Tag: babbling

This Is What Happens When I Take Facebook Quizzes

  1. Do you like blue cheese?

No, I loathe blue/bleu cheese, and not only because I never know which blue/bleu to write, which is irritating. My parents promised me I’d “love it when I grew up,” so I try it every few years, and I still have to scrub my tongue with a paper towel to remove the taste of Satan’s ball sweat afterward.

  1. Last concert?

My last concert was to see Old 97’s at Cain’s Ballroom. My next concert is going to be Joan Jett later this month, and I’m probably going to sit in stunned silence the whole time because she’s one of my idols. She paved the way for female musicians, and my first band was an all-girl rock band. We had to endure so many guys yelling dumb shit like “Take your shirts off!” while we played—but that was nothing compared to the crap through which Joan Jett had to slog. Sexism is a big load of bullshit, and the fact that music, or any creative outlet, has ever been a ‘boys club’ boggles my mind, because women are some of the most creative beings I’ve encountered on the planet. Stop trying to manage all the creative endeavors, boys. (I say boys, because real men value women as humans and equals.)

  1. Do you own a gun?

As someone diagnosed with anxiety disorders, I’m exactly the type of person who shouldn’t own a gun, so I don’t, but I love to go to the shooting range, and tend to be a naturally good shot.

  1. What is your favorite food?

My favorite food is artichokes. Yes, I enjoy dipping artichoke leaves in lemon-butter and scraping them with my teeth like a large rodent. It’s a living.

  1. Do you get nervous before Doctor visits?

If you randomly capitalize the word “doctor” like that, I’m going to wonder if I need to be nervous. But to answer the question, yes, I get nervous any time I have to talk face to face with a human I don’t know well.

Caveat: I never get nervous about seeing my gynecologist. I’ve been seeing him for a decade, he performed one of my abdominal surgeries, and he has a great bedside manner. I recently told him about my fibrous breast warning after a mammogram, for example, and we felt me up together for about ten minutes to make extra sure my breasts had no solid lumps. I’m so comfortable with him, I actually worry he thinks I’m weird, but he’s cut adhesed organs off of my intestines and abdominal wall, so I think we’re past the “getting to know you” phase of our relationship.

  1. What do you think of hot dogs?

No nitrates or nitrites, please.

  1. Favorite movie?

Sunset Boulevard.

  1. What do you prefer to drink in the morning?

Coffee or English breakfast tea. I vacillate back and forth, desperately trying to reap the health benefits of both until the next article I read tells me they’re back to being horrible poison. I think maybe if I drink a cup of coconut oil with turmeric and kale blended into it, I’ll probably be able to cure cancer, ride chemtrails, and taste colors, but I’m not sure where I read that. I also think I’m supposed to eat a stick of grass-fed butter for breakfast every morning, but I’m suspicious, because how are they feeding grass to butter? I mean, what kind of fucked-up mutant butter are we talking about eating here? No thank you, hippies.

  1. Do you do push-ups?

The post-pregnancy girls are a wearing a 34E bra, so no, but I do strength training with arm weights. I do air push-ups.

  1. What’s your favorite piece of jewelry?

A necklace my husband got me for Xmas. It was made in Ireland with green marble only found there that matches my eyes, and a silver pendant of a tree that’s considered bad luck to cut down because the fairies prefer them, and that makes me happy to think about.

  1. Favorite hobby?

Writing. Or creepy dancing and making up songs about banal things around the house. One or the other.

  1. Do you have A.D.D.?

“A.D.D./ADD” is an outdated term for the inattentive type of ADHD. The “H” stands for hyperactivity, which can mean mental hyperactivity (instead of physical), leading to trouble with focus/easy distractibility. And yes, I’m diagnosed with combined ADHD (inattentive AND hyperactive/impulsive), in case that’s not obvious at this point.

  1. What’s the one thing you dislike about yourself?

There’s more than “the one,” but a recurring issue is how I place too much value on integrity. I always trust that people are going to be honest, kind, and do the right thing, and I’m often disappointed. I’m a frustrating and perplexing blend of completely naïve and horrifically jaded.

  1. What is your middle name?

Leighanne. Like this T-a-w-n-i train wreck needed to be harder to spell, then came “L-e-i…”

  1. Name three thoughts at this moment.

Nobody cares about you. Why are you answering these questions? You must really think you’re something, eh, missy?

Shut up, Mean Inner Voice. You write because you like to write, and that’s enough. Who cares if anyone reads or not? Fuck it. Stop taking life so seriously.

I want another cup of tea. I think I’ll go get one.

  1. Name 4 drinks you drink regularly?

Water, hot tea, coffee, and the magic potion that allows me to remain in this human form.

  1. Current worry?

My son just started public middle school, and I’m desperately trying to remember that giving him independence will help him grow up, and also if anyone bullies him I will have to rip their faces off, and that’s going to suck for everybody.

  1. Current annoyance right now?

My son once again hacked through the parental controls on his reader-only Kindle, and was sneaking the internet at night. This may seem benign, except he was on the “omegle” and “e-chat” sites, both highly inappropriate for an 11-year-old, talking to strangers who now have our IP address, and kept asking for his “asl” (age, sex, location). So, probably perverts.** We have once again removed all forms of technology from his life, which sucks, because it makes things harder for me (no break for The Mommy), and he doesn’t get to participate in many fun forms of technology. My love/hate relationship with the internet rages onward.

19. Favorite place to be?

Alone. If you don’t understand this, have a child while testing as a 98% introverted INFJ who prefers cats because they’re “less needy than dogs” and you’ll get it.

  1. How do you ring in the new year?

I spent the last New Year properly capitalizing New Year, drinking champagne, wine, and I vaguely remember some singing and dancing to music, but I’m fuzzy. Sorry, liver!

  1. Where would you like to visit?

All of the UK, and anywhere Scandinavian.

  1. Name three people who will complete this?

I have a lot of writer friends, so anyone who feels like writing, I’m sure.

  1. Do you own slippers?

Yes, I love the UGG knock-off boots. I have a few pairs. They make my feet feel like they’re being hugged by warm clouds, and I apologize for nothing.

  1. What color shirt are you wearing right now?

A gross blue cotton house dress I’ve owned for over 5 years. When I come home from public, the first thing I do is take of the restrictive clothing and change into an ugly, loose house dress. My husband is a lucky man.

  1. Do you like sleeping on satin sheets?

No. They feel strangely cold and wet and I hate them. If there is a hell, I will sleep for eternity next to Ann Coulter in a bed made of regrets and clammy satin sheets.

  1. Can you whistle?

Only well enough to frighten my son because he thinks it “sounds like scary movies.” He’s a special boy.

  1. What are your favorite colors?

My favorite color is a shade of lagoon blue with green in it that I like to call Mermaid Blue.

  1. Would you be a pirate?

No. I went on one (free) cruise, and realized the vast endlessness of the ocean terrifies me. I don’t even like to stand on a beach. I keep waiting for all that water to decide it doesn’t want to stay back, and come swallow me up. Also, sharks live there. I may have some issues.

  1. What song do you sing in the shower?

I’m more of a car singer. I don’t really enjoy bathing, plus one of my cats becomes either worried about me or enraged if I sing in the house. She once leapt up and bit me on the thigh for singing, so she’s trained me to stop. Now I live in fear. Stinky, rarely-bathing, never-singing fear.

  1. Favorite girls name?

My son was going to be Ruby Jane if he was a girl. If we’d had a girl after him, her name would have been Margaret May–Margaret in honor of my husband’s late mother, and two names that start with ‘M’ so she could have the same initials as our son, Miles Matthew. We would have called her May. I love the classic simplicity and strength of the name May. I have “OCD tendencies” according to my psychiatrist, however, so I would have had to plan my pregnancy/due date for mid-May because I couldn’t set up my poor future daughter to have to explain that yes, her name is May but no, she isn’t born in May for the rest of her life. Because I’m not a monster, and also, I like a challenge. Especially one that involves sex. A sexy challenge.

  1. Favorite boys name?

Kai. I wanted to name our son Kai, but my husband didn’t like it. We lived in Los Angeles at the time and I wanted something beachy-sounding to honor that, but my husband said it sounded redneck, and also it rhymed with the name of one of my ex-boyfriends. I think it was mostly the ex-boyfriend-name-issue that bothered him most, but he won’t admit it.

32. What’s in your pocket now?

Unless you’re referring to my vagina, I have no pockets. Or bra. Or underwear. Just me and my incredibly attractive stretched-out old house dress.* Try to control yourself.

  1. Last thing that made you laugh?

Watching my husband tell my son that as consequences for hacking onto the internet for the umpteenth time he would have to either write about how he can work on controlling his impulses in the future -or- pick up dog poop in his uncle’s backyard. The kid cried equally over both consequences, and I had to turn my head so he wouldn’t see me laughing. Because I love to write, and my son equates writing with touching feces, and that’s some funny shit right there, folks, pun intended. In his defense, there are three dogs currently living at his uncle’s house, and that’s a lot of poop.

  1. Best toy as a child?

Nature.

  1. Worst injury you have ever had?

I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I have been called “dramatic” for finding it unacceptable for a grown man to beat in the face of a fifteen-year-old girl with his closed fists, so I’ll shut up about it, and the violent asshole wins. But really, he doesn’t win, because he still has to live his life being a loser asshole who beats up teenage girls, and I don’t, which is actually pretty sweet.

  1. Where would you love to live?

In a house surrounded by at least 5 acres with many evergreens. If I never hear a large compensating-for-a-tiny-penis vehicle or Harley rev loudly in front of my house again for the rest of my life, it would be marvelous. Heavenly, even.

  1. How many TV’s do you have?

We have three TVs in our house, and one extra apostrophe on this page.

  1. Who is your loudest friend?

I recently learned my husband can drill sergeant scream-shout: “LEAVE IT! LET’S GO!” when there’s a tornado in our neighborhood, and I stupidly try to stop en route to the shelter for my thyroid meds. It was impressive. I think I stopped shaking after two or three hours. The tornado was nothing compared to a 6’5” man scream-shouting at me in a state of raw panic.

  1. How many dogs do you have?

Two cats. I feel about dogs the way child-free people sometimes feel about other people’s children; nice to visit, but not presently for me. I prefer cats because they give me space. I like my pets like I like my men: not following me around and needing things all of the time.

  1. Does someone trust you?

Yes. Oh, do you want to know who trusts me? Too bad. I don’t trust you enough to tell. My trust issues have trust issues.

  1. What book are you reading at the moment?

I’m finishing the last in the 5th Wave trilogy, and then I’m going to read the book Mayte Garcia wrote about Prince. I’m pretty excited to read it, but hesitant because it’s going to make me sad.

  1. What’s your favorite candy?

Vanilla meringues from Trader Joe’s. Occasionally. I stopped craving chocolate and excessive sugar when I got on anti-anxiety meds years ago.

  1. What’s your favorite sports team?

I can’t honestly say I have one, regardless of what I’m supposed to say. (Sorry, husband who loves all sports.)

  1. Favorite month?

October, because at the end of the month, both my birthday -and- Halloween candy happen, and that was a really magical thing growing up. I don’t really get excited about either as an adult, but the happy feeling about October from my childhood remains. Nice when that happens.

 

*My hideously comfortable housedresses are from Walmart, and the brand is called “Faded Glory” which is painfully on-the-nose for both the clothes and most of the people who wear them, as my husband once pointed out to me. This comment has haunted me ever since by making me acutely aware I’m wearing the garment equivalent of my lost youth around the house every day.

**Probably Perverts will be the name of my next improv troupe.

 

If you made it this far, you deserve a gift, so here’s a picture of either a hamster or a gerbil sitting next to some cheese underneath a paper drink parasol. You’re welcome.

animal-1238984_960_720

Advertisements

Cat Salutations, Pee Bottles, Birkini Shame and Car Salespeople

(Writing from July 23, 2010.)

I waved at a cat this morning, as I drove home from dropping my son off for the last day of his summer swim camp.

I did it impulsively. It crossed the road and I waited for it to reach the sidewalk.

It stopped and stared at me as I drove past.

So I waved at it.

Smiling. Waving. At a tabby.

I then realized that if anyone was watching me, I would look a bit slow, or crazy, and became self-conscious. I laughed out loud at myself. I felt stupid.

Was I expecting it to wave back?

Maybe.

***

Every morning for the last few weeks, I have noticed the same plastic soda/pop bottle of what appears to be urine. It has been discarded on the road and continues to languish in the gutter, in wait of the next urgently full bladder, I suppose.

More than finding it disgusting, the bottle of pee perplexes me.

I realized today that the bottle of pee is upsetting because it triggers a disturbing chain of thoughts in my brain.

Whenever I see a bottle of pee, I run through all of my unanswered questions about bottles of pee.

And I really don’t want to have my very own mental series of questions about bottles of pee.

These questions mostly involve the mechanics of capturing the urine.

(Capturing the urine kind of sounds like a euphemism for something else, like chasing the dragon, doesn’t it? No? Just me? Okay.)

When capturing the urine, does a man place the head of his penis into, or merely against the plastic bottle?

Does he press hard and form a seal, leaving a red ring on the tip of his member, or does he just try to aim well from a few inches away?

If he can fit the penis into the bottle, does he do that in the name of quality control and reduced splash potential?

If he can fit the penis into the bottle, does it feel good, or does it scrape his penis in a painful manner when he withdraws?

If it did feel good to place his penis into the bottle, and that caused him to become erect while inside of the bottle, would it grow painfully tight, forcing him to think repulsive, erection-reducing thoughts in order to remove the penis from the bottle?

Would one of those repulsive, erection-reducing thoughts involve bottles of pee on the side of the road?

Isn’t he worried he will fill the bottle, be unable to stop mid-stream, and soak the surroundings with urine?

Why can’t these guys just stop and take a quick whiz next to their car like a normal person?

Or better yet, why can’t they just find a restroom like a normal person?

Who is in such a hurry to get anywhere that they can’t even stop their vehicle for the thirty seconds it would take to piss between two open car doors on the side of the road?

And are people in cars doing it too, or is this only a truck driver thing?

Are these pee bottlers taking pleasure in knowing they are grossing people out with the Number One bomb they will soon be tossing out the car window?

Is this purely a male phenomenon, or do women like to pee in bottles too?

Would a woman have to buy one of those “big mouth” soda pop bottles with a wider opening in order to perform this feat?

Do only Pepsi products offer the “big mouth” option?

Or would a glass pickle jar work better for a woman seeking a container in which to pee?*

And so on.

I hate that fucking bottle of pee.

***

I read a story this morning about Muslim women being thrown out of a pool in France for wearing “birkinis” while they swam. Here’s a link to the article: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/europe/france/7904645/Two-Muslim-women-thrown-out-of-pool-for-wearing-burkinis.html

Here’s a picture of a “birkini”:

All I could think while I looked at this picture is, “I would look so fat in that birkini.”

Isn’t that the saddest thing you’ve ever heard? It’s a garment designed for modesty, and I still wouldn’t be caught dead in it.

But seriously, head-to-toe electric blue spandex? NUH-uh. No way.

***

My husband and I are going car shopping this afternoon. He gets off work around noon on Fridays, so we have a little window in which to look for a car until the kiddo is out of camp.

He went to a few dealerships to look for cars last night after we put our son to bed.

He works in sales for a living and has a degree in acting (surprisingly useful), so he loves to mess with pushy salespeople. Actually, he loves to mess with anybody he can.

He was test driving a car with a salesman, and the guy was listing the features of the car while my husband drove.

He mentioned that it had a latch inside the trunk to allow a person to open it from the inside, should they become trapped.

My husband said to him, completely monotone, no smile, “Well, I’ll have to remove that immediately.”

The guy smiled and said, “Good one.”

My husband held the unhappy face and said, “I’m not kidding.”

The salesman laughed uncomfortably.

My husband said, “I’m wearing sunglasses. You can’t see my eyes. I’m serious.” And kept frowning. Tension. Nervous mumbling from the guy.

My husband is 6’5″ and 200+ pounds. I should mention that.

He finally broke and smiled, told the poor fellow he was kidding.

I wish I could do that to people.

My first instinct is to alleviate the psychological strife, try to smooth over any uncomfortable situation to make everyone feel better. The Grand Enabler.

I could learn a lot from my husband the actor.

Happy day to you.

xoxo.

*I think I could make one of those larger Aquafina water bottles with the wide mouth work if I had to.

The Dominant Vagina

(Writing from April 8, 2011.)

 

SelfPotraitApril2011

 

I watched a show the other night on TLC (The Little Channel) that has haunted me ever since. It was called Strange Sex.

I’ve watched the show before. I try to catch it when I can. Normal, average sex is pretty fascinating to me already, so I am all aboard the strange sex train.

Wait. That didn’t come out right.

And that’s what he said.

Anyhow.

The show that I watched as I drifted off into a Percoset-laced slumber featured a woman with two vaginas. She has two vaginas and two uteri. She got pregnant twice in one of the vaginas, and has two healthy kids. And two healthy vaginas. This blew my mind.

I am presently recovering from the removal of my measly one uterus, so the idea of having two of these uterus jerks to torment a woman filled me with sympathy for her. I wondered if she has to deal with two periods every month. I wondered if she could get pregnant in both vaginas at the same time, or with the children of different men. I wondered about the porn movie making possibilities available to a woman with an extra opening to offer. She could probably make a fortune.

Apparently she has a dominant vagina that she uses for sex, and a smaller vagina that is the width of a pencil. (http://www.hollywoodreporter.com/live-feed/woman-two-vaginas-strange-sex-174009) I discussed the show, and the dominant vagina versus the lesser vagina with my husband a few minutes ago, where he sat watching golf as I typed this. I theorized that it would be very convenient to have a tiny vagina that you could use after making the discovery that your date had a very small penis. You could choose the appropriate vagina based on the size of the penis. Or you could save it up as a special treat for your well-endowed significant other, like, “Guess what, birthday boy? You get the teeny vagina tonight!”

From the depths of this odd conversation, my husband pulled out the name of his next album. It will be called Choosing the Appropriate Vagina Based on the Size of the Penis. It will be a concept album, and when you play it at the same time as the movie The Wizard of Oz, it will sync up in ways that mystify and amaze you. Brace yourself.

***

I heard a Styx song today that somehow filled me with nostalgia and rage at the same time. It was on the radio in my car after I dropped my son off at school this morning. My iPod ran out of batteries, and when I turned on the radio, the song was just beginning. It was that “Babe” song by Styx. Babe, I’m leaving… came pouring out of my car’s speakers, drowning me in sickeningly syrupy vocals and inane, insipid lyrics. Oh my god. It was so bad that I actually got angry listening to it. I had to turn it off. What a ridiculous piece of horse crap. I remember listening to it as a kid. “Mr. Roboto” is a travesty as well. Are you kidding me with these songs, Styx? What’s the deal with airplane food and Styx?

***

I used my laptop to take today’s Self Portrait of the Day. I will probably do this a lot. It’s so much easier than using a camera, and then having load the pictures onto a computer. I can’t believe how easy my laptop makes everything. I already sound so lame and ancient, telling my son tales of how I never had computers or the internet as a child. He just looks at me like I’m boring him when I say such things. That might have something to do with the fact that he’s five, but you know. Whatever. I destroyed my body to bring you into the world; you will act like I’m fascinating, damn it.

I put on lipstick for today’s picture because I never wear make-up anymore, and lipstick is pretty intense. Lotta bang for your twenty seconds spent primping. I usually only take photos of myself when I’m made up to go out somewhere, and these unplanned shots are making me painfully aware of my pasty, washed-out redhead complexion and invisible blonde eyelashes. I’m like an auburn ghost. So yay, lipstick. Today I have lips. No promises for tomorrow.

Also: I’m wearing a convalescence nightgown in today’s picture. I have a healing five-inch-long (I measured it because I’m weird) incision on my lower abdomen right now, so I have to wear nightgowns or dresses; only clothes that don’t rub on the wound.

I took the photo at the top of this blog first. My son came into the office to see what I was doing, and a mother/son photo shoot ensued. I will leave you with some of our goofy shenanigans, wacky hijinks, and madcap tomfoolery below.

Happy Friday, pals. Make it count. I don’t really know what I mean by that, but make it count anyway. You can do it. I believe in you.






Saturday Night Self-Whoretraits


(Writing from April 9, 2011.)

Lazy. And bored. And a little bit slutty. When you have big boobs, it’s hard not to look slutty in tank tops. It’s not my fault. Stupid boobs.

I had a lazy, lazy, lazy Saturday. I can safely say that I accomplished absolutely nothing productive today, unless you count the big pitcher of orange, grapefruit, spinach, apple and carrot juice I made for my son, my husband and myself. But the juicer did most of the work, so really, all I did was cut up some fruit.

I am under strict doctor’s orders to be lazy, so I don’t know if I can technically call a 6-8 week post-surgical recovery period lazy, but it sure feels lazy to me. Firmly 4 weeks into it, I am going to try to take my first walk for exercise tomorrow morning, because the pain is always at its lowest after a night of rest. I’m excited to move again. I feel like such a slug.

My husband tells me I am the worst patient in the world because I don’t do relaxation very well. It has taken everything in me to not set back my recovery with too much activity. Only the thought of having to feel taken care of like a helpless child for even longer than planned keeps me from pushing it. I have been on my own in the world since I was just-turned-17, and having to depend on other people is really hard for me. I don’t like it. I don’t like feeling weak. It pisses me off. And I have trust issues; I can admit it.

I spent the first part of the day trying to read a book called The Passage, which bored me so much I stopped halfway in. I gave up. It kept jumping from character to character without taking the time to really make me care about them first. I was having a hard time following the story, and it was making me work really hard with no “Oh, that’s where this was going” sort of eventual pay-off.

When we’d finally jump back into the seemingly abandoned character’s life, I found I still didn’t understand what was happening or care about them anymore than before. I got really mad at the book and started skimming ahead, just to see if it got any better. I noticed it didn’t, and gave up.

This is the second time in a day I’ve given up on a book. Yesterday’s abandoned (reader)ship involved a memoir that was supposed to be about losing virginity and teenage years, but felt more like a writer trying way too hard to impress me. She tried so hard, in fact, that the story was completely lost. It was clumsy and obvious and distracting, the way she was trying to write.

(It reminded me of a musician trying too hard to impress people with difficult guitar solos and forgetting about the song. It’s all about the song, stupid. And writer, it’s not about your ability to write in a complex style, to reference as many poets as possible, or to change narrative modes every other chapter, it’s all about the story. Remember the story? Yeah, me neither.)

The final nail in the coffin was the spelling of “boo-boo” (as in a child’s painful boo-boo) as “bo-bo.” Ugh. Bo-bo? Really? That is something you might name your pet monkey, but it is not how you spell “boo-boo.”

I gave up a little past halfway through, and I’m a really fast reader. I can usually plow through anything to the bitter end. But this book felt insulting. Do your literary masturbation in privacy next time, please, writer. And I’m not referring to the sexual subject matter at all.

Maybe the pain medication I’m taking (only Motrin today, no Percoset) is making me scattered or something? But neither of these books seemed to get any better as read them. I felt like I gave them more than a fair shot. So I put them both into the “back to the library” pile, and moved on to the new Tina Fey book my husband bought yesterday. I’m already halfway through that one because it’s awesome. I adore Tina Fey so hard. She is so funny and smart.

Over the last few weeks, my husband has fallen into the routine of setting up Ma’s Daily Convalescin’ Spot in the corner of our giant home sectional couch (say that really fast). This involves a series of pillows for back and neck support and my giraffe comforter beneath it all because animal prints make me happy. We have managed to replicate the angle of the hospital bed that put minimum pressure on my abdominal incision while allowing me to sit up and hang out with the rest of the humans.

I have a stack of books nearby and the remote control, my computer, and an extra blanket with which to cover my cold old lady legs. This set-up is not unpleasant. I am still eager to be able to exercise again, but if I must be a couch potato, I am okay with my current arrangement. So tonight’s Self-Whoretraits were taken using my laptop camera as I languished in my nest of rest.

(I’m calling them Self-Whoretraits from this point forward, because it feels a bit attention whorish to be posting pictures of myself all of the time. Not that there’s anything wrong with being an attention whore. But let’s be honest.)

I’m wearing one of my two slutty hippie dresses. Made of filmy, thin cotton in a crazy patchwork design, my two slutty hippie dresses are an around the house staple in warm weather. They are not fit for public, but as house dresses go, they are wonderfully comfortable. The lighting is also terrible because it is dark outside, but we can pretend it looks artsy this way, just like we pretend JLo is a triple threat who can dance, act and sing.

I hope you made it count yesterday, like I asked. Happy rest of the weekend. Seacrest out.

Fishing and Snoring and Self-Portrait Whoring

I can’t stop watching River Monsters. I’m watching it right now. It’s a show about creepy fish that I end up watching every night as I fall asleep. (Learning about the giant snakehead tonight.) You’d think this habit would be giving me fish-themed anxiety dreams, but nope, still tornadoes, wasps and spiders surrounding me in enclosed spaces, and post-apocalyptic nightmares, as usual. No fish.

I was a huge animal nerd as a kid, and still spend more time watching animal and nature shows than most of the people I know. When my mom would take us to the library, I’d check out stacks of animal books every time, until I exhausted the library’s supply of them. I never stopped finding them fascinating, I guess. I absolutely would have majored in biology in college if I was better at math.

I’m typing this as I sit on the couch where I will sleep tonight. My husband and I can’t sleep together. I kind of hate it. He snores, and it is surprisingly my first time dealing with snoring. It turns out that not only can I not sleep through snoring, but I also managed to marry the one boyfriend I’ve ever had who snores. Yay, me.

I really don’t like sleeping alone. I don’t feel safe. She whined. Sorry. I’ll stop that. I actually have no real problems in my life, thanks to my recent surgery. All better.

The man who hunts fish on this show just said, “It’s too late to pull out now,” and I mentally added, “That’s what HE said,” and giggled to myself, here, alone on the couch. I’m such a dork. Eyes growing heavy. Time to go to sleep now. Sweet dreams.