Not Nothing

I did absolutely NOTHING yesterday. Okay, not entirely true. I scrolled the news and social media, blogged and took a shower. Yeah, not exactly a whirlwind of successful achievements. Naturally, I fell into my usual crater of I’ve-done-fuck-all-in-the-past-four-years. It’s not a pretty or at all comfortable pit. In an effort to give myself a bit of credit, I started listing what I have managed to do since 2020. Here, I’ll share.

Things I’ve managed to accomplish in the past four (and some change) years:

• Survived and, more or less, recovered from two brain and two spine surgeries (my next bean slice-up is in 29 days).

• Taught my beleaguered brain to communicate with my left leg again so that I could (and did) regain the ability to walk (mostly with a walker). The connection between the brain and leg had been severed in one of my brain ops. I’m still working on rebuilding strength, endurance and balance.

• I had months of proton radiation to halt and hopefully reduce the size of my big fucking thoracic spinal tumor. Reduction hasn’t, so far, come to pass but there’s been no fresh growth.

• • Started chemo. The hope being that the med will stop the growth, and maybe even reduce the size of my remaining tumors. This hasn’t worked on the meningioma living on my prefrontal lobe BUT it seems to be affecting the others. For now.

• • Survived the loss of my beloved 13 year old sweet baby kitten Coco. She had cancer.

• • Adopted a nine year old very good boy. Cake had just had his tail amputated (due to some unknown tail trauma) and was still regaining his balance and learning how to walk. (HEY, just like me!)

• Lost 40 pounds (of the 55 gained while in hospital and rehab for the better part of two years).

• Mourned the death of my father from a distance (having recently gotten out of the hospital, I was unable to travel to attend the funeral). I’ll never stop missing him.
  

• Endured seven rounds of formal outpatient rehab. That shit’s killer, mes amis.

• Got vaccinations for COVID, pneumonia, flu and whatever else was on my primary care doc’s list.

• Caught COVID anyway. Didn’t die because I’m VACCINATED to hell and back. YEA!

• FINALLY dealt with two of the three teeth which were broken during my two year surgery odyssey. Extractions—NO fun.

• Watched some great television over at Jen and Oni’s place. I can now walk over there (their back door is 12 feet from our front door but the living room is another 25-30 feet beyond) withOUT the walker. HUZZAH! Yes, Ten spots me the whole way but, hells bells, this is something.

• I’ve blogged on most days (even from hospital and rehab!). I’m obvs, no Shakespeare, Vonnegut or Scalzi but, HEY, creative outlets are self-care.

• I’ve doodled a bit—not much though. My hand/eye coordination is pretty banjaxed. Is that recoverable? Dunno yet.

• I’ve VOTED in every election (if I can do it with all the nasty ass health shit I’m juggling, you can too)!

• I bought a gorgeous emerald green electric MINI. Still haven’t gone for a scenic road trip in it though. Trips to Mass General Hospital don’t count. Maybe later this summer?

So, it’s a close thing but I actually haven’t been a total lazy putz these past four years. On most days it just feels like it.

Oreos and Adulting

I’m sick of this being-an-adult bullshit.

Yes, I’m sure I’ve kvetched about this innumerable times already. Are you sick of listening to me bitch? How the fuck do you think I feel?! I not only have to live this ferociously vida loca, I have to listen to myself whining about it. And that, mes amis, is totally fucked up.

Ya know what’s exhausting me most about me right now?  

Despite it being a vastly superior and effective means of communication, I am way frazzled by efforts to be gracious and diplomatic (or my attempts to be so). When a friend or family member makes an inconsiderate, ill-phrased, thoughtless or in some other way beastly comment, I want to counter with scathing verbal blows. I want to be childish and lash out with reckless, snide, peevish, cutting retorts.

Certainly, I have the freedom to have all the foolish temper tantrums I want. I can lay on the floor, kicking, screaming and crying BUT:

A) Of those who in no way deserve my fulminous wrath, who will be there for me when I’m finished playing Histrionic Hildagard? Who will help me climb up off the ground? Who will bring me a shot of Jamo and an Oreo after I’ve blown my nose and apologized for all the cruel, cutting, untrue things I may have said (and probably didn’t mean)? Who will make me feel loved even though I’ve just been a colossal jerk?

Incredible as this may sound, life is not all about me which brings me to:

B) How could I behave so in such a rude, selfish thoughtless way to the people who love me most and take such good care of me? That’d be astoundingly fucked up. NO cookies for you, missy!

C) As for the folks who DO, absolutely, merit a strong verbal kicking? I’d  rather have back to back to back to back MRIs in a closed tube than give them the satisfaction of seeing me so slain by their atrocious words and/or behaviors (and/or lack there of).

D) IF I’m trying to accomplish something, convince someone of whatever, how has my tantrum (or harsh, dickish words) moved the ball downfield? It assuredly has done no such thing. Counterproductive much, Donna?

Over these long years I’ve created distance and put up boundaries to protect myself from uncaring, socially banjaxed, self-centered, greedheaded, empathy devoid humans. I still feel a twinge (I’m, regrettably, not made of steel) when the dolts get past my shields but I’m not wounded. Assholes are gonna asshole—c’est la vie.

I’ve also put up walls within myself in order to protect my wholly undeserving loved ones from the slings and arrows of my outrageous frustrations and wild outrages. Yes, this is unexpectedly mature and self-aware of yurs truly. See, I actually HAVE learned a few things in my decades on this blue spinning orb.

Shocking, I know. Also, I deserve some Oreos now. RIGHT NOW!

Amber, Herbs and Vonnegut

I've just begun a reread of Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five. It’s a wild ride, careening though historical fiction, science fiction, autobiography and satire. I forgot how incredible, how mind expanding, how human this book is. A few indelible quotes:

And I asked myself about the present: how wide it was, how deep it was, how much was mine to keep.

***

After being taken by aliens:

Billy Pilgrim: Why me?
Alien: That is a very Earthling question to ask, Mr. Pilgrim. Why you? Why us for that matter? Why anything? Because this moment simply is. Have you ever seen bugs trapped in amber?
Billy Pilgrim: Yes.
Alien: Well, here we are, Mr. Pilgrim, trapped in the amber of this moment. There is no why.

***

Like so many Americans, she was trying to construct a life that made sense from things she found in gift shops.

~~~
 I’ve never had one of those crystal, herb and flowers natural healing types preach at me. None have tried to talk me into curing my neurofibromatosis type 2 with turmeric, garlic, ginger, some good old Omega-3 fatty acids and eating a raw food diet.

Hey, those in combo with acupuncture, yoga and maybe some malachite or selenite crystals could, like totally, do the trick…right? Right?!

I doubt it (to the extreme) but, sure. For now, I’ll wait and watch the natural cure grifters put their lives on the line. You know, just to build my faith that their promises work. What’s that? They don’t have Nf2? Yeah, hardly anyone does. It’s not one of the more trendy, hip diseases.

These snake oil salesweasels are close cousins to the pray-it-away Jesus-shilling flimflammers. I watched a cousin (who also had Nf2) and her husband get sucked into a faith healer’s bogus bullshit. Yeah, I attempted to talk them out of the crazy (asking “isn’t it possible that god is working through the scientists, doctors and surgeons to help us”) but they wanted a magic miracle cure delivered to their doorstep instantaneously.

That’d be awesome. I’d like that too. My cousin died, abandoned by her husband, alone in a nursing home.

What kills me about these supposedly deeply religious, god-fearing/obeying/loving is that they behave as though their all-powerful, all-seeing deity is their servant, working on their timeline and they're micro-managing.

I wonder why none of the natural health con artists and religious hucksters have targeted me? Possibly it’s because my fact infused, get-the-fuck-away-from-me, dangerously smiling growl is a bit off-putting. Could be.
~~~
An addition to the Governor Puppy Killer saga:

Klueless Kristi said, in defense of her puppy murder, that hard decisions have to be made and that "Sadly, we just had to put down 3 horses a few weeks ago that had been in our family for 25 years.”

Between the dog, goat and three horses, I’m thinking Noem just gets her rocks off by shooting animals. Her and Cheato’s sons would make great friends, no? Junior, the Cocaine Cowboy likes to off endangered species, maybe Noem can join him on his next slaughter of innocents? Possibly Governor Puppy Killer will replace la Gargoyle?

TAB in bloom

Wayne Pacelle, the president of Animal Wellness Action, said: "There's no rational and plausible excuse for Noem shooting a juvenile dog for normal puppy-like behavior."

"Raising and caring for a dog takes patience and kindness," he said in a statement. "Tens of millions of Americans who know and love dogs have to wonder about a person who expresses hatred for a young female dog and kills her.” (source)

~~~
One more Slaughterhouse-five quote:

The nicest veterans...the kindest and funniest ones, the ones who hated war the most, were the ones who'd really fought.

The Amazing Bob was a Vietnam vet. Based on TAB alone, I wholly agree with Mr. Vonnegut.

Killer

What’s the difference between a sociopath and a psychopath? Which bin does puppy-killer Kristi Noem best fit inside?

According to the Mayo Clinic:

Antisocial personality disorder, sometimes called sociopathy, is a mental health condition in which a person consistently shows no regard for right and wrong and ignores the rights and feelings of others. People with antisocial personality disorder tend to purposely make others angry or upset and manipulate or treat others harshly or with cruel indifference. They lack remorse or do not regret their behavior.

~~~
What is psychopathy? According to a 2015 article in the National Library of Medicine, healthcare professionals characterize psychopathy as involving:

• shallow emotional responses
• impulsivity
• lack of empathy
• increased chance of antisocial behavior

~~~

Adults with antisocial personality disorder usually show symptoms of conduct disorder before the age of 15. Symptoms of conduct disorder include serious, ongoing behavior problems, such as:

• Aggression toward people and animals.
• Destruction of property.
• Lying and dishonesty.
• Theft.
• Serious violation of rules.

(source)

Sounds like Noem tics off boxes for both psychopath and sociopath. She's solidly on Team Antisocial Personality Disorder.

I saw a post where the writer claimed that shooting a healthy animal for its crime of being inadequately trained or, otherwise, being unsuited for the job for which you brought it, is just part of Western culture. ‘Scuse me, I just happen to have a born, raised and, until five years ago, life long Westerner right here. I asked Ten “is this an accepted Western practice? If a dog misbehaves and won’t train itself, it’s cool to just shoot it dead?” Ah…no. More accurately, how you treat your children and animals is indicative of how you treat other adults.

"I killed a puppy because it wouldn’t read my mind and do exactly what I wanted, when I wanted” doesn't make you a good leader. It makes you a fucking psychopath.

This is the same governor who sent National Guard troops to the Texas border with Mexico (at a cost to South Dakota taxpayers of $1.3 million) in support of Texas Governor Abattoir’s migrant invasion fantasy. 

On top of shooting her family’s 14 month old puppy, Cricket (for the sin of being a 14 month old untrained puppy) she also, immediately afterwards (because, apparently gunning down the family pet didn’t satisfy her bloodlust) shot and killed their other pet, a goat. Why?

Her family, she writes, also owned a male goat that was “nasty and mean”, because it had not been castrated. Furthermore, the goat smelled “disgusting, musky, rancid” and “loved to chase” Noem’s children, knocking them down and ruining their clothes.

Noem decided to kill the unnamed goat the same way she had just killed Cricket the dog. But though she “dragged him to a gravel pit”, the goat jumped as she shot and therefore survived the wound. Noem says she went back to her truck, retrieved another shell, then “hurried back to the gravel pit and put him down”. (source)

Why didn’t Noem have the goat castrated? Why didn’t she have it bathed if its smell was so offensive to her? Why didn't she just wash her children's clothes? Why? Because she’s an empathy devoid barbarian.

Then there’s this “god-fearing,” “family values,” governor’s, reportedly, yearslong affair with former Cheato aide Corey Lewandowski. She’s said to have only ended la liaison illicite after it came out that Lewandowski had propositioned a donor’s wife at a Benihana.

A few things:

• If I was one of Noem's children, I'd lay low until I could escape to college or join the Witness Protection Program.

• Lewandowski being fired from Noem's crew—he got off easy. He's stii alive.
  

• Ten says Noem is just another Sarah Palin. Remember Caribou Barbie? I believe she's gone the way of Pet Rocks and Beanie Babies. Hopefully anger management needing psycho Noem will join her soon.

Ghosts, Gojira and...

I dreamed I was with my friend Kevin—we were in a a deep forest and came upon a huge, seemingly, abandoned Queen Anne Victorian house. Naturally, we had to enter and explore. Surprisingly, though the manor’s outside was horribly run down, the inside was pristine. There wasn’t a speck of dust on the velvet upholstered armchairs and settee. The marble topped tables were immaculate.

Curious,

Kevin went up to the second floor while I wandered the first. Imagine my surprise when I came upon a spacious, plant filled solarium filled with elderly men and women having a tea party. They didn’t seem to be at all surprised to have a crasher. In fact, they graciously welcomed me in.

It quickly became clear that they were all ghosts. How? They weren’t translucent or at all wispy. There was no unearthly miasma of malice or despair—quite the opposite. No one was shrieking or wailing—not even me. There were no decaying clothing or shredded faces. So how did I know they were ghosts? Just a vibe, I guess.

As pleasantly as I could (I mean, these were ghosts fer fuck’s sake. As nice as they were, I was more than a bit freaked) I declined their invite and ran to find Kevin. He’d not run into any specters or spirits—of course not, they were all in the sunroom having a lovely soirée.
~~~
If I’d had kids, I absolutely would have changed my last name. To the father’s? Fuck no—that’s snottwaddling patriarchal bullshit. If two people are choosing to join together and create a tribe, they should have a fresh identifier. They are, after all, forming a new family. For the sake of today’s post, we’ll say my hot-off-the-press tribe’s surname is Ocean. Why? Oceans are vast, powerful and filled with all sorts of brilliant beasties. They contain multitudes and shit. Ya know, JUST like me…right? RIGHT?

So, what about progeny names?
If it’s a girl—Ruby Mosura Ocean
Why is this a perfect name for any little human?
Ruby was my strong, warm, feminist grandmother—she rocked. Also, rubies are beautiful gems. 

Mosura (AKA Mothra) is a giant, divine and heroic moth. She was the first woman “monster” from Tōhō Kabushiki Gaisha film studios.

If I had a boy:

Herrington Gojira Ocean
Herrington for John Herrington who is an engineer, educator, and retired NASA astronaut. He’s not just smart as hell, he’s also the first Native American (Chickasaw Nation) in space.

Why Gojira (AKA Godzilla)? Oh please, he’s a survivor of mankind’s cruel hydrogen bomb testing. Gojira is heroic, wonderfully prehistoric and a gangbusters at dinner parties.
~~~
I’m reading Caitlin Moran’s essay collection More Than a Woman. Amongst other things, Ms. Moran is, fer realies, laugh out loud hilarious. (just what I need right now) I was sure I was gonna wake Ten up last night with my constant guffaws. In one chapter she talks of how there are ooodles of pet names for  men’s privates—penis and testicles have their own monikers (e.g., Johnson, kielbalsa, joystick and coconuts, Reece's Pieces, Tweedledee and Tweedledum) but few for women’s bits (the vulva as well as the vagina).

" …I would draw your attention to the “Name Your Vulva” game that was modish in 2018. The rules are simple: You ask everyone to reveal the title of the last film they saw and that becomes the new nickname of their vulva. On the day we played, Cecy’s became Carol, Jen’s was Let the Right One In, Nadia’s was Paddington, and mine was Mama Mia? Here we go Again. All of them were oddly fitting."

Okay, I’ll play. My vulva’s nickname would be.

Everything Everywhere All at Once

Emmmmmmmmm, no comment.

This and That

Ouch

Sometimes it's best not to know what you are up against; if you are acutely aware of the challenges involved, you'd never do a damn thing. Being clueless is weirdly empowering.
~ Geraldine DeRuiter 

 She makes a tremendously good point but there are limits. I found 'em.

I had another post-dental procedure checkup yesterday. I figured they’d just give my extraction sites a quick once over, tell me I’m doing fine and send me on my way. I mean, the pain’s gone and I’m struggling less with my food intake (in case I hadn’t mentioned it, I have nerve damage that makes chewing, on the left side, a big horking challenge).

Did this bright scenario/all-clear happen? Fuck no!

As my rotten medical luck would have it, there’s one more broken fang (a wisdom tooth, also snapped during my surgery-a-thon of ’20-’21) on the other side of my mouth that needs to come out.

NOW?!  It's gotta come out NOW????!!!

C’MON dear doctors, I already have too damn much on my plate. Can I get a goddamn break here? Jesus Dentition Christ Almighty! Yeah, I kinda didn’t respond to the idea of another spur of the moment extraction with my usual “sure, let’s get it done!” can-do attitude.

Turns out, I can have a wee pause in the dental action. This extraction can wait until after the upcoming brain surgery. Phew and yea.

The good news—my gums are looking better/less swollen than before so I’m now super-officially cleared for May’s brain action. Yippee.

I’d truly like to be clueless BUT, if I was, I’d also be dead by now. The key, I think, is to be aware but not overwhelmed. I’m working on that. I suspect the first step in that direction is cake and Cake.

Welcome to Monday

The past was alterable. The past never had been altered. Oceania was at war with Eastasia. Oceania had always been at war with Eastasia.
~ George Orwell, 1984

Remember that brittle, anorexic looking twat—one of Dementia Don’s “counselors”—who referred to their spewed tsunami of lies as alternative facts? Yeah, she undoubtedly read 1984 as a training manual.

It, like every other restaurant, bar or gas station in Spain, served tapas. The Spanish invented these small dishes—usually tiny snacks speared with a toothpick—presumably in order to make amends for the Inquisition.

“Sorry we murdered everyone in the name of Christ. Here, try this ham. It’s made from a pig that spent its life drinking port wine while reading the works of Cervantes.”
~ Geraldine DeRuiter, All Over the Place: Adventures in Travel, True Love, and Petty Theft

DeRuiter is stunningly witty. Her dry humor and ability to transform disaster (or “disaster adjacent” happenings) into real laugh out loud hilarity is exactly what I need right now. When I grow up I want to write just like her. What's that you say? I'm already grown up? When the fuck did that happen?! //shrugs// FINE!

We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.
~ Kurt Vonnegut, Mother Night

I’ve been, more or less, pretending to be an elderly house cat these past two weeks (since my dental surgery). Ya know, there have been daily naps, very careful, slow eating of only the softest foods, staring out the window, biting those who annoy me and trips to the litter box (this being the exercise bits of my day).

I do a bang up job as an old feline. Possibly this will be a permanent shift in my being.

Also, I'm tired of mashed potatoes, soup and pudding. I WANT GRILLED ASPARAGUS, PAKORAS, CRAB RANGOONS AND POPCORN AND I WANT THEM NOW!

Some wise words from John Scalzi:

1. Everyone is entitled to their opinion about the things they read (or watch, or listen to, or taste, or whatever). They’re also entitled to express them online.

2. Sometimes those opinions will be ones you don’t like.

3. Sometimes those opinions won’t be very nice.

4. The people expressing those may be (but are not always) assholes.

5. However, if your solution to this “problem” is to vex, annoy, threaten or harass them, you are almost certainly bigger asshole.

6. You may also be twelve.

7. You are not responsible for anyone else’s actions or karma, but you are responsible for your own.

8. So leave them alone and go about your own life. 

~ Bad Reviews: I Can Handle Them, and So Should You (Blog post, July 17, 2012)

I’ve been spending entirely too much time on Threads lately. There seems to have been a dramatic increase in the number of trolls, rage posters and porn bots lately. Of these, the porn bots are the least obnoxious. They’re annoying but I just block ‘em and move on.

 The bullies, snide delusional nincompoops and rage baiters are another thing. These I also block but unlike the naked butts and zeppelin-esque cleavage shots (easily mistaken for party pics from Mar a Lago), the right wing ragers’ texts aren’t purring entreaties to engage. They drop barely coherent Fox bombs in hopes of engagement. (upsetting the libtards is their oxygen) You just KNOW the post’s “authors” take another pull on their wee, baby cyclops at the very idea of someone yelling back at them.

I shouldn’t kink shame but this seems to be a truly overcomplicated way to satisfy one’s sexual needs. They need therapy—a lot of it. Also, more hand cream. I’m imagining there are an awful lot of desperately chapped dicks out there. 

That and damp, crusty sweat socks.

"Good" Guys with Props

The other day I commented on a person’s Threads post. The individual had taken a pic of a family sitting near them in a fast food joint. The husband/father, presumably, had a big ol’ handgun strapped at the belt of his cargo shorts and a mean look on his face. Was this a “good guy with a gun” or an angry rage-aholic itching for a excuse to go all ballistic Dirty Harry on the first person who looks at him “funny.”

All I said, addressing the post’s writer, was that they should be careful because the guy was staring at them with a nasty look on his face. What followed was a bunch of tantrum twats calling me names for daring to suggest the idiot showing off his prosthetic penis could be viciously unsafe.

Yeah, I blocked them all. Unsurprisingly, every last one was a white guy. Shocking? Not so much. (Before you get your "Not All White Men" knickers in a twist, I KNOW not all...but there are enough that this segment of humanity is renowned for its inflated egos and out of control, often violent insecurity.) These ever-so-dim, now blocked, boys also chose to mansplain that OF COURSE the gun toter was pissed—someone was taking a snap of him without his permission. Gee, I’m just a little old Vagina American, I NEVER would have thought of that! 

 Did the armed ass (and my commenters) think a cell phone snap is lethal in the same way as his death dealing emotional support sidearm? Maybe it's just me but I’d wager that mister dickless gun fetishist always sports a resting angry-asshole face.

I wonder...if the restaurant is so horrorshow that he can’t enter without a Glock at his hip, WHY is he taking his, supposedly, cherished loved ones there? Hmmmmm?

If he feels he absolutely MUST pack heat when frequenting his local Panera or McDonalds, maybe, just MAYBE, he needs to find less dangerous dining establishments. Possibly invest in psychotherapy as well.

From the Giffords: Courage to Fight Gun Violence blog:

Despite what the gun lobby wants you to believe, the truth is that self-defensive gun use is rare, and that guns are many times more likely to be used for suicide or homicide than they are for self defense. In 2018, for every justifiable homicide with a gun, there were 34 gun homicides, 82 gun suicides, and two unintentional gun deaths.

• People successfully defend themselves with guns in less than 1% of crimes in which there is contact between a perpetrator and a victim.

• States with higher rates of gun ownership have higher rates of gun death, confirming the commonsense conclusion that more guns create more opportunities for injury and death, not fewer.

• An FBI analysis of 160 active shooter incidents from 2000–2013 found that active shooter incidents were rarely stopped by armed individuals who were not law enforcement returning fire. In fact, four times as many shootings were stopped by unarmed civilians restraining the shooter. (source)

Go read the full page and hit the links. Worth it!

 You're a Good Guy with a Gun™? That's just an excuse to assuage your feelings of inadequacy with dangerous props.

Art, Ink and Edits

First, to all who celebrate, HAPPY 4/20!

In case I haven't mentioned this before, I am forever editing as I read. E.g., in a book I’m reading now, the author refers to Paul Klee and Piet Mondrian as Cubists. I was stunned. NO, they were most def not! I may have been a crap student in college but I remember my 19th and 20th century art history…or I think I generally do. I looked it up to be certain—it’s been a lot of years since art school, ya know.

What did I find out? While Klee was influenced by cubism, his work falls way more in line with Expressionism, Bauhaus and Surrealism. 

Paul Klee (1879-1940) has been called many things: a father of abstract art, a Bauhaus master, the progenitor of Surrealism, and—by many an art historian…a very hard man to pin down….

Klee’s body of work isn’t easily bucketed into a single category, thanks in large part to the system of throbbing forms, mystical hieroglyphs, and otherworldly creatures that he developed to populate his compositions. (source)

Mondrian? He was a founder of the art movement called De Stijl which was related to Neo-Plasticism (in Dutch—Nieuwe Beelding i.e., New Visualization).

By the unification of architecture, sculpture and painting a new plastic reality will be created.
~ Piet Mondrian

Sounds kinda sci-fi, no?

An artistic philosophy that called for the renunciation of naturalistic representation in favor of a stripped-down formal vocabulary principally consisting of straight lines, rectangular planes, and primary colors. First articulated by Piet Mondrian in the journal De Stijl (The Style),  (source)

Most def NOT cubist—neither of them.

Why didn’t the author’s editor catch and correct this? I mean, isn’t this basic, recent (as in just this past century!) Art History? I can understand the writer, who was relatively young and probably majored in English, being confused about artists and genres but the editor? The majority of book editors are well past 30 years of age and, with all their experience, should know better.

I’m also assuming here that because I know what styles and movements these painters were a part of, well, simply everyone must! I think, as usual, I’m guilty of underestimating my knowledge levels. I’ve always done this.

At least I’m consistent, eh?

By the by, who were the Cubists? Pablo Picasso, Juan Gris and George Braques to name a few.

By the by Take 2: Back in my carnie days I thought I'd get inked. I was the only one on the lot sans skin art (the horror!) AND there were tattoo "artists" on almost all the midways. This was well before tattoos became the art form they are today so I wanted to keep it really simple—no Hygieia from Klimt’s Medicine for me. *sigh* I figured I'd get Mondrian's Broadway Boogie-Woogie (seen above, right) on my ass. Did I? Heavens no. I knew myself well enough to understand that I'd be unhappy about my choice moments after the last ink was inked.

Also, what if I gained weight? The art would be nastily distorted. More reason to nope out.

In case you were unsure…

I have NO fashion sense. Zero. Mind you, if you think an almost fanatical devotion to faux fur leopard-skin prints (pajamas, coats, vests, hats—name it, I have or had it), tie dye, graphic Ts and Vans are fashionable, I’m your ultra haute Jackie O., Audrey Hepburn or, more accurately, Mae West.
~~~
I LOVE biscuits and gravy! Yes, those can be vegetarian. Ten makes it with some absolutely heavenly vegan sausage and other stuff and IT IS PERFECTION!!!

Yes, I’m gonna need some of that goodness soon.

Meanwhile, since eating (with my mouth still recovering from dental surgery hell) is still problematic, breakfast today will be a VERY soft burrito filled with scrambled eggs and saag paneer.
~~~
No, I still haven’t gone for a proper walk. Not in two-ish weeks so far. Neither have I finished my tax prep. Yes, I’m a slag but part of the joy of being an actual grown-ass adult (I am SO an adult!) is that I can take time outs without getting a permission slip from anyone. This little break from being a mature, conscientious adult WILL end. I’ll get back on track but it doesn’t have to be today. Also, I’m giving myself permission to take baby steps.

I mean, hell and damnation, I’m approaching my seventh brain surgery (20th op overall) I deserve some motherfucking downtime!

Ya know what else I deserve? New Vans. Also some supportive, comfy, stylish sandals. My balance is too banjaxed for any of that strappy/barely there footwear but there MUST be some good shit out there for the fashion forward walker-bound set. If not, there should be!
~~~
If I was a patron saint I’d be Saint Donna of the Hospital. No, I would NOT be interceding with your Lord God du jour to shield you from the slings and arrows of outrageous medical fortune and such. I would be the bringer, accordant with Adonai’s commands, of ill health.

WHY in fuck’s name would you petition Saint Donna for this brand of intercession? Who the hell wants to be frail, feeble, diseased and disabled? Not me and that’s a fact.

Quite likely my venerators would be mostly masochists. Possibly there’ll be thrill seekers in the mix as well. I could see Iron Man competitors joining in. Ya know, the same old run/swim/cycle routine can get dull after a while. Let’s add in some Nf2 action—yeah, sounds like a great new challenge! (said nobody, ever)

Somehow, I don’t think I’ll be doing boffo box office in the saint biz. I would however be the swankiest, style-setter of all the saints. Saint Francis de Sales can eat his damn heart out.

“External seemliness is a sort of indication of inward good order”

“As to the quality and fashion of clothes, modesty in these points must depend upon various circumstances, age, season, condition, the society we move in, and the special occasion”

“For my own part I should like my devout man or woman to be the best dressed person in the company.”

Yeah, tell it, Frankie!

Bon Mots

Below are some words that I just like the sound of. Their meanings are somewhat irrelevant (to me). With a few exceptions, it’s not entirely likely they’ll find their way into my usual conversational styling (or maybe they will!).

Balderdash
     noun
senseless talk or writing

This word’s tremendously apt in this era of Republi/Fascist idiocy. Pretty much everything spewed from the mouths of Trumpers is utterly toxic balderdash.

Spatchcock
     noun
a chicken or game bird split open and grilled.

Now that I know what it means, I don’t find it quite so amusing. I was thinking a spatchcock was akin to a shuttlecock on steroids.

Diphthong
     noun
a sound formed by the combination of two vowels in a single syllable, in which the sound begins as one vowel and moves toward another (as in coin or loud)

.

Sounds more like a type of pointless and desperately uncomfortable underwear.

Spermologist
     noun in botany
one who treats or collects seeds

Alternatively, in humans, this is a person who studies and determines whether a man's seed is worth a damn. If not, a spermologist makes the call as to whether you should be banished to an ice cave in the Arctic OR sentenced to live out your existence on a completely barren island off the coast of Florida. (the barren island, while ensuring you can’t reproduce, is more humane in that you could conceivably swim to the mainland before becoming a shark's mid-day snack. Of course, IF you survive, you’d be in Florida so…emmm… lose/lose)

Malarkey
     noun
meaningless talk; nonsense

The shit Dark Brandon is totally done with.

Shenanigans
     noun
secret or dishonest activity or maneuvering.

This word sounds like it should be more lighthearted and harmless than the dictionary definition. Like it should apply to actions such as glitter bombing anti-abortion protesters and white supremacists and NOT the vile, slimy, heinous lies and crimes committed daily by the Cheato Party.

Nincompoop
     noun
a foolish or stupid person

i.e., anyone in the GFP party (Grifters for Putin)

Kerfuffle
     noun
a commotion or fuss, especially one caused by conflicting views.

To me it sounds like a description of Sarah Huckabee Sanders fashion sense (nonsense that is).

Governor Sanders enjoys carrying out her official duties dressed in her kerfuffled Halloween cowgirl attire.

Bulbous
     adjective
resembling a bulb especially in roundness

Cheato’s figure most closely looks like as an upside-down, squishy lightbulb.

Queef
     noun
an audible release of air from the vagina, typically during or after sex.

The word sounds funny and it IS hilarious when it happens (or, if you’re humorless, deeply embarrassing) BUT when I read it I immediately think “spliff,” “doobie,” or “blunt.” Why? Beats the fuck outta me but don’t Bogart that Camberwell carrot if you please.

Titillating
     adjective
arousing mild sexual excitement or interest; salacious.

*giggle* the word tits is sort of titillating *giggle*

Blunderbuss
     noun
a short-barreled large-bored gun with a flared muzzle, used at short range.

Dunno, this sounds more like an archaic term for breasticles as in “he tried to grab her blunderbuss but she ducked out of his reach just in time.”

Haboob
     noun
a violent and oppressive wind blowing in summer, especially in Sudan, bringing sand from the desert.

NOT actually a reference to mammory glands but it ALWAYS brings a childish grin to my face.

Cockwomble
     noun
slang for a person, usually male, who is prone to making outrageously stupid statements and/or inappropriate behaviour while having a very high opinion of their own wisdom and importance.

e.g., Cheato

Collywobbles
     noun
stomach pain or queasiness.

When I imagine the horrors we’re in for if the party of Putin wins anything in November, I get a radical case of the collywobbles.