finslippy

It's the last day of NaBloPoMo, but the first day of everything else

I'm positively ebullient today, my friends. Ebullient! It's a fun word. It kind of reminds me of bouillon. Or bologna. I'm hungry.

First of all, my Wonderland post is up, so I can now relax. I never enjoy the hours leading up to a deadline. It doesn't matter how enjoyable the task is; whenever there's something I have to do, I get all whiny and petulant, and I moan about how I don't wanna and there's a new 30 Rock on and eeeeeeeuuuughh. Scott runs away from me and the animals shrink from my weird, desperate hugs, and eventually I realize I have no choice but to sit down and string some words together. But here I am, all done! I have triumphed yet again! Huzzah!

Secondly, Henry and I are heading to the library after school, where we will read until I'm hoarse and then we'll take out way more books than we can possibly read (or that I can carry without pulling something). I don't know why I enjoy the library, now that I've described it like that. Possibly it's because of the quality time with Henry? Well, yes, but that's the obvious answer. Also we'll get some hot chocolate at a local café, this sweet little place where Henry flirts with the staff. They love him there, even after The Incident, which occurred last winter: he was washing his hands in the bathroom and soap spurted into his eye, and he proceeded to run up and down the length of the store, screaming his head off. Eventually I managed to direct him to the exit before he scared off all the customers, but it took a while. The fact that they still let us in astounds me.

Charlie is curled up on a sunny patch and the cat is inches away from him, sprawled across an ottoman. She'd kill him if she had the chance, but for now, they're getting along. And me, I'm about to run on our fancy treadmill. I have discovered that I am a person who enjoys running. Life is full of surprises, my friends.

You know what else has me in a good mood? Your donations. They really mean a lot. I knew there was a reason I liked you. You look great in that color, by the way. Are you using a different shampoo? I can tell.

Actually Newman-Os, but they didn't need to know that.

The other day Henry had a friend over, which means he got to oversee construction on his latest block/Lego creation while I got to sit in the next room and pretend to work. While I read blogs and told myself I had a deadline, I gradually became aware that I wasn't holding my ears shut from the child-manufactured racket. Instead of crashing and shouting, there was giggling. Quiet, conspiratorial giggling. I was afraid.

In this situation, some parents might poke their heads in to see what was going on, but me, I can't say I really wanted to have that image--whatever it was--seared into my memory. So I asked. And Henry, my innocent truth-telling five-year-old, he told me. "We're licking our feet," he said.

Ah.

I think it's indicative of how low my standards of acceptable behavior have fallen when I say that I answered, "Your own, or each other's?" When he said they were licking their own feet, I had to think about it for a minute before deciding that that was gross.

I could hear their little minds whirring (each other's feet—now there's an idea), so I lured them to me with the promise of Oreos.

Oreos: More Delicious Than Your Friend's Foot! I should have been an ad copywriter.

I bring you updates.

Izzy the Cat has, according to the animal hospital receptionist, survived her spaying. I told Henry that she was having an operation to keep her from having babies, and from the look on his face, I might as well have told him that we were having her paws lopped off. "But… but she needs to have babies," he whimpered. What, kid, you think the only thing girls are good for is baby-making, IS THAT IT? Go fix Mommy a drink. Just pour it into a glass, it's already pre-mixed in that jug. The one with the blue label. Now scoot!

They say she's doing fine, but then, how do I know they're telling me the truth? As a friend of mine pointed out, they could stuff any old cat back into her carrier, and I might wonder for a little while how my cat changed into a tabby, but then I'd forget, as I always do. What was I talking about, again?

While I was calling, I got the idea that I should ask if I could talk to her. The receptionist put me on hold and then I was giggling through hours of hold music, imagining the look on her face. "I just want to hear her sweet voice," I would say. But then, they probably get this all the time, don't you think? I bet they have a recording of a cat meowing that they play, just for their crazier clients. I lost my nerve when she returned to give me the update. But I was snickering the whole time, so I'm sure she thinks I'm nuts anyway. My cat's okay, you say? That's hilarious! Did you put wheels on her, where her paws were?

In other news, I just made out with my antibiotics. It was a little awkward, but I felt it was the right thing to do. So yes, my ear is better. Thank you for your concern, and for not fleeing my site in disgust and horror.

I have an essay in the latest issue of Wellesley magazine, so if you're coming from there, welcome, fellow alumnae! Remember that time, on that hill, near the lake? I'm sorry about that. I didn't know those were your good pants. And that they'd be so flammable.

The presence of esteemed, successful, immaculately dressed alumnae makes my next news item a little…awkward for me, but I think we all know I've learned to embrace my awkward side, so here goes.

You might have noticed I have a donate button now. Right up there, in the left-hand-column, above the big honking ad. Huh!

I debated whether or not to add a donation button. On the one hand, I already have ads, but on the other hand, the ads do not pay as I had dreamed they would. I know there are people who are against ads and anti-blogging-for-any-reason-besides-love, but I come from the land where writers get paid for their writing, and I don't see a problem with that. But then, I don’t like to feel like I'm begging. But then, I am! I debated until I felt a little sick, but in the end, I decided to leave it up to you, the reader. If you wish to donate, I thank you from the bottom of my scrappy freelancer's heart. If you can't, you're probably struggling like me, and I raise my chipped mug of re-heated coffee to you in solidarity. May we all make more money doing what we love to do.

My final piece of news is probably insane, but here goes: I have enjoyed NaBloPoMo so much that I want to keep it up. Almost. I pledge to you, dear readers, that I will write an entry for every weekday, excepting holidays and extreme cases of illness, from now until my hands fall off. And I have to get wheels to match Izzy's.

Hey, kids! It's Alice's Tips for Living!

Let’s say your doctor somehow tricks you into scheduling a physical. He asks you when the last time your physical was, and because you're me, you say, "Uh, high school?" And then he recommends that you schedule one, pronto. He doesn't think it's so funny when you say, "But I get those, what do you call them, vagina physicals! Isn't that enough?" Actually he does think that's kind of funny. You like your doctor. But he walks you to the receptionist and asks her to schedule your physical, because he knows you'll run away otherwise. Dick.

Let's jump ahead to the physical, because this post is sort of dragging, already. Okay, so during the physical you mention to Dr. Charming that you can't actually, how do you put this, hear, and he looks into your ears and explains that the reason you can't hear is because you've apparently melted several candles and pumped their molten remains into your canals. In other words, there's a lot of wax. Now your readers are grossed out that they know this about you, but then, you've already discussed your peeing problems in great detail, so what the hell.

So your doctor begins to root around inside your ears--way deep inside, probably into the brainpan--with an instrument. From the way it feels, you're guessing it's an ice pick or a crowbar. And then he says something like "whoops."

"Whoops?" you say.

"The skin sort of pulled a little bit, and there's some oozing," says the doctor. "Let me just clean that up for you."

By "oozing," he means "crazy bleeding," which you can see very clearly from the numerous cotton swabs inserted into your ear and then removed when they've become saturated. Your doctor seems mildly horrified. There are many q-tips. He is apologizing. A lot. You're too busy worrying about that tetanus shot he mentioned to care very much. You fool!

After the shots (ow) and the various other ridiculous procedures you're put through, the doctor mentions that he's going to prescribe an antibiotic for your ear. "It's probably not necessary, but do it anyway," he says. "And don't try to clean out your ears, or, you know, go in there with anything. You really don't want that to get infected."

So now that all this has occurred--TO YOU--here are my handy tips!

DO NOT: wonder, the next day, if there's a big ol' scab inside your ear.

DO NOT: decide it's okay to get in there and find out. That is both disgusting and unclean.

DO: Get that prescription filled.

DO NOT: think that a little throbbing and itching is probably just "healing."

DO NOT: wait for the pain to escalate out of control before fishing the wadded-up prescription out of the bottom of your purse.

DO: thank your husband for running out to the 24-hour pharmacy for you as you claw at your ear, weeping.

I hope that I have helped you, in some small way.

Curious George Gets Read One Too Many Times in This Household.

There was once a monkey named George. He was a good little monkey but curious, so George got into shit.

One day the Man With the Yellow Hat went out, because that's all he ever did—he simply drove off, leaving a monkey to fend for himself, like that makes any sense. Once he was alone, George became interested in something. He looked at it, but not being satisfied with looking, he then poked at it, or perhaps he rode it, or he ate it, and before long he was in serious trouble.

The Law or the Authorities or Personnel came after him, but lucky for George they were slow and ungainly and shook their meaty fists at him, which slowed them down further, and George managed to jump on top of a bus, or hide in a shirt. Just then, a larger crisis loomed, one in which (improbably) a being of monkey size and/or flexibility was needed. George helped, of course, and saved the day just as the Authorities arrived. Everyone agreed that while George is a pain in the ass and ruins just about everything, he is also good in a pinch, when one requires the services of a monkey.

Then George got a medal or a pie, having learned exactly nothing from his mistakes.

I feel so violated.

Dear cat:

I'm sorry we forgot to get you spayed. The good news is it's happening tomorrow. Meanwhile, don't look at me like that. I like you, but not in that way.

Fondly,
Your owner (but not lover)

Dear sexy, sexy human:

You are one hot number, did you know that? You don't have sleek fur covering your weird body, and you can't even cleanse your hindquarters with your probably un-barbed tongue, but… I don't know. There's something about you. I never noticed before today. But now I have these feelings, and I can't ignore them.

I will waggle my hindquarters in the air, and let nature take its course.

Patiently, your cat,
Izzy

Dear Izzy,

Shall I lock you in the basement overnight?

Love,
Alice

Dear Charlie,

Aw, yeah. I don't care how much of a non-cat you are, you are working this dog thing, and me likes. Do you know what you're doing to me, with that tail, and those eyes, and the way you stand there, paralyzed in terror, whenever I come around? Don't be afraid, baby. I got needs, and you're the closest thing to perfect within these four walls. You know where to find me.

Rowr,
Izzy

Cat-Thing--

Hey! What! I don't undersand when you talk about this and with the cat-butt in the air and what! It, you know, it's scary enough when you swat and hiss and poke and hiss and swat! Hey! But now I have to say I can't really handle this! Wow! I sure am very very very nervous! Where are my beloveds! My giant pink beloveds! Save me from cat-beast! SAVE!

Running,
Charlie

Hey baby,
You're the only one left, and time is running out. Tomorrow they take out my feelings, my hot cat needs, but tonight, tonight is for you and me. The dog, that coward, is hiding with the other non-cats, and I can't get at him. But you, you don't run away. You stand tall and strong, and I like that. Now MOUNT ME.

Thank you,
Your kitty cat.

ANIMAL:

No understand, me. Is confuse! Why you writhe and shimmy against I? What have you reason for chirruping? Cannot act. Cannot help! Want to, would like, but no working I is parts for moving. Am non-moving, but not non-feeling. So sorry.

Love,
COFFEE TABLE

Dear Alice,

Where are you going with this? Yes, we get it, the cat's in heat, you're getting her spayed. Better late then never, although some of us think spaying is evil and your cat should mate with wolves or whatever. We can't help it, some of us are kooks. Do you have any plans to wrap this up?

Love,
The Internet

Dear Internet,

No, I don't have any ideas, I'm sorry. I didn't think this through.

Yours,
Alice

Hey, Internet,

As long as you're here, HELP A CAT OUT GODDAMMIT.

Hugs 'n' stuff,
Izzy.

And lemurs. Mustn't forget about those.

Did my faithful readers truly believe that my dog had run away, or were they joking, just like me? I can't tell anymore. I'm so tired. So, so tired. The three of us went to the Museum of Natural History today and I know you were there, too. I know you were there because everyone in the known universe was there. Everyone was there, meandering through the exhibits, pushing empty strollers in front of them and shouting for their children. Their children, meanwhile, were lagging ten feet behind as they hacked and sneezed into their moist palms and then touched every display, every guardrail, every everything. I don't care if you don't have a child because if you don't you clearly built a child-robot to bring to the AMNH. A germy robot, built just to horrify me. I used half a gallon of Purell on me and my family today. But no amount of Purell can wipe away the memories.

Actually we had fun. It's just that I'm too tired to tell you about the fun. There were quasars. Alaskan bears. Geodes and giant squids and fossilized jawbones. It was wholesome, educational fun. I will need a few days to recover.

Advil, please.

If you've been wondering how to create the most ear-splitting whine you can imagine, your first step should be to keep a five-year-old up well past his bedtime. The next morning, you'll want to kick things off with a Super Fun Bagel Time with Friends. Then have the friends leave far too quickly for his liking. Now that he's wound up and packed full of carbs, there's nothing to do. His parents are looking forward to doing something dumb like sitting and reading. The seconds and minutes tick-tock away. None of his toys hold any of their former appeal. His Legos mock him with their inability to connect themselves. His books will turn stupid. His stupid parents decide they're going to rake, of all stupid things.

He's already far more sleep-deprived than usual, but don't count on him napping, because napping is a baby activity for babies. After a bout of whining—which is just a rehearsal for later—he'lll manage to get out for a bit, running around the front yard, trading insults with the guy next door using combinations of the words "poopy," "diaper," and "butt." But then it gets dark, and he has to go back inside, where there's still nothing to do. He's seen that television show. Don't try to make him laugh because he hates laughing. And now his favorite Lego guys have disappeared and no he doesn't want to look for them. He needs dinner and no one will play with him and his Lego guys! Where did you put them?

There's only one thing left to do in a situation like this, and that's whine. Whine as loud as he can! Whine until his parents beg for mercy! It starts as a whimper but it will build, it will keep on building, and there's nothing you can do to stop it. If you're wondering what your dog is doing while you are enduring the Worst Whine Ever, he's teaching himself how to open the front door so he can take off. Just a little more fiddling with this shiny ball-thing and the Magical Portal will open and then he's off! Off into the woods! Waaaaiioooooouuuuu!

Now you know. And you've lost your hearing and your dog is gone. You're welcome.

Thanksgiving is almost over

And I haven't posted! I can hear the voices of NaBloPoMo calling to me: Alice, Alice, why have you failed us, why…

Like you people are reading. You're not reading. You're sprawled across the sectional, stroking your belly, grunting in satisfaction. Look at you! I've never seen anything like it.

We gorged ourselves over at my sister and brother-in-law's fancy new Brooklyn digs; yes, that's right, as soon as I move out of Brooklyn my sister moves in. I'm pretty sure she did it to taunt me, but it didn't work, because now I get to enjoy her glamorous loft space without paying her glamorous rent, so ha! Ha on her!

Fortunately they brought some Legos with them, so Henry was entertained all day. I think before Legos existed he would have spent his conscious hours bereft, waving his arms in front of him, weeping. Eventually we would watch him connecting invisible tiny pieces of something to each other. And then calling to me to help him disengage certain tiny invisible pieces that he couldn't dislodge from their larger brethren.

45 minutes until tomorrow, crap. And I can't even come up with a single heartfelt sentiment on Thanksgiving, so okay, you want to know what I'm thankful for? I'm thankful for my glorious family, my friends, and I'm thankful for you, you bastards. Stop looking at me like that.

Things I worried about while trying out our new* treadmill

-Slipping
-Breaking some part of my body, and no one would hear my screams
-My water bottle slipping out my hands and pouring all over the treadmill, causing:
-Electrocution
-Sudden death syndrome
-Should I be this tired after five minutes?
-Missing an important phone call
-Missing an important visitor
-Emails! There might be urgent emails!
-Ghosts
-Not being able to hear someone breaking in with this iPod in my ears
-Dying of dehydration because I'm too nervous to reach for my water bottle
-I'm really not kidding about the ghosts
-Sleep deprivation. Shouldn't I be napping right now?

(*actually my sister's old treadmill, but new to us. Thanks, Liz! UNLESS I DIE.)