Month: December 2009

Veni, Vidi, Vici

Along with my ability to generate copious amounts of ear wax, I inherited from my father a propensity to cook up some gourmet negativity and then just sit and stew in it until it turns cold and gives me goosebumps.  I’ve heard for a long time that a good counter to negative thoughts is to feed yourself positive ones. That’s my plan for the new year.

AND, at the same time, I don’t think I can look at myself in a mirror and say things like, “I say YES to life!” and “I am my own unique self—special, creative, and wonderful!”

Those are for people who think small.  I’m coming up with some affirmations of my own:

  • I am glorious to behold.
  • I’m better than everyone else at most things and equally good as everyone else at the remaining few things.
  • HelLO, Sex Monster!
  • The fruit of my womb will be the next Messiah.
  • I will win the lottery without even buying a fucking ticket.  That’s how badly wealth wants to be mine.
  • Tim Riggins’ heart flutters at the sound of my name.
  • My spoken and written words enlighten, entertain, and edify all audiences.  And cure some diseases.
  • My abs should be bronzed.
  • Even hard-core Christians covet all that junk in my trunk.

Please add your own in the comments section.

Are Those Bananas in Your Platforms?

Public Service Announcement

It turns out, Earth, Wind, & Fire is NOT singing:

Get this fruit, stuck in your shoes
So stand up (all right)
Aaaaaaall right

Indeed, the lyric is actually:

Let this groove, set in your shoes,
So stand up (all right)
Aaaaaaall right

If you’d like to see the funkadelic, futuristic, shoulder padded, sequined, keytar hotness:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_XOY7lsBVpo

(Watch for the Great & Powerful Oz at 2:20!)

Adding Insult to Injury

I’m 34 years old.  My crows feet are getting a little more pronounced.   I have a profound lack of energy most days, particularly between 1:30 and 6:30pm.  My bones crack, my jaw clicks, and after rising from a squatting position, I hobble through my first steps.  If nobody’s looking, I’ll get on all-fours to go up stairs.  Every so often a stalk of a gray hair appears overnight, four inches long and sticking bolt upright from my scalp, at which point I yank it savagely from its cozy foundation.

So first off, I feel it’s profoundly unjust that I still get zits in the quantity that I do.  But let’s pretend for a moment that it’s fair that wrinkles and blemishes live concurrently on the same face.  Let’s grant the premise.  Well, if that’s the case, a pimple should be EITHER enormous OR flaming red OR painful, but not all three.  NOT.  ALL.  THREE.

A New Low

I have a cat, Maxwell.  He’ll be 17 in July.  Maxwell, as you may recall, is in renal failure.  In the last few months, he’s started pissing outside his litter box—on the floor, on the bathmat, on plastic bags, on clothing that didn’t quite make it to the hamper, and most notably on the kitchen table.

This afternoon my animals and I were in a pile on the couch, as we are wont to be, a mélange of the limbs, heads, torsos, and tails of three species.  Maxwell stood up, shimmied backward a little bit, and peed directly on Redford’s face.  Redford only sort of noticed.