Archive for the ‘poor poor pitiful me’ Category

I heard back from Cambridge this morning.

The minute I got the email story parts bounced down from my brain like streamers of curly ribbon.

Sadly I cannot write today. I am making up for it by reading novels with an eye toward study and thinking up mischief for my people while I sleep.

And this blog entry is hunt and peck on my phone. Or, accurately, peck. I do know where to find all the letters. Thank you, Doris Miller.

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It’s really hard being a libertarian sometimes. My parents were down here a couple of weekends ago and we had a long sort-of talk about how I’m wrong to be so, well, libertarian. It makes me feel bad because I like to please my parents and yet I like also to be intellectually and spiritually consistent. Libertarianism is the only way I can do that.

There are times I fantasise about going back to Republicanism, but then I think of how the Republicans in office are in many ways indistinguishable from the Democrats in office. As far as spending goes, that is. I’d also like to say there are times when I flirt with Liberalism and then I realise that, well, it just cannot happen. I can’t condone Forcing Your Way To Doing Good.

I suppose “libertarianism” is the best way I can think of to say “look, we’re all adults here.”

I’m not a pot smoker. Whether or not I’m a gun nut remains to be seen. But there are some other things about me on my mind tonight.

  • I have to have two procedures where they snake cameras down your throat and up your bum. I don’t mind the idea of that so much, as I’ll be asleep for the whole thing. Or so they’ve promised. What I AM dreading is that apparently I have to buy this nasty beverage stuff and drink it by the gallon. I’m quite terrified of that. I plan to spend the next 10 days dreading the thought of drinking that ooze. The doctor has promised I may take my phenergan, so there’s that anyway.
  • I’m supposed to be writing a 50K word novel for this National Novel Writing Month challenge. I’ve hardly written anything because I am just petrified and I don’t know why. In case you haven’t noticed I haven’t even been blogging. I’m like one of those guys who tells everyone he’s a poet but has never written a poem. It’s shameful.
  • I’m almost irrationally angry at the striking writers in Hwood. Intellectually I see their point, but functionally I’m just seething. I don’t ask much from these people. Just give me a couple hours two or three nights a week of something I can look forward to. Something which takes my mind of my world and transports me someplace else. We have an agreement. I’ll put my books down and step away from Age Of Mythology on the Mac [blast them for not releasing the Titans expansion pack for this platform]. You’ll churn out something at least PASSABLE. How hard is that? I know everyone’s fighting over what they think is right and that’s okay, but here’s the deal. I can just as easily go back to my books and my games and my knitting to Books on CD or whatever. Those few hours I gave you each week can become filled with something else pretty easily. It’s like how when I went to Florida my boyfriend took another girl to the Beach Boys concert with the tickets I bought him. I wasn’t there so he found something else to amuse him. If you all aren’t careful I’ll go to the Beach Boys with Civilization IV. That’s all I’m saying.

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It turns out that my cousin–newly married, as of yesterday–runs triathalons.

I get exhausted watching edited triathalon coverage on television.

Now that I think about it, we’re all united by diarrhea. The triathaletes have that “losing control of all bodily functions” thing that sometimes happens and the portly bookworms now have alli.

I guess it all really DOES come out equal in the end. Or something like that.

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I’ve got a doctor’s appointment looming. And believe me, there is no other, better, word for it than “looming” because I hate going to the doctor.

This woman was recommended to me by Terry Heaton, which makes her the first GP in Nashville I’ve seen that’s actually recommended by something other than my finger eenie-meenieing names out of my “Preferred Provider” directory. Frankly, choosing doctors that way is fine if you are 22 and suffer from the occasional sore throat. But if you’re 37 and in need of a bit more monitoring, it’s time to step up your game.

My last doctor was a nice, small-statured man with fine hair that curled on top of his head the way you often see in little toddler boys. He was an avid cyclist. I really think I can handle only one avid cyclist in my more intimate circles, frankly. Especially since Last Doctor’s way of treating me was taken straight out of the end of Queen’s most-excellent Fat Bottomed Girls–“Get On Your Bikes And Ride!” Sinusitis? Obviously caused by diabetes–since you’re so fat. Sore throat? Well, you’re fat enough to have sleep apnea, so your throat probably hurts from your fat ass. Or something like that. Well, I don’t have diabetes, and I don’t have sleep apnea. But I do have an abiding dislike of visiting doctors. Which is why I am staying here at the keyboard inside my little safety zone for as long as I can–and realising how pathetic I sound. Would I sound even more pathetic if I said “My Kingdom for a Text-Based Adventure Game!”? Yes, probably.

Anyway, I’ve spent the last three weeks passing kidney stones of various shapes and sizes–aided by pills of various shapes and sizes. And there’s the problem. Because whenever you see doctors for chronic pain, the odds of the various doctors thinking you’re making it all up for the drugs is about 80-20. I saw one doctor on Saturday pre-ER who walked in the room and looked at me as though I were Robert Carlyle in Trainspotting. He didn’t even tell me his name. He did say “What do you expect ME to do about it? I can’t help you with your pain.” The irony was that all I wanted was a CT scan to monitor the stones. I can deal with them on my own if they aren’t stuck.

Oh, sorry. I’m off track here. This is supposed to be about the doctor I’m going TO instead of the doctor I recently escaped (only mildly scathed) from. I think it’s funny that to her I’m just some name under “2:00” in the appointment book, while in my mind I’ve built this up into some sort of scaling of a giant wall. Which reminds me of Buster scaling the wall with GOB on the other side, ready to punch him in the gut when he comes over. “See, when you do this without getting punched it’ll feel so much better!” I really hope I can do this without getting punched.

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I love all of you. Okay, maybe not all. But most, anyway.

And I love the events where we all come out of our Fortresses of Introversion and do the whole “I want to talk to you, but I’d rather do so over the computer” thing. Because we always have such a good time. It’s like you WANT to be shy and then you remember you’ve heard all about this one’s surgical procedure and that one’s embarrassing date and Grace’s, er, activities. So what do you REALLY have to be embarrassed about, right?

But I’m sorry. I could not go to the picnic today. I had a good reason, in that medical science has now proved I am part vampire. Or one of those creepy children from that Nicole Kidman movie where they’re all dead but they don’t know it yet. Whichever–I can’t be in the sun for very long.

Oh, and I really don’t like picnics. They make me feel awkward, because there is no food there which isn’t either messy or vaguely phallic. And then there are bugs. It all just makes me want to go inside and read a book.

I was feeling really bad about missing today’s festivities. Because I like you all enough to brave ants and bean stains on my boobs. And then I found out about the kickball.



Next time why not bring clown ventriloquists and Mrs. Miller, my 8th grade typing teacher? Then it would be a perfect re-enactment of Kat’s Own Personal Nightmares Of Hell.

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When you get out of bed at 1:30, scrounge for the Tylenol and the Aleve and flip on OnDemand OF COURSE you’re gonna watch The Big Lebowski. There is no better painkiller, I assure you. (Okay, so there ARE better painkillers. Alas, they are not legal. And I’m the wimpiest LLUA in the world, avoiding illegal substances like the plague.)

I’ve heard of drunk-blogging, sleep-blogging and rage-blogging. Perhaps this is the first instance of Lebowski-blogging. Or perhaps not. Either way, these are the random thoughts that occurred to me as I watched this movie for what may be the 800th time.

  • I hate toilet scenes. Why does this movie have to skeeve me from the getgo with a toilet scene?
  • Walter Sobchek often reminds me of Sarcastro. On other occasions he reminds me of Exador.
  • Oh, frak it. Sobchek reminds me of every libertarian man I know except maybe DB Carden and Roger Abramson.
  • Hee…can you see Roger Abramson pointing a gun at some guy during bowling? Can you see Roger Abramson bowling?!
  • I think I’d like White Russians better if they had chocolate in them. But then it wouldn’t be a White Russian. Would it be a mudslide? I dunno. I think mudslides have to have Bailey’s in them.
  • Every time someone drinks a White Russian I think either of this movie or of John Lennon and Harry Nillson. And I’m reminded of just how weird I think that friendship was between Lennon and Nillson. It’s like John Wayne being best buddies with Don Knotts.
  • I admit I have to rewind three times to rewatch Philip Seymour Hoffman’s priceless giggle when Bunny offers the Dude her services. Sometimes I think that’s the best part of the movie. Until I get to the Jesus Quintana scene. Which I have to rewind 4 times. “Until it goes *click*”
  • Hee. I forgot the guy in ‘Logjammin’ was a cable installer. I wonder if all cable installers have such interesting jobs.
  • I about fell off the couch when Sobchek and the Dude get to Larry’s house and ask if his father still writes. Pilar’s “Oh, no. He has health problems” just after the shot of the man in the iron lung…come on. That’s funny.
  • I cannot believe that’s Kenny Rogers singing that song. Man, I miss the Kenny Rogers Roasters restaurant. I used to get this one thing there with chicken and some kinda oozy sauce and little chopped up veggies on a pita. That was the grub. Man, I miss that restaurant. Chicken Pita. That’s what it was. Dudes, I could soooo go for a Chicken Pita right about now. Do you think their slogan “It’s the Wood that makes it good” was meant to be kinda double-entendre-y or did it just work out that way? Cause, you know, erections and chicken grilling just seem like an uncomfortable combination to me. Not that I’d have any kind of firsthand knowledge or anything.
  • Can you imagine the Dude as a roadie for Metallica? Ha!
  • I think I’ll go look up Jeff Bridges on the internet to see what else he’s been in.
  • Since I’m on the internet, I guess I’ll go ahead and write my Friday morning blog entry. What should I write about? May as well write up the whole Lebowski thing. I got nothin’ else, other than the fear of losing my house if Countrywide goes under. And some dude at the L.A. Times said that wasn’t likely, so I’ll just abide.

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This woman is ruining my planned hat-comeback.

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Someone this morning referred to this blog as “banal”, and today I’d have problems disagreeing. Because, really, while I’m on semication at my parents’, this blog has become a plodding recapping of the lint in my bellybutton. Whee!

So, this post is kind of the same but kind of different. I got tagged by one of the Meats for a meme, and that means that at least I have something to write about that ISN’T Harry Potter or my whacky family.

So–for the rules of the meme:

Anyway, here are the rules:

1. Let others know who tagged you.

2. Players start with 8 random facts about themselves.

3. Those who are tagged should post these rules and their 8 random facts.

4. Players should tag 8 other people and notify them they have been tagged.


  1. I think pennies are disgusting.   They are the only copper money and so that means they smell like blood and always look like the rusty underbottom of an old car.  Ewww.  I hate pennies.
  2. I would travel back in time to marry Alexander Hamilton.  If, of course, time travel were possible.
  3. Peaches remind me of butts (on the outside) and tumours (on the inside).  For this reason I cannot eat peaches.  And, oh yeah, they taste gross.
  4. If I had to pick one thing to change about myself I’d ask for longer toes.
  5. I once saw Andrew Lloyd Weber’s lesser-known brother Julian walking in the Barbican Centre.
  6. When I was 15 I tried to change my name to Francesca.
  7. I still dream in fluent Spanish on occasion, even though I can no longer speak it.
  8. I’ve read Johanna Spyri’s Heidi 132 times.

Whom should I tag?  I think most of the people I know have already been tagged for this bad boy.  If you haven’t been tagged and want to join in, have at it.

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Over at MCB, we’re having a chat about buying clothes from thrift stores.

I was a property master for a couple of plays back in high school, and thus got introduced to buying things from secondhand stores. You never knew what treasure you’d find in the dimly lit rows of the Ft.Wayne Salvation Army. Books, records, vintage clothes–it’s all there. Almost.

See, it’s next to impossible to find good plus-size clothes at most secondhand shops. Jackson Miller, who runs the Cool Springs Plato’s Closet, admits that their store

mostly sell[s] brands that are available in the mall. Since many of those brands do not include plus sizes we would have a hard time buying clothes bigger than that.

Sigh. This would be part of why I have no fashion sense. There just aren’t fashion options for big girls. Either in the mall or outside it. Sure, we’ve got Lane Bryant, which is fine if you’re getting ready to go on the Ricky Lake Show, or to prove that fat girls can turn tricks down on Division with the best of them. But there just really aren’t clothes easily obtained for those of us who make up 40% of the female population.

In fact, I was watching The Devil Wears Prada a couple of days ago, and about threw my root beer at the tv. (Thankfully I realised that all that would do would mess up my tv and my carpet, leaving Meryl Streep untouched.) Meryl talks about how fashion is living art and it’s not good to have contempt for the fashion industry because they decide everything, including what colour of blue your frumpy sweater will be two years from now.

Well, Fashion Industry, I do have contempt for you, only because you have contempt for me. So much so that I can’t even buy second hand clothes. Fat clothes are so hard to come by, that they’re hard to come buy.

Somebody ought to change that.

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I Smell Funny

It’s been almost two weeks since I was in the cabin at Sevierville.   Why does my hair still smell like the well water?  I’ve washed it several times.

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