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?)

It's Been Nice Knowing You, But Now I'm Headed toward Certain Doom.

Pray for me.  If you are certified, please include Last Rites.  (That's something you have to be certified for, right?)

Tonight, I am learning how to play WhirlyBall. 




This can only end in tears.  The last time I was in a bumper anything, I was about seven.  My grandparents had taken my cousing, my sister, and me to Little Ammericka, and my sister conned me into going on the bumper boats with her, even though the engines were unhealthily (yes, that's a word, because I say so and so does Merriam-Webster) loud.  It was just the two of us, because my cousins chose that opportune moment to disappear.  My boat's engine cut out, and My Sister the Lawyer bumped my boat over and over while I was stranded until I cried.  It took the operator about six hours (okay, probably about fifteen minutes) to figure out how to retrieve me.

Ah, the memories.

Now, I'll be adding a sports element to an activity that's already cutthroat, and I'm not exactly the most coordinated person...

Take this morning.

This morning, I decided to wear a pencil skirt.  It's sort of sunny out, and I sometimes like to pretend it's spring.  Everything went swimmingly until I tripped on my skirt in the bathroom.  So naturally I tore the seam, which runs down the back of my skirt

And of course the hole is exactly ass-level.

If this is karma, I must have been Genghis Khan in a past life.



(True:  It's a good thing I'm wearing tights.)

Some Things I Just Can't Wrap My Head Around

I like Geekologie.  It's pretty much the place to go for your science news spun raunchy--that is, if you like your geek with a side of alcoholism.  And let's be honest:  who doesn't?

Today I learned two things I'm having a difficult time wrapping my head around.

First, the universe is 80 million years older than we'd thought.  Okay, in the grand scheme of the universe, that's not so hard to imagine.  The universe was already pretty frickin' old.  But the idea that it might have expanded from something smaller than an atom into, you know, the universe more-or-less as we know it?  In less than a second?

Whoa.

Because that means it expanded faster than the speed of light.  And that means time travel.  I know that because of movies.

And that's how you suddenly age 80 million years, Universe.  You've no one to blame but yourself.

And that brings a whole new meaning to A Wrinkle in Time.


I also learned Chuck Norris is a modern-day Samson.

The world gets weirder every day, yo.


(True:  I went to the Museum of Science and Industry this weekend.  So blame this post on the fact that I'm all smarted out.)

The Worst Pies in London

I made sort-of-home-made chicken potpie the other night.  I take a lot of shortcuts, but some chopping is required.

Don't worry, I found a BandAid before we had a Sweeney Todd moment.

(And no, it wasn't the worst pie.  It was actually kind of good.  Go me!)



(True:  I tend to get burned out on the soundtracks from musicals pretty quickly, but Johnny Depp's version of "My Friends" never gets old.  Any other recommendations?)

Hops in the Right Direction: Let's be Better.

Prada has a strong body.  Her front leg has centered since I adopted her, and proportionally, her core abdominal muscles pretty much make her Arnold Schwartzenegger.  Her hindquarters have enough power to launch her up onto the couch.  She can run fast enough to almost catch a rabbit.  (And if that fence hadn't been there, she might have done it, too.)

But the fact remains that I am stronger.  I walk in a perma-shuffle around my apartment so I don't accidentally step on her, because I could hurt her so very easily. 

It bears repeating:  I could hurt her.  Easily.

Obviously, I don't.  My strength and size does not give me the right to hurt those weaker and smaller than myself.  Rather, I was always taught, and fully believe, that it is my duty as a decent human not only not to hurt those I could, but also to act decently towards others. 

The lesson doesn't just apply to tiny, fluffy dogs that have been closer to euthanization than they ever deserved to be.

It applies to boys who play football who rape a girl.  It applies to their peers, who stood by and did nothing.  It applies to the adults in their lives, who either looked the other way or didn't teach these children what it means to be a decent, responsible human being.  It applies to the media, irresponsible with their reporting.  It applies to the people outside the situation who have used social media to harass and blame the victim.  It applies to me, because I haven't spoken out earlier, more frequently, louder.  It applies to you, because we are all part of this culture and society that allow this to happen, that allow some people to think any of the above behavior is acceptable.

We can do better.  We can provide a good example of how to treat those weaker than us and those who are vulnerable.  We can speak up when we see something that is wrong.  We can talk openly and honestly to the young people in our lives.  We can start difficult discussions.  Why can ask "Why?"  We can offer victims a safe place to talk, and we can listen.  We can hold ourselves and others accountable.  We can well and truly--each and every one of us--do something to create a different, better future, where we all are decent--and most importantly, safe.

Whether it's to the four-legged, three-legged, or two-legged, I challenge you this:  Let's be better.



(True:  If you don't think rape culture affects even the lucky people who haven't been assaulted, think again.  And as always, be safe.)

Let Me Show You the Door

Not that I'm trying to get rid of you.  You people crazy enough to read this silly, self-absorbed little blog of mine are my favorite people of all.  (And the rest are hardly worth my time.)

What I mean by the title is rather more literal.  Though not completely literal, because I never remember to take photos of the wtf in my life.  So I'll have to tell you instead.

On Monday evening, it was windy.  Really windy.  Windy enough that it tore my storm door out.  Not off its hinges, mind you--well and truly out of the wall, frame and all. 

My landlord loves me.


(True:  I am a wimpy, wimpy weakling.  So I couldn't move the broken door out of the way.  So yesterday I took my trash out by removing the storm door window and climbing through.  I am a class act.)

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.)