My muse, my muse. My kingdom for my muse.

My muse left me, you guys. For an entire month. Or close to it. I have no idea where she/he went, but I hope it was worth it because this blog doesn’t just write itself. Stupid muse.

  • Anna and I were joking today. We’ve decided that appending the words, “That is a compliment,” to the end of a statement should ease any pain and suffering the statement might cause. Of course, this whole premise is entirely flawed. For example, she told me something (bullet point, the second) that caused me to give her a pained face. She said, “You look like a wounded kitten. That is a compliment.” And I began to laugh uncontrollably because, you know, what kind of wounds has this kitten sustained? Is it lying in the road after a car has traversed its hind legs? I’d bet that kitten doesn’t look all that great, huh? Or perhaps the kitten just consumed a mouse that it thought it killed earlier in the day only to discover that it was a carcass from an entire month ago, swollen with the gassy bloat of putrefaction. That’s a hurting kitty, right? And a stupid one because how did the kitten miss that bloat? But I digress. Maybe the kitten’s sustained mortal wounds in a fight with a particularly gifted swordsman. A la Puss in Boots from Shrek. Puss can bring the pain, y’all. But despite knowing that it probably won’t give you the results you seek, I’m offering “That is a compliment,” up to you for use in your own lives because it sure is funny. Give it a few test runs. See what results you get. I know I’m going to try it. “You look like the inside of a stomach that is working on the remains of a taco dinner. That is a compliment.” Awesome, right? And just in time for Taco Tuesday.
  • So, Anna told me that some of her friends mentioned that I have “cool” hair. I’m putting that in quotes on the entirely reasonable chance that Anna subbed in an alternative adjective for them. But she seemed pretty insistent that it was a positive review. The interesting part is that when she told them that it was naturally curly, all of them were aghast. And, really? Seriously? What sane individual would intentionally seek out this hairstyle? I ask you, careless whisperers. Talk about aghast. I am aghast. Regardless, it would seem that my hair has found its admirers in the 5th grade, and that’s where you’ll find me because, maturity-wise, that’s about where I stagnated anyway. They are my people.
  • Since the calendar is getting ready to turn, it means it’s time to make….plans to watch the new seasons of all the great returning shows to which I’m addicted. Heh. You thought I was going to say resolutions, right? Not even. That’s for the rookies in the crowd. And I kid. You do you. As always. But if I was going to make a resolution, it would be to catch the upcoming seasons of the following shows:
    The Americans
    Better Call Saul
    Broad City
    House of Cards
    It’s Always Sunny
    Orange Is the New Black
    Schitt’s Creek
    Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt
    And your resolution for me would be to get outside and interact with real people, right?
  • Hey. How about some music recommendations? I’ve been listening to the new one by Tame Impala on an indulgent loop so ridiculous that I made myself stop. And here are just a few great songs I’ve been listening to while waiting out my self-imposed Tame Impala break.

[ED. Note: I just looked at that Spotify playlist and noticed that there are 11 songs on it. ELEVEN?!? I’m so crazy OCD about certain things, and that got by me? I’m getting healthy, you guys! Hot DAMN!!] OK, that’s enough for now. The muse has left the building. Again. Asshole.
Happy New Year!

ICYMI: Just in time for flu season, I got to travel in a germ-tube. So stoked, you guys!

So, look, I’m freelancing and very delighted to be doing so. Don’t get the wrong idea, people. That post title is between me and the germ-tube, and me and the germ-tube ONLY. Hey, germ-tube, “Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!” Anyway, as I made my way through the germ-tube of derision that stood between me and my place of glorious biz (come on, you know that germ-tube is so totally mocking us as it makes us mince ever so slowly through to the other side), I realized it was a splendid time to revisit this post. And here we are.

You won the first round, but it’s not over, revolving security door. OK, you are a machine, and I’m merely a human. So, I guess it’s probably over.

Published on October 15, 2013

The revolving security door at my office rejected me last Friday. It flashed green when I swiped my badge tricking me into entering its little tube of contained crap-air, and then halfway through my journey to the other side, it stopped completely, trapping me with nowhere to go, and started belting out an alarming noise to alert people from miles away that I was unwanted. AND THEN IT REVERSED DIRECTION AND EJECTED ME. In front of a line of 10 waiting people. That dastardly machine lured me into its embrace, then deemed me unworthy and booted me in front of my colleagues. I stumbled dejectedly to the back of the line to wait my next turn, afraid to meet anyone’s eyes while clamping my lips tight against my rebellious mouth that kept wanting to loudly assure everyone that I had indeed bathed today and was most definitely not afflicted with some frightening virus that would soon bring them all to their knees. Then the little shit let me in again the next time I swiped my card and ushered me all the way through when there was no line of people left to witness my exoneration. I got in after it gave me the green light giving it the stink eye during the entirety of my slow shuffle-walk because, you know, fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me. Anyway, that time I was escorted all the way to the other side. Technology likes to mess with me, I guess. It’s just like Google Maps punking me.
So, to the creator of the revolving security door*, I know what you were up to when you created your little spinning torture chamber. You wanted to mess with certain types of people, didn’t you? My suspicion is that you hate germophobes, claustrophobes and those likely to make stupid mistakes. I am all three of those people, so thank you sir/madam.

  • For example, the germophobes. I happen to be one of those, though I fight it with all my might. And one time I had to follow a coughing and sneezing man into one of those tubes of germy air. I counted the line of people in front of me and guess who got to enjoy his tube when he exited after having his coughing and sneezing fit inside? That’s right, me. It’s not the poor man’s fault. Dude’s sick. He was just trying to get through his work day while dealing with the nasty flu or cold. But before he could start his work day, he got to enjoy a little rotation in his private tube which he filled with sneezes and coughs. I bet he was pretty glad to exit his tube on the other side. And then I got to get in there. I tried to surreptitiously hold my breath. But you would not BELIEVE how slow those damn revolving doors move, and I have the lung capacity of a gnat. My breath ran out about halfway through, and I was forced to choose between presenting the security guard my dead carcass which she would have to drag out of the way so that others could pass, or to just suck it up and suck up the germy air. I chose option B because I love my family, and it seemed like a pretty shitty way for the security guard to start her day. So you’re going to call me a liar, but I got sick a few days later. I’ll give you a moment to call me a liar now. Feel better? But yeah, I really did get sick. Am I sure it was the same virus? Yes. No. Yes! At the very least, it seems a bit suspicious, don’t you think? I shouldn’t have asked you. You aren’t a germophobe. Moving on.
  • Next example, claustrophobes. Clearly I was lucky to be ejected from the revolving security door because it’s obvious that its underlying malicious intent (yes, I’ve now included the door in the conspiracy) is to mess with people who are claustrophobic by trapping them mid-cycle and letting them panic in their little see-through tube while bystanders point and stare. I suppose you, sir or madam creator, described the reason for trapping an unauthorized person in mid-spin was so that they could be interrogated by security personnel as to their nefarious plans. Ah, but then why did your little trickster door flash green and admit them entry in the first place? If they are an unauthorized person, shouldn’t your little invention have stopped them? Huh? Huh? You’ve got no answer to explain that one, do you? I’ve exposed your vicious purpose.
  • And finally. The last group of people. Those likely to make stupid mistakes. That’s me. Those little tubes are of course meant to be single occupancy. Yes, I know this. But my attention can wander. Particularly when I’m talking to someone, and we are having an entertaining conversation. And maybe that person has a bit of a wicked streak. I don’t blame that person. I have a bit of a wicked streak, too. And let’s say I’m talking to that person, and I wander into a tube with a gentleman and things get a bit awkward as the tube is quite overloaded with the two of us. And I find myself spooning him. And if I was that other person with whom I was conversing, would I try and stop my friend from entering the tube? I most certainly would not. You do not interfere with a situation such as this when the result is going to provide you with side-splitting laughter for years. I’m laughing so hard I’m tearing up as I type this, and the embarrassment I experienced as a result of it was off the charts. Anyway. I’ve blocked some of this incident out, but I’m certain that the doors blared their alarms, and the poor man and I were forced to exit. Still sorry, sir! And I’m certain we were able to make our way through again successfully the next time. I also feel certain that the man gave me a wide berth every time he saw me after. I know I would have. But I would imagine that sir or madam designer of the revolving security door may have foreseen some of these types of situations and thought, “I cannot WAIT to visit this kind of misery on people.”

So, now here I am. Dueling with this revolving security door. Who do you think is going to win this battle? Exactly. I have no chance. That stupid door is going to mess with me, and there’s nothing I can do about it, because now it has my badge code.

*Yes, I know I can google it. I did a little sleuthing, and I found it all started with a German man who invented the revolving door and got no glory. Then, some Philadelphia dude did it because he hated holding doors because he’s lazy as all hell. But the security part came later of course, and I think that is the key component to all this madness. Then, I lost steam and here we are with sir/madam.

You didn’t ask for this info. But you’re getting it anyway. Please accept my apologies.

I’m not a fan of sleeping in bedtime attire. Yeah, I know. You didn’t ask for this type of information, and my brain….well….she’s definitely not authorized to share it with you. But that’s how she rolls. I’ve said it before, (look to the right: mobile peeps, scroll down) and I’ll say it again. I’m just typing what she tells me to. Anyway, this is a purposeful segue to discuss the reason why I eschew bedtime garb, and rally the troops. Soon, you’ll feel the same way, and we’ll all be making plans to have a robe, or some sweats, or some smoking, nocturnal fashion ensemble nearby in case we need to get up and do….something.

First, I don’t understand you “one-sheet-as-your-cover-and-you’re-all-good” people. I need weight. I need to feel as if it’s a struggle to breathe when I’m sleeping. Like sleep is a personal accomplishment. I don’t brag about it or anything. I mean, to other people. Inside my head I do. I wake up and say to myself, “Well done last night, Stephanie. Three extra blankets? Taking deep, easy breaths for 7 hours? Chest weight lifting. It’s definitely a thing, and it’s the stuff champions are made of.” Since I’ve got all those covers on, I certainly don’t need pj’s. Superfluous.

Second reason: I’ve tried the pj route. It’s led to epic Covers vs. PJ’s standoffs, the aftermath of which I really don’t care to relive. Neither side wins, but there is a clear and obvious loser. Me. And I’m stuck in the middle forced to reconstruct events in order to extract myself from the intricate knot the skirmish has created. The battle is always related to some intense nocturnal drama scripted by my most diabolical opponent. I’m, of course, speaking of that gelatinous monster residing in my skull. I never quite know what she’s got in store for me when I crawl between the sheets. But it often begins with the roar of a lion. I’ve mentioned the MGM bit before. Her lion is derivative because it always looks a little jacked up, or sometimes, isn’t even a lion at all. It’s a dragon. Or a dinosaur. Or a unicorn. She really sucks at mimicry. You can’t blame her. Her memory really blows. But I’ll tell you this. The monster in my head can whip out an amazing nocturnal drama, and the resulting knots that I’ve extricated myself from have been intimidating indeed.

Third reason: Come on, people. Aren’t you already convinced with the second reason? You could lose an arm. Ok. I have a third reason. Have you seen the options for sleepwear? They can be a bit ridiculous.

  • Let’s all, gently but effectively, scold the nightgown. All versions. Because, listen, those of us who’ve worn them, undoubtedly as children, can tell you that they are potential garroting devices. You may start the night crawling into the bed, ensuring perfect nightgown placement, and then pull the covers ever so carefully up over the nightgown so as not to disrupt your work. This situation will last until you move. Enjoy that brief period of time. Because the nightgown has plans. Plans to creep up to your neck for a proper garroting. Sure, they look so innocent. Do not be fooled. They are torture devices. If they aren’t trying to make their way up to your neck to kill you, then they are executing an impossible to undo without GETTING OUT OF THE DAMN BED ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME I’M TRYING TO SLEEP HERE?! twist. Wait. I just realized something. This twist is the preliminary action the nightgown performs before it makes its way up to your neck to garrote you. So, it will be a more effective garrote. All those years ago. I never knew. Diabolical! Nefarious nightgowns, beware. We know what you’re about. [Ed. Note: OK. Listen. I know what a garrote really is. And I know I’m out on a very skinny limb here with this tortured nightgown/pj top analogy. Because obviously the nightgown and/or pj top would need an assistant to carry out the actual garroting. And, of course, there’s the slightly important fact that they are made of fabric which is awfully tough to wrangle into an effective garrote. Which is not something I can say from experience, you crazy ghouls. But I saw a garroting in a movie once. It was cool disturbing. It clearly made an impression on me. So, I saw an opportunity to throw some garroting in here. Creative license, people.]
  • OK. All those other options. I’m giving you the stink eye, too. Tops and bottoms. The top is going to end up as a garroting device. They all do. No, I’m not obsessed with garroting. It IS a cool word, though. Right? Am I creeping some of you out? I have no skills in that arena. Or area. I wouldn’t think garroting would require an arena. Not a sport, Stephanie. Where was I? Oh yeah, and the bottoms? You all end up in some form of twist where you constrain me. I hate that. Stop trying to control me. I need to be able to move during the night. Who lies there all night long in the exact same damn position? I’ll tell you who. A corpse. I’m not trying to be a corpse for you, bedtime attire.

Are you with me? Down with bedtime attire. Right? I know. I lost every single one of you. I may have rambled. You’re used to that. But the garroting. It got weird there.

Eh. I don’t care what you do. You know that. But do watch out for those nightgowns. Those little devils are Satan’s minions.

Coccyx. It sounds vaguely vulgar, right?

People let me tell you ’bout my best friend.
It’s a red, rubber donut that’s soothing my bruised tail end.

People let me tell you ’bout it, it’s so crucial.
I’ve used it drivin’ in the car. Livin’ without it seems futile.
‘Cause it’s my best friend.

It’s almost like I’m a savant with the lyrics, huh? You’re singing it to yourself right now, yes? I kid, of course. Most of you haven’t a clue which song that even is aping, and you are the better for it. Those of you that do, you have my sympathies. I can only hope that either this version or the original don’t begin to loop in your head. However, for you loopers, I have a substitute. I’ve been singing this bad boy enthusiastically around the house for 3 weeks. I’d like to say I’ve been receiving standing ovations on the reg. I haven’t received a single one. It’s a jaunty tune. Just substitute red, rubber donut for red, hooded sweatshirt. Feel free to substitute other lyrics as well to make the song more sensical. Reach for the stars, my friends. Also, bonus points if you can get someone to fulfill the Nealon duties. I had to do it myself. With exuberance.

An irritated aside. I just searched up my red, rubber donut and DUDE! They are often called red, rubber invalid rings!! Come ON!

So, I bruised my coccyx. That’s the tailbone. And maybe you’re wondering how I did it. To you I say, that story isn’t getting told here. It’s embarrassing, and it’s only shared on a need-to-know basis. I fervently wish I didn’t need to know. I do know that I bruised my coccyx without being told by a medical professional because it’s impossible not to be issued that information constantly by your coccyx. People, I’ve gotta tell you that the tailbone is one complaining body part. And I guess if someone sat on you whenever they pleased without giving you a heads up first, you’d take great pleasure in whining your ass off when you weren’t feeling up to the task.

As the healing has progressed, I’ll often forget that my tailbone is only on the mend and not fully operational yet, and I’ll go to take a seat. Each time, as my tailbone makes contact, I’ll hear this cry, or utterance, or pained noise issue forth from somewhere, and I’m so busy with the confusion of the searing pain that is beginning to hit my radar that I’m not entirely certain what is happening. So, I’m trying to begin pain assessment and management procedures while also trying to understand where that awful noise is coming from. And then it dawns on me that I’m making that sound. I’m slightly appalled that I’m making this noise that sounds like something an animal might make, but I have to return my attention to pain management because the coccyx has awakened with a roar, and the coccyx is PISSED, you guys.

And you know how this goes, right? I’m, only now, getting to the point of my post. When I was pregnant with my first kid, labor wasn’t going so very well. The doctor came in with a ruler, a compass, a protractor, a calculator, some graph paper, and a very uneasy-looking engineer, and there was a discussion about what things would and would not fit in which places. Look, I’m trying to be as gentle as possible with you guys here. Here’s where it gets interesting. The doctor told us that he could break my coccyx in order to deliver the little dude, and the recovery time would be 3 weeks. PEOPLE!!!!! I am retroactively calling that doctor out on his shit right now. Because that would have been a broken tailbone, instead of the bruised tailbone that I have now. That would have taken a great deal longer than three weeks to heal, since it has taken about three weeks for the bruised one to heal. I’m not great at math, but I’m reasonably certain that broken > bruised. And how fun would that have been with a newborn? I probably don’t need to tell you that we did not go that route.

Yowza, people. It’s been all kinds of real around here lately.

So the past month has been fairly interesting around these parts. To put it mildly. I’m not going to go into details, because privacy, yo!, but all that MONTH-OF-CRAY explains why posting has been light. Or nonexistent. Those are synonyms, right? So, anyway, this is going to be one of those random posts that is impossible to follow. Good luck to you, and may the odds be ever in your favor.

  • Spiders: OK, I’ve been tweeting about these little fuckers for a couple of weeks now. The webs. So many webs. And I don one of them daily, despite my evasive maneuvers, which means that I’ll begin the search for the artisan that created my new layer while trying not to appear as panicked as I am on the inside. I detest spiders. And, look, I know I’ve talked about my hair. You’re sick of it. You’ve been sick of it. Hell, I’m sick of it. But this mass of mane means that any arachnid that makes its way up there is getting a free ride around town for a long while because I’m never finding that bastard. It’s going to have to get washed out in the shower.
  • I tried to sneak in my first f-bomb up there. I’m guessing I made a couple of you unhappy, and I’m sorry about that. Let’s address profanity right here and now, shall we? I’ve been thinking about some personal stuff over the past month, and I realized that I’m not being as authentic as I need to be here. I use a lot of profanity up in my headspace. My brain….well, in addition to being wildly strange, unorganized, and extremely hard to predict, she’s got a mouth on her. And I don’t really care one way or the other because they’re just words to me. I have a whole post about words, and the banning of certain words, and blah blah blah….shut up already, woman. Words are important. Really, really important. But the intent behind the words is the key. So, when you see an f-bomb sneak in from time to time and you’re offended, please do me a favor. Just move your glance on to the next word. Know that my intent is not to offend. It’s just a word to me. A seasoning. That I use playfully. And I’m not judging you for being offended by it because there are plenty of words that I don’t like that might seem ridiculous to you. Ladies. Mancave. Playdate. The phrase: make love. I’m weird. Extremely weird. So, you do you. I’ll do me. And I promise to keep the profanity to a minimum.
  • My brother played in a band called Hoax Hunters. Their latest release is called Clickbait. You need to listen to it.
  • I’m getting extremely anxious for some of my favorite shows to just start already. House of Cards. Better Call Saul. It’s Always Sunny. Broad City. The Americans. Homeland is not enough. And The Affair is not good. I’m spending the entire show waiting for Joshua Jackson to appear. That’s not a good sign.

OK. That’s enough for now. Happy Halloween, people.

I’m sorry, Fed. It’s all my fault.

I can’t discuss the results of the US Open. The tennis US Open, golf fans. There’s one for tennis, too. Yes, I’m totally serious. Could we maybe start inserting the sport category into the sporting event from this point forward? I’d hate to be discussing my deep distress over the results of this year’s US Open and get into some sort of argument about Spieth. Because I like Spieth, and I rooted for Spieth. And, wait, how did this become about golf?!?

Even now with plenty of time for Fed’s soul-crushing loss to sink in, I’m still not ok. I walked around the office today like a giant, pulsing, red, raw nerve. And gross. I don’t know what’s up with all those adjectives. I’m just trying to help you envision my inner turmoil. And guilt. Because you see, it’s my fault. My FAVORITE MALE TENNIS PLAYER EVER lost due almost entirely to the fact that my new toothpaste is the wrong flavor. OK, I should probably explain. I have a very unique, but entirely rational, jinx philosophy. It’s very involved, and I won’t go into it all here. I’ll save that for another blog post. Just know that I brushed my teeth halfway through the match and discovered that I had purchased the wrong flavor of toothpaste. If I’m being completely honest, I’d say that another member of my household, who shall remain nameless, purchased the wrong flavor of toothpaste, but why kick a man when he’s down. And, if I’m going to continue with the honesty, he didn’t exactly know it was the wrong flavor, but, again, let’s not get into finger-pointing. It’s such a nasty business. Regardless, the minute I tasted that detestable flavor, I knew Federer was sunk. Sorry, Roger. The inability to capture your 18th major title rests entirely on my shoulders.

As an aside, why is it that every single blog post I compose comes to me in the shower? Why is that the time when my muse chooses to visit me? Could it possibly be any more inconvenient? I have to rush through my shower and all post-shower tasks, so I can dash to the computer to complete the transfer from my brain to my blog. It’s just a real pain in the ass is what it is. No, Dragon, that doesn’t mean I only take as many showers as I have blog posts. What? Yes, I could indeed have a blog reader named Dragon. In fact, I’m sure I do. ‘Sup, Dragon? How you been, man?