March 2006

Cancer (June 21-July 21) It’s a good thing you’re not a rich superstar. If you were, you’d be in all the “Not Normal!” pictures in Star. One day, you only want to do it with gas station attendants; the next, you want to masturbate at your desk at work. And that’s just Monday and Tuesday. Be sure your interests don’t become so peculiar that you alienate yourself from society, like Britney. Include others in your dementia, if possible.

(Nerve)

Why is it that whenever a movie/book/whatever needs to show a character as loosening their bonds with mainstream society and becoming all care-free and giddy, they immediately show that person quitting their corporate job in order to become a dog walker?

Have these writers EVER walked a dog? EVER?

Google “[your name] was arrested” and pick the best sentence to post.

“Dana was arrested for forging Valium prescriptions in 1992 and for the robbery of a video shop in 1991.”

Ah, Dana Plato. How I miss your ability to sully my name..

Read this first for clarification. I’ve sent a letter of support, though I can’t spare funds at the moment. I think it’s important that the women putting forth this initiative know that they are supported (assuming you do support them, I mean) even by those who can’t afford to make a cash donation.

If you want to mail donations to the reservation, you may do so at:

Oglala Sioux Tribe
ATTN: President Fire Thunder
P. O. Box 2070
Pine Ridge, SD 57770

OR: and this may be preferred, due to mail volume:

ATTN: PRESIDENT FIRE THUNDER
PO BOX 990
Martin, SD 57751

Enclose a letter voicing your support and explaining the purpose of the donation. Bear in mind, the Pine Ridge Res is not exactly dripping with disposeable income, so do consider donating funds directly to the tribe as well as specifically for this effort.

ETA: Make checks out to OST Planned Parenthood Cecelia Fire Thunder. This will ensure that the funds get routed properly.

For email contact, you can contact the president at:

firethunder_president AT NOSPAM yahoo DOT com
cc:vbush AT NOSPAM oglala DOT org

That is Ms. Fire Thunder’s personal email address; I have received permission to post it here. For the sake of record keeping, do cc: the listed address on all correspondence; that’s her official secretary. (Kathryn)

One of the major factors that contributed to the downward spiral – and ultimate failure – of my first marriage was a series of disconnects. Over time, small parts of our relationship began to unravel and we began spending increasing time apart in pursuit of the things that would comfort us. For his part, my husband would arrive home from work and lock himself in his office to play flight simulators and peruse porn. At first it was a simple way to unwind – well-deserved time to himself, without external demands. Over time it became more pronounced – the ‘after work’ time expanded to include weekend nights. Then weekends. Then any time he was home. I’d fall asleep at midnight while he stayed awake for several additional hours. I’d wake up and he’d already have left for work. The weekend would arrive and he’d decline my suggestions of a movie or even the shared chore of grocery shopping. Eventually, I didn’t bother to ask for his company. And later, still, I found someone else to spend my time with – he didn’t notice. There were many other issues in my marriage – but the hardest part was knowing how very little importance he applied to our relationship. That, given the opportunity, he had no desire to spend time with me unless there was nothing else to do.

Lately, I’ve been remembering a lot of crap – emotions and feelings – from that relationship.

Read the rest of this entry »

This is the sort of thing that makes my heart swell with joy. Make sure you click through to the second page. Heee!

I am writing in my blog because Coffee is in the basement operating on the poor, sad, lint-filled dryer and I do not want to interrupt this delicate operation lest that interruption result in me needing to call one of those fancy-shmancy repair-people to bill me $200/hour for three hours of “checking it out” followed by an announcement that it’s unrepairable and we need a new dryer. [deep breath]

Coffee emerged from the basement briefly to tell me that the lint trap had somehow allowed too much lint to..erm.. float around (?) inside the frame of the machine. Apparently, it wasn’t TRAPPING the lint, it was gently caressing it and then setting it free to wrap around the belts and wires and whatever the hell else is inside there. I nodded politely and then reminded him that we have a GAS dryer and could he please not blow himself (and me, and the house, and the dogs, and..) to hell and back? He grabbed the vacuum cleaner (which is not a Dyson Animal) and descended back into the basement. With any luck, I’ll see him again before dinner time rolls around.

I am pleased that it is the weekend, and not just because Coffee might fix the dryer. I like clean clothes, but I like my husband even MORE than non-crunchy socks. Imagine THAT.

You may ask why I didn’t just tackle the dryer myself, seeing as how I’m so in love with clean underpants. Why didn’t I pop open the hood and grab a screwdriver and go at it? Because of the aforementioned GAS. Much like my overwhelming fear of electrocution, I am also terrified of GAS. I don’t like to unplug appliances lest the electricity LEAP FROM THE WALL AND STUN ME and I don’t like to use the natural gas appliances very often lest the gas LEAP FROM THE WALL AND SUFFOCATE ME. You may rest assured that, in my lifetime, I have been adequately mocked for these fears. I don’t care. In fact, my natural instinct toward self-preservation dictates that I not care how much you mock me.

In addition to the dryer, Coffee has some various tasks he’d like to take care of (or, perhaps, “needs” to take care of rather than “would like to”) so I’ll be going-with-the-flow today and tomorrow. My only real task is to not cry, since last weekend saw me near-dehydrated from my melodramatic hysteria. It’s a miracle Coffee didn’t volunteer to work an unpaid weekend at the office this time around…

And now my Blessed husband has returned from the basement – having successfully reattached the fanblowerdoohicky to the wall of the dryer. That means it’s time for some lunch – cooked in the GAS OVEN.

It’s no wonder I’m prone to anxiety. I am always just one tiny step away from TOTAL ANNIHILATION by the invisible hands of GAS. Come to think of it, it’s a miracle I’m not afraid to use the toaster oven, what with the ELECTRICITY flowing through it.

Therapy. Yes, yes, I know.

The highlight of my day? Netfiling my income tax. Seriously.

For those who are curious, it would appear that quitting your job in a sulky-huff halfway through the tax year provides for the largest tax return EVER in the history of my adult, working, tax-paying life.

And do you want to know what my adult, non-working, tax-paying self plans to DO with this new infusion of cash?

Convince my husband that we need a Dyson Animal vacuum cleaner.

Seriously.

You’d think dyeing my hair bright pink would, say, regress me enough to spend that cash gettin’ high on goofballs and buying rounds of drinks for my ne’er-do-well punk-ass friends. But no. I want a new vacuum cleaner. One that actually sucks up the dog hair floating around the house like wayward tumbleweeds. One with attachments and telescoping wands and HEPA filters. Oh yes.

Okay, and maybe a few more bottles of pink hair dye.

the object of my unabashed lust.

This might be one of the most brilliant things I’ve seen in ages..