But I Don't Have To Go To Work Tomorrow

Medical bills, more tests, no income, massive debt.

No matter what dreary issue was brought up last night, the immediate antidote was that realization:

But I don't have to go to work tomorrow.

Now it is that tomorrow, and I didn't have to go to work.

As the man once sang:

It's been a long time coming, my friends
It's been a long time coming, but now it's here, now it's here

I QUIT THE SHIT OUT OF THAT JOB. HALLELUJAH!

ABOUT TO WATCH LAST TWO EPS OF WALKING DEAD

OMG!

my emotions! my emotions!


i am so worried about my Rickle Pickle and his recent unsavory behavior.

NEVER GO FULL SHANE! C'mon man, everybody knows that.

And what's with this hyper convenient plot about an abusive husband?

i miss my beardo

ME SEE GIRL ME LIKE...ME TAKE

NO RICK NO!*

I hold you to a higher standard than that. You're better than that. Please be better than that.

Carol: the most lethal of the group, hands down.
Sascha: My girl is having bad PTSD, but she's got legit reasons
Daryl: Aw--he made a friend.Who must be a good guy if Daryl trusts him. He motherfucking better be. I'm watching you, Aarong.

SO MANY FEELINGS

and so to view


*though mgmt cannot explain why the shot of rick talking about "just taking" alexandria was so stupidly sexy. such is the power of rickle pickle.

Just Southern Sweet Talked My Printer Into Working

Whooooo!

I'm still not sure quite what did it, but it was a hell of an adventure getting there. I was working against the clock, since I had to use Handy J's computer to scan. And I had stolen his printer cable.

To take over to MY printer, b/c HJ's doesn't work (but I'm fingers crossed that it is only the printer that is kaput, and I will be able to scan). Dust off and plugged in my girl. Also, some time being spent mildly pissed that of all the shit I had, I hadn't managed to put my computer cable somewhere sensible? Sheesh.

Printer makes unholy animal sounds and releases blinking lights of protests. And, predictably, it tells me I am out of ink. Which sure doesn't sound right, but then again, I haven't had this thing plugged in for months. Ironically that was on purpose in an attempt to keep the ink from heating up and drying out. Oh, universe, you so crazy.

There might have been a sideplot involving a very sharp knife and the Magenta printer cartridge that got some unfortunate plastic surgery. To pass for bleck. Bleck ink. But it still didn't work because those ink bastards have got us by the balls. What to do?

Serious Sweet Talking begins. (You've got two main choices in situations with machines: you can either cuss up one side and down the other or you can sweet talk them).

On the off chance any of you are not familiar with this, the kinda line you run goes something like this:

Hey beautiful. Didja miss me?

Lookit you, ol' girl*, looking gorgeous!

C'mon sugar, I know you can do this.

C'mon baby, you got this.

Aw baby, why you wanna do that?

Darling, don't be like this.

Atta girl, that's it. Doing good.

This may look ridiculous, but if you have spent any time in your life trying to fix things, chances are some variant of one of these has come out of your mouth. The more desperate you are for it to work, the chattier you get.

It took about 45 minutes, a lot of unplugging, and an amount of conversating with an inanimate object that makes even me uncomfortable, but my sweet lil' Epson came through!

Please note, also employed the "Well, Let's Just Let That Set A Spell And Comeback" maneuver. Worked like a dream.

This is all good because I had documents that were due to someone today and I feel like shizzola and had been relying on HJ's computer to do this from home and was Not Pleased with the prospect of Leaving House (of Pain).

You go 'head now, Epson!

*P.S. I was unaware that my printer was was a girl until today.

THE ICE IS GONNA BREAK!

Happiness in a link:

http://www.lifebuzz.com/christopher-walken/

Same As It Ever Was

Woke up at 6:30 am. Watched dust motes in the sunlight filtering through the blinds. That's something I haven't observed in a long time. So beautiful, they seem like the secret shiny parts of sunlight, the hidden gold that sparkles and with which one might gild themselves.

I toss around the terms Zen, acceptance, letting it go, et cetera, a bit. Those are things I usually have to work towards. But every once in a while it just happens. Sometimes at the best time possible.

I have a friend and things got a little rocky for a bit and really devolved in a 24 hour period. Oh, email, how you let people hide. I was pretty worked up and desperately trying to calm down about the whole thing, when I received two more messages from the friend. One was very sweet and personal. The other was a blatant slap in the face and offended some of my most steadfast sensibilities.

In the moment of reading that email, I had a split second of clear choice: I could either react to this email and possibly end a friendship, or I could suck it up and maintain the friendship.

For once, it was a no brainer. Despite my profound offense, I chose to let it go. Just like that. It's like my brain did a flash computation and delivered unto me this summation: Fuck that, man--not worth it.

There is hurt and anger there, but I'm not going to pursue it. People are capable of all kinds of fucked up shit, especially given the right leverage, and expecting to be sacrosanct is inviting heartache.

It was only yesterday that I realized this marks the anniversary of my maiden No Fucks Given tour. Which is fabulous, because being in love means never having to give a fuck.

Wheeeeeee!

Freak Out - Sobbing - WTF - OMG - I Don't Even Understand, And You Will Think This Is Silly

Today, while pleasant in aspect, was not my day. Against plans, I decided to roll.

Now, there's only one bowling alley in town, and it suits me just fine, because they are the best. It's old, cracked, well oiled (before league) and familiar.

It's the kind of place I can leave my wallet in the pit and hit the restroom and I never even worry about someone stealing my shit.

Say what you will about the South, but this Just Happened:

I'm rolling with three different balls, trying to find a happy medium. Three beers and five sets in, I'm thinking "I should really get the guy to tell me the weights on these balls, so I'll know what to look for, though it's probably the elusive 10lb ball, talked of in myths and legends.

The owner walks over to me and says, "Girl, how many balls you trying to bowl with?"

I explain my situation, which is: I'm outta shape, I have small hands, and the light balls don't carry enough weight to strike. But the heavy balls kill my hip. (Bowlers know).

I mention I used to bowl with a green house ball, not the yellow letter 12 pounder, but the other one. He knows it: the 9 lb green. Gone the way of the dodo, almost.

"Well, lemme see. Now I have an idea," he says. Disappears into the back (the sacred holy bowling ball space). Halfway through my fifth sixth seventh whatever set, he hands me a ball. Pink, blue, and black, like a livid bruise.

"This is 10lbs, try it."

I have a beer and roll a little more. My hip is killing me. My knees are tired. But I've got a good grip on this 10lb. It's not the final weight I'll bowl with, but I can work with it. Put a wicked spin on it a few times without really trying.

I finish up one game and one beer over my original intent. It's all good. I've been trying to make this a McConauDay, though I have quite been able to pull it off. My hip hurts. My knees ache. I'll probably be done in for sure tomorrow. I still haven't eaten. I still haven't cleaned the room or fridge. I still haven't located the Christmas gift cards that I just realized today were missing.

You might imagine it's hard to get Zen and Bowl Right with a brain like this. You'd be right.

Anyhoo, I bowl my final and break 120, which was my goal. A sad goal, but still. I'm thinking crazy things, like how I should really get my own ball, even though I'm totally broke-ass and didn't even try to do that when I had money.

I carry the ball back up to the front, because it's obviously not a regular house ball: it's all shiny and pretty.

The owner cashes me out, and we talk of California (which everybody wants to dog on) and Zen bowling and the world. He pulls out a box and puts the ball I've been using into it. He slides the box across the counter to me.

"Here ya go. Somebody donated this so go ahead and have it. I know you'll use it."

Dude.

Seriously.

He just *gave* me a bowling ball.

I almost cried.

And then I did when I made it home.

I'm sure it seems silly, but good things never happen to me. I'm never rewarded for my loyalty or patience. The surprises in my life are mostly, almost all, negative. I'm not a lucky person.

But today I got a bowling ball for free. From a guy who remembers me even though I don't live here anymore. At an alley I almost didn't go to today.

Fuck a duck. I'll happily take my small miracles where I can.

A Rare Moment

Today started early and got interesting just before lunch, when the following exchange took place:

N: What are you up to?

H: Not much.

N: Let's get weird.

H: I'm already there. Let's do this thing!

What followed was a lovely trip along scenic beachfront down to the ridiculously priced but astoundingly lovely beach village. Wondering through overpriced shops, eating just enough overpriced food, and enjoying the lovely, cool weather.

It was easy and fun. Driving back to town, I turned on the radio to catch some bad local stations and I felt something I haven't felt in a long time.

I felt content.

I wanted for nothing. I cared not what lay ahead. I rued not what lay behind. No headache, not too tired, not too nervous. Like the third bowl of porridge, I was just right.

An unfettered Hawk is a happy Hawk. Nice change of pace.

This Probably Only Works In Context

For me, this is one of the funniest things ever written. It's borderline genius:

I DON'T THINK YOU KNOW WHAT YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT

NOT A ONE OF YOU BISHES WHO HAS BUTTHURT MY FEELINGS IS A PROPER JUDGE OF ME

OUTRAGEOUS
WHY YOU BISHES DO NOT DO CORRECTLY?
OUTRAGEOUS
I HAVE HAD IT TALKING WITH YOU BISHES WHAT DO NOT DO CORRECTLY

A CERTAIN FETOR ARISES FROM THE VERY BROWSER
I SEE THAT YOU DO NOT CARE ABOUT ME AND NEVER DID

Enjoying Holiday Weekend The Blahg Way

So, hanging out at The Cats. Making like Sunday morning.

Tink always makes sure I eat. I tend to wander and drink maybe a leeetle too much soda/pop/cola.

Roasted corn, home grown zucchini and squash. Damn y'all.

Of course, even when on a NFG tour, I still make time for the ladies. Helloooo Ladies. . .

Smooches!

You have probably been wondering what a suave, cosmopolitan, socially conscious person like me does with a holiday weekend. It is not spent in vain!

I'm not sure how, but I'm convinced that the fate of our universe was dependent on balancing these objects.

Awww....SCIENCE! You know it.

That's right: SCIENCE! UP IN THE HOUSE.

We took the time to analyze a strand of my hair that was half grey. A fascinating study of my decaying, decrepit state. I think we'll get a cheek swab sooner or later.


Seacrest: OUT.

Suck It In, Suck It In, If You're Rin Tin Tin or Anne Boleyn

Update post will be updatey as well as rando.

I got lots of awesome birthday wishes and even a few gifts (!) including some financial donations to the Hawkeye Fierce Fund For the Perpetually Underemployed and Delirious. It's a niche market.

The deliciousness of this cupcake has been summed up thusly: If Richard Armitage were a cupcake, he would taste like this.

Keeping it classy, classy, classy.

 Made some last minute 4th of July plans and headed north to visit. I was greeted at the door by tink, who was brandishing a foam sword.

Me: Hi.
Tink: We have a situation.
Me: Okay.
Tink: There's a rat in the house.
Me: Is that why you have a sword?
Tink: Yes.

The seriousness of the situation became apparent as I entered the den.

You can only hide for so long. Or so we thought.

This is the point where I was army crawling across the floor while tink and Panda played goalie.

Despite the strategic placing of food trails and some very vigorous furniture rearranging, Raticus eluded us. We eventually gave up and sat down to watch So You Think You Can Dance?

Little did we know that Raticus was a modern ballet/cha-cha fan.

During some commercial, I casually glance behind us. . .

Erh

Meh

GERD!!!!!!!!!

After some more inept bumbling, Raticus had enough and finally fled out one of the open doors.

I love you, Raticus.

There's a bit of a sea change going on in my life right now. At least it feels like that to me. Me hopping in a car and zipping up to see my friends (and only spending 45 minutes packing) is Not Quite The Norm.

I recognized this and took this christening photo to commemorate the moment.

Guess what is absolutely not being given in this photo?

That's right. It's the beginning of the NFG* Tour. Lookout!

*No Fucks Given, a Division of Look At All The Fucks I Give, not formally associated with the Fuck It Dude, Let's Go Bowling corp.

Spreading The Joy

This is want I want to do for a living. So very much.

Description from Wikipedia:

QI (Quite Interesting) is a British comedy panel game television quiz show created and co-produced by John Lloyd, hosted by Stephen Fry, and featuring permanent panelist Alan Davies. 

Most of the questions are extremely obscure, making it unlikely that the correct answer will be given. To compensate, points are awarded not only for right answers, but also for interesting ones, regardless of whether they are right or even relate to the original question. 

Conversely, points are deducted from a panelist who gives "answers which are not only wrong, but pathetically obvious,"typically answers that are generally believed to be true but in fact are misconceptions. Points are also often deducted if an obvious joke answer is given. These answers are known as forfeits, usually indicated by a loud klaxon, flashing lights, and the incorrect answer being displayed on screen as a form of humiliation. 

SEE Stephen Fry try to play school master and fail fabulously.

SEE the XL episodes where all the naughty bits are left in.

SEE Alan Davies subtly undermine the game.

SEE Rob Brydon advance his faux science and mock seriousness.

SEE David Mitchell devolve into a ball of "angry logic."

SEE Sean Lock get pissy and bored with intelligent participants.

SEE Jimmy Carr deadpan through every innuendo.

SEE Phil Jupitus and Bill Bailey sing, dance, flirt, and just be AWESOME.

 But don't take my word for it:

 And of course, THIS happened. I love to see a grown man cry:

Did You Ever Wake Up With The Suspicion. . .

. . . that you must have been having an amazing dream, because you feel so calm and content?

I love that feeling. It vexes me that I can't remember the dream material, but it's still a very pleasant way to awake.

Frankenstein's Hot Date

~or~

The Perils of Postmodern Friends' Opinions About Your Dating Choices

So my friend Handy J has had some pretty interesting things to say about the kind of person he thinks I should be with.

Please note, these comments are not part of some ongoing dialogue about my desire to be with someone. It's usually in the middle of me having a very logical and valid opinion about a pertinent topic.* For some mysterious reason, my form of self expression elicits comments from HJ along the lines of "Holy crap. Whoever dates you is gonna have to be hella X and majorly Y."

X and Y are not usually adjectives that one would associate with the tender and romantic notions of courting. More like words connected to mixed martial arts cage fights.

BroFist: Because Hulk love means never having to pay your hospital bills.

So in the interests of silliness and tomfoolery, I convinced HJ to let me record his thoughts on this weighty subject. Please remember that what follows is in his words, verbatim. And so I give you

The Definitive Definition of My Perfect Mate, According to Handy J.

Tough: he should be able to restrain you in self defense

Looks: long dark hair. Big nose, pref hawkish. Sharp featured, not a broad face, a narrower face. Skinny. Knows how to dress appropriately for occasions.

Preferably Scottish  ( pref highland) or Irish.

Personality: very educated. More importantly, he should be smart. Well read. Passion for movies. Somber of demeanor, with a sense if humor for appropriate times.

Shadowy past that he doesn't like to talk about. Preferably with a little scar under his eye --- if you touch it he shies away from you.

Gifted lover. But when you ask him how he got the skills he won't say because he only has eyes for you.

Profession: lived an adventurous life. Made his fortune securing ancient artifacts, but not always on the up and up, but not morally decrepit. Comfortably retired.

About ten years older than you. Able to provide a firm but guiding hand.

This manages to be eerily accurate in some ways and completely loony in others. I was seriously laughing and having to take long pauses to collect myself during this wonderfully silly conversation. At one point I said, "This is a comic book character! Who is this? Wolverine wearing Indiana Jones' fedora and dressed like a ninja?"

That question spawned the summary of HJ's thesis:

If handy j could create him, he would be:
Richard Armitage with Indiana Jones' personality, James Bond's skills set, and Aragorn's mysterious past.

You guys, it was like a girl's slumber party up in the hizzy. Handy J should write cheezy romance novels. He is missing his calling.

I have the strong urge to editorialize this list (e.g. firm but guiding hand? Seriously?). But it's probably best just to let it stand, resplendent in its own majesty.

Comments on this post are keenly desired.

*Please note adjectives used in this sentence are subjective and relational to author. Other participants in aforementioned conversations may describe the author's demeanor and delivery in different terms.**

**If they dare.

Awww Shucks

My friends decided I needed a little pick me up. So, inspired by their trip to Bass Pro Shop, I was the surprised recipient of a drive-by-rednecking.

The meal also included some Honey Kettle Fried Chicken, which is damn fine chicken. I am in love with the goblet--it even has its own lid.

Many thanks to LinLin and HJ. I didn't know I needed a pickmeup till you picked me up. :)

Things To Look Forward To

I know it ended on a preposition, but really: Things To Which To Look Forward? No.

Certain environs hold certain pleasures. To wit: 

• Waffle House!
• Required visits to N-Squaw. Home of the three drink maximum. One martini, Two martini, Three martini, Floor.
• The reunion at the Group W bench. 
• Carraba's with my Forever Carraba's date: Jo.
• Reunion of the Three Musketeers of Debauchery: D'runktagnan, Potsmoke, and ScaruhMiss. We sometimes combine into Form of Assthos. Those are less than noble nights. (The names are interchangable, btw). Yes, The Musketeers are a fearsome bunch. When last in town they drank a waitress under the table. Accidentally. Fear them.
• Going to romp n stomp some fewls on a trivia night.
• Seeing the fam. Though I doubt we will match the awesomeness of the Critmus Sing A Wrong of last year.
• Critmus Tree!
• Critmus Cookies!
• Hanging out with Hotsauce and HRad in their new palatial estate. Fending off the amorous advances of their pack of slightly wild dogs.
• Marco's Pizza.
• Trying to figure out which of the Brothers A people I can hornswoggle convince to throw a party.
• Rolling. But not on the shabbos.
• DEEP HURTING via some truly wretched movie viewing.
• Calming up with Svletlana, Hahhhnk the KGB Pooch, and Prince Will of Choco Coco Land.
• Seriously hoping to get see my peeps from my  former place of employ. This can be hard to coordinate, but I want it so bad.
• The bittersweetness of the Dojo peeps. *sigh*
• Rickle Pickle and D2. Would love a proper visit.
• Schooner's for the requisite Bushwacker and to get the free cup to add to my glassware collection.

Any thoughts from others on this subject?

Thanksgiving Pt. 1

It's Thanksgiving and I am once again HELPING by baking some stuff.

You know what that means.

If my pie falls, the crust crumbles, and I tumble to think of facing Lin Lin.

Bet you didn't know we also do lyrics here at Blather Blahg, eh, eh?

If you hear about sudden SoCal fire outbreaks, it was So Not Me.

11:30 PM Call

I had just drifted off to sleep, a singular occurrence, when my phone rang. I checked the number and dialed back to get my little bro.

I'm really glad I did. Turns out it wasn't a death notification. He just wanted to share his demented and perverse glee over his trivia team's merciless ass whooping of their opponents. We ended up talking for almost 2.5 hours.

He's one of the funniest people I know. Though not everybody gets his references, which is a shame because they are always awesome. For example, his trivia team is named "Deep Hurting."

Classic.

I wish I had been a better sister to him all those years ago. I'm immensely grateful that he doesn't hold it against me, and that we can have a relationship now. I wish, as I do with much of my family, that I could do morenfornhim, help him out in life.

Goodnight everybody.

And Just Like That, A Ray of Sunshine

My brother is out of surgery and doesn't have cancer.

If you just felt a breeze, it was the mighty sigh that escaped me.

ERH. MEH. GERD.

BERST. PREZINT. EVERH.

From my AHRSUM friends, Bef and Bert:

It does pay to answer a knock upon the door.

And it was seriously hard on my brainium to figure out how I had wired my stuff before, all in order to rewire.

Ultimately, I realized I just needed more HDMI cables. Mother Effer.

And then, while going through the painstaking process of converting to the HD channels available (screw you, Verizon!), I came across many wonderful things. A great PBS detective story on Masterpiece Theatre. And then, the new series Newsroom. 

Sam Waterston saying "fucking." Tracking camera shots. An unabashed love letter to the possibilities of America. A clarion call for all that is lost in journalism: objectivity, truth, integrity.

DAMN YE, SORKIN!!!!

And this guy was cute, as well.

And some other stuff.

Cover Your (Virtual) Ears

Guess what came in the mail and what is about to be viewed at Casa de Halcon?

Vicar of Dibley: A Holy Wholly Happy Ending.

Two birds with one disc: finally get to see the end of the series and get my Armitage fix.

SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!