Category: First-World Problems

This would be the category in which I bitch about my ridiculously privileged life.

(insert pic of me with pockets inside out, moths flying out of them)

Hey, remember when Violet’s ACL blew out,
and I took her to N.C. State Veterinary School,
and they sliced and sutured her,
and I changed jobs so that I could afford to pay for the surgery,
and I had to keep her doped up so she wouldn’t injure herself during recovery,
but she totally did anyway,
so she had to have a second surgery,
and how she still limped, and they wanted to do another surgery,
but I didn’t have any more monies,
so she’s just kinda limped around for a couple years?

And remember how the vets told me about the great likelihood that she’d tear the knee on the other side at some point?

Guess what happened when she was chasing a bird on Friday night.

These things don't work so good.
“Hm. These things don’t work so good.”

She’s going to be fine.

She won’t put any weight on the right, so she’s hobbling around on her gimpy left leg, the one that’s atrophied from a couple years’ lack of use. But she’s back on her food, and she pooped finally after 40 hours of holding it post-injury.

She’s trying to do everything she could do before, and that makes me scared and sad, but I’m not as spastically emotional as I was last time. Because she’s going to be fine.

Off to the orthopedist we go on Thursday. This ortho—NOT the vet school; they can suck it—has a great reputation.

So she’s going to be fine.

You know, I took on extra responsibility at work and got a freelance second job so that I could have money to maybe buy a vial or two of baby juice. Now I get to use that money to buy an anterior cruciate ligament repair job for my dog.

I think the Universe is telling me not to procreate.

#pityparty

Retrobruxist Friday 7/12/13 Came Dangerously Close to Being Cancelled

Your Avid Bruxist has been throwing herself a really lavish multi-day Pity Party, kind of like a Jay Gatsby shindig except instead of booze-guzzling/the Charleston/general mischief, it’s been more like compulsive eating/”Guess I’ll Go Eat Worms”/general crying.

Fuck This

I almost just flung myself on the bed and pulled the covers over my head.

On the way to my boudoir, I figured I’d just check to see if there was anything worthwhile during the second week of July in previous years, but there probably wouldn’t be because I’m a terrible writer and Everything’s the Worst (stomp stomp stomp).

I wish I could say I found Greatness, but I didn’t (of course). I found when my boyfriend and I broke up three years ago. That was fun.

I found a few dating guidelines I drafted, and some really amazing comments by readers, from two years ago. You guys should just write this blog.

And I found el dia en que yo fui el machete last year. That’s an all right story, I guess.

Now excuse me while I go whimper.

Happy Stupid Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

Retrobruxist Friday 7/5/13

I have no idea what I'm doing helicopter

Hahahaha! Me and that dog. We have no idea what we’re doing. Based on the <crickets> from my readers on the Road Trip Soundtrack series, I clearly need an editor. Would you like to be my editor? Or teach this poor dog to fly a helicopter right-side-up?

Three years ago, I wrote about… my road trip soundtrack.

I won at eBay two years ago.

A year ago, somebody littered porn in my yard.

What you might’ve missed on Fat CrossFitter: I illuminated the formula for every British talent show clip on the Internet, and I gave all those the-cake-doesn’t-jump-into-your-mouthers a gentle reminder.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

Oops, I Missed Retrobruxist Friday, Also the Information Age Is Creepy

For future reference, you can have Retrobruxist ANYDAY, you know. Scroll down a little. See that heading on the right that says Archives? Click the drop-down menu, make a selection, and—bippity boppity boo—a month’s worth of old classic posts. That’s what I do every week! Now you know the magic behind Retrobruxist Fridays!

[Disclaimer: I wasn’t that good at blogging when I started, so maybe skip the first year. Or two, or three. Basically, don’t bother.]

This last Friday, I was busy driving from New England to Queens to see a play that my friends wrote, directed, and produced (I’m biased, but it was objectively EXCELLENT), and I had to get the dogs to their uncle-in-law’s place in Brooklyn for babysitting, and traffic, and what-have-you. It was all very complicated. Forgive me.

In case you were lazy and didn’t DIY:

Three years ago, I was wondering why my friends C and K weren’t married.

Two years ago, I was given an assignment to come up with ten things I liked about my body. I came up with five.

I didn’t write anything a year ago because I was on vacation.

What you may have missed on Fat CrossFitter: I cobbled together a WOD with the resources available to me, namely a picnic bench, a rock, and a Walker-Bay. By the way, I started Fat CrossFitter six weeks ago, and it already has more Facebook Likers than Avid Bruxist, which I began in August 2009. Granted, some are the same people, but still. Maybe I’ve been barking up the wrong tree this whole time—people don’t want to hear about dogs or dates or lawn mowers, they want EXERCISE.

Which reminds me, my birthday’s coming up (in 3 months), and I want this shirt.

We Are the Best

Anywhoodle, I got home from vacation last night. My fridge held an onion, some tahini, and a container of moldy lunchmeat, so I went Krogering this morning, and the cash register spit out these coupons with my receipt—you know, the ones for products similar to what you’ve purchased in the past?

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Pampers.

Pampers and wipes.

You know where I’ve never bought a product for a baby? Ever? Like ever-ever?

Kroger.

The whimsical-faerie-who-believes-in-a-speaking-Universe part of me wanted to believe it was a sign—a sign. About the time being right. About my capability to parent a child. I must procreate! The coupons decree it!

Alas, all I can think is that when I registered for an account with California Cryobank a couple weeks ago, they immediately sold me out to the grocery man.

Happy Conspiracy-Theory Sunday, y’all!

And You Act Like One Too

Last summer, I posted on Facebook something like, “When I’m mowing the lawn, why do the guys in my neighborhood think that I’m putting on some sort of show for them?”

A guy-friend later told me it “sounded like a bit of a humble-brag” to him, and as soon as he said that—of course it did. But that’s not at all what I meant.

I don’t mow the lawn in a bikini. I’m usually in my workout clothes, post-WOD, because what the hell, I’m already stinky—let’s do this thing. So I’m out there, dripping sweat, hair disheveled, wrestling with my gas-powered cheapo. It’s not sexy. It’s not attractive. It’s not graceful, or even out of the ordinary (this is 2013, right?—women do all kinds of crazy things, like work outside the home and stuff, right?). What I’m saying is I can’t imagine it’s nice or interesting in any way to watch.

And yet.

They hang their heads out their windows. They slow down. They stare. I’m some kind of zoo animal.

Yesterday a dude stopped his car and gawked at me.

I gave him my best stankface, and he shlooped his head back into his car and drove away. But part of me wanted to turn off the mower and pretend to fling poo at him.

Has Anyone Ever Told You You Look Just Like Crispin Glover?

Some sperm banks have a Donor Look-Alike menu. Like, in addition to sorting donors by eye color, height, ethnicity, and astrological sign—are you fucking kidding me?—you can also search for jizz-givers that resemble your favorite actor, rockstar, or professional tennis player.

Some of them I’d never heard of, like Alexander Skarsgard who I had to Google—meow!—and Lance Guest who they clarified with a parenthetical “Last Starfighter”. I’m assuming that’s a recent starring vehicle of his, but I didn’t bother to search the internet for him because Lance Guest is a dumb name and “Last Starfighter” sounds like a rip-off of Star Trek on the CW network. You know, where it’s all sculpted 20-somethings playing angsty teens and doing a lot of chin-acting. While fighting stars. And I couldn’t tolerate having a kid who looks like anyone whose parents named him Lance and who has made such poor hypothetical career choices.

Several had “(young)” next to their names:

Alec Baldwin (young)
Al Pacino (young)

Just, I guess, so you wouldn’t think you were getting the bloated/wizened versions that show up on your TV or movie screen these days.

A couple had the name, and then the name again with “(young)” next to it:

Chuck Norris
Chuck Norris (young)

I mean, the cut-off age for donors is 39, so are they saying that have a donor who looks like a Chuck Norris in his prime and another less-than-40-year-old who looks 73?

Well, I guess it doesn’t matter. It’s Chuck Norris.

Unless he shaves his beard.

chuck-norris-jpg_234055
Then it matters.

If I were to choose the Chuck Norris look-alike, that baby’d better emerge from my womb fully bearded or I’d demand a refund.

They specified that it was the thin Seth Rogen and the Anthony Edwards from Top Gun. Whew.

They had a few I was drawn to—Andy Samberg, Jason Segel, Ricky Gervais—until I remembered these were look-alikes, not funny-alikes. I don’t want somebody who looks like Andy Samberg unless he can also generate some “Threw It on the Ground” action.

Same with John Krasinski. What if my baby’s a dead ringer for Jim Halpert but can’t do a perfect deadpan-followed-by-minute-eyebrow-raise? I’d be so disappointed.

Before I saw No Country for Old Men, I would’ve picked a Javier Bardem doppelgänger in a hot second, but his portrayal of Anton Chigurh insured that that’ll never happen. Also that I’ll never sleep a perfect night’s sleep again.

And then there was Bronson Pinchot. I… I don’t think looking like Bronson Pinchot is a selling point. I think, just as a business decision, the sperm bank might want to keep that to themselves.

They Should Be Called Bloatdragons

There is no food whose name so belies its evil constitution as hushpuppies.

You have hush, as in “quiet”, as in “calm”, as in “mama singing you to sleep”. And then you have puppies, and who doesn’t love puppies?! OMG puppiiiiiiiiiiieees!

Me & chug puppySpeaking of which, I got to hold this chihuahua-pug puppy on Friday! He was 8 weeks old and so scrambly and smoochy. He wouldn’t stop smooching me on the face! I hated it. Hahahahahahaha.

IMG_5657_2Seriously, look at how cute he was! He was the size of that pint! And he got passed around the table, and he scrambled and smooched everyone so hard, until he fell asleep in a little ball in my friend’s arms—waaaaaaaaaaaaaah I want him.

OK, I got derailed.

Yes, hushpuppies. What an innocuous name for something that hurts my very soul. But also/mainly my stomach because they’re full of gluten and sweet, sweet crack cocaine so I can’t stop eating them.

Last night I walked out of Squid’s, unzipped my pants, and drove home with my angry gut spilling out over my lap.

And at The Q Shack, where they have that honey butter Country Crock business that you dip ’em in—nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.

Let me paraphrase Louis C.K. here and say, I’m not done with hushpuppies when I’m full. I’m done with hushpuppies when I hate myself.

They’re probably one of those foods that I should just make off-limits.

But who am I kidding? I could never live like that because what’s life without the delicious fried goodness of bloatdragons every now and again?

Retrobruxist Friday 5/24/13, or I Am Rad

June 5. That’s when I cancel my Match subscription. Twelve more days.

The only reason I’m keeping my nose above water is my friends. My friends are pretty great.

Not Scary Spice

He added, “We are all rooting SO HARD for you.” And I know they are.

Dan NJ wrote: Since it’s been at least a month since I said so- can I remind you of the Avogadro’s number of awesome particles that make up, and emanate from, you?  These particular elements represent a periodic table of Amy’s awesomeness, and are subdivided into categories such as brilliance, loveliness, kick-assedness, nice-assedness, and noble gases.  (The last one is pure speculation on my part…)

And a little faerie (possibly named Megalu) writes pro-me statements on the sticky notes on my desk every time she comes over, which I find later and stick to my computer monitor.

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IMG_5455

 

And all these words of encouragement serve to remind me that, no matter what happens in my love life, I most definitely have love in my life. Thank you, friends, and I love you all.

**********

Three years ago, I cheered you up with some stellar knock-knock jokes.

Some people love my teaching stories; others enjoy the tragically delicious dating stuff. But there are those who just really revel in the fact that I’m, to quote a friend, “bad at lawnmowers”, e.g. this post from two years ago.

You know how Google’s informal motto is “Don’t be evil”. I wish that sentiment could be codified into all companies’ bylaws. Alas, as I mentioned a year ago, insurance companies are nothing but dens of thieves.

What you may have missed on Fat CrossFitter: Who gets to define my fatness, and my two cents on the problem with progress.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.