Monthly Archives: January 2014

A Thing

I seem to be going through a thing lately.  You know how when you sometimes overeat and then your stomach hurts but you still want dessert and you make room even though you just finished eating?  For some reason, maybe because it’s Christmas or Thanksgiving or National Knitting Day or whatever, you binge.
I am on a reading binge right now.  And after the book I just finished, I am of the mind that I need something light—like maybe something about vampires learning to square dance so that they can somehow win over the hearts of their true human loves at the next hoedown.  (No, that is NOT a plot I am working on.  At all.  Ever.)
Anyway, early yesterday I finished reading The Book Thief by Markus Zusak.  If I were to give a short run-down of my thoughts, it would go something like this:
Amazing.  How the hell did I not read this book before now?  Everyone should read this book.  If you are not currently reading this book, you should drop everything and start reading it.
And then later yesterday, I started The Fault in Our Starsby John Green.  Holy tear-jerker, Batman.  I finished it today—but only barelybecause I was sobbing through the last 50 pages.  Not crying.  Sobbing.
I was ready for work.  Had my makeup in place.  (HADbeing the operative word in that sentence.)  Had plenty of time to sit and read before the kids got home from school.  Yay, reading…because I’m apparently binge reading now.  (This could be to escape the fact that I’m a bit plot-flummoxed in my own writing, so I am escaping for a while.)
Let me start by telling you that it has been a LONG time since I have cried through 50 pages of a book.  FIFTY freaking pages.  My eyes now make me look like a puffer fish with a seasonal allergy problem.  It was meaningful and poignant and funny and full of normal teenage angst laced with kids-who-have-cancer angst.
I’m not going to tell you it was a technically difficult book to read.  It wasn’t, and it was beautiful in that sort of simplicity.  The story is just touching and heartbreaking and yet somehow—dammit—hopeful.
Yeah, so I’ll be re-applying my makeup for work and wearing my glasses because my contacts are all salty-tear-crusted.  So, thanks for that, John Green.
But seriously, if you are not reading The Book Thief or The Fault in Our Stars, you need to start.  Now.  Right now.
And I need to find a quick, ridiculous read about demons who knit doilies in their spare time in order to cheer up lonely old ladies.  Or something.  I need something light.  (And again, this most recent demon/doily plot will not find its way into my upcoming writing, so don’t go getting your hopes up.)

In Which the Dog Broke My Toe

Well, it may not be broken, but it hurts like it’s broken, and it’s all the fault of man’s (er…woman’s) best friend.
I’m sure dogs think they get a bad rap because they can’t really tell their side of the story, so I’ll try to be fair and impartial here, but honestly, colliding with Miss Savannah is sort of like running face-first into a brick shithouse.  (My great-grandma was very fond of that term, and I, too, find it pretty darn fun and useful at times.)
As a side note, I don’t think I ever really knew that shithouses were made of brick.  When I tend to think of them, I imagine the old outhouses of yesteryear that were made of barely-nailed-together slats of wood, which if you ask me, seem like they would be a bit drafty.  Further use of the brick shithouse saying might require more in-depth research on my part.
Anyway, Savannah—or as I like to call her, Big Booty Judy—and I came to an immediate and sudden halt as we violently collided with each other in the kitchen yesterday.
Noooo, I did not kick the dog.  Nor would I EVER kick the dog.  But the dog looked up at me like I had violently attacked her with the intention of causing her bodily harm.  I immediately forgot about my toe and apologized to the dog, because I felt remorse at having made her think that I would ever intentionally mangle my toe against her bony (yet quite hefty) leg.
When I recovered enough from my remorse, I remembered to look at my own toe.  It seems a bit bent and the nail was broken, but other than that, I seem to be on the path to recovery.  I did notice, however, that Savannah showed absolutely no remorse at having mangled my toe by lodging herself in the middle of the kitchen—sort of like a boulder stuck in the side of a mountain.
In fact, instead of displaying remorse, she (possibly correctly) assumed that since we were in the kitchen I was there for one reason only.  The Treat Jar!  A lot of wagging and hopping ensued, which led me to believe that my toe was in much worse shape than her foot.  And yeah, she got a treat.  Because I sort-of-but-not-really kicked her.
Here is the brick shithouse in all her glory.  She thinks she’s a chihuahua…a 45-pound chihuahua.  She may look innocent, but mind your toes around her:

A Profound Conversation

And thus went the conversation between Jason and me.  Experience the profoundness:
Him:  I bet Batman gets it all the time.
Me:  (snorting) Huh?
Him:  I mean, with that suit and those skills, you KNOW he gets it every day.
Me:  (rolling eyes) NO he doesn’t.
Him:  Of course he does.  He’s a superhero.  And he has a cape.  Done deal.
Me:  Doesn’t matter.  He still doesn’t get it every day.  That’s ridiculous.
Him:  It wouldn’t even have to be the same girl.  They probably line up for him.  He is Bruce Freaking Wayne.
Me:  He may be Bruce Freaking Wayne, but that suit makes his balls smell.
Him:  So what?  Does that even matter?
Me:  Hell yeah, it matters.
Him:  Well, what about Superman?
Me:  Nope, he runs around in his underwear.  Not even close to getting it every day.
Him:  No way you are telling me Spidey and Thor and all those guys are NOT getting it all the time.
Me:  Wait just a minute.  You never said anything about Thor.  That’s different.  He’s in a totally different league.  Thor totally gets it whenever he wants.
Him:  You are crazy.
The moral of the story is that I may be in-freaking-sane, BUT show me a dude who’s chiseled and tossing around that hammer, and I’m just sayin’ I’m stayin’ for the party.  Also, Batman is NOT getting it every day, and that heavy-assed suit can in NO WAY be odor resistant.