This, since 2004!

Bluuuuuuuf. I feel horrible. I feel the worst anyone has ever felt.

I'm whining. I admit it, at least. This is happening. It's in my head, and if I were to speak, you would clap your hands over your ears and flee. I would not blame you! Flee! Flee while you still have the chance!

I'm not even sick. I am merely having Monthly Issues. Wherein my Girl Parts are causing Full-Body Malaise, Troubles, Low Moods, and So Forth.

I am typically only mildly troubled by such matters, so this is unusual, which is a good thing (for everyone else) because I really cannot take much more of this. My ARMS ache. How did my ARMS enter into this? Also my skin has exploded, which is especially fantastic seeing as how I have to do a video tomorrow and I will have to wear a shroud over my face, lest I terrify the viewers. A face shroud. Or I'll just have the editor (Scott) pixelate me. Can/will he smear petroleum jelly all over the digital-camera lens? We're going to find out!

It occurred to me today that as of the end of January, I have been writing this blog for (drumroll, please) (…no? No one has a drum handy? Fine) eight years. I should be celebrating this with some groundbreaking post that shows you how far I've come in all these years but all I can muster is this. This low-grade moaning. Booooooooooooarpg.

No, but really. I'm glad I'm still here, and that you're still reading! Who's the best? You are! [Imagine me shuffling toward you with my animal-fur-covered chenille throw wrapped around me, arms wide, wincing a little with each shuffle. Come here. Let me embrace you. I showered today!]

Here are two scraps of conversations that I was going to incorporate into posts but never could figure out how. But they make me laugh whenever I re-read them.

Me: [blah blah something something using the word "coterie"]
Jenny: I love it when people use that word, because then I can say, I know what coterie means, and I know how to spell it.
Me: It's important for people to know that you know how there's no "coat" in "coterie."
Jenny: There's not a y, neither. And I know that.

We went on like this for a while. Jenny saved me from the self-loathing that immediately kicked in after I used the word "coterie" in conversation. Thank God for her.

And also:

Me, talking about a certain reality TV show personality I may or may not have done a video with: She kept saying, "It's hot as balls in here."
Scott: Was it?
Me: It was definitely warm. But what does that mean, anyway? Are balls notoriously hot?
Henry: Of course they are. LOOK IT UP.

Thank you, Henry. I do not think I will look that up.

We've had this conversation, I am not exaggerating, three times at least

"I don't know why everyone says you shouldn't stare at the sun. I stare the sun all the time."

"Please don't stare at the sun."

"But I do it and it feels okay."

"It is not okay. Staring at the sun will damage your eyes. This is a fact."

"Hmm, I don't think it's a fact."

"There's really no debating this. No staring at the sun. Period."

"No, but see, it doesn't even hurt!"

"Listen. Even if it doesn't hurt, for whatever reason. Don't stare at the sun."

"I did it once for like ten minutes! And I can see fine."

"You did not look at the sun for ten minutes."

"I really did. My friends dared me and I just stared and stared."

"What?! Stop it! Are you trying to go blind?"

"You don't understand. It's fine. I do it all the time."

"Stop staring at the sun. I can't believe we're still talking about this."

"Mom. Listen to me. I don't get hurt, so it's no problem."

"For the love of--DO NOT STARE AT THE SUN."

"No, see, what I'm saying is, all those people who say it's bad for you are probably wrong. Because I've been testing it."

"They are not wrong. This is basic stuff, Henry. This is--look. No more staring at the sun. Promise me."

"Fine."

"Thank you."

"I'll stop telling you about how I stare at the sun."

"HENRY."

--

Hey, guys!  Over at my Babble column I'm writing a bunch of posts that are sponsored by Dell (there will be two this week and two next week). And the excellent part of that is that we're giving away a Dell Inspiron! So you should go over there and comment on one of the sponsored posts for a chance to win. Before October 28th, please, thank you, goodnight. 


And now, a sexy story for you

A couple of days ago I was getting out of the shower, and while I was changing, I noticed that I had cut the top of my toe. (Not the big toe. A lesser toe. I don't know why this detail is important.) Scott noticed it as well, or maybe I stuck my toe in his face and shouted "LOOK I AM BLEEDING PLEASE HELP" (I sometimes do this) and he said, reasonably enough, "How did you do that?"
I hesitated. Then I thought, you know what? We've been together for seventeen years. It's about time he knew this about me. "Well," I said, "I…I must have nicked it with the razor."
"The razor? But why…?"
"Because," I said. "Because I have furry hobbit toes. And I shave them."
"You ... shave your toes?" I have never seen him look more confused.
"DON'T JUDGE ME," I did not shout. But I thought it. Maybe I said it?
"It's better that you don't know too much about this," I said. "But yes."
"But I don't understand," he said, "why would you shave them?"
"As opposed to what? Waxing? Burning?"
"No," he said, "I would think you would pluck them."
And then I backed slowly out of the room, then out the door, then down the stairs, and now I don't know where I am.

No, but seriously. Pluck them? I don't even know where to start with this. Does he think I have one or two weird aberrant hairs that sprout up on my toes? I have tiny mini-forests that would sprout on every toe if I didn't maintain them. Should I not have told you that?

Perhaps the sexiest detail in this story is that I was getting ready to go to the OB/GYN.  Yes, I was shaving my toes for my doctor. No reason she should have to deal with anything less than the most hairless of feet in her stirrups!

Aaaand I've just lost my last male reader. My work here is done.

We need to talk.

Me: Sit down, please.
Izzy: What?


Me: Do I have to say it?
Izzy: If this is about my weight…
Me: It is.
Izzy: … let me finish. LET ME GODDAMN FINISH. I was going to say, if this is about my weight, I will murder you in your sleep.
Me: …
Izzy: HA! Just kidding! I already WOULD murder you in your sleep, except I haven't figured out how. Yet.
Me: That's reassuring. Look, cat, you… how can I put this?
Izzy: I'm…
Me: You're…


Izzy: Big boned?
Me: Enormous. Grotesque. Overly, overly large.
Izzy: I'm sure I don't know what you mean. Are you referring to my frame?
Me: You do not have a big frame. You have a tiny head and weensy kitten paws. Your BUILD has nothing to do with it.
Izzy: Then it's all hair.
Me: I didn't know that that hair could weigh that much.
Izzy: Well, I mean, some of it is brains and guts and whatever.
Me: You can't clean yourself. Especially in the hindquarters. This is sad, cat.
Izzy: Now you're embarrassing me.
Me: I'm sorry, but it's true. Your butt is… why are you lying on my cell phone?


Izzy: It's warm. Shut up. Anyway, whose fault is it that I'm so big? Bastet didn't make me like this!
Me: Ba-who now?
Izzy: The Cat Goddess. Daughter of the Sun-God. Protector of Us All. Obviously.
Me: ANYWAY, listen, we need to put you on a diet.
Izzy: Then get ready for THIS. Feel my paw batting at you in protest!
Me: Felt.
Izzy: This is all I ask.
Me: Well, this was a nice talk.
Izzy: Still planning to murder you! Some day! Paws crossed!