Sunday, February 26, 2012

A Writer Writes...

Today is an important event.

Today is my 100th post.  Which is like an anniversary, but better.  It is a milestone based on content rather than age.  Which is awesome because if I added up my content rather than my time on this here planet, I am much more youthful.

I don't usually write about my blog because it breaks the first rule of blogging ("Do NOT talk about your blog"), but I thought I would take a moment to actually talk about the blog.  I am breaking the rules!

The second rule of blogging is... DO NOT TALK ABOUT YOUR BLOG.  I know it's the same as the first rule, but in all capital letters, but seriously.  It's important. And I am still breaking the rules.

The third rule of blogging is,  "Do not apologize for not writing enough."  I assume you know I am wracked with guilt for not keeping in touch, for posting every week or two, for not keeping up as much with my usual bloggy friends, for basically being an asshole.  Sorry.

The fourth rule of blogging is, "Do not make excuses for not blogging, or keeping up with your blogging friends."  Why?  Because no one wants to hear that you went on a new diet and its taking all your time, that you're working on your book, that you're depressed, happy, anxious, that you lost your toe in a cheese shredding incident, that you were locked in a safe for three weeks, that you're a jerk, that your cat is keeping you from sleeping, that it's "that time of the month", that your hair is annoying you, that you have decided to run away and become a mountain man, that you have decided you can't be a real mountain man because you can't grow a beard, that you're thinking about being a bank robber, but never will because you're horrible at lying and would tell the first person who asked you if you robbed a bank that yes, you did rob that bank, or that you're so embarassed about not blogging that you keep putting off blogging and then it gets worse and worse until your head is going to explode and maybe you should just never blog again because it will only lead to dissapointment and failure.  No one wants to hear all that.  They want you to tell them a story and/or make them laugh.

For example, about two weeks ago, I went on this awesome hike the day after it snowed.  It was muddy and messy and beautiful, and the sky was so clear it looked fake, and I kept wishing they would leave the sky it's natural color instead of photoshopping everything, and I didn't hurt myself.

Out near Lyons, CO.

I got home, and went to the bathroom (yeah, we know where this is going, don't we?).  There was this puddle of water on the floor and I was wearing only socks, so I took a big step over it and my foot slid a little and I pulled a muscle in my butt.

Let me reiterate:  I pulled a muscle in my ass in the bathroom.  Yeah.  Just let that sink in a little.

At first I thought it was no big deal, until I realized I couldn't go up stairs, or get from a sitting position on the floor to a standing position without pulling myself up the walls with my arms (much to the amusement of the cats who dig watching their humans act like idiots).  This was serious.

I looked up on the internet how to treat a pulled muscle, and it said to use RICE (that's Rest, Ice, Compression, and Elevation), and all I could think was that I am NOT icing my ass, and if I elevate it at work, I am going to look like a harassment suit waiting to happen, so I ended up doing nothing and it healed anyway.

I would have written about this sooner, but I started editing my book (!), and have been watching Supernatural on Netflix like it's going out of style.

Yes, that pile of paper in a binding.  That's.  My book.  Right.  There.  150 pages of... crap, I need to cross out that page.  And that one.  And rework that bit... HOLY CRAP.  THAT'S!  MY BOOK!  Right.  There.

The fifth rule of blogging is "No shirts, no shoes".

Wait, what?

The sixth rule of blogging is, "If this is your first time at my blog, you have to comment" unless you are one of those Russian casino sites or a penis enlargement blog comment SPAMmer,because if you are you need to stop comment on my motherfucking blog! I am not interested in making my penis bigger, thankyouverymuch.

OK.  So.  100th post.  Yay.

P.S.  If you're wondering, I haven't been bitten in two weeks.  I did NOT burn down the house, but the mysterious creatures that were eating me seem to have moved out, so yay.  I am convinced that it was, in fact, snow spiders.

P.P.S.  You can thank Misty for guilting me into finally finishing this piece so I can write the piece that she's prompted me to write with her awesomeness.

Thursday, February 2, 2012

I'm a Juicer

I have an explanation why I smell like DEET in the middle of winter.

A long, long time ago... um.  Blah blah blah.  Doo do doooo...

What was I saying?  Oh.  Right.  DEET.  Smells like.

So I woke up one morning.  I didn't look in the mirror.  I did what I usually do, which is get on the internet for 45 minutes and then run around like a maniac and get ready for work in 15 minutes.

On THAT day, though, something else happened.

I turned on the shower, took off my shirt, and then caught my reflection in the mirror.

Ho.  Ly.  Shit.

I had some... some kind of RASH or something.  I was covered in nickel and quarter sized welts. They were thick, raised, and bright red.

I ran screaming into the bedroom.

"LOOK!" I said to my boyfriend.  He blearily stared at me, smiled.  "Huh?"  Right.  No shirt.

"I'm... covered in... THINGS," I said, waving my hands around in the dark.

"Wha-?" he said.

"I better go to the doctor or something."

He nodded.  "Good idea," he said.

I headed back to the bathroom and climbed into the shower.

I was going to die.  This was some biblical thing, wasn't it?  THIS is what boils looks like, right?  Shit.  I'm becoming a zombie.  The world is ENDING.

I went to work and ignored the things I was supposed to do, but made an appointment at the little Take Care Clinic at Walgreens.  It's easier than going to a real doctor, especially since I don't have a regular one.

The appointment was for 11AM.  I fidgeted.  I opened Excel spreadsheets.  I gnawed on my fingernails.

I wasn't itchy or anything, but it felt like I was slightly burned or something.  But I wasn't sure.  I tried not to look at WebMD, and spent the morning Googling rare skin conditions.

Finally, at 10:45, I left the building and drove to the clinic.

I walked right in to my appointment, being the only person who wasn't an old man picking up a prescription present.

"So," said the nurse practitioner, "You have some kind of skin... thing?"

There is no way to describe her other than that she was very "Boulder."  Anyone who lives in the Pacific Northwest probably knows what I'm talking about here.  She was... I don't know... new-agy. Nothing she said, in particular, but I got the yoga-Whole-Foods-vegan-align-your-chakras vibe almost immediately (and yes, I realize the irony of that statement).

I nodded, and said, "I'll have to take off my shirt."

She nodded, so I undressed.  I pulled aside my bra a little so she could see the bigger welts.

"Huh," she said, "Something's been biting on you."

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.  "But... but... " I said, "But it's winter!  It's cold outside, there's no such thing as snow spiders!"

She nodded.  "It has been pretty warm out."


She said, "Have you been anywhere that there are spiders?"

"Spi... sp... " I closed my mouth and swallowed a scream.  "But there are so many!" I said.

"It could be something else," she said.  "Fleas, maybe."

"There are fleas in Colorado?" I said.

She nodded.  "Or maybe... huh.  It could be bedbugs."

At this point I think I may have seen a flash of light, heard a thousand damned souls screaming, roar of flames, something.  I blanked out for a second, and she was still talking, "...been traveling?"

I swallowed.  My mouth was very, very dry.  "What?"

"Have you been traveling?"

"No," I said.  "I stayed home for the holidays.  Are you saying I have bedbugs?"

"It's just a possibility," she said.  "You should check your blankets and matresses.  Look for..." she kept talking, as if I were going to listen.  I stared down at my bare chest, at the huge welts.

"Are you sure they're bites?" I said, "I can't even see bite marks."

She stopped talking, oh, yeah, she was talking, snapped on some gloves and came over for a closer look.

She peered at a particularly large welt.  "Hmm," she said, "I have seen something like this before when..." Blah blah blah really weird fatal bacterial infection, "... or when... " mumble mumble something about YOU'RE GOING TO DIE!!!!! "...but it's probably bites of some kind.  It could be a spider.  Or," chuckle, "Spiders."

I am going to kill you.

She prescribed me some steroids to help my body deal with the swelling.  After that, it was up to me to burn down the house clean the house and kill the fucking CRITTERS THAT WERE EATING ME.


On a completely unrelated note, I started dieting and exercising as a New Year resolution.  Taking steroids has NOTHING to do with my current success.