesthesiologist stopped by. Doogie Howser is alive and administering Propofol and Fentanyl, you guys, and clearly I'm old. But hey, I got to walk in my breezy backless surgery gown and hot purple socks to the OR! 
3. Sorry kids, I didn't do or say anything weird in recovery that I know of. And the nurse isn't telling. She did say I have pretty eyes. I think. I was busy being proud I didn't have any pee-my-pants accidents in surgery (yes I'm certain: I had underwear on through surgery and they were still there when I got out). 
4. It took me three days (probably until the Propofol was mostly worn off) to realize SOMEONE had to hold me up in and wrap the mile long ace bandage around my boobs. I'm sure that was SUPER fun. I wonder if they dropped me...my feet hung off the table in the operating room, and that table isn't very wide.
5. I can't wear deodorant until the stitches in my armpit have fully dissolved and the steri strips fall off and the doctor says it's ok. 
1. Related: I have discovered that I am not a hippie. I would like my razor and deodorant back immediately, please. (Good Goddess, please for the sake of all our noses...give me back my deodorant.)
6. Hydrocodone prescriptions (that's Vicodin, if you aren't up on your opioid addiction literature) come with a stool softener. I'm suddenly 8,000 years old. 
7. Hydrocodone prescriptions apparently also come with a warning letter from the pharmacy. It arrived, detailing the "dangers of opioids" TWO WEEKS after I was done with the prescription. Helpful. 
8. Side effects of future treatments will be...well, they should be less awful than chemo, but less fun than getting a cavity drilled. 

We'll see after tomorrow...because maybe the biggest indignity is not knowing. Everything happens in increments, so there's an overall grieving process of what life was going to be like BC (before cancer) vs what it will be like AC (after cancer), PLUS a series of small stabs of worry every time a new test is run "just to confirm". My recent history with "just to confirm nothing's wrong" tests hasn't been great. 

I've filled out the Oncology form. I'm ready for tomorrow's appointments...dear MN: please go for the 1" snowfall tonight, not the 78" option, ok? I don't want to leave at 6am for my 9:30am appointment...and I need my surgeon to say I can deodorize again. 

Also, since I included boobs AND drugs in this post, HI NSA! 

I Heart Internet News

Blame Jay Leno for my never ending amusement at awfulsome headlines. 

Religious People Say They Don't Watch Porn. Internet Data Says Otherwise. Um, I feel like "duh"should be somewhere in this headline. Maybe even "fucking duh?". 

Catholic Bishop's Advice For Divorced, Remarried Catholics: Stop Having Sex. Clearly, he thinks they should just watch more porn. In true creepy fashion, said Bishop actually suggests remarried divorcees should live like 'brother and sister'.  I think he reads too much VC Andrews and needs to be sent back to Seminary.  

Here's how long you can look someone in the eye without creeping them out. OOH! A new skill to learn for commuting and long, uncomfortable meetings. 

How can people with narcolepsy drive safely? Um...

Stop judging ugly fruits and vegetables. You're hurting their feelings, you insensitive jerkfaces. Right before you slice them into tasty tasty salad toppings. 

Just a reminder that alligators show up in trees. What the fuck. Now they can climb goddamned trees, so in Florida you not only have to worry about SNAKES dropping out of a tree on your head (oh yeah, it happens people), but fucking ALLIGATORS can ambush you from above? Who allowed this shit? Darwin, I'm looking at you. 

Live out your dreams of frolicking with farm animals through virtual reality.  Seems like a legit alternative to Pokemon. Or internet porn? Remember the post about billy goats? Yeah. I'm stopping now. 

Starbucks is giving all US workers a raise. And, by the way, raising drink prices by 30 cents. Once, long long ago, I convinced my ex to quit smoking by saying "do you REALLY want to spend $10 a day on cigarettes?" I suppose I'm going to have to break the iced mocha addiction soon for the same reason. 

Book Review: Harmony Black by Craig Schaefer

Amazon Prime recommended this one to me (how Amazon manages to recommend anything to me given the weird and random things I buy is really beyond my algorithmic abilities), and for once the interwebs read me correctly.

Harmony Black by Craig Schaefer was completely worth the time. I loved this book enough to read it in a night, losing sleep to find out what happened. 

If you know anything about me at all, that's just about the highest praise I can give a story: I am excessively protective of my sleep. The premise alone was enough to hook my interest: FBI agent recruited somewhat against her will into a secret black project government branch that investigates and eliminates paranormal threats, because she's a Witch.

I like paranormal fiction. I like well written, fast paced, fleshed-out paranormal fiction that has a surprise or two...and oh, the characterization of Harmony's personal demons, along with the rest of her team's quirks, kept me entertained for the whole story. Since this is the beginning of a new spinoff series by Schaefer, the story surrounds the initial case bringing Harmony's new Scooby team together. The timeline skips from her recruitment, in which she specifies she works alone, thanks, to her long-needed vacation after bagging some major case monster in Vegas. But we've all watched enough cop shows to know vacation is NEVER uninterrupted, and she's ordered to break her "lone-wolf" rule by joining some elite super-secret monster hunting squad: to catch and kill the Boogeyman. 

I appreciate that this book is truly a monster-hunting story. The ethical conflicts between expediency of removing a (literally) monstrous threat to the public versus following procedure seems boring when written in a sentence, but as a conflict for the main characters it's what brings a measure of reality into a universe where demonic bounty hunters from Hell are competing with the FBI to catch a creature stealing babies. 

Yup, I just wrote that sentence. 

And, because I not only wrote that sentence but thoroughly enjoyed the book that drove me to write it, I'll be reading the sequel(s) as they come out. 

Scully Explains Feminism in the BEST WAY.

I've been watching Netflix streamed crime shows lately, particularly ones from other countries. Oddly enough, it was in a serial killer show with Gillian Anderson (SCULLY!!) and Jaime Dornden (Once Upon a Time, 50 Shades) that has boiled down the best description of everyday sexism I've ever seen.

Gillian Anderson, a special police investigator, is being questioned by her boss (a man) for her (completely consensual) one night stand with another cop. She responds thusly:

"'Man fucks woman.'

Man: subject.

Fucks: verb.

Woman: OBJECT.

 

You don't have a problem with that: that's acceptable behavior.

 

'Woman fucks man.'

Woman: subject.

Man: OBJECT.

 

You have a problem with that.

 

It's YOUR problem."

SyFy's Next Sharknado: CARNICORN!

Because who the fuck wouldn't watch a bad Saturday night movie with a flesh-eating-attack-unicorn?? People, it's goddamned genius: the ultimate symbol of innocence and purity ravaging a city with impalement carnagey death.  Somebody who's not me and can actually write scripts: get on that shit.

I wonder if the Snakipeder Army could defend against Carnicorn...hmm.

Also, the fundamental difference in my dogs' personalities are most evident during the early morning's first pee rituals. This is a daily occurrence and does not deviate by season, time of morning, weather, or my location (sometimes if it's cold or rainy or I'm lazy I just stand in the doorway and put them on the extendo-leash instead of going outside. Stop judging me.)

Thor: sidle quietly up to my right side from behind me (so I have to turn away from the door to put the leash on) and nimbly trot out the door. Sniff all the things in the entire radius of the leash's available square footage. Pull the leash-holder as hard as possible to eke out an additional foot or two to the sniff radius. Eat poop if available and tasty (this depends on which dog's turn it is to be first to pee in the morning, as fairness requires taking turns). Make seven back-and-forth passes in a line to find the ideal pee spot. Pee while watching everything in the area as a silent but alert awkward statue. Take final sniffs of the air in all four directions, just in case. Watch silently if a car/person walks by. Bark only if another dog is within line-of-sight. Return to the house for breakfast. Wait patiently for Chewy to finish fucking around so the bowls are filled. Eat breakfast while growling and keeping one eye on Chewy for any theft attempts. Retreat to the couch. Nap.

Chewy: lie in front of the sliding door like a large fluffy rug, wait for the leash to be attached. Fall through the open space in a clumsy trip down the step to the patio. WA-WOO loudly upon exiting the home, to formally announce the presence of THE MAN in the yard. Proceed with tail up in flag-formation to all areas of the leash radius and WA-WOO in all directions, including toward the house. Watch a leaf blow by: wa-woo at it. Pee. Wrap self around the fire-pit in the yard and look confusedly at the back door for help from leash-holder. Unwrap self from fire-pit. WA-WOO toward the neighbors' yard to announce FREEDOM. Squat and poop. Take a 1/2 step forward. Poop again. Another step: poop. Leave a line of turds as a potential trail back to the house. Check for squirrels/rabbits/shrews/ravens in all trees/bushes/under the step on the patio. WA-WOO at any creature disturbed by investigation. Should any person, truck, dog, or debris pass line of sight, dance in place, growl and bark as ferociously as possible while stepping in the fresh poop pile you just left behind for Thor to eat. WA-WOO repeatedly while cantering back to the patio and pushing leash-holder aside to barrel into the living room. Chase Thor in the room before the leash is unsnapped. Wreak havoc. Eat breakfast. Return to the window and WA-WOO at any changes in the yard since coming in. Nap.

Yes Medusa, my hair IS trying to kill me (or: You won't like it when it's ANGRY)

The past few days have been a rollercoaster. Did you know I'm horridly susceptible to motion sickness? I wonder if I can get a prescription for an emotional-Dramamine-patch...

So, the highs and lows in my fucked up universe in a 72 hour period:

• Had enough frequent flier miles to visit one of my most favoritest people on the planet, EVER SO CONVENIENTLY located in one of my most favoritest areas of the planet. And so I'm running away for a weekend in March to Seattle. "woohoo" does not cover the furiously excited tickle in my belly while I anticipate.

• A friend I haven't spoken with (due to miss-meshing schedules, not any nefarious doings) somehow butt-dialed me and left a 3 minute long "message," in which I listened to spirited conversation between her and her 3 year old daughter. I am monumentally entertained.

• Spent many tear-filled (my fucking eyeballs HURT, and I need a goddamned icepack) hours in emotional-stickymess-laden Arguments of Unusual Size. That was just...fucking FABULOUS. Really. Particularly the remnants that linger today. Sigh. There are times I think shaving my head and joining a remote mountain monastery would be a boon to my sanity.

• Oh, and said hair (which would be shaved off by now had I not just spent more than I normally would on myself to have a lovely friend attempt to tame it) tried to CHOKE me to death this morning. A pre-sneeze gasp resulted in the hair attempting to wreak revenge (presumably for the abuse I paid for on Saturday morning when my fabulous stylist fixed the caterpillars above my swollen eyeballs AND chemicalized the unruly mop on my head).  Near-death gagging accomplished by snaking its way, all Medusa-like, down my throat.

Since it's apparently difficult to sneeze AND choke to death, my sinuses gave up. So, the cure for the impending allergy season is Medusa hair? Hmm...I'm sure there are a multitude of spit-or-swallow jokes to be made there, but frankly I'm still busy coughing.

Go Ahead: Call Me Lazypants.

Do you know what happens when I have weeks and weeks off of work between the end of my contract and the beginning of a new position?

NOTHING.

So far:

• I've gotten utterly hooked on the Kevin McKidd episodes of Grey's Anatomy, even though I'd been warned not to get into that show (because goddammit, I'm trying NOT to watch so much TV, and Netflix might just be Beelzebub). Also, WHAT THE FUCK is with hospital shows getting mass shooters and sneaky stabbers rampaging through?? I remember the ER episode where Dr. Carter gets stabbed, people. Anyway, since it's highly unlikely the McKidd will get nekkid in Grey's, I think I'm over that phase. But it took up a good four days of writing time.
• "Walk Like An Egyptian" is no longer a cultural reference. I must be old: one of my beginning bellydance students DIDN'T KNOW THE SONG. Sigh. I'm utterly disappointed. As it turns out, I'm likely not keeping the class I've been teaching for the past year anyway: the rightful teacher would like to come back. But I did enjoy teaching again, and I may have to see if there are other opportunities around...otherwise I'm lazy about dance. I need to be in or be responsible for class.
• I've slept in every day and gone to be early every night. It's fucking AWESOME. That is all.
• I have a stack of new books, six episodes of Once Upon a Time, and a house to clean.

It's possible I'm turning into a hermit. I'm cool like that.

CLIMB INTO THE HANDBASKET...and hang the hell on.

 

If you're wondering, I'm TOTALLY using that title for my as-yet-ill-conceived memoir. That's right: "climb into the handbasket" was one of the many fucked-up ways people found this blog. Here are a few others:

• "i'm in love with my same sex therapist" - I'm fairly certain I've never blogged about this. Should I ever I'll be sure to tag it something obnoxious.
• "mini donut bus" - snicker
• "pithy porno for men" - I suppose this is because I SPECIFICALLY add tags that indicate this is NOT porn and these aren't the looked-for penises, and that amuses the fuck out of me.
• "ripping each other's faces off" - well, that's violent. And gross.
• "shit my pants as an adult" - yeah...I just have nothing for this one at all.

In other news, so far today I've managed the following nonsense:

• offered to buy a former co-worker and his new bride porn. Doesn't everyone want a subscription to Penthouse as a wedding gift??
• was called an Orca* which did fabulous things to my brain, considering I've gained four pounds back after our annual Girls Weekend Group cookie exchange (HOMEMADE FUDGE, WHY CAN'T I QUIT YOU?)
• been recruited by the travel-hell job that laid me off last November by a former co-worker (not the one I offered to get porn: that would be inappropriate!) who has been rehired and seems to really want that employee referral bonus. I find the prospect...unlikely.
• spent far too much time on Twitter and Amazon after discovering many of my followers/followed twitter peeps offer freebies. Indeed, the Kindle app on my iphone is STEAMING with the stuff I've downloaded...and I now know some wonderfully sick writers to add to the Dirty Book Club.

*to clarify, a discussion in regards to swimming in the ocean led to that, which to be fair WAS intended as a compliment. One of the many nicknames for an Orca is "sea wolf" and the person in question SAYS it was meant thusly. I, however, pointed out next time such a text should be read out loud to a female before sending it to a girl, and that another nickname for Orcas is "KILLER DEMON."

To be fair, Killer Demon may be more applicable than either a whale OR a sea wolf.

I'm cool with that.

PS: spellcheck refuses to acknowledge "orca" as a word. Fail, spellcheck. Fail.

Update: This was going to be a real post, but then there was an angry dog. And Bellydancing Chewbaccas.

There's a real post coming, and the next flash fiction entry for my Seven Deadly Sins project (which was sidetracked by broken pelvis scaffolding and hospitals). In the meantime:

My sister is a HUGE Viking's fan.

I'm not a football fan in general (although I AM quite a fan of Vikings punter Chris Kluwe, but that's a different post)... apparently neither is my sister's Chihuahua, Kiki.



Fuck. You. All.

You're welcome.
Also, I saw this today, and I CAN'T UNSEE IT. Therefore, so shall you:

Mini-Donut-Trucks Date Back to the 1600's

Oh, you didn't know that?

Well, neither did I, until the Mini Donut truck parked outside my booth at the MN Renaissance Festival on Saturday. Nope, not kidding:

(Pic courtesy of PJ, who posted it on facebook today, because the one I took with my non-renaissance-iphone didn't turn out). What this picture doesn't include is the costumed street performer who stood next to the truck for the entire day, 9am to 7pm, holding a sign that just read: REALLY?

Other fun shenanigans at the Renaissance Festival last weekend:

• It rained Saturday night, so there were large puddles everywhere Sunday. Two street performers pretended to fish in a puddle outside my booth. Husband said "the only thing they're likely to catch in there is an STD."
• DonutTruckGate and the new Mermaid Peep Show (which you have to pay extra for and is located in the Children's Realm of the festival, which I find amusing...although it may be touted as "See a Mermaid" instead of "Mermaid Peep Show." Semantics.) were the topic of every improv bit for pretty much every entertainment show at the festival.
• Apparently said ridicule was so exhausting for management that by Sunday afternoon that someone asked the donut truck to leave. So he set up on the other side of the parking lot and continued to sell to patrons. Kudos to him! It wasn't HIS fault stupidity ran amok and likely screwed him out of many sales.
• Participants park in a gravel pit. A deep gravel pit, filled with looming pyramids of sand and rocks, excavation equipment, puddles that can swallow your car, and six inches of mud. Oh did I mention there are NO LIGHTS down there, so when workers are done at 8:30 or so they're navigating in the pitch black to try to find their cars in a maze of filth and deadly obstacles? Yeah.
• The shuttle driver who is SUPPOSED to drive workers down to their cars (for safety purposes...ie so they don't get hit by lost drivers trying to find their way OUT of the pit) decided to call it a night at about 7:30 on Saturday.
• Another shuttle driver made pretty raunchy comments about bouncing boobs (yes, most all of us women out there wear corsets or bodices, and they DO push our cleavage up. It was the style of the Renaissance.) and actually stopped the bus and asked workers if he could WATCH THEM CHANGE. What the fuck, dude? He's been reported. I wasn't on the bus at the time. I likely would've popped him one and gotten fired, so it's probably good I wasn't there.

My feet are three sizes too big today, my legs hurt, and I'm bone tired. But selling mead is kick-ass fun and I have a great crew. All opening-day shenanigans aside, it was a fabulous weekend.

One weekend down. Six to go. If you're in MN, stop by!

Well. I have nothing for this.

Apparently the people who produce the dictionary are all on acid. Prepare for my English Major rant forthwith (disclaimer: I can't spell "February" without spellchecker help AND I often say "Liberry" instead of library, knowing full well it pisses people off).

Sexting, Flexitarian, and Aha Moment ARE NOT WORDS. Who sets the goddamn standards of the English language anyway? I'm all about adding them to the slang dictionary, because that's what they are. SLANG (Slang: an informal nonstandard vocabulary composed typically of coinages, arbitrarily changed words, and extravagant, forced, or facetious figures of speech).  

PS: In case you needed proof of the hubris that is Oprah: apparently she had the fucking GALL to sue Mutual of Omaha over an uncopyrighted phrase that's been in the American lexicon since at least 1939. Because she's apparently 1) immortal (the only way she could've "invented" that phrase...and the idea creeps me the fuck out) and 2) so important that gold flake falls from her lips instead of spittle. Just...ugh.

Fuck you, Websters Dictionary for putting shitty slang into the goddamn dictionary as though it's actual English. Next you'll be adding "Liberry," for crying out loud.

In other, non-ranty, news: it appears some interesting searches have resulted in views of my blog. I'm baffled about what someone was looking for when googling "hot pink stop sign." I mean...really.

I'd like to point out that if someone's itchy after going to Valleyfair it may be time for a shower. What the hell...just...what the hell.

Pays nothing...may Traumatize Christmas Baby Dragons.

Today I spent quite a bit of time screwing off (in a non-sexual, work-appropriate way). As has been my usual MO for the past week or two...because projects have been delayed by forces not in my control (I SWEAR I didn't wave that wand toward work!!).

Therefore, I spend much of my afternoon fucking around on Craigslist. Since that phrase could mean quite a few different inappropriate behaviors, oh DO let me share the best DOD: Distractions of the Day.

Witness: Kiss Car. Note it's for sale to only the ULTIMATE fan of Gene Simmons. I sort of expect to see it tooling around St. Paul soon, since KISS is playing the MN state fair this year. Apparently bloody demon music is excellent family entertainment. (Wait Kiss Army! I've been to a few Kiss concerts and my husband's a huge fan. I think they're fucking fabulous. It's called sarcasm...stop threatening me and for fuck's sake PUT YOUR TONGUES AWAY.)

In other news, I firmly believe this is the BEST CAR AD EVER. I mean, it made me want to grow a beard AND drive a '95 goddam...erm...grand am. Plus, any ad that uses "Jesus Tap Dancing Christ" is a fucking winner in my book: told Husband he can't sell my truck until he comes up with an equally entertaining ad.

I also seriously considered quitting my job as a business analyst for a health-care-company in favor of becoming a dragonslayer, except that brought up the Dilemma of DragonSlaying. It sparked a whole ethical dilemma in today's email session:

Me: Being a fucking weirdo, my first thought was "but what if the red and green dragons are husband and wife dragons? I'm not killing someone's spouse. For FREE. WTF dude?"


C: what if they have little baby Christmas themed dragon-ites? That's not cool man.Also if it's green there's a solid chance that it's Puff the Magic Dragon and, dude, that is nothing but good news. Seriously.
Z: Do I get to keep a trophy of this dragon? Because I would mount it's wings on my car, that would look so fucking cool. Husband and Wife or Brother and Sister, either way I'm not risking encoring the lifetime wrath of a Dragon for no pay. The only way this would work is if the Dragon gave me half his heart and was actually Sean Connery. Although I still wouldn't kill it then.

Yup. That was my day today.

JESUS TAP DANCING CHRIST! I MEET JENNY LAWSON TOMORROW!!

UPDATED AGAIN (WTF?): Um, That's MRS. Titts, Actually.

Once again it's nearly time for the MN Renaissance Festival to begin. I've worked at Fest now for twelve years. I've been a t-shirt-and-mug-pusher, a beer wench, a balloon blower, a calligrapher, a gate guard, and even an entire BAND for the bellydancers (that's right, I OWNED running that ipod, bitches).
And still after all that time, I'll be "Mrs. Titts." Because my husband's been at Fest every season for over 20 years, and at least 95% of the regulars don't know his actual name: just his nickname. Of course, those who DO know him outside of that environment often call him Titts anyway, because he doesn't usually answer to his actual name out there. Snort.

A side effect of my introvertedness is that a lot of people often don't remember my name (he does introduce me as ME, people): they just remember I'm Titts's wife. It would grate on my self esteem a little, except that I generally don't want to know all those acquaintances we only see at Fest anyway: I have all the drama and relationship-sustaining duties I can handle. Ha!

However, should I start that sex/relationship/advice blog I keep thinking about, it'll decidedly be "Mrs. Titts" related, because I can't make that shit up. Perhaps "That's MRS. Titts To You."

Ideas? Thoughts?

In other news, Husband (lordy, I should just start calling him Titts here so he has a nickname instead of an office title) is either amused or baffled because I put "hair doodies" as an option on my birthday list. More about birthdays later, I'm sure, but he's been hounding me about the word "doodies" all day. It's probably not even a word... NOPE! According to spellchecker it's not. Fuck you, spellchecker.

UPDATE: To clarify, I'm pretty happy as Mrs. Titts in general. :) The people who make it through the first border of STAY-AWAY-FROM-ME all know my real name, and I'm quite happy they've remembered, but I'm just as happy having an alternate name in a place with so many random people. It's a buffer. I use it as such pretty shamelessly. The week or two before Fest is just a little weird as I work on putting on "Mrs. Titts." It's a like corset...perfect in certain situations, but it's not all I wear. :)

UPDATED AGAIN:
What the hell. Clearly I wrote this post REALLY poorly, judging from the snarky responses I've gotten. This post is about me being a big weenie and hiding behind my husband's amusingly inappropriate nickname at a place where I 1) don't know NEARLY as many people as he does and 2) often get overwhelmed by too many peeps, anxiety kicks in, and I don't always want to be known by every goddamn participant and patron on the grounds.

This post is NOT about whether you know my husband's real name. If you've known him since you were kids, went to school with him, have been to our house, have fucked him, have had drinks with him outside of fest...etc etc etc etc OF COURSE you know his real name. Good for you! The fact remains there is a large Fest population I don't ever see or know outside of that microcosm...and to them I'm perfectly happy to remain Mrs. Titts. In case you missed the point, that's what I was writing about.

Also, it's apparent that not only was this particular topic a fail humor-wise (that's cool, I can't always be funny) it was also a pretty epic fail for my anxiety, since I've been irritated over this all goddamn day and rewrote crap here a zillion times.

FYI: I exaggerate. A lot. Get used to it.

UPDATED: Dirty Yodaisms and Holy Balls

Someday I'm likely going to have to pay these people for the shit they come up with to entertain me during the day.
Indeed, in an attempt to make me laugh inappropriately during meetings today, I received the following text messages:

Z: Coworker X told me a bit ago that he would rather have sex with me than the project manager. I said it's mostly because of my butt.
Me: Well that's fair, I suppose.
Z: I told X he could be big spoon. I'd be his big teddy bear.
Me: ...since he's quite shorter than you, I find that unlikely. Big spoon, I mean. Never asked if X is a butt man or not.
Z: Yeah no, he'd be like Yoda on my back. All men are butt men, Jess.
Me: Heehee...Yoda.
Z: But a Yoda trying to have sex with you. "Inside you I will go."
Me: Oh good lord, that started a whole string of dirty Yodaisms in my mind.
Z: "Daddy, is who I am."


Yes, I DID edit his name...and a couple of the Yoda-isms that I deemed too gross to read again myself. So there.

In a similarly fucked-up-yet-hilarious conversation, I received this from C the other day:

Oh hey, that reminds me I'm supposed to talk to you about seeing if we can use your contact within the viking cheerleader organization to get them to come to work The Company Which Must Not Be Named for an afternoon. To boost morale. This a request from an employee of The Company Which Must Not Be Named. So it didn't sound as skeezy coming out of his mouth as it does typing it out. Holy balls, does it sound terrible typing it out. (BTW, that's Pope Balls, Rabbi Balls, Buddha Balls, Ganesha Balls, Jesus Balls, God's Balls, Dali Lama Balls - in case you're wondering. Really the Ganesha ones are the best. Because those are holy elephant balls.)

In other news, there's a cell phone battery somewhere in the backseat of my car. Scale of one to cancer, how bad would it be if I just let it stay back there?"

I told her since it's likely to be 10,000 degrees (this was Monday and therefore MN had a heat index advisory of The Fourth Circle of Hell) and said battery could potentially explode, it was closer to butt cancer than one, and I'd likely try to find the battery.

Much discussion that day regarding other Holy Ball options: Odin's Balls, Loki's Balls (which are tricky, mind you), various other Gods' in various pantheons, as well as whether Wiccans had Blessed Tatas instead of Holy Balls, however since there are male deities in Pagan/Wiccan belief systems we decided both Blessed Tatas and the Kernos/Green Man/etc balls counted.

I love my peeps, indeedy: we're equal opportunity offenders.

PS: spellchecker refuses to acknowledge "Yoda" as a word. Fail!!

PPS: I sincerely doubt any Vikings cheerleaders would bother with The Company Which Must Not Be Named.
PPPS: There IS another person on these daily email chains, but he generally doesn't say much and sort of lurks like a damn shark, waiting until he can deliver the occasional grammatical smackdown.

UPDATE: It occurred to me after I posted this that while there were a few Yodaisms I edited out, I'm sure this would be a fabulously hilarious exercise in general. Therefore, if you have one, add it to comments!

I fought the Con and the Con won

Fourth of July weekend in Minnesota doesn't generally involve BBQs, beach, or patriotic shenanigans for the hubs and me: for the past decade or so we've spent every 4th at CONvergence, the best, craziest, most fucked up, weirdest gathering of people I usually see all year. It's fabulous and mental, even more so than Renaissance Festival. And by the end of both events I'm peopled-out for about ten months.

 

The past few years I haven't had much of a good time (parties were boring, panels weren't interesting to me personally, couldn't justify the cost of hotel and a badge), so I went badgeless and staked out a table at the hotel bar (where we don't need no stinkin badges!). Acting as a spider queen (or a hooker, I guess) letting all the peeps I want to see come to ME between parties worked perfectly for my anxiety AND my lazy nature. Win!

From 7pm to 3am I drew them into my snarky web, had a wide variety of fucked up conversations, and people-watched.

• Had dinner with a fabulously loud group of totally normal-looking people at TGIFridays. 90% of the other patrons were in various states of costume disarray, so for once we all looked totally normal. The Friday's staff were...unimpressed..in general. Neat!
• Saw various versions of ...unfortunate...choices of costuming. Con is one of the few places everyone is generally accepted regardless of size, and I love that about it. However, a badly fitting costume that squishes and bulges where it shouldn't flatters NO ONE, and this particular Poison Ivy looked more like bulbous Poison Oak. Sigh. If she'd gotten a green leotard ONE SIZE bigger it would've been a really cool Ivy on a curvy chick. Costume fail, Ivy. Costume fail.
• A friend of mine had Darth Vader in the crack of her ass. No really! (she'd converted a t-shirt to a skirt, and conveniently DV was in the middle, happily bouncing from cheek to crack to cheek as she walked).
• I pointed out that the same friend sat on Vader's face every time she sat down. Husband wondered if that's why Vader has a breathing problem.
• Various Tardi (that's right, Doctor Who-ers: I'm declaring multiple Tardisses are "Tardi") and Daleks ran the gamut from FUCKING AWESOME to "Why is that girl wearing a tin foil unicorn horn on her head. Wait, that's a Dalek? WHAT?"
• Got in a near-argument about classism and minorities. Argumentor pissed me off by saying all arts (music, writing, art, etc) should be free and we should go back to the Patron concept. As a writer, fuck you, artists deserve to be paid for their effort. As a historian, no, you uneducated twit, poor people indeed did NOT have it better in Ancient Greece or Rome. Don't believe me? I pointed out that she can't sell herself into a ludus to pay off her student loans through Gladiatorial games these days, nor can her boss whip her for calling in sick one day. All in all, not cool: Con is for serious arguments about Star Trek, which Doctor was the best, whether Xena is still relevant (Callisto was there, so Xena IS still relevant!!), and which party has the best booze. 
• SAVED from a lingering cranky mood from serious argumentative people when I noticed the giant Pac Man and Ghost were both wearing kilts. Because why not?
• Arthur, King of the Britons and his knights (complete with coconut-clapping and skipping) randomly trotted their way around the Con, followed closely by the armless Black Knight.
• If you don't understand this reference, stop reading this blog IMMEDIATELY and go watch Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Then explain to me which rock you've been sleeping under for the past 30+ years. Seriously.
• Played Cards Against Humanity with Caprica 6, Zelda, and a few other fantabulous people. If you've never played, DO IT, but only if you're amused by offensive things. I am, because I'm inappropriate. Examples of the "answer" cards I received: Assless Chaps, Glen Beck attacked by crab spiders, which swarm out of his eyes, Twinkies, tentacle porn. The game is terribly wonderful and it's likely I'm going to hell for being so damn entertained. We'll have a game table there, too, I'm sure.
• Sighting of Jayne Cobb hats, various versions of Hoban Wash, way too many Hunger Games characters, a plethora of men in Heroine drag (the theme was Women of Sci-Fi, therefore I saw far more hairy-chested Leias than brain bleach could possibly scrub away).
• Possibly the cap on the evening: our friend Robert in red boxers wearing...a pink, fur lined "boat" around his body held on by suspenders. That's right, Robert came to Con as THE LITTLE MAN IN THE BOAT.

For the first time since my first date with my husband, I was out until 5am, had a fabulous time, and didn't quietly get crabby from the crowds. I call that a win, and I owe my fun to my most excellent friend who were willing to hang out off and on all night and my husband, who often has to pry me out of the house with a crowbar. My hiatus from Con is likely over...I had enough fun to justify pre-registering AND getting a hotel room for next year after three or four skipped Cons. Your wily seductions win, Convergence. See you next summer.

Wolverines are real and they don't melt at the zoo.

Last weekend we took my cousins to Valleyfair (the local attempt at a Six Flags) and the Minnesota Zoo. Last weekend the heat index was eighty-bazillion degrees* and you needed gills to breathe. It was a whirlwind of teenage-girl-excitement, highlights listed here:

A pretty cute Brazilian boy asking me for the fifteen-year-old's name saying "she's beautiful" and following her (possibly stalking) through Valleyfair. Said boy was nineteen, and my cousin was ridiculously gorgeous in her inappropriately-tiny bikini. Sigh. I thanked the Gods yet again that I don't have kids after worrying about whether she could fend off an attack herself for two hours. Yes, I may be paranoid.

Also, I burned my scalp, but my legs are still fishbelly white. So I'm itching my head like a madwoman but could blind anyone looking at me in a swimsuit. I apologize for the horrible grammar in the last sentence...I have no excuses.

We discovered a FABULOUS squid-eating-your-head hat at the gift shop, which has absolutely NOTHING to do with Valleyfair (particularly since Minnesota is pretty goddamn far from any ocean). I tweeted it to The Bloggess. Unfortunately I suck at twitter in general...I'm not even sure I did it right, to be honest. I'm sort of a perfect storm of technology fail.

We took the girls to have sushi and Japanese food at a local Teppenyaki place. The fifteen year old loved hers...the thirteen year old made an ishy-face to everything except the noodles and fried rice. Anyway, the check came and we didn't have our usual argument over who had to pay (or, who had to sign the credit card slip, since it all comes from the same place): my husband took it. And did his math wrong. And gave the server a 32% tip. He felt too bad to tell the very excited waitress "no, I meant to give you less." I knew none of this, so when waitress stopped me to say thank you and "you make me SO Happy" I was a little weirded out. Ah well, in the scheme of things we managed to accidentally make someone's day, so that's neat.

Thanks to my extra weight and my pasty-white Norwegian heritage, I spent the entire time on the Northern Trail at the MN Zoo with a tomato-red face and a dripping forehead. Who else can claim to have a dripping forehead? I looked like a heavy chef in one of the Food Network contest shows who drip sweat into their masterpieces and offer the dishes to the judges, only were I a judge I'd reject any sweat-laden dish on principle alone. Really people, you have to use different cutting boards for raw and cooked meat and you can't wipe your fucking face so your forehead juice doesn't get in the potatoes? It's possible the tomato-redness was leftover scalpburn from Valleyfair.

Anyway, my husband thought I was about to have heatstroke (I felt FINE people, just a hot and squishy, but no signs of actual heat exhaustion) and bought me water by the camel pens. Even the damn camels looked at me all judgy from the middle of their pond, because the humid MN summer isn't as comfy for them as desert heat so they were all lounging in the water. Mocking me. Bitches.

I told him the sweat was fat melting and let's get going before he embarrasses me further, but damn if I didn't catch him watching me until we got back into the AC. It's not love, people..it's his determination NOT to have to carry his wife back to the car. Also, I was fine. Sheesh.

Overheard by a woman at LEAST my age who should fucking know better (thanks you public education? I don't know):  "You mean Wolverines are real? I thought that was just the guy from Xmen!" I may have snickered too loud when she said "No really, I thought it was a fictional guy." Luckily, I was still melting so probably looked way too slimy to bother fighting. I mean really, I could've slid out of anyone's grip at that point. And sweated on them. Gross.

*maybe the temp was actually around 93 with a high humidity...you know what? It felt like eighty-bazillion, so I'm sticking with that. I'm not a scientist, after all.

Encounters of the Weird Kind...

Random weird shit from Girls' Weekend 2012:

 

•  I may have been mistaken for a prostitute, but I'm not sure.
• Dinner at Dick's Last Resort in the Mall of America, where the servers are snarky and rude...and yet pretty damn hilarious.
• "I ate soup" was sent by one of the men in response to a "you should sext me" prompt.
• Filthy sexts received during dinner by one of the girls were shared with the group. Envy and giggles commenced.
• A possible zombie followed the group out of Starbucks on Nicollet Mall.* 
• Discovered a neat store on 9th and Nicollet, with random curiosities and a sleepy dog.
• Unfortunately, outside said neat store was a HORRIBLE trumpet player who repeated the same four or five notes with no semblance of melody. Even the kids walking by plugged their ears. I suspect this is what caused the dog's obvious depression.
• GODIVA HAS REWARDS and we all signed up. Now I get a free truffle once a month and some sort of incentive to buy more chocolate...as though any incentive is needed. Ha.
• The importance of having a clean hole was a theme. Said in reference to someone's teeth, which really only makes this statement sillier.
• "I have a boat but it has flat tires." Yeah, it was said in conversation, but I'm still baffled.
• "I'm sorry, I'm going to have to molest you now." Said to the pregnant girl as her belly is felt up AGAIN.
• A pushing match ensues between the two molesters attempting to feel the baby kick. The baby was apparently sleeping or terrified, because he didn't even wiggle, much less show alien-hand-movement in her belly.
• We as a group are no fun, according to the smarmy man in the Homewood Suites lobby who tried to charm us into either taking him with us to a bar somewhere or, possibly, some other sort of party. His British accent was fake and he carried four bottles of water for his group, so I'm not really sure what the hell he thought he'd get out of the five of us.
• Spent too much at Baby Gap for my impending nephew. The sales girl tried to get me to get a credit card...even though I have no spawn and told her so. Snort.

There was much laughter and wine for all (except the pregnant one, who was allowed laughing but not wine). GW was a success yet again, and the people who couldn't make it this year were missed.

*"Zombie" was actually a man who appeared to be carrying something in his shirt and was rather confused and wandering...unsteadily. He looked like he'd been in a fight: he followed us out to the street where there are many cops and Mpls community outreach people, so even though I felt guilty for not helping, I know he was picked up and helped by professionals. He was altered, and I'm not sure what he was carrying around under his shirt so was uncomfortable stopping. I must still feel guilty if I need to justify my non-action. Sigh.

Poking the Bear

I started a bit of a snark war on the Huffington Post yesterday. I read this: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/barbara-hannah-grufferman/mommy-wars_b_1584446.html and saw a comment from a fool basically saying women need to stay home and make babies because that's the way it's always been.

Well, the historian in me couldn't take THAT, so I had to respond to the jackass's comment. As of this morning I've gotten FOUR replies from him, all in a very condescending, chauvinistic tone. I'm pretty amused: sometimes it's worth the effort to poke at insecure bullies just to see what happens. Snort.

I'm debating responding to his response, but since he essentially outed himself as a fool I don't think it's necessarily worth the effort. Therefore, I'm blogging about it instead.

UPDATE:

Yeah. I couldn't keep my mouth shut, so I DID end up responding. Sigh. Smart isn't always my strong suit, I guess, but sexist intimidation is so irritating.