spookyevilone: (Default)
1. If I ever have to move again, I'll have more options because finding places with one cat is easier than places that allow two.
2. Cat litter will last twice as long. (I fully expect that $Oldest_Cat will start peeing more just to spite me.)
3. There will be half as much cat hair cluttering up my house. Or: I can procrastinate longer between vacuuming.
4. I can go back to buying the good, healthy cat food instead of the garbage that was all $Stupid_Cat would eat.
5. I won't have to yell at the boys to stop fighting anymore, because the 3am spats will no longer be waking me up.
6. No longer have to play 'Ok, what $!@$^ impossible space has he found to hide in today?' or panic that he's somehow escaped into the Big Blue Room without me noticing.
7. No more being woken up by the Worst Kitty Halitosis In The World.
8. No more "KITTY! Don't eat that! That is not food!" ($Oldest_Cat, not being a little kitty retard, doesn't try to eat things like kleenex and q-tips.)
9. Half as many claws to clip, ears to clean, puddles of hairball to clean up after.
10. Half as many vet bills.

I keep telling myself these things and more, trying to see light through the dark. I'm alternating between the anger and acceptance stages of grief. I keep trying and failing to find something funny to say. About as close as I can get is "I'm thinking about replacing him with a Naked Mole Rat, since they are immune to cancer and can live up to 30 years." but nobody seems to find that funny except me.

Anger, because over four years and thousands of dollars of vet bills (multiple vets as well), "there's nothing wrong with your cat", "If I saw the test results, I'd think you had a perfectly healthy cat, because his numbers are perfect. But I've seen him. I don't know what to tell you, other than it might be a food sensitivity." There was clearly something wrong with my cat. He'd go in cycles where he'd lose most of his body weight, I'd play Musical Foods until I found one he'd eat again, he'd gain the weight back and then two years later do it all over again. This last time was the third cycle, and it was the worst, where he was down to literally skin and bone. My own internet sleuthing told me it was either hyperthyroidism (and his thyroid was "fine" on ultrasounds), or chronic kidney disease (and his numbers were also "perfect").

For anyone else who has a cat that suddenly starts looking like a model for anorexia, I highly recommend this site. It not only gives more specific examples of symptoms, but lists pretty much every test to have and things to do to maintain a cat with CKD. CKD is almost impossible to diagnose until a good chunk of the kidneys have *already failed*. In the case of $Stupid_Cat, it was never diagnosed, but I treated him as if he had been, and watched his food and fluid intake, added baking soda to his food to stave off metabolic acidosis, gave him gushy food - anything to keep him eating and drinking. In the end, I was right, but that's not really comfort. I'm trying not to be angry. I'm trying to acknowledge that it's just a stage of grief, this anger. It's hard. It's hard not to start the blame game, and it's impossible to not blame myself, even though there's nothing I could/would have done differently even if I had received an official diagnosis.

$Stupid_Cat went into acute renal failure two days ago. He died yesterday morning. He went peacefully, at home, which is about all one can ask for a 14 year old cat. That's where the acceptance part comes in. This long, frustrating fight is finally over. He didn't suffer. He wasn't in pain. He just.. stopped. He was planted in the back yard of my sister's house - the house I grew up in - yesterday, in a spot chosen because there was a random catnip plant growing there. The serendipity of that appealed to me.

The night before $Stupid_Cat died, $That_Guy called and asked to speak to him. I put the phone to $Stupid_Cat's ear. $Stupid_Cat heard his name and turned to look at the phone, and when $That_Guy started talking, $Stupid_Cat started purring really loudly. That, and the way he and $Oldest_Cat touched noses and purred at each other the final time, are the two memories I am choosing to keep from this death.

$Stupid_Cat
August 8, 1999 - June 20, 2013
Went out of my world the same way he joined it, curled up in my arms and purring.


$That_Guy and $Stupid_Cat head-booping, during cycle #2 of "why the hell is my cat wasting away". $Stupid_Cat did not have stegosaurus spines, those are the ears of $Oldest_Cat, who is far too dignified to head-boop.


"Rainbow Bridge" comments not accepted or appreciated. Seriously, keep that glurgey fucking nonsense as far away from me as possible.
spookyevilone: (Default)
[Editor's Note: This conversation took place just before Thanksgiving. I locked it because I wasn't sure it had a point to it. I've decided it does, so I'm posting it.

I had a conversation tonight with my sister that sent me into a frothing rage because I object to everything in the conversation on so many levels that I couldn't articulate it during the conversation.

"Are you spending Turkey Day with That Guy's family?"
"No, he and I will do something on our own."
"Oh, that's good."
"..Why?"
"Well, don't you think you should lose some weight before meeting his family?"
"I've already met them. And? No. I do not think that at all. I am me. Fat, skinny, or motherfucking purple, I am ME and if anyone has a problem with that, tough."
"You're never getting married, you know."
"Don't care. Hey, hate to cut this short, but the cat is throwing up. Gotta go. Bye!"

List of Passive Aggressive Bullshit In This Conversation:
1) I should be ashamed of my weight.
Response: BULLSHIT! I am happy at the weight I am. I have no problems with my body, except that I'd like to tone up a little. And my boobs are annoying and sometimes I wish they were held on with velcro so I could remove them and leave them at home when they bothered me. And I wish I had robotic Terminator legs. But I digress.. it shouldn't matter if I was 111100lbs, if I was happy with myself and my body image. It is nobody's place to tell me, with or without words, that I should be ashamed of my body.

2) I should lose weight to "look good" or make a "good impression" on That Guy's family.*
Response: MORE BULLSHIT! So, not only should I be ashamed of how I look, but That Guy's family is shallow enough that it would matter? No. They're not, and they're not even my family and I resent the hell out of that implication on their behalf. But let's say they were. Let's say the Bizarro Universe version of them showed up and were shallow and image-centric. In what bloody universe would I ever give a flying fuck about the opinion of such people?! I mean.. are we also assuming I'm from Bizarro Universe? Because it would take a brain transplant to make me into someone who would ever give a shit what someone else thought of my body. At that point, I wouldn't be me anymore anyway and it wouldn't matter.

3) That Guy is ashamed of my weight and that is why we're not having Turkey Day with his family.
Response: Right. This has absolutely nothing to do with my social anxiety in crowds (his family gatherings are frequently large) or That Guy's compartmentalization of social groups. Or the fact that they'll likely do a traditional turkey thing and I'd sit there and make sad noises because I couldn't have any. It's all about an objection to my weight. And, even though That Guy has never said or done anything, ever, to indicate he has any issue with how I look - no matter how I look, and let's not forget this man frequently sees me in the mornings before I've showered or brushed my teeth - he's just being passive about his embarrassment of me. If I even thought that were likely to be true, I wouldn't be with him. Because my self image and self esteem is strong enough that I do not feel the need to be in emotionally abusive relationships. Which is why, dear sister, you are on notice.

4) My refusal to lose weight to look good for his family means he won't ever propose.
Response: Really, if that mattered, I wouldn't want him to anyway. Because I've been there and done that and gotten the shiny diamond ring, and I learn from my experiences. I'm not wasting my time wondering if he will or if he won't. I don't care. I'm happy + he's happy = perfectly fine arrangement by me. I see no reason to change that unless something in the equation changes, or there is a legal necessity to do so. I actually can't decide if I'm more incensed at the very idea that I should be pining for a marriage or the idea that my weight has anything to do with whether or not I ever get married.

5) Fat people are undesirable and nobody wants to marry them.
Response: I think this is the bit that makes me foam at the mouth the most. Marriage shouldn't be about image, not even in the minds of idiots. It shouldn't even be about love. I mean, love is nice and definitely a bonus in a marriage, but really, love on its own is a shitty reason to get married. Marriage is supposed to be a partnership. That's what that whole 'for better or worse' part is about. It's two people agreeing to form a partnership and support each other for as long as the marriage lasts, mentally, emotionally, and physically if it comes down to it - and to extend that partnership to the raising of pets and children. Marrying because someone fits your image of what your ideal arm candy looks like is stupid. Marrying because you're "in love" is equally stupid unless you're also damn sure you're compatible with sharing a house, vehicles, bills, pets and children with that person. If you have all that, and you love the person, and your only objection to marrying them is their weight, frankly: You are a lousy, rotten, worthless human being and I hope you step on a Lego. Right under the big toe, where it'll hurt for hours.

I may not ever get married, but either way, it would have not a single, solitary damn thing to do with my weight. I may not get married because, and I know this is shocking since I'm female - I do not feel the need to get married. It'd be an easy way to change my name to something people can correctly pronounce and spell, but really? I can do that without getting married. Or if he committed a felony of which I had knowledge and I wanted to be sure I couldn't be called to testify against him. But frankly, were he to commit felonies, I trust him to do it in a manner that there is nobody with direct knowledge.

That Guy's Responses
So, foaming at the mouth in rage, I called That Guy so he could convince me homicide was not a valid response. When I got to the "Don't you think you should lose weight.." bit, his commentary was, "That's the part where you should have just hung up on her." When I finished relaying the conversation, his response was, "Because she's qualified to give relationship advice." I could hear him eyerolling. Seriously. He eyerolled so hard I could hear it over the phone. This is why I keep him.




* I've already met them. Everyone survived the encounter.
spookyevilone: (Default)
Me: "Poisonous plants shouldn't be eaten."
That Guy: "All plants should be eaten. Some by friends, some by enemies."

Went to the arboretum today. Walked. Walked some more. Walked still more. Did not get to Mordor. Also did not begin forming my tiny, adorable robot army, though it was a near thing.
spookyevilone: (Default)
"I'm bringing x-amount of berry-carrying containers."
"I think you're overestimating the number of thimbleberries we're going to find."
"I think you're underestimating the tenacity with which I intend to hunt for thimbleberries."

5 hours. Two state parks. Miles of hiking and thrashing through underbrush. Dozens of scratches and mosquito bites. Barely a double handful of ripe berries. I believe I made my point, but it irritates me how he's usually right. Jerk.

Still don't like That Guy.

Bad year for thimbleberries. We not only didn't find many ripe ones, we didn't find many non-ripe ones or evidence of plants that bore berries this season at all. Gooseberries and raspberries, however, were in full swing.
spookyevilone: (Default)
The world has tilted 90 degrees on its axis, today. I'm laying on my mattress, on the floor, grimly holding on with both hands and trying not to fall off. Migraines, they're what's for breakfast. Stood up once and the floor jumped up and punched me in the face so I'm not trying that again today.

Put me on a boat, a train, have me jump out of a plane, let me hang glide.. no vertigo, no nausea, no problem. Put even a small pressure cell over my state and wham, vertigo. It'd be funny, if there wasn't puke involved - or maybe that makes it more funny.

Speaking of floors jumping up to punch me in the face, it's a good thing I'm getting used to that now. I've decided to take west coast swing classes... if the swing club people ever email me back. Considering my last SCA dance experience ended SCA dance for me for good when someone picked me up and threw me in the air during a rousing bransel (called, appropriately, toss the wench), this will be an adventure.1 Considering that I'm pathetically shy around people I don't know and tend to panic and wallflower in crowds of people I don't know, this is going to be a BIG adventure.

That Guy has informed me that he Does Not Dance. I seem to recall that he has awards for teaching people how to dance, but that's in the world of SCA which has little to no bearing on the real world. This works out well, since I wasn't planning to bring him with me anyway. If I bring That Guy, I will spend all my time with him. This is not a way to meet new people, subjugate them to my will, and create a fifedom fiefdom. Seriously, how do I go about preparing to become the Machiavellian dictator my manager thinks I already am, if I can't PRACTICE?? Besides, That Guy already has social hobbies. I kind of want to drag Jamie with me, because when Jamie's on game, he's too graceful for words and fun to watch - and when he's off game, he goes down in a sprawling tangle of limbs that would astound a contortionist - and that's also fun to watch.

It's all MeeMee's fault. I got to watch a lot of dance videos and she brought me to dance practice while I was in Vancouver, and she makes it look fun and easy. Which, I am fairly certain, involves a pact with some sort of nefarious entity.




1 - Dance Master E had very firmly told everyone NOT to throw the women. I not only got thrown hard enough that my feet could not touch the ground, I landed badly, resulting in a fractured foot bone. I have been too leery of stupid people who don't listen to attempt dancing again.

Ow.

Feb. 21st, 2010 03:46 pm
spookyevilone: (Default)
1) A boil and bite double mouthguard with airway will, in fact, work as a 'stop snoring' aid. I boiled it, I bit into it with my lower teeth out past my upper teeth, and then dunked it in cold water.
2) It caused so much jaw pain that I want to kill myself.

It caused no problems during the nap, but actually sleeping with it in was a whole nother story. I woke up at 5, went to sleep on the couch, took the appliance out at 8, actually woke up around 10 - it is almost 4pm and I am still suffering.

But? I didn't snore.

To add irony to this whole thing, the other person in bed - who never snores - did. I thought he was messing with me until I saw that no, he was actually deeply asleep. And snoring. LOUDLY.

PSA: Don't try to laugh while laying on your back with a mouthguard in. You will choke to death on drool.

The experiment being a success, I am now going to invest in a properly fitted mouthpiece that will, hopefully, not cause this amount of pain.

Still don't like That Guy.
spookyevilone: (Default)
I'm planning a trip to Vancouver sometime this spring or summer. I was thinking next month would be nice, since That Guy avoids Hallmark holidays and I dislike being alone on holidays. I could not find a hotel room. Everything was booked up. Ornery, I busted out my good friend Google and checked 'Vancouver February 2010'...

Yah. Winter Olympics. FML.

I had no idea. I didn't even know the Olympics were this year, just that they were coming up sometime and a bunch of morons were up in arms because China was hosting them. For the love of little grey mice, to invoke Godwin's law, NAZI GERMANY hosted them. After that, ain't nothin' no nevermind.

The Olympics are out to get me. First, the TV shows I watch are pre-empted for three months, as if people don't have DVRs this day in age, and now I can't go near Vancouver in February because it will be full of allergens. Namely, sports fans and rabid hordes of tourists. No thank you. I've put off my trip until May or June, because I figure the city is going to need a couple months to recover from the trampling the shiny-eyed mouthbreathers is going to give it.

In other news, my Canadian half made an abrupt appearance the other day, talking about the weather.

That Guy: "It's above zero outside .."
Me: "No it's not! It's only 23.."
That Guy: "23 is above zero."
Me: "No it isn't!"
That Guy: "Zero FAHRENHEIT?"
Me: ".. Oh."

(23F = -5C)
spookyevilone: (Default)
That Guy is off at IceFest, a chance for crazy people who like to climb to maneuver their way up flows of ice in sub-zero temperatures and windchill, potentially freezing fingers, toes and other random assorted bits of self off. So, he's doing his part to make sure there's no unauthorized progeny anytime soon. He says "fun", I say a way to keep core body temperature at sperm-killing lows, so it's all good.1

I'm doing my part. I went grocery shopping last night. Pretty much any shopping the month before $Winter_Holidays is the best form of birth control, I've found. Constant exposure to OtherPeople'sChildren. In the grocery store, I witnessed various spawn doing:

1) Picking nose and eating it. This might be in the grey area of socially acceptable for toddlers, but it is most definitely not for teenagers.
2) Opening boxes of cookies to throw them at a sibling. Parent's response was to close the package and put it back on the shelf. I grabbed it and handed it back to her child when she wasn't looking. It was in her cart when she checked out, so she wound up paying for it. (To add some meta to this, they were the brand of cookies that happens to be That Guy's real last name.)
3) Licking produce and sticking it in their mouths to be "funny". The parent put the saliva-and-biohazard coated produce back in the bin. If you ever needed a good reminder why you should always wash produce, now you have one. I figure this child is doing the world a favour. If they consume enough pesticides early enough in life, it should - in theory - damage their DNA enough that they can't reproduce. Hey, it worked on condors..
4) Running pell-mell across a slushy, wet, filthy tile floor, while shrieking and laughing. Parents didn't even suggest they slow down. I haven't wanted to stick my foot out and trip someone so badly in a long, long time.
5) Taking eggs out of the carton and dropping them, one by one, onto the floor to watch them smash. Which made me want to start doing the same thing, only using the child's pointy little head as a landing spot from the vantage of my lofty 5'3" height.
6) Picking their nose and wiping it on the glass doors to the dairy coolers. Not the same child as in #1.
7) Gnawing the freezerburn frost off the side of a plastic container of ice cream. If you guessed that the parent put the ice cream back in the freezer, you can give yourself a kudo.
8) Slapping people who walked by their cart. The child tried to do this to me. The Icy Glare of Death sent her bolting behind her father and I made my way past the cart un-slapped.
9) Shoplifting. Badly. I reported it to a store employee, because if they're stupid enough to do it where someone can see them, they deserve to get caught. Really, how else will they learn?
10) Breaking open a 3lb bag of rice - on purpose - to "skate" on it.

Most of these fall under the 'horrible parent' category. It's also a nice list of things my children will never, ever do. This is in part due to my belief that children are by nature maladjusted little sociopaths who need to have manners beaten into them by sheer force of stronger will before they're allowed out in public. Also that being out in public is a privilege, not a right, and being a parent means being a mostly-benevolent dictator who can and will revoke said privileges when the boundaries of socially acceptable behaviours have been broken.

I've had people smugly tell me that this is jinxing myself and that I will have horribly misbehaved children, or that "when I'm a parent, I'll understand". If I had horribly misbehaved children, nobody would ever know, because they would never be allowed in public. Since these children would, in theory, have half my genetic code, it's all too likely that everyone, including me, would be under the delusion that my children were sweet, innocent, mild-mannered and well-behaved offspring and not cleverly disguised demonic agents of chaos far too intelligent to get caught. I was a perfect angel as a child. Just ask anyone in my family, or anyone who ever met me at that age.

See what I mean?

The shopping experience last night made me very glad that most things can be accomplished online these days, and made me wish there was some sort of subsidized computer purchase program for families with obnoxious parents and unruly children. If there is, it's not being utilized properly. Given half a chance, I could market the hell out of a program like that. I would volunteer, if it kept even one of these horrorshows home and out of sight.



1 - Yes, he reads this journal. There is going to be an argument about the core body temperature comment, but I maintain that anyone who goes out in weather like this has either: 1) non-sperm-producing balls of steel or, 2) frozen them into uselessness. That's my theory and I'm sticking to it. Insert winter/tongue/lamp post vulgar analogy here.

Hi, That Guy. I can see the face you're making as you read this. That, of course, wouldn't have a darn thing to do with why I wrote it. *halo* I hope you have fun climbing ice, even if I think you're crazy.
spookyevilone: (Default)
The risotto was tres yum, the ginger salad dressing also, the stuffing lacked salt, and because That Guy is an enabler, the starchy feast was made more so by the presence of bread.

If left to my own devices, I will cheerfully eat an entire loaf of fresh bread with butter. Even when I was so full I couldn't finish the rest of the food on my plate, I managed to find room for another slice of bread.

There was jellied cranberry sauce from a can, sliced into circles, because that's the only proper way to serve it. As it's no longer Thanksgiving, I'm thinking about trying out the leftovers on a pb&j sandwich. Or freezing it to see if it turns into sherbet. Or feeding it to the cat. There's most of the can left, you see, and unlike bread, I can only eat so much of this stuff before I don't want to look at it for another 364 days.

The food was good, the movies were amusing, the company was lovely. It was a good Thanksgiving. Hope all you out there in LJ-land had an equally nice holiday.
spookyevilone: (Default)
Today, according to government single-woman adoption mandates, I am officially a spinster. My ovaries have, again, according to the gov't, shriveled up and died and I qualify for all sorts of adoption guidelines. As soon as I have the house, I will begin home study paperwork, which will take about six months to complete. Then there will be another many months of interviews and social work and all sorts of crap, and if all goes well, sometime next year I'll get to point to a face in the Used Baby catalog and go "I want that one."

I've been looking forward to this birthday for a long, long time.

In other exciting news, That Guy gifted me with Zombie Fluxx - meaning that now, I have a game to play with friends when they're over. I own no other games. This is possibly because I am a misanthropic social retard who has no clue what to do when she has people over.. or possibly because I enjoy talking and interacting with people too much to be arsed with a social activity while the people are around. Take your pick. Six on one hand.. He also gifted me with Perfume on DVD, and if you haven't seen it, do. Definitely do. It's disturbing and macabre and funny in all the wrong-but-right places, and really well filmed. That Guy also provided me with an appropriate shower curtain for House!Presumptive's scary downstairs bathroom. I'm seriously considering replacing the shower curtain in the house I'm in with this for Halloween.. and not telling the roommate until she sees it. Just.. y'know.. for laughs.
spookyevilone: (Default)
A+ on the visuals, but the story, voice acting, and characters were made of fail.

The best commentary that came out of the post-bad-movie snark was:

Me: "This movie needs to be shown to all children, everywhere. Starting in kindergarten."

That Guy nodded and responded: "Never stick the outty thing into the inny thing or big scary monsters will come out and kill you and all your friends."

And this is why I keep him around.
spookyevilone: (Default)
The realtor was nice enough to come back so That Guy could see the inside.

The scary dungeon area in the basement elicited a comment of, "And you'll have somewhere to put the children when they're bad.." I nodded. The realtor looked between us and just shook his head.

And people think That Guy is the normal one..
spookyevilone: (Default)
The BDE is over for another year. I spent the weekend running around doing the "1, 2, 3 - NOT IT!" dance of glee. There was much lounging. I got to talk to people about things other than how the event was running. There were many chocolate tartlets. I had time to begin serious planning for what I want to do next year. The weekend was nice and relaxing, but also very boring.

That Guy was able to spend a large amount of time making a knife. Apparently not having to check on me periodically to ensure I didn't get caught choking the snot out of excessively stupid people freed up a lot of his time as well. (Last year, someone told him his job was to make sure I didn't kill anyone. His reply, deadpan, was that it was not his job to make sure I didn't kill anyone, and if I looked like I wanted to kill anyone, being in front of me and trying to stop it was the very LAST place he wanted to be - but he'd do his best to make sure I didn't get caught. I laughed so hard I hurt myself.)

The furry sacks of spite are glad I'm home. They are being excessively cute. I haven't yet searched the house to determine just why they're being so cute, so for now I shall pretend it's because they love me and not because they've destroyed something I just have not found yet.
spookyevilone: (Default)
He's back from his sojourn to the wilds of Nevada, once again without sordid tales of back room betting, drunken debauchery, strippers, or Cirque shows.

Why do I put up with him, again?

He climbed rocks. He apparently did not climb as many rocks as he did last year, because last year he complained that none of his XL shirts fit him - too tight in the arms and neck - after mid-week. This year, his shirts still fit. This might have something to do with the unholy amount of whining I do when his biceps surpass a certain size. If they're too large, they're not comfortable for me to sleep on, and it is, as always, ALL ABOUT ME!

Or else he was just feeling lazy. Could be either.

In two weeks, he leaves for Germany. I have some serious plotting to do between now and then. Last year, he went to England and Je M'ap got some courtly Elizabethan duds and a sword. That Guy is expecting some sort of teddy bear foo, which means I'll have to come up with something else that's clever and surprising, even though the teddy bear garb is going to be really hard to top.

Hm. Plotting.
spookyevilone: (Default)
Me to That Guy: "If I ever become famous or important, and some idiot kidnaps you to get to me, consider this fair warning that I won't try to rescue you. I will avenge you, severely and with prejudice."

That Guy: *nods and calmly intones* "By Grabthar's hammer, by the sons of Worvan, you shall be avenged."

Me: "Exactly. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my That Guy. Prepare to die. The vengeance plan only goes into effect if you don't manage to escape, and I will be severely annoyed if you let yourself get kidnapped and don't escape."

That Guy: *nods, totally on board with this plan.*

I really wouldn't want to be the idiot that tried to deprive me of That Guy in a permanent 'he's dead' kind of way. Vengeance would be swift, merciless, extremely messy, painful, and ultimately fatal.

'Grat is not nice.

Acorns.

Mar. 12th, 2009 10:08 am
spookyevilone: (deathstarcouplepaymentsonmycar)
While That Guy and I were out this past weekend, I found some small pewter acorn charms. They were solid "luck charms", not meant to be worn as jewelry. After mentioning my desire for an acorn necklace, That Guy picked up the charm, looked at it, and said, "Well then, I'll just have to buy one." He bought two "in case he screwed up".

Tuesday, I was presented with two acorn charms that had been drilled through the stem and jump-ringed, ready to be slid onto a chain. I only need one, but it's nice to have a spare in case something happens to the first one.

Now I just need tiny silver bell earrings shaped like acorns to complete my ensemble.

These will all go swimmingly with the steampunk outfit. Even if I do feel kind of like a guilty traitor for being happy about shiny jewelery. It's such a.. girly.. thing.
spookyevilone: (Default)
That Guy denies he has any influence over the weather. His random predictions are always accurate. By calling him and complaining about little annoying snow, I can guarantee that I will get big, fluffy, heavy snow that subsequently warms the temperature up.

He emailed me today to declaim responsibility for the snow that's happening.

I find it mighty suspicious that the day he leaves for his climbing adventure in the desert is the day temperatures here get above freezing again.

He's an alien from space. Who is getting a backrub tonight, because I'm in an incredibly bad mood and need to vent my ire on something. The knots on his back will do nicely.
spookyevilone: (Default)
Had S. make me the cheesiest, fluffiest, so chock full of pagan symbolism you gag on it banner for an Etsy store.

I can't look at it without either giggling or gagging. It's a beautiful thing. Then, to top it off, I wrote purple prose copy chock full of hubris and buzz words.

This was after a morning and afternoon spent making a complete crapton of herbal bath bombs and salts. The coffee grinder is my new best friend.

Have not yet managed to use That Guy's tagline of "If you need to ask what it does, you probably shouldn't buy it."

There's enough sea salt and epsom salts in these puppies that it should strip through even the most arduously applied "essential oils" from little witchlet bodies.

Of course, I can't smell anything but lavender and bergamot right now, but that should wear off eventually.

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