Tuesday, November 26, 2013

Schooled in Dr. Who

I watched "Dr. Who" the other day, thus ending my 38 year spree of avoiding it. I wasn't PURPOSELY avoiding it that whole time. I spent the first two years being a baby, the next year watching "Scooby Doo" and the last 35 being irresponsible. Until now.

Inspired by Google's tribute to 50 years of Dr. Who the other day, I finally decided to watch it. I needed to have questions answered, and understand pop culture references that other people seem to know that I did not. And British ones at that! Like, what is a Dalek? What is a Tardis? Is it medicine? It sounds like medicine. "For massive head wounds, I use Tardis Complete." And what is a Time Lord? It sounds cool. But what IS it? Can I be one?

It turns out, for those of you who have also spent the last 38 years spinning a circle with your eyes closed, that a Tardis is a spaceship/time machine disguised cleverly as a Police Box, and a Time Lord is Dr. Who. I'm glad I could clear those things up for you. But don't ask me what those Dalek things are, I've only watched three episodes and none of them have featured Daleks. I can only deduce from the pictures I've seen that they are vending machines that attack.

But Dr. Who relics from the past brought up another question, which postponed my watching it for so long. Which version to watch? There are approximately 58,206 versions of Dr. Who. It's kind of like Sherlock Holmes. Not only are there several different adaptations of Sherlock Holmes movies, mini-series, and shows, but there are 18 of these going on currently.

Here is an average conversation I have with people who watch Sherlock Holmes.

Friend: I've really been getting into Sherlock Holmes.

Me: Oh, that new one on TV?

Friend: Yeah, both of the new ones.

BOTH OF THEM? Why are there two? I know that there's probably one for England and one for the U.S. but can't we share? No? Which one of us got Lucy Liu out of the deal? I'm confused.

So I've started watching the Dr. Who that started in 2005, the one where The Doctor looks like the lead singer from Men At Work. And as confused as I am, because I've only watched three episodes so far, I like it. It feeds into my kind of geekiness.

I knew that it would. I just knew that I would take to it and I would become a quoter, and my conversations would go like this:

Me: I picked a wrong time to shower - HA!

Friend: I beg your pardon?

Me: That was from Dr. Who, Series 31, Episode 5, Minute 41:18. Remember that scene?

Friend: No, I only watch all of the Sherlock Holmeses.

That would be me, the one to memorize lines down to the second when they happen. That's what makes me....Time Lord.  DUN, DUN, DUN!!!!!!!

They still haven't explained the Time Lord thing, but I have a theory. I'm guessing he's called that because he can travel through time? Dammit, Genevieve, you're a genius! I know, I know. I've always been a good guesser. And no one has explained what a Police Box is either, but I'm guessing that's a British thing. That's where they keep all of their police, in that one little box. That's what makes it an effective disguise for the Tardis. No one wants to go in that box, that's where the police are.

I have this whole show figured out.

Now that I understand why people like it, I can rest easy. And now I know what the lead singer of Men At Work has been up to lately. Am I the only one who sees a resemblance there? Look at this:

Maybe it's the noses and the receding hairlines, but Colin Hay and Christopher Eccleston look alike to me. Look, he even wrote a song about it.

I just watched that video. How did I make it through the 80's without noticing that Colin Hay had a wandering eye?

Tune in next time when we further discuss physical abnormalities of 80's musicians.

Monday, November 25, 2013

Why She Did

She's wearing horns, and sometimes she'll wear cones instead of a blouse. She's dancing over an air vent, she's wearing this little thing and it's showing other little things whose scientific names make us uncomfortable, like "areola." She is stripping off what little there is, but not entirely. She looks like she wants us to see everything, she moves in that way that maybe, we think, she does.  She's wearing a stuffed leopard over her crotch, and sparkly rainbows over her nipples. What does that mean? We're not sure. These are new, complex images that bring us to old conclusions.

And she used be be such a nice girl when she worked for Disney, when she tasted Kix cereal in the commercial, when she wasn't shaped like rising hills, the ground that defies gravity, this girl that we don't know any better now than we did then. Why would the girl who kissed Mickey Mouse shave her head?

Why she did, and why she does, and why she will do it again, none of us will really know. We can ask her, or we can let some else ask her, and we can read it in a magazine, the one where she's in an acrobatic position on the cover. But no matter what her answer is, we'll draw our own conclusions. Some of us will think she's a tramp, some of us will think she's liberated, and some will think she wants attention or money.

I think about Halloween.That night, when it was young, human beings used to wear masks, not for candy, but to frighten evil spirits. We wore horns, we stuck out our tongues, and we shouted at the devil to keep him from taking our souls.

Tomorrow there will be a picture of her in a spandex gum wrapper. Her hair will be sprayed and teased into the shape of a vulva. She'll hiss, and scream, and shake, and bear skin. And some of us will look but most of us will turn away just when she wants us to, so that we can't take her soul.

And we used to be such nice girls.

Thursday, November 21, 2013

The Fruit Post

I found a draft of a post from the other day that I'd forgotten about. It was only one sentence and it was this:

Someone tell me why I keep eating grapefruits.

If it helps take the pressure off, I can answer my own question. My eating habits have been deplorable lately and I'm trying to make myself eat fruit for a snack instead of Nutella. Nutella is great and everything, but the fact that it's great is the problem. Following my family's creed of, "If a little is good then more must be better," I could eat (and have eaten) a bowl of Nutella. Have you ever read the fat and calorie count for just a tablespoon of that stuff? It is exactly 1 billion calories and 5 football fields of fat. Football fields might not be a food measurement on the side of the jar, but is it once it's in the bowl.

So grapefruit. Why, you ask, not something sweet like grapes? Or a tangelo? For two reasons. One, because grapefruit is the only fruit that fills me up like a meal, and two, I once read a short story where a tattoo-artist-in-training practiced inking grapefruits before she tattooed people because the skin of the grapefruit is similar to human skin. This fact somehow gives me more incentive to eat it, not because I'm a cannibal, but because grapefruits can get tattoos and so they'd probably be cool to hang out with.

Notice that neither of those reasons had to with essential vitamins or cancer-preventatives. My diet reasoning is strictly tattoo-based.

Anyway, the feeling-full reason for my grapefruit consumption is just as important as the tattoo short story. Generally fruit as a snack makes me hungrier, so if I eat a handful of grapes at 2:00 then I will need to eat a whole chicken by 2:30. But after I eat a grapefruit? I don't have to eat dinner until 8:00. Which is so very hip and European of me.

So why question the consumption of such a miraculous hipster fruit? Because it's a mess. The actual peeling part is fine but once you get to the juicy part it's like trying to eat a tsunami. I simply can NOT eat this thing at my desk. I need a bib, a fork, a knife, and a roll of paper towels. I've even tried cutting it up in the morning and packing it in chucks to eat later in the day and I still end up with juice running out the corner of my mouth.

"Maybe you're just really sloppy," you're probably saying.

"Maybe you should read blogs by cleaner people," I suggest.

"Ok, I will."

"Wait, wait! I spoke out of turn. You're right, I am very, very sloppy. I'm sorry, I cranky from Nutella withdrawal."

"Oh, it's ok. I could never stop reading your blog."

"Still buds?"

"The bestest."

I love our talks. Anyway, I wonder if there's more tattooable fruits that I should be eating. Like tomatoes. (NOTE: I know what you're thinking and I don't know if they really are or not either. No one does. That's why tomatoes are allusive bitches and we should eat them for spite.)

Eating fruit for spite and tattoos is my new diet. That's why I'll eat a lot of cantaloupe because its relation to pumpkins frustrates me. I like cantaloupe and I like pumpkins, but I'm pissed off that they're cousins because it doesn't make sense to me. And so I shall eat them. The overall benefits to my body and extended lifespan is just a side-effect of my deranged small-mindedness.

It's 3:00 and I haven't had any grapefruit yet. This could explain my crankiness. I had a banana with lunch. Eating a banana means that an hour later I will eat three whole chickens and a can of potato soup. Bananas are infinitely worse than grapes in that way, and I'm pretty sure you can't practice tattooing on their skin without completely mashing what's inside.

I am now going to test this theory by pulling the banana peel out of the trash and drawing a heart on it with a ballpoint pen....

Ok, that was a bad idea.

But I think I proved my point. I eat grapefruit for good reasons. Whacked out as those reasons may be, they are still beneficial, and also I may now consider a career as a tattoo artist. It doesn't matter that I can't draw, what matters is that I will only tattoo fruit. Because if they complain about the work I have done, I can eat them. If I have not already eaten a football field of Nutella.

Thursday, November 14, 2013

Huns of Fun

Brian and James and I have picked out our Hun names. We don't always go by them at work, only when we're feeling particularly oppressed by management. Then we call to each other, "Come, Arg. Come, Huuurg. Let us read from the book." Because in our minds, Huns talked like Klingons. And then we gather around James's desk and read from the paperback that I found in the lunch room, on top of a stack of romance and mystery novels, and this book, the title of which I am not making up, is Leadership Secrets of Attila the Hun, by Wess Roberts, PhD. Do yourself a favor. GOOGLE THAT SHIT.

It is, as you might have guessed, musings of effective leadership from Attila himself.  This book kind of works like The Bible. You can randomly open it up to any page and get a quote for the day. I'll do it right now...and I've opened it to page 36, "Discipline is not suppression. It is the teaching of correct ways expected of Huns." That's going on my kids' bathroom mirror.

Or this one here on page 53. This will no doubt clear up some issues I've had with dressing for success. "When on the hunt, be prepared to hunt. Take your best bow and lance. Wear clothing that will serve you well as you chase the wild beasts in the forest." This no doubt inspired Ross Perot's review of the book, "The principles are timeless." Because the bit about chasing wild beasts through the forest is so fucking relevant in corporate America its as if time has stood still for the last 1,500 years.

And just for the members of my audience who might not know, Attila the Hun ruled the Hunnish empire in the 5th century, was the enemy of the Roman empire, the sacker of countries, the plunderer of the Balkans, the murderer of lots and lots of people. According to the book, this book, you know, THE ONE THAT IS SAYING HE'S A GUY PEOPLE SHOULD WORK FOR, his last wife was the young daughter of one of his chieftains who he'd killed for being a disobedient Hun. The daughter had begged Attila not to kill him but he did it anyway, and then he married her. What do you think the odds are that he proposed and gave her time to think about it?

Which is why I'm confused as to why on page 19 "empathy" is listed as one of Attila's leadership qualities. "Chieftains must develop empathy - an appreciation for and an understanding of the values of others, a sensitivity for other cultures, beliefs and traditions" ...Except when you want to marry their daughter. Or if you want to invade Italy.

This historical fact does not strike confidence in the hearts of me and my coworkers when we read the reviews from guys like Andrew P. Calhoun, Jr. chairman of The Resource Group, "Attila could well lead any corporation today."  Reeeeally? Did this guy actually read the book or was he just focusing on the chapter about booty?

"He means treasure, guys" I told Brian and James, after we giggled and snorted at the following quote on page 77, "Booty has become a powerful force that ignites the spirits of our warriors, driving them to commit their talents to any nation that bribes them into service."

"Sure he does," Brian said.

"Remind me to bring up this organization's lack of spirit-igniting booty at my next evaluation," said James.

"We long to be bribed into service," I agreed, like a good Hun.

There is a lot of talk in the book about how to be a good Hun. For instance, page 104, "Good Huns normally achieve what their Chieftains expect from them." However, this contradicts the next page which says, "For Huns, conflict is a natural state." But the next quote is perhaps my favorite, "Huns only make enemies on purpose."

You will never be the accidental enemy of a Hun, because conflict is their natural state and they will kill you on purpose. With an empathetic heart and an eye on the booty.

Now go start a company.

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

B-Movie Extra

Before I tell you about the giant spider, I have to reiterate something I know I said before, but humor me: I swear I don't do drugs. And I stopped drinking three years ago, so this can't be a case of the DT's, although I'm not a doctor, so maybe the spider was a result of belated withdrawal. But I do know this - I know that I saw him and I know that he was really the ceiling fan.

Most nights, I sleep like a coward. I fall asleep lying on my stomach, hugging the pillow with only the top of my head sticking out of the covers. But the night before last, the night of the spider, I fell asleep on my back with the lamp on. It's like I was an action movie hero, allowing myself to rest but ready to spring into action, which I would detect with my keen, warrior-like sense of "something's fucked up" and I would snap out of a deep sleep and into a me-against-evil reality where I would be the victor who saved the world. All I needed was a gun under my pillow or a ninja sword.

But I wasn't armed with anything when my eyes snapped open to find a giant spider lowering itself from my ceiling fan down to my bed, like an eight-legged mountain climber hanging from a rope. Its brown body was as big as a microwave, and it had long, thin golden legs that reached for me like fingers. I screamed, and it scurried back up its thread toward the ceiling.

It might seem like I cried out like a scared little girl, but I think what really happened is I hollered like Xena Warrior Princess and this spider thought, "I've watched all six seasons of Xena and I know this will not end well!" and decided to bail. Then I blinked and it was gone. This freaked me out more. Where had it gone? It was too big to disappear in a second.

My ceilings are high, so when I stood up on the bed to inspect the ceiling fan, it was still a good two feet above my head, and I was nervous that the giant spider might be hiding behind a fan blade. I looked frantically along the ceiling, thinking that it was crawling away from me and maybe I could catch it before it disappeared into another room. There was no way I could go back to sleep with that thing in the house. What if it bit the kids? What if it snuck back in and bit me? It couldn't have been poisonous, there are only two poisonous spiders in Louisiana and they're....

It was when I was trying to remember what I knew about spiders, when some other rational thoughts began to pop into my mind. The first was that spiders don't get that big here. Maybe in the Amazon where they eat jaguars and cattle, but not in New Orleans. The second was that there was no way a spider THAT BIG could disappear in one second. Third, there was no trace of webbing, and I distinctly remembered that it had spun its way down from the light fixture, which incidentally has brown fan blades like the color of the spider's body and golden chains, like the spider's legs. Most likely, I thought, I had a very real-seeming dream about the spider, and the memory of me blinking was actually me waking up.

I was still looking for it while I thought all of this. My mind was moving slowly but my heart was pounding and I was wide awake. And ready for what? What exactly was I planning to do if I had found the spider that was three times as big as my face? Wrestle it? I didn't even have a rolled-up newspaper on me.

I would like to think that I was brave to seek out the giant spider that was really the ceiling fan, but instead I was just like one of those extras in a B-movie who are killed in the first five minutes. You know the kind.

"Look, there's a giant ant in the street. I'll go have a look," I would say.

"I don't think that's a good idea," the main character would warn.

"It's ok, I'm sure it's nothing," I would say, as I'd step outside and be eaten by Godzilla.

Or I'm like those people in horror movies who you yell at to not go down to the basement to see what that noise is. And they ALWAYS do. And they ALWAYS die.

So the fact that I am seeing spiders that aren't there is only worsened by the knowledge that I would be dead by now if they were real. I'm really not sure which of those two things is worse. If I wake up tomorrow morning and my dresser is a Gila monster, I'm leaving the room.

Friday, November 8, 2013


I was cleaning throw up stains from the bathroom floor and I thought of you. The kids are sick. I wondered if you have kids, if you get sick, if you're healthy most of the time, if you drink too much coffee, if you feel too much or too little, if music does things to you, if you go to the laundromat or if you have your own machines, if the laundromat smells better than your house and that's why you go there because you really do have a washer and dryer you just prefer to go other places that smell like a Tide-All-Gain cocktail, and how you're able to make all of those elements of your life work if you 1) have kids, 2) those kids are sick, and 3) if you have to make repeated trips to the laundromat to clean all of the stuff.

And I wonder if maybe that's why you read my blog, my reader, my vigilante dear who scrubs the bathroom floor, whose laundromat smells better than your house. I'm always blogging about me, me, me. But what about YOU. What about you? Try and appreciate the fact that I'm thinking about you, and not worry too much about how I started thinking of you while I cleaned vomit. The two are, like, barely related.

I'm feeling a bit off today from lack of sleep, family sickness, and caffeine withdrawal. Did you know that the word "withdrawal" has "awal" at the end of it? Isn't the extra "a" weird, giving it more of a warbley sound than you originally suspected? 

Is this something else that I didn't know about you, my reader, my blog-checker who sometimes skips the funny stuff for the serious stuff, and sometimes skips my blog completely to look at the headlines on The Onion? What are you like, I sometimes wonder as I write to you in this place that I've created that's like one long payphone call, the kind that you make when you see a phone on the side of the road and you decide to call a friend. You would have used your cell phone but you think you've left it at home, and really it's fallen under the seat and you won't know that for a couple of days. The payphone is outside the laundromat where we, you and I, go to make things clean, to start fresh, to look over at each other and wonder. "Does he have kids?" "Does she feel too much or too little?" It's strange to talk into a payphone with no idea who's on the other end, but stranger still maybe for you to pick up the phone and listen to someone you don't know. The call comes from a number you don't recognize and ends with a "click" for a goodbye.

I have a washer and dryer. But the laundromat smells better than my house.


Wednesday, November 6, 2013


Yesterday as I laid down on my VP's office floor, clutching a Styrofoam cup of ice I realized that I needed to take better care of myself.

I'd gone into work even though I'd thrown up that morning. I thought it was just the result of a migraine I'd had and thought, "Eh, it's nothing. I can make it to work." But hours later, as I was being driven home because I couldn't drive myself I realized that I'd been feeling off since Sunday night and just wasn't paying attention to it. It's almost impressive the extent to which I can ignore signals from my own body that something might be wrong. You know, like vomiting. And when I say impressive, I don't mean in a good way. Here's what I ignored this week:

Sunday night: nausea which I chalked up to being upset in general.
Monday: Stomach rumblings, intestinal mischief that should have clued me in to the fact that I had a virus, and a migraine. But a girl still has to go to work, drink six cups of coffee, clean, and exercise, right? Besides, it was probably all in my head.
Tuesday: 4:20 am - Vomit. Probably a result of the migraine. I'm fine, really.

I finally stopped ignoring my body a little after 9:00 when I tried to walk to the bathroom to go throw up and I couldn't make it down the hall. I knew if I didn't sit down I would fall. I was dizzy, nauseated and felt like all of the energy had been sucked out of me. I felt like microwaved french fries, all dried up and tasteless. And I was embarrassed because I was sitting in the hallway, unable to get up, like a drunk in an alleyway. A few minutes later, the director of my department was holding a wet paper towel to my forehead.

"Gen, what's going on?" she said.

"Mmm," I said, because that was the best I could explain the microwaved french fry feeling.

She got me a cup of ice chips and after I sucked on a couple of pieces, I could open my eyes. She and another lady I didn't know led me to the VP's office, who was gone at the time, and they let me lie on the floor in the dark until a friend could pick me up.

I think I was dehydrated. I perked up considerably after more ice, and eventually Gatorade. I slept most of the day yesterday and I'm home today, but I swear to God the thought, "Maybe I'm ok to go in" went through my mind.

I don't like slowing down. I'm sure a lot of people would say it's a result of American culture or something and maybe that's true but I know it's also because I'm a single mom and I've had to become the mom and the dad. So though the mom side of me was saying to slow down and stay home, the dad side of me looked at my kids and said, "I gotta keep going." In some cases that willingness is good. And in some cases, I end up a dehydrated husk on my boss's floor.

So. I'm cutting back on coffee....ok, everybody calm down. I know that's not something you ever thought I'd blog, but I think it's necessary. My caffeine intake is out of control. And I need to start paying better attention to my body signals. Throw up = lay down. It does not mean I'm not a tough girl just because I rest when I'm sick.

And I will repeat that phrase to myself as many times as I have to. And I will repeat it even when I am sleeping. And even when I'm meditating and technically I'm not supposed to be thinking anything, how am I supposed to rest if I don't constantly and obsessively remind myself to rest? I have to keep going!!!!

I'll be on the floor again in a week.

The Femme Trials

I just got home after my arrest from The Femme Police. My wrists would hurt if the cuffs hadn't been so fuzzy. It wasn't easy defending my femininity, especially after that comment about how I don't like shopping, but I managed to get out of there without losing my female privileges. And this was how...

So the other day I was going about my business and blogging about how I'm not stereotypically feminine because I don't care about clothes, shopping, or color coordination. You know, I'm sure you all have been there. And then The Femme Police showed up to revoke my femaleness.

There were two of them, Agents Glossy and Botox, in high heels, makeup, dove gray skirt suits because dove gray was the new pink that morning, and those necklaces that look like five crazy necklaces around their necks with little rocks that made clicking sounds every time they moved.

They raised spiked heels at me. "You're under arrest for slander against shopping. Hand over your membership card and your uterus."

I was sitting on the couch with my laptop across my lap, because I assume from the name that that's where it goes. If it was called an "elbowtop" I'm sure I'd find a way to coordinate that but they cleverly gave it a name that we writers can work with. This has nothing to do with my arrest, but I just thought I'd point that out to make you better informed readers.

Anyway, I set the laptop aside, revealing an attire of sweatpants and a 23 year-old Motley Crue T-shirt.

"Oh dear God!" cried Agent Botox, shielding her eyes.

"Pull it together! Remember your training!" yelled the other.

I gave them a confused look. "What? Oh. This?" I stretched out the shirt. "Come on, man, this was the Dr. Feelgood Tour, 1990. Tommy Lee mooned the crowd! To this day I can't look at this shirt without thinking about that man's ass."

Agent Botox turned green and left the room. But Agent Glossy took a deep breath and stayed focused. She pulled a curling iron out of her purse and pointed it at me.

"Don't make me do your hair."

My eyes went wide. "You wouldn't."

"I'll make you sit in a chair for two hours while I curl each strand of hair and spray them to your head with noxious chemicals while I tell you about my cousin's wedding."

I held up my hands. "I'll go quietly."

True to my word, I was silent until we got to court, where I faced a tribunal of fabulously boring-looking women. They were all too thin, all brunette-dyed-blonde, all manicured, and all with a stunning amount of eye makeup on. I could not tell how old any of them were. They wore yellow robes because yellow was the new pink that afternoon and stood at individual podiums, each with Scentsy warmers on the table top and signs that said "I'd rather be judging" on the side.

It was the one in the center who unfurled the scroll of charges against me and read them out loud.

"Genevieve," she looked up and smiled. "Such a pretty name." Then she looked down and scowled again, "Rheams. You have been brought before this tribunal for the following crimes against femininity...wearing mismatched clothes, poor color coordination of furniture, failure to wear accessories, failure to wear makeup, keeping the same hair style for 15 years, failure to keep decorative pillows on your couch, disinterest in purses, slander against shopping, failure to wear heels, only owning two pairs of shoes, a liking for punk music, too much enjoyment in lifting heavy objects, fear of large groups of other women, and the inability to cry during commercials."

"...Does it count if I cry because the commercials are too long?"

"No!" they hollered. "They must warm your heart."

"Shit," I said. "Well, all of that's true. But there are other things about me that I think count towards being a girl."

"List them please."

"A vagina."

"Oh yes. We'll be needing you to turn that in."


"It's an insult to women to go around being a girl without really being one."

"But I also love babies, and little kids who dress like grownups, and little animals who dress like people, and tea cups. And I'm kind, compassionate, intelligent, and a good friend. Surely those count as wonderful feminine qualities as well."

The leader pulled out her cell phone and began typing. "I'll have to google that..."

"Maybe she's more of a man," the one on the right suggested.

The middle one looked up at me. "Do you like to watch football?"

I squinched up my face. "No. I like to play football, but watching it on t.v. bores me."

The three of them threw up their hands.

"What kind of an answer is that?" the one on the left said. "You kind of do but you kind of don't? It's too mixed, we don't know what to do with you."

"But she DOES like babies," said the one on the right. "That counts."

"Why don't we just drop 'feminine' and 'masculine' as labels?" I asked. "Everyone is so different, why don't we just appreciate each other as individuals?"

"Throw her in the Androgynous Holding Tank," the center one proclaimed.

"That's it? That's all you're going to ask me?" I said.


I laughed. "You didn't even ask me about my sexual orientation."

"Oh that? It doesn't count against you if you're a lesbian. We've all slept together. It was good fun."

The ones on the left and the right nodded in agreement.

"Although if you are a lesbian, we can let you go because then it all makes sense," said the leader.

"But I'm not a lesbian. And I'm not straight. I'm bisexual, I fall in love with both."

And that's when their heads exploded. It's ok, I'm used to that happening when I explain my sexuality. But the guards still threw me in the Androgynous Holding Tank. It was filled with men and women waiting for relatives to bail them out.

"What are you in for?" I asked a guy who was leaning forlornly against the bars.

"I cry during commercials and I'm straight," he admitted.

"Did you tell them the bit about stereotyping?"

"Yes. While I cried."

I patted him on the back. The rest of us talked and we all decided to start a rock n' roll band because that's what happens in Androgynous Holding Tanks. That's actually how Joan Jett and the Blackhearts got started. And I was let go and allowed to be female as long as I agreed not to blog things that pose a threat to ideals of men and women that people have grown comfortable with.

I don't like nail polish. It takes too long to dry and I don't like sitting there while something stinky glues itself to my hands. I have better things to do. Ha HAAAA!!! You'll never take me alive, fuckers!!!

Here, enjoy a song about androgyny.

Sunday, November 3, 2013

Lighter Matters (with hedgehogs!)

No, I'm not smoking again. My last post probably implied that, but no. I was listening to a song and it gave me the image of cigarette smoke and VIOLA! An "I love cigarettes" post was born. I think that might have been a poem but I'm not sure. I'll have to consult a professional.

Me: Was that last post a poem?

Professional Poet: No.


So I know that my posts have been kind of serious lately so today I thought I'd bring you this:

Clearly, there's a story here. The sunglasses say to me that this is a vampire - a vampire hedgehog getting a bath. Look, he's even sparkling! And he loves his human so much, he's not even biting him. If a vampire hedgehog bites a human, does the guy become a human vampire or a hedgehog vampire? Could that guy handle such a drastic change in his life? Maybe this IS a picture of a former-human vampire hedgehog and he's taking a nice, hot bath to relax from the emotional stress of the whole ordeal.

Anyway, I just wanted to drop in and say good morning, and post pictures of hedgehogs. And now I have to go prepare for my sister's wedding shower, and flea bomb the house. I know it must seem strange to combine those two things but it's the only day that me and all of the other living critters will be out of the house AND be able to clean up the mess when we get home in the same day. Plus help throw a shower. This is kind of what my life is like, multi-tasking family events and administering poisons.As long as I don't get them mixed up then no one ends up like this guy:

Friday, November 1, 2013

A Cigarette Knows

I love your smoke.  It's the way it drifts up in curves, like a snake or a slim-hipped woman, a signal rising to show where I am, to spot me in a crowd of people who've got nothing in their hands, no gray halos above their heads.

When I worked with the fire department they showed me once in a training session what it's like to be in a cloud of smoke. It rises to the ceiling, seemingly translucent but if you stick your head in it, you're as good as blind and breathless.

And still after that lesson I lit up a cigarette, sucked it in and spit it out of me, one blinding cloud of my love that poisons the world. I am as remorseless in my heart as an infatuated dragon.