I just clipped the hell out of all my fingers while tending to some stray, dried cuticles that needed maintenance. Now the blood in my thumb is teeming behind a disastrously thin layer of skin, and I’m looking at my clippers like, MAN. HOW COME YOU DO THIS TO ME EVERY TIME?
First and foremost: Last night Zack was sitting on the couch when he said, “CRAP. I missed dad’s birthday.” I asked when it was, and he said Friday. Double Crap. Then he talked to his parents on the phone for like thirty minutes, and then hung up before I could tell my most favorite father-in-law this: HAPPY BIRTHDAY. BELATED. FORGIVE ME.
And secondly: Last night when I was on my safari browser on my massive iMac’s screen, this website looked SWEET with those huge pictures. Now, on my work PC and it’s dinky 14 inches, not so much. So I changed it. If you want to see the massive ones, go visit the flickr.
She doesn’t want to go into the water.
She would like to sit around and do nothing, though, KTHXBAI.
Yesterday because of the winter weather in Fort Worth (and most of North Texas), my office closed two and a half hours early. Those two and a half hours were the longest, most fantastic hours that I’ve had in a long time. I was already home, changed, warm, had chatted up my sister, played with the dog, eaten a snack, watched the dog chase snowflakes in the back yard (!), AND was well into the first third of Kill Bill Vol. II by the time my 5 o’clock alarm went off. Happy, happy snow’noon.
Poor Scout is in for a shock this afternoon. Yesterday I came home early and took her outside to play and have the MOST FUN POSSIBLE. Today I’m going to get off work early to take her to the vet to have SHOTS. And not the fun kind that involve Tequila, either.
Bernie, my favorite loser, got voted off The Biggest Loser last night. In very related news, I’ve absolutely lost my grip on reality TV.
I don’t know what changed in me when the Clash of the Choirs came on TV, but it’s like something snapped. I literally can not watch more than fifteen seconds of reality TV these days without tearing up. First it was Clash of the Choirs with all their lovely, down-home, real-life people and all their color coordinated outfits. At first, I thought it was making me cry because they were all in the choirs, and all the music reminded me of church music, which has always had a strange way of making me weepy.
Then came Dance Wars with all those kids! Kids! And their dying grandmas and lifelong dreams and their beaming smiles! I loved all of those kids! Every time there was an elimination I would cry, and every time that Bruno and Carrie Ann would tell them how wonderful they were, I would cry some more. I even cried because of Drew Lachey’s poor hosting skills. I had no church-related excuses, no real reason. I wasn’t bemoaning my lost dreams of being a dancer, or even my dream of maybe having some rhythm for that matter. That show just provoked tears in me like I never thought possible.
But last night–last night is when I realized that my estrogen might be at new, absurdly high levels. Zack and I have been half-way watching The Biggest Loser this season. (Side note: nothing makes me feel like a bigger slob than sitting on the couch eating dinner while watching a dozen people shed pounds by the hundreds.) I’ve (apparently) become rather attached to some of the characters, even though I generally only catch about the last 15 minutes of the show. Last night, Zack and I were hanging out in the living room when it came time for elimination . Bernie, a very sweet and gentle guy in his 20′s, sacrifically gave his immunity to his partner, and then wound up getting voted off the show. Post vote, his (all female) teammates were all crying together, and I lost it. I teared up and started crying for Bernie, too. Zack looked at me like, “Seriously? Are you really crying cause Bernie got voted off? We don’t even watch this show.” I responded to his look by saying, “I really kinda liked Bernie,” trying hard to make my voice sound more stable, and less like a dying Beagle.
I truly can’t help it. I’ve been telling myself since the show aired that I cry when people get eliminated from that show because I want them to stay until they’ve lost all their weight, because I want them to be healthy. (And possibly so they can do some sit-ups for me.) But now, looking at my recent track record with reality TV shows, it’s becoming clear that I am just insane.
After a more than a year of two green-thumbs-up with all the plant life in my house, I’ve managed to kill most of my houseplants in one fell swoop.
A plant-care expert (Larry) mentioned to me that perhaps my beloved FairyChair (a peoperomia plant) could use some fertilizer, aka sunshine, and perhaps if I would quit leaving it in the basement/dungeon all of the time, chained up to that wall, only getting one plate of food a week, it might become a darker, more fabulous shade of green.
Not being one to take someone’s plant expertise for granted, when I got home that afternoon I high-tailed the FairyChair out to the front porch, where the light is brilliant and nutritious all the live-long-day. While I was at it, I also took Every Other Plant That I Own outside to the porch for some’a that sunshine.
And I left them out overnight. Cause it wasn’t supposed to freeze.
So, I have three plants left. My FairyChair and my jade shed all of their leaves. The small Ivy shriveled up and died. Half of the ears of my ElephantEar plant have gained an unsightly polka-dot pattern. I feel like a total failure. I just didn’t realize how attached I am, and what a sense of pride and accomplishment I derive from keeping those plants in the land of the living.
Luckily, I’m fully aware how to navigate the plant department at Home Depot. I think I can fix this tragedy.
In other, not related news: Dad called this morning to inform me of my dog’s real name: Jean Louise. It took me a while to figure out what he was talking about–having never read To Kill A Mockingbird. I didn’t know that Scout was just the main character’s nickname. Now I’m thrilled at the prospect of having a longer name for the dog. I can’t wait until she gets in trouble, so I can yell “JEAN LOUISE” in my most southern of accents at her. I am loving doggie-motherhood.
