Just a brief update as I am a bit drunk and think this is genius:
I’ll leave you with that.
Just a brief update as I am a bit drunk and think this is genius:
I’ll leave you with that.
I’ve always been sort of a
brave trooper big huge baby when sick. Mom would wrap me up in a blanket and I could watch all the TV I wanted to on the couch, and sleep as much as I wanted, and she’d make me delicious toast and anything else I could eat (my appetite is the first to go when I’m getting sick). It was like being Queen for a day.
One thing that always stuck though was the “only REALLY sick when there’s a fever” idea. I always gave myself permission to miss school if my temperature was 100. My normal temperature runs around 96.5/97 so 100 feels like I’m dying.
I caught H1N1 during our fancy Pandemic (there’s quite a story behind that) and had a 104 degree temperature…I literally felt like I needed to go to the hospital and/or was going to die.
I check my temperature all the time (I just now took it because I have a headache and it’s 99). Sometimes I know I’m about to get sick because I’ll have a high fever before symptoms start. While I’m sick I check my temperature constantly as a litmus test for how sick I can whine about being.
So, I’m a little obsessed with thermometers. The problem is I keep losing them. I’ve moved six times in the last three years and every time my thermometers vanish. Oh, they return, but never when I want them. So I keep buying new ones.
I have about fifteen thermometers squirreled away in multiple known and unknown locations. If I die and someone searches my room they’re going to wonder if I was running some sort of black-market temperature-taking operation.
One of the ideas I came up with when I was suffering from the worst of my panic disorder was “I bet I’d feel safer if I had a big dog.” Looking back on it adopting a dog at 20 was a horrible idea, but I’m of the firm school of thought that once the commitment is made it’s for the next 12+ years …so we’re 3 in. Almost. She’s still got a month until her third birthday. Oh, yeah, I also thought it would be a good idea to buy a puppy (well at first I wanted an adult but she was suuuuch a cute puppy and she was all fluffy and snuggly and cool looking and…I’m a sucker) when what I wanted was a big protective dog. I spent the first year protecting HER. Damn it.
So anyway, back to my brilliant plan. I spent hours thinking of the cool stuff I was going to do. I was going to have a beautiful intelligent dog that walked alongside me leash or no leash. She would know when I had a panic attack and she’d come calm me down with big fluffy dog-snuggles.
Somehow I ended up with …
When I have a panic attack or am sad or am otherwise in need of my big furry companion… she rolls her eyes and walks away from me.
When someone walks into the house, she wags her tail and peeks to see who it is. If it’s a stranger she thunders downstairs to see if they brought her food. When no one is walking into the house and there’s a creak or a rustle or someone talking outside in their own back yard, she has a complete meltdown and alerts the presses.
I don’t know about y’all, but when a dog starts freaking out the assumption is “SOMEONE IN THE HOUSE AND THEY ARE GOING TO COME KILL ME AND THOSE STUPID REPLICA ZELDA SWORDS AREN’T BATTLE READY AT ALL.” …maybe that’s just me.
She’s a big dog, about 50lbs, and I used to proudly think if a stranger came into the house with a big axe and a ski mask and whatever else a stereotypical murderer comes into houses with she would smack ’em around like a hellhound and call the cops for me and perhaps make me a cup of tea to calm my nerves while we waited.
Now I suspect if they came in and were male (she really bonds with guys instantly) and said “hi puppy!” and offered her any manner of treat she would lead them right to my room and helpfully knock me out for them to murder with a wagging tail.
So now despite having my big dog I can’t walk into a room without turning the lights on, I have to keep things crammed under my bed so no one can hide under there, and I feel defeated because I do all that while tripping over a clumsy canine who can’t seem to stop being underfoot despite standing almost thigh-high.
I get my revenge, though.
So, I sew things sometimes. For the first few years I just sort of stitched things and pressed them up against my body staring suspiciously into the mirror. It…sort of worked, things came out reasonably well.
Finally, when I decided I was going to keep doing this, I decided I needed a dressform. Problem is those bitches are like $200 and I had -$100 to be spending. So…I got a little innovative.
I’d read about making a wig-head using duct tape, fabric, and batting so of course my innovative self thought “I can make a torso body double too!”
I wrapped myself in a roll of duct tape, nearly suffocated when I didn’t leave an allowance for expansion of my lungs, and then cut it off and stuffed it with two pounds of batting. In the end I had a duct tape replica of my torso and I felt like a freaking genius.
Thrilled with myself I admired my brilliant handiwork and stuck a shirt on it to preen at how perfectly it mirrored me.
Content with a good night’s work I retired to my laptop to
screw around on the Internet instead of doing anything useful. study. screw around on the Internet instead of doing anything useful. It was at that point I started IMing a friend of mine.
“Guess what I made!” I announced, pleased with myself. I showed him a photograph of the genius creation I’d spent two hours making, and his reaction was less than enthusiastic.
Offended by his lack of admiration I began snarking. “You better appreciate my hard work” I snapped, “or I’ll send it after you.”
Then, I went too far. “I can hear it dragging itself down the hallway right now.”
That was it.
I couldn’t sleep for hours, I had to keep my overhead light on all night, and I was afraid to walk into the room where I’d left it or even out into the dark hall. Every time I heard a bump or a squeak I felt a rush of terror. After weeks of overwhelming trepidation I finally had to throw my brilliant creation out because I wanted to remember what it was like to sleep again.
I literally lived in terror of an armless, legless, mimicry of my own chest made of duct tape and stuffed with cotton batting. I still have nightmares about it.
This is why I own a big dog.
So, for purposes of this blog, my boyfriend’s name is JC. He’s a funny guy, often we get into bantering and it’s usually amusing. I think. Maybe I’m the only one who finds it funny.
JC: Did you know it’s easier now to get to Mars than it was back in Columbus’ time to get to America?
Me: No, I didn’t.
JC: I should say I’m looking for a super expensive ball of space metal, and the Queen will fund my endeavor to Mars.
Me: But that would never work. We don’t have a Queen.
It took me a while to realize why it was weird that I thought that was the biggest flaw with his brilliant plan.
So, I’ve had this blog since Monday when I remembered my Wil Wheaton story and decided it had to be shared and then when my writing made me chuckle I figured “I’m awesome, time for a blog.” Maybe not exactly like that but whatever.
So my first day I got 43 views and I was like “AWESOME.”
Then, 10. Which seemed logical since my day 2 post wasn’t about Wil Wheaton.
Then, 14. Also awesome.
Then, yesterday, 59.
Today it’s 3pm and I’m up to 54.
What the fuck is going on here?
Are there like 50 webcrawlers running all over my page? Googling says they go like a couple times a month not 50 times a day. So I don’t understand and I’m confused.
My friend Rhys suggested it might be a good idea to just post asking “what the hell?” So…if you’re reading, say something? Explain to me how the fuck I have 54 views already? Are you all sitting there and refreshing the page a few times to screw with me?
That’s it, isn’t it?
I’m on to you now.
Stop it right now.
I’m off to spend the weekend away from the Internets, so I probably won’t be posting again until Monday.
Update: I changed my mind. Go ahead and sit refreshing. It was much more fun to watch the numbers skyrocket daily.
I have a dog, as I’ve said. She’s an Australian ShepherdxGolden Retriever I adopted from a shelter as a rambunctious puppy three years ago. She’s big, intimidating, and a source of comfort for me when I’m afraid the squeak I heard is a serial killer approaching my room with an axe.
Her given name is Avalon, but I can’t help calling her about 80 silly nicknames off and on.
One of them has gotten more and more amusing for me the more I’ve added to it.
Then, that wasn’t amusing enough: “Doglington.”
When that didn’t do enough: “Sir Doglington.” (Yes, she’s a girl and I’m a dork)
Finally, while sitting at a stoplight after picking up the youngest of the two children I nanny for today, I dubbed her: “Sir Doglington of the Order of the Green Collar.”
I don’t think anyone else but me finds it funny, but really I’m my own audience most of the day so that’s no surprise.
Updated: I get it from my mom. She calls her parrot, Hobo, “Pepper.” Or “Sergeant Pepper.” Or “Sergeant Pepper and the Lonely Hearts Band.” (all periods optional in pronunciation)…I know that’s the name of a band but it makes me laugh all the same. She had a little song about “wouldn’t you like to be a Pepper too?” That she sings now and then. My mom made me who I am. Blame her.