Monday, March 18th, 2013
Look, animal activists: I understand how enraging it is to witness and/or hear about cruelty to animals and I appreciate your enthusiasm and desire to spread the word against such atrocities. I really, really do. I AM RIGHT THERE WITH YOU.
But honestly, when you post horrible photos on Facebook of maniac fur skinners, injured and suffering lab animals and dog fight victims, YOU ARE PREACHING TO THE CHOIR. I’m not a vegetarian or a vegan (which I realize some may view as hypocritical, but I’m not judging your choice to eat tofurkey). Yet, I am a huge animal lover and proponent of animal rights (for the record, I think PETA is full of shit, but that’s another post).
However, I recognize these as manipulative tactics; the images you post evoke guttural, emotional responses aimed at encouraging activism in others. To that end, I also recognize that you want us to share those images, but I won’t do that to my friends because MY FRIENDS AREN’T ASSHOLES who need to be told that skinning defenseless raccoon dogs alive for Marc Jacobs “faux fur” is bad. I don’t let those kinds of people on my friends list.
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Monday, January 28th, 2013
They’re doing work on our apartment building again this week. This is the umpteenth time we’ve had to endure interruptions on the property and I am anxiously awaiting mikey to land a new job so we can get the hell out of the place.
I’m thrilled to be home in San Diego. I love looking out the window and seeing green trees and blue sky, spending time outdoors at farmers markets and cocktailing on patios, but I am totally not loving where I chose for us to live. I picked the place — I mean, we discussed it first, but mikey trusted my choice site-unseen, and I feel bad that it sucks.
The biggest issue is not that it’s old (I like old), it’s that it’s poorly maintained and they duped me. Total bait n’ switch. I gave them specifics: I work at home so I need it to be quiet with few interruptions and hassles and we grow hibiscus, so we need sunlight on our patio.
The unit I saw when I toured the property was bright and airy, but ours is north-facing, so it’s dark all day long and freezing, even when its 75+ degrees out. Mike calls it our 3rd floor basement.
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Thursday, December 27th, 2012
I need to rant. One of my new year’s “efforts” is to not complain so much and be grateful more often, but it’s still 2012 and I have a blog — that’s what they’re for, no? With that said…
I am the worst at being sick. I can’t sit still, and I always seem to get sick at the most inopportune times — like Christmas. The ENTIRE 4-day Christmas break, I was laid up on the sofa watching endless repeats of The Help. I love that movie, but if I have to hear about Minnie’s shit pie one more time this week, I may riot.
So, Christmas Day, we go to Mikey‘s family’s house, like we usually do. I am feeling much better, so I rally, grab my Ricola and off we go. We have some dry turkey and a lovely time (albeit short — only like 90 minutes) and then head home, back to the couch, where “Minnie don’t burn chicken”.
Yesterday, since I was well enough to go to the family’s, I figured I should go to work. I have a project that is in its end stages and I really, really need to move on to the other projects in my queue before they riot. So I did — for 13 hours. Probably not the smartest move ever, but things need to get done.
Cut to last night, between midnight and 4am when I am throwing a naked tantrum in the bedroom because I can’t stop coughing. CAN’T. STOP. COUGHING. That hacking, dry, tickling, annoying cough that feels like you might split the back of your throat open like old wood. Every single time I’d lie may head against the pillow… cough. Cough cough cough. Cough enough to sit up. Cough enough to get in a coughing fit and pull a muscle in your back. Suck on a cough drop… suck on another one… wonder if you’ll get a tumor from all the cough drops… cough cough cough. Spill the water fumbling for a tissue. CURSE REALLY LOUDLY. Get your bearings, calm the eff down enough to lie back down again… only to start anew. I violently punched a pillow last night at least 4 times, enraged at my inability to stop coughing. God, I just wanted to sleep, that’s all I wanted.
Again I say, WTF?
So finally, after Nyquil and cough syrup and enough Ricola to fill a very large man’s lederhosen, I finally, mercifully, fall asleep…. until the smoke alarm battery alert starts to beep around 4am.
Whomever invented those whores must have it set on a timer to go off in the middle of the night. It never fails. Every single time I’ve had to replace a smoke alarm battery, it’s told me in the middle of the night. What is that about? WHY DO YOU HATE ME, SMOKE ALARM PEOPLE?
Anyway, I tried to not get upset. I didn’t want to open my mouth or change my position lest I wake the undead in my throat, waiting for any opportunity to start the coughing again. I tried to be zen about it.
*Beep* Breathe… 2… 3… 4… maybe it’s not so ba- *Beep* Breathe… 2… 3…4… just try to fall back to sleep, I think maybe it sto- *Beep* Fuck.
Mike, of course, was sawing logs next to me, completely oblivious. That man can sleep through Armageddon. Actually, everyone can sleep through Armageddon. That movie sucked.
Miraculously, I managed to tune it out enough to sleep until 7:30, when I calmly walked nude through the apartment to find a 9-volt battery and the stepstool so I could change that motherbitch before I threw the smoke alarm off the balcony.
I’m supposed to work today and then go to a party tonight. I actually feel ok, other than being righteously tired. My throat feels like I’ve been sucking cough drops made of glass, and I’m still coughing, but nothing like at night when I lie down. Fortunately, the party is early and mellow, so I can probably still make it (I missed most of Christmas and I have no New Year’s Eve plans, so I’m taking this one).
Assuming zombies don’t fly out of my throat and try to kill everyone.
Friday, October 19th, 2012
So, we moved. We’re here, in beautiful San Diego, my hometown and favorite city to live in. I’m grateful to be here and so happy to be home with my friends, the fresh air and my beloved Mexican food. But getting here was a lesson learned.
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Monday, September 24th, 2012
How sad. I have 2 double-bagged Trader Joe’s paper sacks full of magazines to unload pre-move: 4 full subscriptions (Self, Health, Cooking Light and Weight Watchers, with maybe a rogue People or an Eating Well thrown in there somewhere), over 2 years of issues — and I though I might donate them to the public library up here instead of just recycling them.
The library here is only open 4 days a week and their recording said “due to limited demand” they’re not accepting book or periodical donations anymore.
That makes me sad. I love the internet — my life revolves around it. But I have such fond memories of spending time in the library as a kid. I participated in summer reading programs and my dad would drop me off for full days of hanging out in the stacks reading Judy Blume, Paula Danziger, and Roald Dahl. I would even sneak over to the grown up side of the library and pour over biographies and occult books, reading about gangsters, Hollywood starlets and ghosts. (And when I got a little older, I read all those trashy V.C. Andrews books, naturally.)
Reading was such a huge part of my formative years, that it’s really disappointing libraries are struggling so much.