Workin' it!

Get this.

I submitted my pitiful, anemic, half-assed resume via email, along with not a cover letter but a very informal "Hey, here's a little bit about me - I've been a stay at home mom for eight years" paragraph, got an email back the next day about setting up an interview, went in, nailed it, and...

I GOT A JOB!

I'm working part time for a well-known 100% vegetarian, Fresh Handmade Cosmetics company that I'm going to call Squish. I've worked for a couple of similar companies over the course of my stellar retail career, so it was a natural transition. They'd have been fuckin crazy not to hire me, honestly. I know my shit.

I get a fabulous discount (jealous??) and I don't have to buy a whole lot of new clothes because I already have a lot of black in my wardrobe. And the girls who work there are pretty cool. So I think I'll like it. It'll be tough to make the transition to working again, though, after all this time. It was reeeeally hard for me not to be at the bus stop at 4:10 this past Wednesday. But Beeb was there for them, R got home about 40 minutes later, and they all did fine.

When we only had Beeb, R and I both worked full time. The boys have never dealt with me not being there when they got home from school. Beeb gets home before they do, and now that R has a job with more regular hours, now was the ideal time for me to get out of the house. And I figured Holiday would be when a lot of retail shops would be hiring. I plan to stay beyond Holiday, if they want me to, and again, they'd be crazy not to want me to. I'm good at selling stuff I like. And I lurrrrve Squish stuff.

So because of this new gig my blogging time might be limited, but please be assured that no matter where I am or what I'm doing,

I SMELL FANTASTIC.

Trick or Treat, a little late.

Sorry it's taken me so long to post this, my poor neglected readers. I know my annual Halloween post is one of my favorites to write, and it's usually pretty popular, so, with my apologies, here y'all go.

You may recall the bitter anguish I felt upon discovering that the Costume Contest had been inexplicably nixed from this year's Pevely Flea Market Halloween Event.

Such total bullshit. I guess the other people were getting sick of losing out to Team Karma.

I suppose I can understand that. I mean, if my kids' costumes sucked and I was the sort of mother who couldn't stand to see their 6-year-old get her heart broken when her French Maid costume failed to wow the judges, I'd probably be disappointed too. But my kids are good sports, and they have awesome costumes. Why should my kids have to miss out on our annual tradition of kicking your ass just because your store-bought Spongebob costume didn't place?

So this year, we went ballz out for the Trunk or Treat event at Pokey Oaks Elementary. We invited The Racers, and allowed them to see me in my full-on, maxed-out, fiercely competitive thirst for glory. They'd seen glimpses of it before, sure, but NOTHING compares to me on Costume Contest Day, and you need to either get on board or get the fuck out of the way. I'm happy to say that they handled it extremely well.

Kev even snagged a pic of R and me snarking on the competition.




And with that, may I present this year's Team Karma costumes:

Tito was the dog from the movie UP (now available on DVD and BlueRay), complete with Cone Of Shame.







Seriously, how FREAKIN cute is that?!!?


Pie was a classic nerd. He called himself Ervin Ritzensnurf. He was particularly excited about the pocket protector. We took these pics before I slicked his hair.






And, finally, just for the sake of comparison, here's Martha Stewart's MEDUSA, from her website.



And here's MY Medusa.





Martha Stewart can decoupage my ASS.

Tito's costume required some creative hand-sewing (his ears and tail are made from a pair of brown socks), but Beeb's was HELLA labor-intensive. I don't remember how many snakes we ended up with, but they're individually knitted with two strands together, in stockinette so they would have a flat side like a snake, and then twisted and tangled together and attached to the hat.

The hat is basically the Hallowig pattern from Knitty, or at least that's what it would have been if I'd done it right, except I fucked it up (of course) on the decreases and so I had to kinda fudge it a bit. It's not completely closed at the top, so I coiled up a snake and sewed it on so you can't tell. But it turned out awesome and Beeb was so proud. A few people wanted me to make them a Medusa hat too. Not sure I could fuck up exactly the same way again, but for the right price, I might whip one up for ya.

Unfortunately, the costume contest at the Trunk or Treat was only for kids in Pre-K thru 5th grades, so Beeb, being a 7th grader, didn't get to participate. The boys, however, each won a prize for their grade level. Tito was Best Homemade Costume (which, to me, is a totally stupid category), and Pie won for Funniest/Silliest Costume.


TEAM KARMA DOMINATION CONTINUES, BITCHES!!!

Why I Blog.

I love blogs. I love writing this blog. I love reading blogs.

I read blogs for many reasons. I read the funny ones, the inspiring ones, the ones that show the amazing things someone with mad skillz can make with yarn. I love displays of creativity and craftiness. I love people articulately expressing opinions, whether I agree with them or not.

I read blogs that make me feel normal. The ones where moms want to pop other people's kids upside the head. The ones where people want to tell their bosses to fuck off. I feel less bad about hating certain types of people when I see that other people hate them too. It's comforting to know that I'll have someone to sit next to in Hell.

I suppose that's why I write, too. I put it all out there because I'm an external affirmation whore and I need other people to tell me that I'm normal, or, at least, that I'm the kind of abnormal that's fun and entertaining and not totally creepy.

I also write because I'm cheap. And when I unload a ton of heavy emotional shit on you like I did last time, I almost feel guilty. I'm saving a ton of money in therapy bills. Just so you know, I'm saving it for my kids' therapy fund.

Speaking of The Apes, I blog because I want to remember the wacky shit that my kids do (which reminds me, I need to share a poem that Pie wrote), and I like to look back over my posts from the year before and see how I've grown as a parent.

I blog because I loooove feeling like I this blog is a really big secret and only the coolest people can know about it. I like knowing that people who have never met me know what panties I'm wearing to my Inlaws', and want to know how much butter I'm putting in my desserts. I've even gotten butter-intensive recipes from readers. That's so cool.

I write to entertain, to inform, and to purge myself of all the profane rants that percolate inside of me. I blog to avoid some of the realities of my life (like housework) by confronting and sharing other realities of my life (like depression).

Which brings me, tangentially, to why I'm blogging today:

The honeymoon is over. I need to find a job.

Remember the last time I looked for a job? Here's an excerpt from my post from March 26, 2007.

"Friday I had my second interview at Vandelay Industries downtown, so I figured R and my parents could take the kids to the City Museum just down the street and I could meet them afterwards. I felt great about the interview. Here's one of the highlights. I'm paraphrasing, of course -

So, tell us a little about yourself, Penny!

Well, for the last six years I've been a stay-at-home mom, but I'd always planned to go back to work when my youngest started Kindergarten. So this opportunity has come up a year earlier than I'd expected to go back to work, but I decided that I'd rather pursue it now rather than wait until it was the ideal time and hope that there was a good job available, cuz I'd really prefer not to go back to retail... I mean, there's nothing wrong with retail, but I'm 36 years old and I'm kinda too old to be folding jeans for a living... I did my time at The Gap ten years ago... I mean, if there's a Jean-Folding Emergency, I'm your man. Just a little sumthin' extra I'm bringin' to the table...

I assure you, if I hadn't gotten the inside information that what was keeping me in the running for this job was not so much my work experience but rather my youthful exuberance, I probably wouldn't have said all that, but I opted to just go ballz out and be my lil ol' effervescent self. And I think it went well. The interviewers laughed at my jokes this time. When I arrived, the girl I'd be working with actually told me that this interview would be informal and that they just wanted some more people in the office to meet me. I took it as a good sign.

Anyway, after the interview I was to walk to The City Museum to meet R, my parents, and the Apes. On the map, it doesn't look it was that far from where my interview was. In reality, it's about fifteen city blocks. Not a big deal, I've walked farther than that, I wasn't worried about it. But then it started to rain. No problem, I had an umbrella.

Cut to a shot of me walking down the street in the rain with a broken umbrella. In heels. For fifteen blocks. The good news? I was wearing my Power Panties."



I didn't get the job. I didn't care.

I don't want a job. I have a job. My job is being here in case anybody needs me. I have gotten used to setting my own schedule, for the most part, and answering to no one but me. Since going on bed rest when I was pregnant with Pie, I have been a stay at home mom. This is the first time I've had more than a couple of hours to myself during the day in eight years. I rather like it.

And, in a way, I feel I've earned a sabbatical. The way I see it, I've banked all of the fifteen minute breaks people who have regular 40-hour a week jobs get in an eight-hour workday and I'm opting to take them as a lump sum.

Then there's the fact that I really, REALLY hate writing resumes and cover letters. It's depressing. I hate reducing three years of work experience into a single sentence. I hate trying to summarize myself. I never know what to say. I don't feel like I come across accurately in summary form. I'm way too complex.

I hate seriousness and formality. It's not Me. I don't interview well. I get really flustered and I feel like they can tell how uncomfortable I am. If they had an open bar at a job interview, they'd hire me in half a second.  But then I'd probably slip and say, "Oh, I should tell you about my blog!"

I wish I could put Pevely Flea Market Costume Contest Winner 2006, 2007, and 2008 on my resume. If they're not impressed by that, then I don't want to work for them.

Yeah, we skipped Pevely this year.  BUT, we're going to Trunk or Treat on Friday, and this year's costumes are some of the best I've ever done.  There will be pictures. 


Oh, here's a good pic of The Green Dress, before we left for the Reunion.



Should I wear it to my interview? 

My Inner 7th Grader Takes a Beating.

I loved my awesome green party dress. Loved, loved, LOVED it. I loved the color, the fit, the fact that I found it in a thrift shop for $15, and the way Kev's mom fixed it to look absolutely perfect on me.  My glorious shoulder freckles looked magnificent. 

I really was looking forward to knockin 'em dead at my reunion.  I wasn't a bit nervous in the car on the drive to fancypants downtown Clayton, because I knew at least one person slated to attend had gained more weight since high school than I have. There was a deliciously morbid comfort in that.

My only fear - more of a concern than a fear, really - was that given the guest list, it might be a little bit boring. And when I get bored, I get creative. And when I'm drunk and bored, my kind of creativity might frighten some people.  It might delight those who know the post-high-school Penny Karma I have since become, but I didn't drink at all until college, so my high school pals have witnessed plenty of Creative Sarah, but not Drunk Sarah. 

And I was reasonably sure that the uberconservative George Dubya High School alumni weren't ready for Creative Drunk Penny.

Out of the 85 people in my graduating class, only about 30 were signed up to attend. Of the 30, I only cared about 5 or 6. I couldn't care less what Kimmey Fiero, Stereotypical New Money Stinkin Rich Gorgeous Barbie Doll Cheerleader Snotrag is faring in her illustrious career as a Trophy Wife.  In fairness, she was never really outright viscious to me exactly, but that's only because she didn't want to squander her precious Cheerleader Spirit energy on a peasant like myself.

We ran into Kimmey Fiero in the elevator. 

She is one of only a handful of people with whom I can't even bluff my way through a fake conversation full of nothing more than small talk and pleasantries. I don't care what she's done over the last twenty years, and I know she doesn't give two shits about me either.

She did that sappy obligatory "Oh, hiiiiiiiiii!  How great to seeeeeeeee you! You look fan-taaaaaa-stic!" bullshit. I was smirking through clenched teeth, choking on the words I wanted to say, which were "fuck off, you emaciated twat," or something like that.

We joked uncomfortably about how long the elevator was taking to get to the roof. The ding of the elevator brought an audible collective sigh of relief, and she pranced off to look for her uppercrust kinfolk, who apparently had better things to do that night. Kimmey left after less than an hour because nobody cool was there.

The very instant R and I stepped out of the elevator, Julie Wigglesworth yelled from across the room, "HEY, THERE'S MY LITTLE CEASAR'S BUDDY!!!" in a pathetically overt attempt to humiliate me in front of my husband.  See my last post if you don't know what I'm talking about. 

She was hoping to out me, I'm sure.  It didn't work.  I laughed, said, "Oh, Julie, this is my husband R. You met my friend Kev a couple of weeks ago (turning to R) - Kev and I ran into her at Little Ceasar's when we were picking up dinner for the kids (turning back to Julie) - Kev and his wife are so great, in fact, they're watching our kids for us right now!"

Derailed that shit, didn't I?

As the night went on, I learned some interesting things. One of my former classmates ran into another fellow former classmate at, of all unlikely places, a strip club several years ago. The mother of a friend of mine died, which made me extremely sad to hear.  FOUR of my friends had each popped out two more kids since I'd last seen them.  I've popped out two more since the ten-year too, come to think of it.

I drank. A lot.

I offered (read: threatened) to whip my boobs out as part of a fundraiser for the Alumni Association.

People told me how hilarious my Facebook updates are, and I snickered to myself, because those people have no idea that I'm waaaay funnier without the Facebook Filter in place.

I got defriended on Facebook 24 hours after the reunion.

It was a nice night, really.  My effervescent personality sparkled brilliantly.  I was really delighted to be able to introduce my husband to people who have known me longer than he has. R, I would like to add, looked dapper and amazing, and he got to know several of my friends, which was really cool. 






And the next day (yesterday), the pics appeared.

I look hideous in the pics everyone is posting. I looked horrible in the pics at the ten-year too. I look gigantically pregnant in the pic that wound up in the Alumni Newsletter. I was mortified by how underdressed I was for the ten-year, so I was going to overcompensate this time.  I'd been stewing about it for a decade.

Major, MAJOR FAIL. 

The invite called for "Smart Casual" attire. What the fuck does that even mean???  People wore jeans. That pissed me off, a little. I glammed it up and wound up with pictures of my backfat posted for the world to see. Look.




Oh, and notice my buddy Newman (who made sexually suggestive remarks to me every single day for six years, back in the days before I would have been as tickled by it as I would be today) making out with his adorable wife on the right side of the pic.

I wish I didn't look so hideous in the pics, because that's what the people who weren't there are going to see and use to draw their own conclusion about how well I've aged. Of course I know that there are some folks who would be ripping on me no matter what I wore, which is why I chose to wear a dress that made me happy.  And I was happy... until yesterday's rude awakening.

I really thought I looked awesome. People told me I looked spectacular, and I believed them.  And now here I was faced with the reality - and relative permanence - of these wretched, unflattering photographs floating about the internet.  I really wanted to blow my classmates away, and instead, I made a complete ass of myself. 

Here I was having a great time, thinking I looked bloody freakin amazing, and the whole time I had no idea I looked so Huttish in my shiny green dress.  I am totally embarrassed, and there's nothing I can do about it now.

To their credit, R and Kev and Rip and my beloved loves have all reminded me of my beauty.  R told me he thought I looked stunning and he was proud to be with me, but it's almost like hearing it from your dad. You know he means it, but you also know he would never tell you that you were anything less than beautiful.  I was too deep in a self-loathing funk to listen.

I feel disgusting, enormous, amorphous, gross, and above all, incredibly foolish.  I want to throw up.  I want to take a scalding hot shower and scrub my skin with steel wool.  I want to crawl into bed with a box of Oreos and a bottle of Schnapps.

I know I'm taking it far too seriously.  I know I'm totally overreacting.  I know I'm making a big deal out of something that's really not a big deal.  I know I'll get over it.  But right now, I feel like everybody else was in on a big hilarious joke...

and that joke was me.

Heard It Through The Grapevine.

You might not have known this about me, but I'm not big on the Forgive And Forget thing. I know it's unhealthy to go through life bitter, but I bear grudges against people who have pissed me off FOREVER.

FOR. FUCKING. EVER.

Why do I bring this up? Because I'm still pissed off at Julie Wigglesworth (aka "The Grapevine") for telling the entire world when I was literally - LITERALLY - the only person cut from the girls' basketball team tryouts because I kept forgetting to inbound the ball. And she'll be at my 20-year reunion this weekend.

Kev and I ran into Julie at Little Ceasar's last week when we were picking up dinner for The Apes. I can't wait to see what rumors get started via "The Prayer Chain", which is basically where everyone spills whatever juicy piece of gossip they have uncovered.

"Ladies, we need to pray for Penny Karma's marriage... I saw her last week WITH ANOTHER MAN!!! (insert collective gasp of horror amidst clinking of teacups)" And by the way, whenever you add food to one of these dirt-dishing sessions, it's doesn't count as gossip.

Snark + Snacks = FELLOWSHIP. Just tellin ya.

I was briefly tempted to bring Kev to my reunion, but I think it'll be way funnier if I bring my trophy husband R and try to send Julie silent but comically overt signals to keep mum about the fact that she totally busted me with my boyfriend. Whatever. R and I have no secrets from each other, but I'll take the high road and let her think she got the scoop of the century, because I'm the better person.

And P.S., she's gained at least eighty pounds since the 10-year reunion. I, on the other hand, have lost about forty. And I have a kickass dress to wear that looks absolutely stunning on me, thanks to Kev's mom who altered it for me in exchange for pumpkin muffins that don't taste like pumpkin. Plus I got a Swiss Army bra to go under it. The bra cost more than the dress, hose, and shoes combined.

And my husband's a million times cuter and awesomer. Oh, and get this - she started dating her husband back in high school (married the first guy she ever kissed - how very Barbara Bush) and she was sooooo excited to tell us that instead of going to a four-year college, he was going to go to a tech school to learn both "Heating AND Cooling... so he can work year-round!!" Like it was a double major or something. Mensa material, for sure.

She's one of those people who spin the most mundane shit to try to puff themselves up. When her hubby's grandfather died, they moved into his house, which just happens to be in a very nice suburb of St. Louis (where I just happened to grow up), but the way it appeared in the Alumni Newsletter was that they had "inherited an ESTATE in Kirkwood". Ok, the word Estate doesn't necessarily refer to a giant fancy house, it could also - and, in this case, DOES - refer to an acrid-smelling house full of acrylic yarn and other old people crap. I mean, Hello, ever been to an Estate SALE?

But I'm not one to talk snarky shit behind someone else's back.

Ok, I suppose my sharing all of this with you while eating Cocoa Puffs out of the box technically counts as Fellowship, if you're snarfing a snack too.

Remember back when I was trying to decide whether or not to join my high school's alumni group on Facebook? I've been way more active on FB than on my blog, and I feel kinda guilty about that. But rest assured that this blog will ALWAYS be the place where I unload my profane rants about the things that many of my FB friends won't be able to handle.

My blog is my internal monologue. Facebook and Twitter are my internal one-liners. A lot of them are little situational funnies and snide remarks that come to me in a particular moment, and I don't feel that those moments contain enough substance to warrant a full blog post.

I'm sorry if I've disappointed any lurkers, but I find Facebook more engaging. Feedback is more immediate and conversational. I like when people comment on my silly status updates and pictures and I can know exactly who's reading what I'm writing. Yeah, my Facebook is kind of a watered-down version of my life (which requires some major filtering since my parents and uberconservative high school friends read it), but I love that people still think I'm funny when I'm not dropping a ton of muthahfuckin expletives n' shit.

In totally unrelated news, I've been trying to figure out how I can bring up the subject of knitting to my sons' teachers. Because if they are, in fact, knitters, I'm going to have to rethink my Teacher Holiday Gift plan. Non-knitters are mesmerized by FunFur because they don't know shitty yarn when they see it. I would never knit a gift for someone I knew was also a knitter. If they don't know the difference between a knit and a purl, they're getting a cheesy garter stitch scarf for Christmas. And if they're designing their own lace charts and selling their patterns online, then I'm fucked.

I've been cranking out cheesy scarves for the last couple of weeks. I'm trying to use up all of the crap yarn in my stash. I can't believe how much Lion Brand Homespun I had. And the colorway I had, when knitted up, kinda looks like it was made out of dog hair. What was I thinking??? But I'll knit it up into something that would impress a Muggle, and give it away and then it will be out of my house.

So my brilliant idea is to wear one of the sucktastic scarves to Parent-Teacher conferences next week and see if they comment on it. If they say, "Oh, you knit too?" then I'll say "Well, I just started recently..." instead of "Yeah, I started three or four years ago but I suck, not because I lack skills, but because I lack the ability to focus and commit to a long-term project, so I mostly make hats and scarves and stuff that doesn't require seaming."

It's sad how often I'm forced to find creative ways to hide what a dumbass I am. It's alarming how adept at it I've become.

I'm sure this skill will come in handy at my reunion. Stay tuned.

I forgot to share this with you.

Look what happens if you type "getting tonsils out" into Google Health.



Scroll down.





I'm thankful that the pottymouth disclaimer appeared prominently. I'd hate for anyone to be unpleasantly surprised.

Heh. No, no. I'd secretly kinda love that.

Follow-Up. And Heartbreak.

It's been more than two weeks since I got my rotten tonsils taken out. I think I'm the first person in the history of advanced medicine who didn't lose a ton of weight after a tonsilectomy. I lost a bit, but I was kinda hoping I'd lose more before my Reunion. I mean, come on - if you tell me I can eat all the ice cream I want, what do you THINK I'm gonna do?

It's not entirely my fault, ya know. I'm blaming Kev for letting himself get so dehydrated he had to be admitted to the hospital. Hospitals freak me out, and I didn't want that to happen to me, so yes, I prescribed myself massive quantities of ice cream. As preventative medicine. It's SCIENCE, people.

And I also think I turned the corner in my recovery the day I told R that I was totally sick of soup, yogurt and popsicles and if I didn't get a damn cheeseburger in my belly pretty fuckin soon, I was going to hurt somebody. And the Gooey Butter Popcorn, let's not overlook the healing power of that. I willed myself better so I could munch on something solid. Thank you, Steak N Shake and Poptions!

At my follow-up appointment my doctor told my my tonsils were "badly infected" and it was good that we got them out. I'm still recovering, but the worst is over. I'm already glad I went for the tonsilectomy. Oh, and did I tell you what one of the other doctors in the office's name was?




Anyway, I want to write about the heartbreak I experienced yesterday.

This is my favorite time of year. I LOVE Autumn. Pumpkin Pie Concretes at Ted Drewes, Pumpkin Fudge from Grafton, Mizzou football, turning off the air conditioner, making my bean soup in the crock pot, walking on crunchy fallen leaves on my way to the mailbox, not having to shave my legs... love it love it love it.

But my most favoritest thing about this time of year is planning for yet another year of Karma Domination at the Pevely Flea Market Halloween Costume Contest. At least one of my children has won their age group in each of the last three years.

By the way, if you're generally not a "click the link" kind of person, this blog will convert you. You should always click my links.

In 2006 Tito's pirate costume took first place, and Beeb's bloody surgeon took third.





























Pie's Harry Potter costume, equally brilliant, didn't make the cut. I don't mean it as a comment on the literacy rate in Pevely, but we stopped dressing our children as literary characters.

In 2007, Beeb won as a bunch of grapes, and Pie won as Larry the Cable Guy (one of my favorite costumes we've ever done). Tito was a spider, and he got robbed.





Last year's contest was TOTAL bullshit. I'm STILL pissed about last year.

Pie won with his Indiana Jones costume, which was a great costume, but I worked my ASS off on Beeb's clever Christmas Tree costume (complete with sewn-on blinking lights), and on Tito's Luke Skywalker costume, and neither of them placed.




This year I was going to set things straight. Righting a past injustice is a-whole-nother level of motivation, my friends.

R and I have been tight with our friends The Racers for a while, and while they have seen glimpses of my competitive nature once or twice, I thought it would be fun to invite them to the Pevely Flea Market Halloween Costume Contest so they can witness the madness for themselves.  Last night I went to the PFM website to find out what time the costume contest started so we could make plans.  Here's what I found:







This year's prizes will be awarded in a random drawing.
THERE IS NO COSTUME CONTEST.

MotherFUCKER!!!!

My guess is that someone in Pevely Googled Pevely Flea Market Halloween Costume Contest, saw that some obnoxious Suburban St. Louis Soccer Mom with a pottymouth blog took it a weeeeee bit too seriously (which, I admit, I do), and decided to shut the shit down.

I broke Pevely. I broke it with my will to win.

The prizes were getting less and less stellar. The first year we got movie tickets, the next year McDonald's coupons, and last year a coloring book. So perhaps it was a budgeting issue. But still - now what am I going to obsess about for the next three weeks?  There's still the Trunk or Treat on the 30th, I guess, but it's not the same.  I'm severely disappointed.

Fortunately, the Racers will still get to see my fiercely competitive side today as the newest member of the Karma Crew, Dexter, is running in the Hamster Ball Derby this afternoon!

Dexter's been working out.



And I've been feeding him Hamsteroids.

All The Single Babies...

If you'd like to learn the dance yourself, try this:






And if you think you're a badass, try this:

I want my tonsils back.

Just kidding. I don't, really. I've just been recovering from a tonsilectomy for six days and I'm disappointed in my own lack of resilience. I'm superhuman, dammit!!!

I was warned that it would be a long, difficult recovery. I have friends and family members who weighed in on Facebook telling me of their own experiences and begging me to reconsider my decision to have my tonsils removed. But after having about eight blazing cases of Strep Throat in the last year and a half, I figured it couldn't be a whole lot worse than what I had already endured.

The pain itself really isn't the worst part of it. Yes, there's pain, but there's also being hella tired and not being able to sleep. There's also an inability to taste anything. There's desperately wanting to wake up completely healed and instead waking up feeling noticably worse.

This morning I woke up gasping and choking on what must have been a big funky glob of gunk from my throat and it reminded me of a trailer I remember from an 1981 horror movie starring Sharon Stone called Deadly Blessing. Anybody know what I'm talking about?



These are the things that haunt my subconscious, people.

So with the fear of choking to death in my sleep, I don't think I've slept much in the last week. And my poor beloved R has been a prince. He's been working so hard to get stuff done so I wouldn't have to do it, he's exhausted and my tossing and turning and snoring and gagging isn't helping him at all. I feel really bad about that part, but I'll make it up to him. I'm hoping that removing my tonsils has had a positive effect on my gag reflex. (A-Bow chicka BOW!)

Then, there's the pain. And the incompetence of the genius nurse. And how the two have combined forces to prolong my suffering. I called the office yesterday, saying that I'd been unable to sleep for more than a few hours at a time because the pain meds wear off so quickly. The nurse's solution? Try taking fewer, less strong pain meds. That's what I did last night.

Tonight I'm trying something else. Called TAKE AS MANY DRUGS AS I CAN POSSIBLY CHOKE DOWN.

My sleep schedule is so completely screwed up, I don't even know what day it is. I think it's Tuesday. Tonight the boys have their karate class. They each have a ghi now because Beeb took karate for several years and we saved all of her karate stuff, so yay! That saved me sixty bucks!

And Pie has been riding his two-wheeler without the training wheels, so his elbows and knees are all scuffed up but he's determined as hell to ride like the big kids. So that's what's been going on in the world around me while I'm hiding out in my sickie cocoon.

My neck hurts from trying to sleep in an upright position. My throat hurts, my jaw hurts, my ears hurt, and I'm indescribably tired. R took FMLA so he was home with me Wednesday through Sunday, and now he's had to go back to work. Yesterday Kev came over to sit with me while I slept, but now he's back to work after recovering from his own surgery, so today's really the first day I'm completely on my own. It sucks.

I'm lonely and bored and absolutely no fun to be around. And I'm normally such a charming, effervescent person! I hate being boring.

And oh, I haven't even mentioned the other casualty of my tonsilectomy. Remember my mammogram last year? Click here if you missed it. It's a good read, particularly if you're new to my blog.

Remember how I FREAKED for a whole day about the possibility of having to take my tittie bling out for my mammogram? Well, it didn't even occur to me that I might have to take them out for my tonsilectomy. They weren't going to be cutting anywhere near my boobs, right? Didn't even enter my mind.

Fast forward to 6am last Wednesday when Grouchy Nurse - who, by the way, bruised my hand thusly when administering my IV -



asked me if I'd removed all of my jewelry. Wedding ring, earrings, piercings?

Yup, yup, huh??

Do you have Piercings?

Well, yeah, do I have to take them out, really?

What do you have done, your bellybutton?

(Scoffs)Ha, ha, no... that's so Spring Break... I have both nipples pierced.

They're gonna have to come out, ma'am.

Are ya sure?

Let me put it to you this way - Do you want to be electrocuted?

Not so much.

Then yes, they need to come out.

Shit. SHI-hi-hi-HIT.


So she handed me a plastic cup, drew the curtain, and, within a minute or two, the rings were out. The stainless steel rings that have been a part of me for about five years, symbolizing my ability to summon my inner badass and overcome my fear of needles and pain, were sitting, cold and lifeless, in a cup.




And I was really ok with it.

I hadn't spent the whole day before freaking out about it. I hadn't had a chance to stew or lament or even give it any thought at all. It was done. And there were my nipples; plain, unadorned and lovely.

Maybe I'll put them back, I don't know, but for now, I'm enjoying the novelty of Nips Au Naturale.

** NSFW ** Sometimes I go a long way to connect one thing to another.

Seriously, y'all who have been reading my blog for a while should know that pretty much every post is most likely NSFW.  But anyway...

Yesterday we had waffles for breakfast, and I looked at the label on our Aldi syrup.




Aunt Maple's.  Got that?  Ok. 

It reminded me of one of my all-time favorite bits, which was a major bitch to find on YouTube because the only time I ever heard it was on an LP.  Record.  Album.  Vinyl.  Those things we had before cassettes and CD's and MP3's. 

(I watched the VMA's last night and I felt like I was a hundred. Janet Jackson doing Scream was just incredible. Oh, and P.S. - Kanye, you're a douchenozzle. But that has nothing to do with anything, really.)

To continue. . . Fortunately for us, video footage of Dudley Moore singing House On Fire does exist. I couldn't decide which I liked better. With the first one, it's easier to hear the actual lyrics. But the second one has a much more animated delivery.







Did ya catch the connection? "We have not laughed so much since Grandma died, or Auntie Mabel caught her left tit in the mangle." Who else but your pal PK could relate Dudley Moore to pancake syrup?

I always thought that a mangle was a garbage disposal, which is why I always mind my tits when leaning over the sink. But further research showed me that I've been wrong all these years.

From Wisegeek.com:

"In the 18th century, the first form of the modern laundry mangle emerged. A mangle has two large rollers which are turned by hand with a crank or by an engine, while laundry is passed between the rollers. Historically, such mangles were often powered with steam engines, once the steam engine was invented, and they would have been noisy, hot, and quite dangerous for their users; most modern mangles are electric, a significant improvement.

When used to process wet laundry, a mangle can cut down on drying time significantly by squeezing out as much excess water as possible. For pressing things flat, mangles may be heated so that they will create crisp, smooth creases, and it is not uncommon to see a pressing mangle with a steam attachment for setting pressed seams and creases. In many cases, a pressing mangle is used with a clean sheet to wrap the object being pressed, to ensure that it stays clean.

Modern mangles are much safer than their historical counterparts, but it is still a good idea to be careful, especially around an industrial mangle. These machines can easily severely damage extremities, and users have been severely injured when their hair has been caught up in the workings of the mangle; in some cases, a mangle can actually pull someone's scalp right off, which would not be a pleasant state of affairs."

I'll say.





The ending is my favorite part: "We are miserable sinners. Filthy fuckers. Arseholes." I like to sing that line quietly to myself when I do something blantantly snarky or snicker at someone else's misfortune.