Ricky, you have some mansplainin' to do...

It was my senior year of college.  I had taken a fall down a flight of stairs, and had some pretty severe bruising on the inside of my left arm, and a ladder of less-severe bruises down my back.  Hurt like a mother, but nothing terribly serious.  However, within a few days I'd developed some hard lumps in the bruise on my arm--calcium deposits.

I took myself off to the campus health center, and the doctor happened to be in.  (He was usually available for a couple of hours, two or three days a week; the rest of the time the nurse was available.  And generally more helpful.)  I sat on the table, rolled up my sleeve, and explained that I was concerned by what I felt--

"Don't worry.  It's not cancer."

--which I was pretty certain was a series of marble-sized calcium deposits, and what was the best course of action to take to ensure I didn't pass them through my urethra.

"Oh.  Oh.  Well, warm, damp compresses should help with that."

Gee, thanks.  I'm so glad you were able to ease my fears about cancer of the bruise.  What color ribbons does that have again?  I'm sure I saw it on a rubber bracelet somewhere.

If you don't know what mansplaining is or aren't aware how commonplace it is for women to be on the receiving end of it (from whatever gender), I recommend checking out this link.

Announcement

I am very sorry to announce I will no longer be accepting comments from anonymous posters.  I love comments immensely, but I will not tolerate creepy anonymous comments of the variety I have been receiving of late. Go look for porn or join a website dedicated to creeps.  You're no longer welcome here.

If you're an anonymous commenter of the uncreepy variety, I'm so sorry for the inconvenience.  I hope you'll still read and maybe build a profile so you can continue your much-appreciated commenting.

A Hairy Situation: Vote on It!

It's damp and disgusting out, and I have a date tonight.

So I have three options:

1. I can leave my hair "as is" and go out with Hermione Hair.
2. I can spend thirty minutes straightening my hair.  It will look nice until the minute I step outside--then it will return to its natural state, Hermione Hair.
3. I can apply hot curlers, which takes very little time (I can finish getting ready while they set) and will hold all night.  This option will give me hair such as an '80s porn star's dreams are made of.

I don't feel like making any decsions today.  So I'm leaving it up to your vote.  Comment below, and I'll go with whatever has the most votes when I need to get ready.  I'll even post a photo!  (Of my real face, people.  This is unprecedented.  And goes to show my brain is incapable of rational thought today.)

A Case of Mistaken Identity

Last weekend I went with some friends to the Field Museum and spent a couple of hours perusing the Taxidermied Everything exhibit.  Most of the animals I recognized.  Some of them caused what on God's good earth is that?! moments.  But those moments were all with really foreign, uncommon animals that you don't see every old day on National Geographic or, you know, at the dog park.

So this story about people accidentally buying 'roided out ferrets instead of toy poodles kind of surprised me.  Do people frequently see a long slinky-animal and think, "What a cute dog!"  And this has happened with a lamb being mistaken for a standard poodle as well?!

Oh boy.  I worry about the state of humanity sometimes.

Let's face it:  it's pretty funny.  But at the same time, it's worryingly indicative of the casualness with which people acquire pets.  Not only are these people clearly not researching their desired pet, they can't even recognize the difference between the canine and weasel families, or canine teeth and the teeth of an herbivore.  (Let's not even mention any appearances of freaking hooves, shall we?)

Even at a step slightly less stupid, when people can actually tell a dog is a dog, there is the following list of dog breeds frequently mistaken for bull dogs:

• Alpha Blue Blood Bulldog
• Rottweiler
• Catahoula Bulldog
• Boerboel
• Chesapeake Bay Retriever
• Rhodesian ridgeback
• Presa Canario
• Patterdale Terrier
• Olde English Bulldogge
• Hungarian Vizsla
• Fila Brasiliero
• Cane Corso
• Ca De Bou
• A "Bully" dog
• Bull Mastiff
• Boxer
• Black Mouth Cur
• The Argentine Dog or Dogos Argentino
• American Bulldog
• Alapaha blueblood Bulldog
• The Alaunt
• The Bull Terrier
• American Staffordshire Terrier
• Staffordshire Bull Terrier

Is it stupid of me to think that if a person can't immediately recognize a good number of these breeds on sight, then maybe they should do a tiny bit of research before publishing an article or blog post, slapping on a label at a shelter, or--oh, I don't know--passing legislation?

How many of these breeds do you recognize?  Get the answers here.  I can tell you, I didn't do very well.


(True:  This is my second rant this week--sorry.  I'll try to be funny on Friday.)

Quick, someone give me something funny to blog about!

In a Surprise Twist, I Actually Survived

And mostly intact!  WhirlyBall was pretty much more fun than ought to be legal, although I did end up with some bruising on the insides of my legs that might raise some eyebrows if I decide to sport my Daisy Dukes this weekend.  You know, if I had any.  Or thought that was a good look for me anyone me.

But what can I say?  A center steering column in a bumper car leads to suspicious bruising.

In other news, overnight my voice has subsided to a subauditory squeak.  I went to lunch with some friends, and they spent the entire meal pretending (sort of pretending) they couldn't hear me, and the entire ride back mocking me.

I'd write up a proper post, but I have Frutti di Bosco gelato to eat, so you're out of luck.


(True:  I am wearing a ponytail today.  One of our salespeople came up behind me and pulled it.  To be perfectly clear, my ponytail is not an invitation to touch me, no matter how often we talk on the phone.  Especially from behind, without announcing your presence.  Geez, people!  Haven't we moved past this yet?)

This is the main difference between me and the rest of the world.

I came around the corner by my cubicle to overhear a co-worker mention a "Lucius."

"Are you talking about Harry Potter?" I asked excitedly.

"No.  Basketball."

Well, I'm sorry, but people aren't allowed to be named Lucius outside of Harry Potter.  It's not nice to raise my hopes like that.

In unrelated news, I think it's time for a good old-fashioned HP marathon.


(True:  These co-workers are now debating the best way to drag a water-logged mattress out of a public pool.  I'm starting to worry.)

Because PRIORITIES.

I went home last weekend to visit my folks.

I leave some clean clothes and a couple of pairs of shoes there (let's not talk about the books, okay?), because I pretty frequently forget to pack stuff. 

This last weekend, it worked the other way:  I forgot half my stuff there when I came back to Chicago.

Things I forgot:

• Mascara
• Deodorant
• Toothbrush

Things I did not forget:

• The new book my mom is lending me

(True:  No need to worry.  SuperTarget and priority mail saved the day, and I don't believe I descended into smelly-kiddom.)

Hops in the Right Direction: Love, Love, Love (and Training)

Prada's biggest hurdle in her training and body confidence development at this point is, unfortunately, me.  I worry that she'll hurt herself or that she won't be able to handle something, so I take steps to make it "easier" for her, or she doesn't have to handle it at all.

I've been working for some months on training Prada to use a small set of stairs to get onto the couch.  She's been making slow improvements--she won't climb up them herself, but if I put her on the first step, she'll continue up herself.  Then, when I didn't want her on the couch, I'd just move the steps away.

But I was going about it backwards.  I was trying to coax her up on my terms instead of letting her desire to be up on the couch with me be her motivation.  So, earlier this week, when I had someone over for a movie, and I left Prada on the floor (she's notoriously wiggly when I have company) with the steps moved away, she took matters into her own, well, feet.

The stairs weren't near.  She wanted up.  So, she just hopped up.

It was clearly not physically taxing--something I should have realized, since her body has adjusted to her altered mobility such that her haunches and abdomen are really muscular.  She didn't hurt herself.  By putting the stairs up, I was just taking up the space on the couch she would have used to jump up.  The problem wasn't her body confidence, it was my lack of confidence in her.  The problem was my love for her made me want to protect her from anything that could hurt her. 

So, for Valentine's day, I'm giving Prada a vow to do my best not to let my protective nature and love for her hold her back from making more hops in the right direction.

The First Person to Make a Sandwich Joke Is Going to Get a Knuckle Sandwich Instead.

I'm not the best in the kitchen, and sometimes it seems the world intends to keep it that way.  Even if you disregard the multiple kitchen fires I swear I didn't mean to set, there's the fact that when I had someone over for dinner this weekend, the wiring to my kitchen light went out.  Because nothing is as fun as cooking* in the dark.

And then, later, I slapped some sauce and shredded cheese on a store-bought crust and called it a home-made pizza and felt all proud of myself until I started catching up on Geekologie and saw this:

Via

It's an octopizza, and it's just not fair.


(True:  But I do make a mean chicken pot pie.)

Hops in the Right Direction: Gaining Perspective and Dealing with the One Step Back Times

A well-behaved dog is an on-going project.  It's not a one-obedience-class-and-done kind of deal.  And sometimes, a dog will seem to lose a good behavior or gain a bad one.  It doesn't mean you have a bad dog--she's just testing her limits, or her routine was changed and she's upset and confused about it, or she's sick.  You know, like when people do something unpleasant--there's usually an underlying reason.  (Or they're just crazy.  One of those.)

Until a few weeks ago, I was bringing Prada to work with me, because my apartment manager was doing some construction right outside my door.  It was a pretty sweet set-up, really.  It was still warm enough for her to spend most of the day sleeping in the car, with a couple of potty breaks and a visit inside for Prada to get loved on by my coworkers.

And now she has to stay at home.  After all that excitement and affection (not to mention the treats I know some of my coworkers have in their desk drawers for just such an occasion), being left behind is not high on Prada's to-do list.

Prior to coming to work with me, Prada was really good about being left alone, as long as we followed a routine--I'd put her in a down-stay and set a treat in front of her.  I would release her from the stay once I was ready to open the door and leave. 

But a situation arose, and her routine was disrupted.  Now, we've got to start fresh, and the old routine hasn't been working.  Prada has been showing her displeasure with me by barking.  Not really excessively--or not excessively if I didn't leave for work fairly early in the morning, when some of my neighbors are still asleep.

For the last couple of weeks, I've been leaving her in the bathroom, hoping the more enclosed space and limited stimulations would help keep her calm--and if not, that the two doors between her and my front door would keep the noise down.  It was mostly the latter, and I've been trying to figure out what my other options are.

This morning, though, I noticed that as I was getting ready in my bedroom, Prada was chilling in the living room.  She was very calm, so I decided to roll with it.  I've learned that if I address her, or sometimes even look at her, she gets excited, so I ignored her as I pulled on my coat and grabbed my purse and left.  I was already to the first landing when she barked, just four times--and more importantly, it was more of a "what?" bark than an "come back and get me right now!" bark.  And then, blessed silence.

So I decided not to go back and get my glasses.

Sometimes, things don't go as planned.  Sometimes, you need to make a new plan.  And sometimes, you just need to pay attention to what your dog is telling you.  But the most important thing to remember is that it's not always going to be smooth sailing.  Keep your perspective--your dog loves you, and isn't actively trying to piss you off.

Probably.



Speaking of perspective, my friend Donna sent me this:

Because from your dog's perspective, there is nothing wrong with her, either.

It's Like an After-Christmas Clearance Sale...

...A little late, but pretty damn awesome.

You guys, I woke up this morning feeling well. 

Yeah, I'm one of those boring people with one of those boring chronic disorders, and you can't even tell I'm sick by looking at me, which is just plain rude.  But after six or so weeks of feeling ever more awful, peaking on Christmas Eve (because bursting out in tears and then cancelling a vocal performance at the Christmas Eve service as I walked into the Christmas Eve service is how I roll, yo), I feel awake, alert, focused, and hungry.

It's like my own little after-Christmas miracle.

This is too:

The Frogman's Night Before Christmas.  Read it.  Because if you didn't already know, Frogman is the funniest dude on the Internet.


(True:  Calendars are being mailed tomorrow.  I'm sorry; George is an asshole--see above.)

Hops in the Right Direction: Taking Advantage of the Circumstances (And Dealing with the Them)

While my new landlord has been rebuilding our fire escape/porches, Prada has been coming to work with me.  I am really ambivalent about this for a lot of reasons.

The Cons:

• Prada is already starting to expect to come with me everywhere, and throws a hissyfit if I try to leave her behind.  My neighbors are not amused.
• It's starting to get cold, and while my boss is very cool about Prada coming into the building every once in a while for a bit, she cannot be inside with me all day.  She spends most of the day sleeping in the car, bundled in her warm bed, with a blanket and in her sweater or fleece coat.  But I worry.
• She's starting to get a little tubby from all the treats my coworkers are sneaking her.

The Pros:

• She is getting a lot of great socialization with a lot of different people.
• We've been able to practice walking on "slippery" surfaces out in the warehouse--and we're starting to make a bit of progress.  (Woohoo!  She'll go a few feet at a time toward me!)
• I can cuddle her anytime I like, making the work days seem a lot shorter.

So.  I'm on the fence about whether I'm happy with the circumstances or not.  Regardless, there's nothing I can do about it, unless I win a million dollars and can afford to take her to doggy day care every day until the construction is done.  So I deal.  Because that's what you do.

I'm going to be out of town for most of next week, and my folks will be pet-sitting for me.  Hopefully, the week will act as a "reset" for the bad habits Prada has picked up, and if I'm very lucky, the construction will be done by the time I return.  Then I can start retraining Prada to remain behind calmly.

We'll figure it out, and we'll make it work.

That's what family does.

What's Black and White and Red All Over?

My face, the day after an evening test-run for my Halloween makeup.  As my costume is pretty makeup-intensive, I wanted a run-through to figure out exactly how early I need to get up on Wednesday.  (Answer:  Very.)  And because I can never do costumes by halves, I went out and purchased higher-end makeup that actually dries (in case my nose itches, or something). 

Gotta say, the makeup does stay in place.  I washed my face four times to get it all off.

But, it's me, so I forgot to clean it off my glasses.  Which I put on the next morning in a pre-Mt. Dew stupor.  Aaaand I didn't realize I had facepaint smeared all over the bridge of my nose until about 10:30 that morning, at work.  Which means my coworkers are either equally unobservant or total assholes.  Jury's out.


(True:  A third option is that my coworkers did notice, and just decided it wasn't the weirdest I've looked...)

Shakespeare's Got Nothing On Me.

I know you missed my poetry.  I have such talent, after all...

Bad Day Poem

1.  Ten O'Clock in the Morning

I'm running on no sleep.
My eyes are dry and bleary.
All the caffeine in the vending machine
Can't help this day that's so dreary.

2.  Head Case

It's a bad hair day--
I know you can't tell.
As far as you know,
I always look like hell.

3.  Eye Know

These bags under my peepers
Hang down to my chin.
I could put on some makeup
If I knew where to begin.

4.  Free Lunch

At some point today,
I really need to work.
My pen's at the ready,
But it's easier to shirk.

5.  Or Eleven

Damn pen just exploded;
I'm dripping with ink.
I can't wait to get home
And settle in with a drink.

6.  Silver Lining

It's not my best day.
There are plenty of clues
That I don't want to be here--
But I've got fabulous shoes.

7.  Greetings

Pretty please just go away--
Not that I don't like your face.
But it's one of those days that's full of malaise,
And I do hate the whole human race.

8.  Epilogue

The weekend isn't quite the same
As happily ever after.
But those two days don't wreak
Tragedies quite as bleak
For this poor pipsqueak
(Wow, am I on a streak.)
'Cause I can stew in my B-movie laughter.

(True:  Bonus points if you find the Doctor Who reference.)




(Blah, blah legalese:  This is an original work, and I reserve all rights.  Steal it and I'll sic My Sister the Lawyer on you.)

Unforgettable... That's What You Are. (And Also a Bit Weird.)

(Update:  I should tell you, the the compliment I'm about to tell you about is sincere, was meant kindly, and was, frankly, taken in the same vein.  Any assholishness here is all mine.)

I have one of those faces.  Often, when people first meet me, they tell me I look just like their sister/cousin/teacher/sex therapist.  Sometimes, this is uncomfortable.

I've been told I'm almost as hot as my sister.  (Flattered, I'm sure.)
I look like a librarian.  (With the big black glasses, that's not too surprising.)
I look like a math teacher.  (Do math teachers look different than other teachers?)
I remind a friend of Maggie Gyllenhaal.

One of these comparisons is not like the other ones.

Obviously, I was beyond flattered to be compared to an actress I admire, and then...

And then.

And then, my friend continued, "Yeah, you're both manic."


(True:  The best part was when he frantically tried to backtrack:  "And you're both fit!  And brunette!")