Chemo is an Interesting Monster - Round 2

Yesterday I had my second round of treatment for the two drug cocktail. For people keeping score, I'm now 1/2 way through the first 4 cycles. I'll have an additional 12 of a different drug after these are done. I am tolerating it ok as long as I stay on top of my nausea-med schedule and am very careful about eating on time/sleeping when I need to. Except for this whole immune system thing.

The following may be TMI, so feel free to stop here with reassurance that as of this morning I still have hair, I'm not horking everywhere, and I'm going to beat this with somewhat less energy/determination than Maggie Smith while she Professor McGonnegal'd during breast cancer chemo, but still, I'll get there. Yes I just made McGonnegal a verb, and why shouldn't she be?

I went to Round 1 on the 16th with a cold. THE cold everyone else is getting right now, with the cough that lasts a couple of weeks and generally makes life miserable and snotty. The nurses all felt terrible for me as I coughed into a mask while they did the chemo dance. So let's discuss the actual process here.

1. weight/BP/temp collected
2. Remember that port under the skin in my chest I had surgically installed on the 9th? The one where I HORRIFIED my surgeon by casually commenting I'd get an all-over skull tattoo before my hair grows back (to which he visibly recoiled before patting my knee and saying "you do you", and my mom and I cackled like a couple happy witches in the pre-op room)? At chemo, you pick whatever heated reclining chair you prefer out of the 3 areas of chairs, grab a snack and some water, and settle in for a WHILE. Then, the nurse comes to stick an L shaped needle into the port and tape it down, which makes me instantly IV'd.
3. IV flush. I can taste and smell rubbing alcohol in the back of my throat. Gross. 
4. Port draw. Chemo nurses are very charming, kind vampires who take as many vials of blood as they want, thanks. 
5. Now we start the drugging, but not chemo yet. First, three small syringes of prescription anti-nausea meds. Those stay in my system about 48 hours, so this morning I'm currently on 5 different drugs just to combat nausea. FUN! My mouth is dry. 
6. My treatment currently consists of two different chemotherapy: the first is bright red and comes in 3 big syringes. The nurse has to administer them by hand because each syringe goes in over 10 minutes and if any gets on my skin it's a bad deal. We chat about her kids and how the holidays are going and other random things, then after the third one is in we wait a few minutes with the saline drip. 
7. Please note the saline drip or some other liquid has now been pumping fluids into my central line IV for about an hour straight. 
8. The final round of IV drugs hangs for about an hour. My bladder can NEVER make it that long, but luckily the bathrooms are huge and the IVs are on wheels, so much like the boys in Armageddon I can wheelie myself down the hall to pee. Unlike them, I get to be in real clothes and there's no anal probing first. I promise that link is SFW. If you don't know what I'm talking about, go watch Armageddon again. 
9. AFTER the chemo is done, I get my alien attachment. Instead of anything icky, it's more like  temporary insulin pump that sticks to my belly and waits 27 hours before injecting a booster that helps my bone marrow make more white blood cells. Turns out this one is pretty damned important. 

Remember the cold? So I tolerated round 1 of chemo just fine, didn't have some of the worse side effects that could happen (I knocked on all the wood, really). But I had that stupid cold. Which was fine until Saturday, then it kicked my ass in no uncertain terms. I spent Saturday night until Monday morning in bed, unable to do anything but drink water and throw up and sneeze and cough. I lost 18lbs. I went in for chest x-rays on Monday last week to check for pneumonia - nope, just bronchitis. "Just" bronchitis. So last week while Christmas was sort of happening I was drugged to the teeth with a steroid, big time cough syrup, antibiotics, and an inhaler. And orders to go directly to the ER if I get a temperature at all. Fun times. Remember how Chemotherapy is intended to kill rapidly-growing cells (this is why hair loss is a side effect - it can't distinguish which KIND of fast-growing cells)? That means white blood cells too...which make up the majority of your immune system and are made in bone marrow. One week after chemo, Oncology does labs again to check how low my immune system dropped because that gives us a baseline. Mine was frighteningly low...so I've been mostly hermiting or wearing a mask when I'm out in public because I can't get strep. I can't get the flu. I can't get whatever next cold is coming around...I don't want a repeat of that weekend before Christmas.

TODAY is the day after treatment 2, and I mostly feel good. I figure the cough will stick around a while yet but I seem to be over the rest, and the worst thing I'm dealing with today is random tiredness. Eating breakfast (so I can take pills) required a 20 minute nap afterward. Walking up the stairs to login at work took a few minutes of pause at the top. Invalid-ness sucks when you're used to doing your own thing, I'm not gonna lie. But this is temporary, and I'm 1/2 way through my first 4 cycles. Tonight my family is doing Christmas dinner and presents and stuff (we had important people out of town last week) and I'm excited I'll be able to taste fancy food...and see what chemo makes weird.

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! 

Progress Smells Like Eucalyptus, and I'm Confused

I'm starting to feel more human, less simulacrum.

Maybe it's the sun (60 degrees and sunny in Minnesota is decidedly springy). The yard is clean of all winter dog mess. Chewy is happily lying in the not-yet-grass barking (mostly silently now, as he's gotten old and his voice is giving out) at neighborhood kids. It's nice, even as he slows down, to see him get a hint of his younger self. PROTECT THE YARD FROM ALL THE DEMONS is still happening, it's just muted and often from a prone position.

Hopefully, demons move slow enough for a 1/4 crippled Great Pyrenees to chase them down in a wobbly lumber.

Maybe it's because I joined a fancy (well, fancy for Minnesota) gym recently and the workouts are helping with energy. And screaming arm muscles. And sleeping, but not ON the treadmill because that's frowned upon in upscale establishments with personal trainers and triathletes.

The steam room is definitely helping...it's deliciously eucalyptus-y and burns my sinuses for the first few minutes every time I sit in there. Fuck the treadmill - I could sit in there all day. But I won't, because I'm pretty sure I'd pass out and schlepping a woman my size out of the steam room to the ambulance in front of all the other gym members is NOT my idea of a fun time.

Maybe it's because I only have a few episodes of Downton Abbey to watch, and I'm finally squinting at OUTSIDE to prolong it. Yes, I'm aware I'm like seven years out of date here. You shouldn't be surprised if you've read this blog longer than a day.

Also, seriously, I've been mostly out of my Neflix and Amazon Prime hibernation for the past two months, and I'm so terribly confused. Bingeing on Downton does NOT prepare one for news headlines about spiders being fully capable of eating all humans within a year if they felt peckish, or the bullfighter gored by a foot of bull horn up the rectum (I'm still clenching my cheeks after reading that one), or that a giant reticulated python ate a man whole in Indonesia yesterday.

Also, I saw the trailer for the new version of Stephen King's IT today. Let the nightmares begin.

What the fuck is going on?

It Must Be Wednesday - Yahoo Thinks I'm a Rich Frat Boy

Today's Spamalicious Hump Day offerings from Yahoo include eight offers of various sorts of encounter with chicks I don't know. 

I deleted two of them for offering explicit acts...not because I'm a prude: because I probably don't want people finding my blog as a search result for them. Sigh. 

Also, can I just say, Stiffler was 1999. 1999!! 18 years ago...shouldn't "MILF" have gone out of style by now? What the hell?  

Oh my god, I graduated college 18 years ago. I need more coffee for this shit. 

So, multi-aged various nationalities offering *ahem* hot evenings.
Dear Jenny M, no thanks but good luck with your boyfriend.
No, generalized nameless "naked girls", I sure don't remember you, and based on your email subject line you'd think I WOULD. Therefore, pretty sure you have the wrong girl here.

Extended Stay hotel (and apparently I own a timeshare somewhere: Ryan wants to buy it. Fuck you Ryan, I'm not giving up my sweet escape space for hot encounters with people I don't remember.)

Pizza.

See what I mean by wealthy frat boy as depicted in movies? The only offers missing are toga parties and beer.

Hmm. Maybe I should be flattered that Yahoo thinks I'm in my twenties?

Random Crap and Totally Inappropriate Lyrics

Does anyone else feel like 2017 is an extended (terrible) episode of the Twilight Zone? And that's all I'm going to say about the Oompa Loompa in charge, because I think it's covered better by all the media (social and mainstream) out there.

So, I haven't been here much since Thor died. I haven't honestly written much at all since then: worried about Chewy, hanging out with the family while they were in town for holidays, helping my ex get his stuff (well, the stuff left in my house/garage) ready to move down to Texas. My poor drawer-o-journals has been untouched for a couple of weeks now, which is pretty horrid since I MAY have bought yet another recently. *Sigh* yes, I have a problem. 

Tomorrow, I'm going to my first writing conference. It's stupid, but I'm beyond nervous: I'm bringing a page for critique (anonymously, thank all the deities out there) by agents, and signed up to do a pitch session. I can't decide if I'm pushing my boundaries in effort to become a professional writer someday, or if I'm just paying dearly for a moment of insanity months ago when I signed up to do this thing. Let's just all cross appendages that I stay within the non-arrestable forms of inappropriate behavior, shall we? 

Google says "arrestable" isn't a word. I disagree. 

I'm too nervous to come up with decent funny blog items tonight, but I AM back. And so instead I'll subject you to the dirtiest song I've actually ever heard (ok, that's not entirely true). No, I didn't know this song existed until the other day. Feel free to make fun of the video (which, if you listen to the lyrics has NOTHING to do with the song)...I did. Then I heard "cunning linguist" and really paid attention and HOLY CRAP they played this on the radio. Awesome and awfulsome. 

Book Review: The Babylon Rite (Tom Knox)

One of the dangers of spending so much time writing in the B&N coffee shop is the lurid attraction of all those unread pages.

Lo they do call to me... *ahem*

And so in the middle of writing the Prometheus book I was sidetracked by The Babylon Rite, a fascinating mash-up of Templar mystery and disturbing ancient Peruvian archaeology. Yes, I was also intrigued at the idea, and therefore got sucked into Knox's fast paced story of an unemployed journalist, a young archaeological grad student, and a couple of dead professors.

Adam Blackwood is writing a puff piece on a famous historian and his connection to Rosslyn Chapel. THE Rosslyn Chapel of The Davinci Code fame: a subject of both scorn and deprecation by the main character, as he makes a snarky comment or two regarding the influx of tourism in the area since Dan Brown's story became popular.

The professor in question, famous for debunking Templar myths, whispers only that it's all real and it's all here before running off and, surprisingly, driving his car into a stone wall in a mad suicide. And thus Blackwood is sucked into an odd mystery by the professor's daughter, a woman convinced her father had been involved in something bigger and scarier and was most decidedly NOT suicidal. Worse, his "suicide" seems to be similar to a string of truly horrific deaths popping up around London.

Did I mention seriously disturbing archaeology? That too. While all the drama is occurring in the UK, Jessica Silverton is in Peru with her (rather stereotypical) lover and boss, the head of an archaeological excavation of the Moche. Her story, seemingly separate from Blackwood's, follows what happens to a person who discovers the "mythological significance" of ancient paintings depicting people severing their own limbs or having sex with sacrifices (that would be during said sacrifice and immediately after) and/or animals was not mythologically significant at all. They weren't allegorical images: they were accurate recordings of real events.

The way their plots eventually intertwine with each other is really well done: the idea that Moche civilization is in any way connected to the secret Templar initiation rite is pretty inventive and not at all implausible when the mystery is revealed. However, I personally found the big twist that actually tied them together fairly disappointing. To be completely fair, that's likely because I rather enjoy the whole ancient conspiracy theme, and so I had an expectation I perhaps should not have entertained.

Also, while Knox has an excellent knack for writing really creepy violence, he doesn't do a lot to develop the characters themselves. I think the torturous villains would've been more effective if I gave a hoot about any of the main characters, but really none of them were much more than cardboard cutouts. I actually got the impression that there was development behind them, but that it had been edited out of the story to try to make it more fast-paced, because Knox's writing is truly evocative. I was disappointed to find myself ambivalent in places I wouldn't have been if I'd been vested in the character's worlds. Interestingly the back cover blurbs include something about this being a tale "peppered with sex" which is horrendously incorrect. There is a truly awful rape scene (yes, dear author, rape is still rape even if the victim's body responds...a comment which made me want to hit something), and there's a myriad of inventive violence. Decidedly not a story for weak stomachs.

All in all it wasn't a book that left me thinking hard about the world, the characters, or even the awful things that happened after I put it down. But I'd read another of his works for an afternoon escape anytime I'm feeling like an alternative to an action movie.

Don't ALL Families Talk About This Stuff?

This isn't a real post: it's a collection of random snippets I captured in my phone during conversations with family recently, so I apologize in advance for the lack of cohesive ending.

Things my awesome relatives have said to me recently:

"Oh yeah, didn't you know billy goats attract females by pissing on their own whiskers?" This is important to know if you own a billy goat and no female goats, because apparently they will just piss on ANYTHING that walks by their pen*. Because presumably they're irritated at the lack of female goat attentions, and have an abundance of piss.

*No. I did not get pissed on by a cranky horny goat in retribution or because I look like a female goat or for any other reason. The story involved was a good 30 years ago, and will likely end up in some collection of weird family tales someday.

Also, pygmy goats are fucking adorable and leave tiny hoofprints all over the roof of a car if they can. Which is disconcerting when you're a tired high school student who goes to open your Chevy Caprice wagon (because who drove to high school in a super-cool maroon grocery-getting-tank she could barely park? THIS GIRL.) in the morning only to find devil prints the size of a quarter all over the hood and roof.

Teeny tiny demons held dance parties to bad 90's pop music on my car. I'm certain of it.

"Um, no, actually, I'm pretty sure pigs always look at people as edible." Yeah. Not kidding there: I really did always think that pigs would eat people if trained to do so (you know, like starving dogs eating Ramsey Bolton, or like the pigs in the Hannibal Lecter sequel, or that creepy serial killing farmer in Canada...yes, Canada has serial killers ABOOT).

For the record, the story that went along with this quote was rather horrifying, about a woman my grandma knew of who fell in the pen when feeding the pigs one day. A huge sow she'd raised (read - spoiled like a pet) from a piglet ATE HER CHEST AND SHOULDER.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

Honestly, I have no further guilt at all about bacon or cute little piglet faces, because they look at us as people-bacon. Bring on the barbecue.

"Well, if the elephant is Kiki's 'sex toy' then let me know and I'll bring it home." The elephant in question - a purple stuffed animal. Kiki - a rather adorable four pound female chihuahua with a penchant for sexually abusing stuffed animals SO vigorously she humps them from one end of the room to the other. Yup, she's fixed. She doesn't care: she WILL DOMINATE ALL THE STUFFED ANIMALS. Even elephants, apparently.

And really, what better way to end a post than giving you a mental image of a tiny dog humping her way across a floor with a poor purple elephant taking it like a...well, like an elephant, I suppose.

Why I Can't Ever Attend the Kentucky Derby

I watch the Triple Crown every year...from the no-hat-required, jeans-friendly couch in my house. My family texts off and on all day before the Kentucky Derby: after all, for those of us in Minnesota the Derby is the last sign that winter is truly over, because horse racing season has begun. It's similar to Winter/Construction being the two seasons up here, except Race season is far less annoying traffic-wise.

Anyway, we make fun of the horrendous outfits (OH MY GOD Rutledge, really? How far the mighty Top Gear host hath fallen), the hats that could apply for their own zip code and MUST require a gallon of mint juleps just to step out the door (assuming a head that huge could get through a doorway), and the host (who apparently stole life-size My Little Pony hair to create that cotton candy pink thing on his head).

I know it sounds mean, but if you're going to go to a multi-million dollar event wearing a hat that literally looks like you stole it from Strawberry Shortcake and be on camera, I have no sympathy.

This year, we discovered it's possible I need a new prescription for my glasses.
ACTUAL horse's name: DESTIN.
What I saw: DESITIN (for those of you without spawn or diaper-changing duties EVER in your life, Desitin is a baby butt cream).

I'm not kidding, the following texts flew from LA to Duluth, MN, to Minneapolis yesterday:

Me: That horse Destin? I keep seeing "Desitin instead and I think his name is BUTT CREAM.
Me: GO BUTT CREAM!
Mom: Run your butt off!!
Aunt: RUN BUTT CREAM RUN!
Aunt: What # was Butt Cream??

Race happens (NO TEXTING DURING THE RACE!)

Aunt: Poor Butt Cream came up from the rear...butt lost.*
Mom: ROFL
Aunt: Butt Creme will get it in the end.

And that's why I can't ever go the Kentucky Derby in real life. 

*For the record, Destin kicked himself into serious high gear on the final stretch and came from the back of the pack to 6th.
Go Butt Cream!

Dear porn surfers: I bet THIS wasn't what you were looking for when you googled "butt cream" and, again, NO SYMPATHY. Mwahahahaha.

Random Weird and Adolescent Humor

I have no point in this post, other than to share a thing or five I noticed today that weirded me out.


First, let's talk about sperm whales. Because the tale of the Essex is now in theaters and of course the whale is the villain. My thoughts about the story of the Essex aren't about whale rights or whaling or Moby Dick...


No, I was struck by the utter ridiculousness of the name.


What the fuck. I mean, really, what the actual fuck?


What dumbass decided a sea creature bigger than the average ship looked/sounded (let's not go into the other senses, shall we?) like SPERM* of all things? I have absolutely no decent reason for why this plagued my brainpan today, but it did, and I had to find out. Thankfully, Google is there to help with burning questions about male ejaculate, even as pertains to whale names.


VERY IMPORTANT NOTE: when Googling, be certain you include "whale" in the description. Even so, it's better not to Google at work. Learn from my mistakes, and let's all hope I'm not fired, ok?



*As it turns out, whalers really did think the whale's forehead was full of sperm. In reality, it's filled with some weird waxy substance that probably looks ridiculously gross.


Moving on.


Groupon...which is not quite as random a transition as it seems. I get email ads from them regularly, so while I was re-Googling sperm whales on my phone (and thus avoiding the potential firing offense of search results for "sperm" anything) I got mail. It makes sense to me.


But really, there are things I find baffling to sell at their discounts. Such as:


Driving a tank - advertised at 50% off, which I assume means 50% off the price, not that you get to drive 50% of the tank. Driving 50% of a tank seems...unbalanced, somehow, doesn't it?


Boudoir Photography - OBVIOUSLY discounted because there's no amount of airbrushing or photo-shopping that would make me look anywhere close to the mannequin Barbie doll Victoria's secret model in the ad pics. And truly, getting into some of those positions seems dangerous as hell...how would I go back to work if my leg gets stuck...never mind.


Acupuncture - Because, for anything remotely medical OF COURSE I feel comfortable with the bottom of the barrel pricing.


Botox - WHAT THE HELL?? If you're going to inject botulism into your FACE, do you really want the bargain basement place to do it?


Breast Implants* - See Botulism botox injections...bargain basement boobies. REALLY??


*I am not kidding. I have indeed seen implants and other plastic surgery listed on Groupon.

Errant Vegetables In The News

I love Huffington Post. No, I didn't include a link. Yes, that's on purpose.


Not because it's an example of fair journalism (they aren't), nor because of the quality writing (it often isn't), nor because the site is so full of integrity* (definitely not).


*this is a site that doesn't pay any of the writers. At all. They offer "exposure" instead...because bloggers, journalists, writers: we can all make a living on free exposure, right?


Hmm. I wonder what exposure tastes like, if that's the grocery budget?


Anyway, I love Huffington Post because they have the best headline writers.


Examples from today (all in the same section):

• What Science Is - And How And Why It Works
• Oh Neil deGrasse Tyson...I just...wow.
• Yes, You CAN Wear Red Lipstick, And Here's How
• because the basic functionality of how a tube of lip color works is beyond most adults, apparently?
• How To Successfully Navigate a Threesome
• Again, ALL IN THE SAME SECTION (Science!)
• Interestingly, this one pops up (haha) in the Women and Divorce sections as well. Hmm.
• Can You Think Yourself Into A Different Person?
• Are you attempting to invade someone else's brain and take over, like a body snatcher? WHY THE FUCK would you want to do that?
• Clearly, I'm doing meditation all wrong if this is a thing.
• The Latest Science On Having a Rewarding Christmas
• Sigh

And my #1 favorite for the day:

• Here's Why You Should Stop Scaring Your Poor Cats With Cucumbers
• do I really need to say anything here? REALLY?

No, I Don't Know Why Either.

I don't have enough of one topic for a funny post tonight, but I have a bunch of weird episodes from the past few days I thought I'd share. 

• Earlier this week, I found the following in my cube garbage can at work: 

But WHY is this even a question?

• WHAT THE FUCK does any of that mean? Is the question whether there's chicken in the breakroom or somewhere else (the CEO's office, perhaps)? Is there more than one chicken? Are there yellow-bellied cowards hanging out with the coffee? I don't know. I don't know who left this in my trash, either.  

We're just going to cover See No and Speak No Evil at the same time...because EFFICIENCY

• Evil and her brother are currently in the wilds of Montana (or, in their Grandpa's back yard in Helena). It's apparently awful to get to Montana from Minnesota this year: Han horked on the descent  into Helena (if you've never been, Helena is in the center of a bowl in the middle of the mountains...this girl requires two Dramamine to get there without puking. I have sympathy for little dude.) after running himself into exhaustion at the Mpls airport due to an hours' long delay, (which really affected his parents more than in any way slowing HIM down any). I suspect the picture above is Evil's "good lord, I'm related to that guy!" face. It's possible she's just sleepy. 

• My father has called every day for the past two weeks to ensure Husband and I have NOT opened the "Santa" presents delivered by the super secret UPS people. HA! As though I'm not fully capable of opening and re-taping the boxes? OBVIOUSLY HAN LEARNED IT FROM SOMEONE. 

• I managed to coin "Elftra" on Twitter today. That'd be during a conversation about writing Elf porn, in which I wondered: 
• 1) if Elves would have SPECTACULAR skills and flexibility (being all extra-balancy AND old enough to have tried everything at least once). 
• 2) if we're talking Santa's elves, I'm willing to bet there's a secret adult toy R&D room at the North Pole (probably with eleven elven strippers). 
• 3) either way, Elves would have mastered Tantric sex, right? Therefore...Elftra: three millenia of development, possibly including dragon sex or elvish/dwarf matches. 

• Of course, it was suggested by the awesome Karina Cooper that "Elftra" sounded suspiciously like the character in a She-Ra cartoon. 

"BY THE POWERS OF SKELETOR'S THIGH HIGHS!" 

• If Marvel* were to create a male super hero who got his power from silky ladies underthings (you know, like Thor with his hammer only...softer), what would that power be? And who would have the balls to cross-dress in lingerie for said super powers? 

*I maintain it HAS to be a Marvel hero, because DC would never allow anything so risque as a man wearing a teddy and thigh-highs. Nipple-armor is ok (Batman, I'm looking at you!) but NEVER anything so tawdry as silky drawers.  

I sort of feel I should quit while I'm ahead here. Ahead of what, I really don't know...but it's likely better to stop talking when the babbling about ladies underwear begins. 

"Mrs. Titts" isn't an empty title, people.

Today, I was coerced by a pushy coworker to PARTICIPATE in group "fun" activities. I think work fun activities should involve alcohol and the ability to watch people make idiots of themselves.

Well, I suppose I got half of that. We were "festive" and made gingerbread houses. Because what's better at an insurance company than a bunch of accountants, underwriters, and IT folk making rickety-ass candy houses that fall apart and are generally unsound?

Did you know the "icing" is a LIE LIE LIE. Dear Gingerbread House Kit Makers: "icing" contains at least a modicum of sugar. That shit was PASTE, and tasted like kindergarten only without the stinky full-pants-kid sitting next to you at the arts and crafts table. I suppose that's a plus of doing arts and crafts as a work teambuilding thing, right? No poop. Just paste.

FYI: the faucet in the kitchen at work was busted today. So everyone is covered in paste with no way to wash hands. Yeah. Awesome.

Anyway, my team's house is here. Please note the red, sugar-tipped, askew and slightly sagging nipples. I did not put them there. But you can be certain I not only noticed, but immediately pointed out that our house is now Old Lady Sugartits Nipples.

Is it cold in here? I think my pasties fell off...

Personally, I think Santa would be a happier guy if his doorbell knocker was a set of knockers. Maybe perkier ones, though.

So this whole ridiculousness reminded me of a story I foolishly told the same coworker.

When I went to my first prom, as a foolish 16 year old dating a senior, I sat on my boyfriend's lap in a big comfy chair in the lobby outside the DECC ballroom. I was cocky and feeling ALL THAT in my fancypants boob enhancing halter dress (and foofoo hair...let's not forget the foofoo hair and makeup. It WAS the early 90's, after all. There were bangs. Big ones. And I don't mean the fun kind). Yeah. I was 16 and stupid: get off me.

Anyway, his dad had given him a crisp new hundred dollar bill for the occasion. Hey, we were teenagers in Duluth, MN of all places. Our lives weren't terribly exciting in general, and neither of us had ever SEEN a hundred dollar bill.

I thought I'd be all smooth and sexy. Yes, I know...but just let me share the gravity of the failure there.

I put the hundred down the bodice of my dress, in my first-allowed-lingerie strapless bustier.

THE FUCKING MONEY DISAPPEARED.

We tore the goddamn chair apart. He freaked out and was livid at me most of the evening. The money never did turn up.

So basically what I'm saying here is: when I was 16 I discovered my boobs are apparently an interdimensional portal. I imagine that money is on the floor of some random space station warehouse along with somebody's keys, all the missing socks from the laundry, and apparently pieces of people's souls which go galavanting around without permission (remember the Soul Retrieval lady? Yeah, she's in Duluth, MN too...WEIRD SHIT HAPPENS AROUND THAT, LAKE PEOPLE).

Um, just to be clear, I'm not saying socks, keys or souls get lost in my boobs. Just that single bill, as far as I'm aware.

Holy Christ, what might've been lost while I sleep? 

Updated for awesome. So...How Many Can I Request??

So, yesterday it occurred to me that elevators are a veritable buffet of potential hotness. 

I mean really, firefighters at the push of a button*? 

*I KNOW the button is for firefighters' use, not an awesome Bat signal for buff heroic types of either sex. 

**this is not a real post. But I'm back: real posts commencing forthwith! 

UPDATE: my super awesome cool EMT friend gave me the following fabulous tale from her career, and has graciously allowed me to add it to this post. Because apparently the appeal of a hot firefighter never goes away. 

"Okay my friend, settle in while I tell you my favorite "hot fireman" story. So, once upon a time, on one of my long paramedic shifts, and on one of the hottest days of the summer, my partner and I were called to the top floor of the local senior housing. The patient was an adorable, very elderly woman who was having enough respiratory distress that meant she needed to go to the hospital soon. We placed her on the cot, hooked her up to everything, and just then, the power went out. No A/C, no lights and most importantly, no elevator.

We called for the fire department, who promptly arrived and in a show of well-oiled manliness, hoisted the cot, the patient and all of the equipment upon their shoulders and proceeded to carry her down the 8 flights of stairs. At the landing just before the second flight, she leaned over, winked, and in the sweetest voice sang out, "You know? I just LOVE men, don't you?"'

Thanks Jarvis. I am ever in awe of your cool. 

UPDATED: Why Yes, I DO Prefer Non-Test-Tube Men, Thanks

Sign on my way to work this morning:

Homemade   males*

Now I'm 99% certain the males in my life of all species in all capacities are 100% homemade by their parents. No plastic Ken dolls here, and no test tube or clones. 

Of course, one can never be certain the body snatchers or Stepford scientists haven't been here, I guess.

Perhaps the Ancient Aliens dude with the super hair has a point? Are Homemade Males off the rack or custom made? 

That's not weird or gross at ALL...

*P.S. Said sign is for a Mexican restaurant; pretty sure it just lost the "Ta" from tamales. 

Which prompts the "what sauce options come with homemade males" question.

UPDATE: the raging discussion at work today is exactly what SORTS of upgrades and add-on options are available from a Homemade Males store.

Sadly, a cleaning option seem to be the most popular (self-cleaning AND house-cleaning were mentioned).

There Aren't Enough Spanx In The World...

This isn't a real post. I just had to point out something horrid.

You know, I don't pay a lot of attention to fashion. My ideal of dressing up is jeans instead of yoga pants.

I noticed when the '80's invaded Target: leg warmers, off-the-shoulder sweatshirts. Headbands. diagonal stripes.

It was a style horror show.

But REALLY? Jumpsuits are back? Jumpsuits with TUBE TOPS are back? Seriously, that wasn't sexy the first time. Tube tops aren't sexy: they're 80's uniboob. And jumpsuits just seem dangerous to a woman with a small bladder, since I assume they don't come with the pee-flap (despite their resemblance to 1885 long underwear). I shouldn't have to get naked to pee.

Black and white paisley tube top jumpsuit...on a 6' tall amazon.

On second thought, maybe I could make it one of those long-sleeved shrug things for my shoulders. 

PS: Blogger doesn't accept "uniboob" is a real thing. I beg to differ, Blogger: anyone with a C cup or larger who's squeezed into a sports bra knows the uniboob.

Bacon Fanatics: Gird Your Pork Product. I've had enough.

Sigh.

I get it. I'm as big a fan of tasty breakfast meats as the next person, and I do love me some crispy crispy bacon on a burger.

But seriously? It's time to fucking stop.

Tactical Bacon - nasty limp bacon coiled in a can like a tapeworm ready to strike. I've seen it. I've tried it. I nearly vomited...and sadly this is shit that once WAS bacon.

Calorie-less Bacon Mist? What the HELL is this, some sick version of e-cigs for dieters?

Bacon Toiletries - Because what, you can't just eat (or snort) bacon, you have to stink like bacon all day? I shudder at the thought of bacon toothpaste.

And perhaps the most horrifying of all, Bacon Lube. Because gee...that's exactly the flavor (and stench) I want on *ahem* adult time. There's a big goddamn difference between bacon and sausage, after all...

Look, bacon is fucking awesome for breakfast, on sammiches, crumbled in salads, wrapped around a beef tenderloin or meatloaf, hell it's even good dipped in chocolate  (I know it's weird, but seriously tasty stuff!).

This bacon fanaticism, though...it's just like the zombie craze lately: fun when it started, but now it's just annoying. I mean, you had the super cool Resident Evil zombies, and the 28 Days rage-filled zombies, and (I suppose) the Shambling Rot zombies. But at some point it's the same fucking story, and overexposure in the market dilutes the horror.

Hey, it's the same with vampires...the dilution of that terror gave us SPARKLING, limp, ineffectual creatures of the...well, of the twilight. Punny.

Bacon does not belong all limp and ineffectual in any form. Keep bacon crispy!

"Negative, I Am A Meat Popsicle"

It's true, I've been watching some LeeLoo Dallas: Multipass* while packing.

I forgot how much I hate moving, even if we do have weirdo neighbors. There's a lot of crying and drooling in my house (by the dogs, of course...I don't drool when I'm crying. Maybe while sleeping, but there hasn't been a lot of that lately either). The boys aren't doing well with ALL THE PEOPLE in and out (picking up free stuff, helping us pack, keeping us semi-sane). Thor hates watching me pack anyway: he's been known to climb into my suitcase before...because a 100 pound dog fits just excellently in my carry on. Little does he know that he's in for the longest ride in the car EVER, and that he'll never be back to the house he's known since he was 12 weeks old. But it'll be better: they'll have a yard. And bugs.

But we now have a tentative address and a LONG list of places to eat in Houston. What else do I really need, right?

PS: today's search keywords which led to this blog:

owls disguised as muppets
titts

I feel like the person who found my blog by searching "titts" was likely quite disappointed.

*otherwise known as The Fifth Element, which (if you missed my references) you need to go watch again. Immediately. And again!

Also, as I'm moving away from the tundra (where it snowed AGAIN yesterday...in mid-April) I'm sincerely hoping this is the last time I can call myself a meat-popsicle. 

Dear Russia: Goats, Unicorns, Babies, Spam can all be found here.

I'm amused that some of my labels increase the Russian and Eastern European traffic exponentially. Since said labels are "This Isn't Porn" and "These Are Not the Penises You're Looking For" I'd say they're not reading closely enough...after all, I think it's pretty goddamned clear.

So hello, all you porn-surfing-peeps who accidentally arrived at my page! For you, I have the dirtiest picture currently in my phone. Behold the filth:

I'm unimpressed.

You guys know this will only increase my religious dating/enlargements/get-a-loan-now spam quotient, right?

Dear Yahoo Mail: There Are No Snakes In My Pants.

This isn't a real post...just a moment of amusement.

Today's winning Spam email (and by "winning" I mean most ridiculously humorous)?

"Replace your pant snake with a PYTHON" by Pharmacy Online.

Thank you, Pharmacy Online, but as I have no snakes in my pants and I have somewhat of a phobia of Snakes, Snakipeders, and other creatures...I TRULY don't want any pythons anywhere near me.I know some of my friends (and Husband) are big fans of snake-types, but not this girl.

Now, if you meant a trousersnake...while I AM a fan of men and man-parts, I myself do not have one, therefore your offer is still moot.

UPDATE: I responded to the email with this post and the comment "my pants have no room for snakes."

UPDATE 2: The response I sent failed. SO. I found the Pharmacy Online (by the website in the spam mail) on Twitter and sent them a link to this post. Because I have no snakes in my pants, and spam email is silly.

Happy Holidays, Pharmacy Online!

UPDATED: Yahoo Seems To Think I'm a Lonely and Confused Dude (or in the midst of a spiritual and sexual identity crisis)

Oh Yahoo spam mail, you do make my week awesome:

• Yesterday I got five separate invitations to join JDate. That would be the Jewish Dating service.
• Today (so far) I've received three Christian Mingle offers. 
• And four different penis-enhancement-emails (viagra/cialis drugs, enlargements)

Evidently I have a whole catalog of issues: small penis size, under-performing penis action (not surprising since I don't have one), spiritual confusion and desperate loneliness for people of my own faith (which seems to change daily). I suppose offering me enlargements and helpful drugs could be considered supportive if I were considering changing my sex (which, by the way, I 100% support for others but have never considered for myself...and I think it's cool as hell that people HAVE the option to do so now if they need it).

In other news, I'm sorely tempted to sign up with BOTH Christian Mingle and JDate, but listing my religion as confused for both. I wonder how many matches I'd get?

PS: AS I WROTE THIS POST: the 4th Christian Mingle offer came in. "Find Love Through Faith at Christian Mingle" but really, it doesn't define WHICH faith. Can I join as a married pagan??

You guys, I'm totally responding. I want to know if I can advertise my Taboo Essentials website: it's for couples!

UPDATE:

I'm apparently having hair loss issues now, as well. However, said spam for hair growth WAS aimed toward women, so hey...it's a step up.