Yesterday, [...]]]> As you probably noticed, I’ve been a little off my game for the past week or so.  There have been no references to glitter.  I’ve broken three drinking glasses.  My house is dirtier than Lindsay Lohan’s crotch.  My fridge is emptier than Sarah Palin’s mind.  Hell, I don’t think I’ve made a vagina joke in days.

Yesterday, while I was trying to find a parking space for the car, Rod Stewart came on the radio and I thought to myself, “Maybe he isn’t SO bad.”

I know.  Who IS this person and what has she done with Elly, right?

As is typical with my brain this week, I completely forgot about my appointment with the shrink…until the alarm on my phone rang a mere fifteen minutes before I was supposed to be there.  Flustered and out of breath, I complained about my attention span and inability to focus since our last appointment.  We came up with several possible reasons: many of her patients are suffering from allergies these days, the heat increases exhaustion, I probably didn’t sleep well away from home.  Then somehow the conversation turned to my dear friend and his blood work.

“And what would it mean if his PSA‘s didn’t drop?” Dirty Diana asked me yesterday.

I exploded a rambling string of words.  “It would mean a much colder, emptier world.  It would mean heartache.  It would mean a deeply personal loss for me.  It would just be wrong.  He makes the world a better place.  He brings me and every person he meets such joy.  I can’t hear his name and not smile.  He’s witty.  He’s beautiful.  He’s generous.  He’s intuitive.  He’s just magic.  He is incredibly dear to me.”  I paused to look her in the eye.  “I’m just not ok with that possibility.”

Dirty Diana paused a beat then said, “Maybe allergies aren’t the only reason for your fatigue and confusion.”

*sigh*  I hate it when she’s right.

I guess I’ve been more worried about my loved ones and their battles with cancer than I fully realized.  It’s funny how the brain works…and how it doesn’t.  How it shuts down to avoid what it can’t process.  How it constructs detours around those sensitive areas so technically you’re still functioning, but at a much diminished capacity.

But this morning, the good news came.  His PSA’s dropped.  The chronic pain from the tight scar tissue in my chest is gone and I can breathe again.  Which is good because I can’t stop these random tears of joy and you can’t blow your nose without a good inhale first.

So I need to send Yoko Ono a thank you note.  That wishing tree of hers really seems to work.  Maybe I’ll wait until we get Sarah through all her stuff and send Her Royal Yoko-ness a fruit basket.

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The Frugal Repast (Le Repas frugal)

Yesterday, I went to see the exhibit “Picasso: Themes and Variations.”  You know I love me some Picasso.  (Just not quite the same [...]]]> I feel like it should be raining.  The sunny day somehow seems incongruous with my mood.  Maybe I just need some high fructose corn syrup or something.

The Frugal Repast (Le Repas frugal)

Yesterday, I went to see the exhibit “Picasso: Themes and Variations.”  You know I love me some Picasso.  (Just not quite the same way Ry does.)  His paintings are so vibrant, I sometimes think I see the walls they hang upon shaking.

This exhibit is a departure from the usual Picasso painting-a-thon, however.  This was all about his etchings and lithos – more intimate insights into his process.

Accompanied by my dear friend Don, we quietly glided through the pieces.  It was surprisingly uncrowded.  As we paused to appreciate The Frugal Repast (Le Repas frugal), a high pitched scream filled the room.  We looked at each other, eyebrows knit together in confusion, then resumed touring the space.

Shit like that happens at the MoMA.

We paused, waiting for a group of people clustered in a corner to clear the space.  Absentmindedly, I peered over the head of a small, gray-haired woman to view a study of a woman’s face.  She lifted her hand towards the glass, caught herself, pulled her arm back and whispered heatedly to her companion, “He was just so…PHALLIC…in everything he did!”  Our stifled giggled were interrupted by another piercing scream.

My absolute favorites where the series.  While Picasso’s artistry is never questioned, I sometimes feel that people question his skill because he oversimplifies the human form.  But really, he was quite skilled at realistic sketches – it just wasn’t his thing.  That’s why I literally swoon when I get to see his process – the deconstruction of a menacing beast to a simple, yet instantly recognizable, line drawing.

Talk about discipline!  I am far too lazy for that shit, far too eager for instant gratification.  I’m all, why bother with all those other drawings when you can just cut to the line drawing? *sigh*  I just tried to whip out a quick line drawing of a bull and it looks like two year old tried to draw a cat.  THAT’s why the bother, I suppose.

I guess it’s a lot like writing.  There’s this massive, all encompassing picture of an event, and then there’s the story you want to tell.  You’ve got to come at it from all angles, right?  Figure out which lines are truly necessary, drive the story, add to the experience and then remove all the others that are distracting, detract from the message (like this entire paragraph).

Here’s another example of Picasso’s creative process documented:

Don and I wandered through the rest of the museum at a quick clip.  Neither of us felt the need to spend much time in the Bruce Nauman installation, a room filled only with stools and hanging speakers that projected different voices reciting the days of the week.  That installation could have used a few bendy schlongs and witty banter.

There were more screams.

We worked our way back downstairs..  Turns out they had a mic and speakers set up as part of a Yoko Ono piece instructing patrons to

Scream.
1. against the wind
2. against the wall
3. against the sky

Sea of Wishes

And boy were they EVER.  Don and I made our escape to the Sculpture Garden.  Tucked into a corner, dappled with sunshine, sat a small potted tree, dripping with luggage tags.  It was another Yoko Ono piece entitled “Wish Tree.”  I grabbed Don and pulled him over.

“We have to do this,” I urged.  I pulled two damp paper luggage tags from the bin.  I scrawled Don’s name, then Sarah‘s name, then “Fuck cancer.”  I handed the pen to Don.  “It can’t hurt for your blood work.”

I folded my tag in half then tied it to a spindly twig of a branch.  Don stretched high above my head to place his wish, too.

Fingers crossed.

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I know I’ve told you about her before.  She’s a force of nature, a beacon of light, a…hell, she’s just plain magic.

Me and My Mascot

When I was diagnosed, she was pregnant with her little miracle boy.  Despite her own trials [...]]]> My heart hurts.  My dear cousin Sarah has cancer.  Again.  Fucking cancer.

I know I’ve told you about her before.  She’s a force of nature, a beacon of light, a…hell, she’s just plain magic.

Me and My Mascot

When I was diagnosed, she was pregnant with her little miracle boy.  Despite her own trials and fears at that time, she graciously walked me through her chemo days (six months of weekly drips) so that I might feel a little more prepared.  She’s the visionary who gave me my mascot of Mrs Pacman.  She even sent me the handmade Mrs Pacman pillow that accompanied me to each and every chemo visit.

I don’t think I’ll ever be able to convey to her just how much she helped me through that time, or just how grateful I am.  I also don’t think I can convey just how much my heart aches to hear she has to face cancer again.

She’s the kind of woman that would be so easy to hate.   She’s stunningly beautiful – thick blonde hair, piercing eyes, gracefully eyebrows, a smile that could instantly melt the polar ice caps.  She’s smart ass a whip, with a wit to match.  Her laugh makes you giggle, even if the joke is on you.

That being said, I triple-dog-dare you to spend more than fifteen minutes with the woman and not fall madly in love with her.  TripleDogDareYa.

My favorite part about Sarah?  It’s those arms.   She makes Michelle Obama look like a flabby mess.  I’m always mesmerized by her grace as she absentmindedly raises her arm to pull her thick bangs to the side and tuck a rope of hair behind her ear.  Those arms are so strong, so supple, so powerful – and they’re always moving.  Either she’s reaching out to help with your bags, wrapping them around your body in a welcoming embrace, or thrown high in the air in a physical expression of joy.

And when she tosses one of those arms around your shoulder, either in camaraderie or consolation, you can’t help but notice the intense heat that radiates from her body and into yours.  And your heart beats a little stronger, your brain feels a little clearer, your smile comes a little easier.  She’s magic, pure and simple.

She’s also an incredibly private person and she will most definitely hate that I wrote this.   But if I learned one thing from cancer…well it’s that drugs are good.  But if I learned two things, the second is how to be selfish.  And that’s what this is – me being selfish.  Because magic people like Sarah should have all the support in the world and I don’t know how to help her other than thinking of her, celebrating her, and asking you to do the same.

I love you, Sarita.  Mrs Pacman is on her way.  Say the word, and I will be, too.

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Well, that’s not exactly true.  Apparently I’m just not in a vagina mood.  When Britt introduced the [...]]]> Just call me Grumpelstiltskin.  I’m crabbier than Lindsay Lohan’s couch cushions and I can’t seem to break out of my funkagawea.  Even reading a slew of vagina-related comments this morning on yesterday’s post didn’t pull me out of my funk.

Well, that’s not exactly true.  Apparently I’m just not in a vagina mood.  When Britt introduced the term “fruit cup” I accidentally spewed green tea all over a sleeping Mildred as I guffawed.  Oops.

After Bieber’s performance on American Idol last night, my brother Thom decided to send me a link to this lovely site.  So of course I had to scroll through the whole damn thing to make sure he hadn’t sent in a picture of me.  So far, so safe.  But now I feel like I can’t randomly submit other people’s pictures for my own amusement.  That just made me crabbier.

I’m about 900% sure some of my crabbitude is in anticipation of Tuesday – when I’ll get pumped full of radioactive dye, shoved into a long metal tube, and scanned for signs of the creeping death.  Add some Rod Stewart tunes to the mix and you’ve pretty much created my own personal hell.

Today though, I’m heading out to the new house for the home inspection.  It’s a little surreal to be looking at the place I hope to live for the next ten to twenty years, while simultaneously anxiously dreading a visit with my oncologist, fearing what my immediate future holds.  It feels a little like planning a fishing vacation to New Orleans  – strange timing.

The scan will be clean.  I know it will.  But I’ll just feel much better Tuesday afternoon when Aloysius smiles and tells me I’m just fine.

As is the way of life, a friend of mine (another Lymphoma survivor) sent me this video yesterday.  On the one hand, it’s the worst possible timing.  I’m a freaking ball of nerves and the last thing I need to see is a bunch of people talking about their lost loved ones.  On the other hand, it’s the absolute best timing.  That’s me in the green flowered hat at around the three minute mark.  That’s me looking healthy and happy and triumphant.  That’s me after kicking cancer’s ass.

I did it once.  Worst case?  I can do it again.

But I won’t have to.  Because Tuesday my scan will be clean, damnit.  And I’ll have an offer on my apartment.  And the oil spill will have somehow stopped.  And John Leguizamo will be the governor of Arizona.  And cheesecake will make you lose weight.  *sigh*  A girl can dream…

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I came across [...]]]> As I mentioned yesterday, in anticipation of going into an office somewhat regularly, I decided to get a haircut.  I wanted something between my usual Super Cuts and the mad expensive Bumble and Bumble of my previous life.  I strolled down Hoboken peering in windows, trying to find a salon that struck my fancy.

I came across a gaggle of giggling guys lounging on a stoop, enjoying the warm air.  I passed them by, too caught up in their laughter to fully realize they were in front of a salon.  I back pedaled and paused in front of the door.  The laughter quieted.  “How do you guys feel about walk-ins?” I inquired.

A tall lanky blond answered, “Come on in.”  I stepped over the jumble of lounging limbs and into the welcoming space.  In typical Hoboken fashion, the floors were wood and the walls exposed brick.  A row of giant mirrors echoed along one wall of the long, narrow room.  Red velvet pillows crowded the window seat and soft Venezuelan house music quietly clumped through the speakers.

By Popular Demand - New 'Do

A beautifully tanned man followed me inside.  He ruffled his short mohawk and smiled, motioning towards a chair near the back of the space.  I dutifully followed behind him, mesmerized that I’d actually met a person willing to wear a neon green tank top outside of an 80′s dance party.  The retina singeing shirt was paired with white denim shorts and flip flops.  I was starting to have second thoughts about putting my hair in his hands.

Then he spoke.  “Have a seat.”  I blinked, dumbfounded, as he whipped out another dazzling smile.

His voice was amazing – smooth and thick like honey, but deeper and darker, more like molasses.  His tone wrapped me in a warm cocoon of comfort and I immediately relaxed.  “What are we doing today?” he rumbled as he fingered my limp, greasy strands.

“Whatever you tell me to, honestly.  I’m half trying to grow it out, half relatively ok with the short flippy stuff, and wholly sure it needs some fixing.”  He looked at me quizzically, blinking his dark wide eyes.  “I just want it to look intentional, like an actual style.  It’s coming in a little funny and this spot is still really thin.  So I need tricks to cover that up.”  His eyes widened slightly, eyebrows raised.  Nervous, the words spilled out, “…from the chemo.”

He dropped his eyes briefly and fiddled with a comb.  “Well, I kinda like what you’ve got going on.  Let’s add some layers, shorten these bangs, and make the back a little wispier.  Sound good?”  I nodded, relieved.

He spun my chair to face him and leaned in closer.  I noticed he had cut a notch in the neck of his tank top.  As his torso moved towards me, a tiny square pendant swung forward from behind the neon fabric.  An unblinking, technicolor Virgin Mary sparkled brightly, as she gently swayed on the silver chain.  “Let’s get that mess washed,” he murmured.

As he lathered me up, he quietly asked, “So how are you?”  I looked at him, weighing his words.  Avoiding my eyes he continued, “Your health, I mean…are you…ok now?”

I quickly answered, “Oh yes!  I’m fine.  Totally fine.  Feeling great.  Just fine.”  Why oh why did I mention the chemo thing?

“He turned the water off as he applied some new elixir to my scalp.  “My sister’s hair came back in really thick and curly.”  He smiled reassuringly.

“Well that must have been nice,” I responded thoughtlessly.  Instantly I regretted my words and stammered, “The thick hair part – not the cancer part, obviously.  I’m sorry.”

He patted my head as he turned the water back on.  “I know what you meant.  It’s ok.”

We sat in silence as he rinsed my head.  He fingered a few wet strands and shook his head.  “What do you use at home?” he asked with slight scorn in his voice.

“Um.  I think it’s CVS brand dandruff shampoo,” I answered sheepishly.  He gave me a stern look.  “I know, I know,” I muttered.  He slapped on yet another round of conditioner on my hair.

As he gently rinsed the pomegranate scented concoction from my hair, careful to direct the spray away from my ears with the back of his soft hand, I quietly asked, “And your sister?  How is she?  Is she still ok?”

He turned off the water and fumbled above my head for a towel.  Avoiding my eyes he answered softly.  “No, she passed.”  He lifted my neck tenderly and wrapped the blood red towel around my head.

We locked eyes.  “I’m Elly, by the way.”  I slowly extended my hand.

He grasped my hand in his, a slight smile on his tanned face.  “I’m Gabriel.”

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Me:  I got a call back to write for a sex magazine.

Drew:  make me a [...]]]> I know I write about my vagina a lot.  Ok A LOT a lot A LOT.  But I still hesitated when SEXIS invited me to write a piece for their webzine.  I went to my brother for advice.

Me:  I got a call back to write for a sex magazine.

Drew:  make me a bird make me a bird make me a bird make me a bird make me a bird make me a bird make me a bird make me a bird make me a bird make me a bird

I took that as a vote for no and proceeded to call the rents.

Me:  How would you feel if I wrote for a sex zine?

Mom:  What’s a zine?  Wait, did you say sex?

Me:  It’s an online magazine that specializes in sex oriented content.

Mom:  Porn?

Me:  No, it’s definitely not porn.

Mom:  Please don’t write porn.

Me:  Mom, it’s NOT porn.

Dad:  Is it erotica?

Mom:  What’s the difference?

Me:  It’s NEITHER PORN NOR EROTICA!  I promise.

Dad:  If it’s not erotica, it’s definitely not porn.

Mom:  Honey, I always support you – no matter what you do.  But do you really have to write PORN?

Me:  It’s actually a very professional site – it’s full of journalistic integrity, strong writers, humorists, activists…(mumbling) and butt plugs.

Mom:  My daughter the porn writer.

Dad:  Wouldn’t you technically have to clean up your act to write for a porn site?

So yes – I wrote an article for SEXIS Magazine.  No – it’s not porn.  It’s actually a deeply personal piece on cancer, and how sex helped me survive.  Writing this piece definitely makes my list of the top five most difficult things I’ve ever done, but I’m glad I did it.  I debated long and hard (that’s what she said) about sharing it with you kids since it’s such a departure from my normal shtick, but I told a few people, then they told a few people, and suddenly I’m getting these wonderful letters from people I’ve never met.  I tell you, I’m downright squishy from all the lovin’.

Now in my dizzy delirium, I’m sharing the link before I change my mind.  So, maybe go read it – even if it’s not the single funniest thing I’ve ever written.  Then tell all your friends about it.

And yes…I too am amused that I wrote an article about sex and didn’t use the word vagina once.

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What.  The.  Fuck?

Up until about a week ago, I always associated the acronym HPV with genital warts.  Ok, that’s probably not going to stop, but now I ALSO associate it with some freaky thing called Hydrolyzed Vegetable Protein which is suddenly all up in the news (as opposed to the other HPV which is all [...]]]> Dear FDA,

What.  The.  Fuck?

Up until about a week ago, I always associated the acronym HPV with genital warts.  Ok, that’s probably not going to stop, but now I ALSO associate it with some freaky thing called Hydrolyzed Vegetable Protein which is suddenly all up in the news (as opposed to the other HPV which is all up in Lindsay Lohan).

I had no idea what the stuff was, so I went ahead and looked it up for both of us.  I’m like Lady Jaye over here…’cause knowing is half the battle.

[The manufacturers] start out with vegetable scraps or soy extracts.  They are boiled in hydrochloric acid, then neutralized with sodium hydroxide. The acid breaks down the protein into amino acids, one of which is glutamic acid, more commonly known in the form of its sodium salt, monosodium glutamate or MSG.

Read more

MSG?  Didn’t you outlaw that shit back in the 80′s (I’m totally picturing an old wild west notice with the words “reward” and “dead or alive” in huge type).  You were my knight in shining armor, FDA.  I remember every Chinese restaurant back in Greensboro, NC proudly waiving signs that said “No MSG!”  That did happen, right?  I don’t remember any singing giraffes so I always assumed I didn’t dream it.

Oh FDA.  I’m so disappointed in you.

So am I to understand that HPV (also known as “flavor enhancer”) is just another version of MSG?  I’d buy that…in the same way that a riding lawn mower is another version of a car.  Technically they have a lot of the the same characteristics, but they just aren’t the same, are they?

The way I see it, this is just a way for manufacturers to stick MSG in our foods without actually labeling it as MSG.  Isn’t that like offering me some ibuprofen for my headache and instead giving me a roofie?  Technically both would alleviate the symptoms of a headache.  But again, they aren’t really the same thing, FDA.

You’ve always been about the bottom line though.  When MSG became too expensive to produce, so you just twiddled your thumbs while they developed HPV, an even cheaper (and dicier) way to flavor our foods.  hooRAY!! Good thinking, FDA.

But wait there’s more?  Oh yes I see!  Seems they also slip a little MSG into my food with something called textured vegetable protein (TVP).  Textured?  What – like “ribbed for her pleasure” textured vegetable protein?  Blech – no thanks, FDA.  I don’t appreciate your inappropriate advances.

I’ll concede I may be a little overly twitchy over the creepy (read carcinogenic) things that turn up in the simple things we interact with every single day, but I’d think this would get most gals’ panties all bunched up.  On the plus side, now I have something to distract me from my BPA nightmares (though the zombie dolls where doing a pretty good job of that, too).  By the by, way to step it up on that front and finally announce that BPAs are of ‘some concern.’  You’re killing me, FDA.  Literally.

Seriously FDA, are you even paying attention?

So now I have to carry along this giant list of all the food ingredients that are just other words for MSG when I go grocery shopping.  I’ll just slip it into my ever growing binder right behind the EWG’s Guide to Pesticides and Safe Fish List.

I hope you eat all those recalled, salmonella tainted foods, sleep with Lindsay Lohan, and experience all the joys that HPV can bring you.

Fucker.

Sincerely,

Elly Lou

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Like a teenager who stayed up far too late watching a horror movie, home alone while her parents were away on business, I feel foolish for the past two weeks of worry, the frightful hours I [...]]]> I rocked that bitch.  Ass slaps and David Lee Roth kicks all around!  Fifteen months down, seventy more years to go.

Like a teenager who stayed up far too late watching a horror movie, home alone while her parents were away on business, I feel foolish for the past two weeks of worry, the frightful hours I spent listening for intruders and monsters, cowering under the comforter armed with a baseball bat.  Now that I’m safe and sound in my room, filled with the comforting warmth of daylight, it’s easy to laugh at myself, at my ability to work myself into a gale-force tizzy.  And boy am I good at it.  It’s a gift, really.

I love Sloan-Kettering.  I love the doctors.  I love the nurses.  I love the technicians.  I even love the cleaning staff.  I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again – that place is just plain magic.

Yet I despise sitting in those waiting rooms.  Nothing gets my PTSD going like the sight of those faux vinyl chairs filled with failing bodies.  As I waited to get my blood drawn, my eyes were drawn to the Indian woman sitting across from me.  I’d guess she was around fifty years old, but it’s so hard to tell with cancer patients.  The swelling from chemo coupled with the moon face from steroids tends to obliterate most wrinkles.  Her small frame was wrapped in a massive wool coat, several scarves wound around her neck.  Her scalp was covered with a Yankees knit cap.  She kept her arms wrapped tightly around her waist as though she was trying to bring herself comfort or warmth…or both.  Her left hand was tucked inside the folds of her long coat as though she were protecting it from something.

Her face had the shiny, iridescent sheen of chemo.  With her eyes shut tight in slumber, she looked anything but peaceful.  Her entire body sat out of plumb, as though she was a rigid, unmoving sculpture that some giant hand had haphazardly placed in that chair at a precarious angle.  She never moved a muscle other than the slight furrowing of her brow as pain flickered across the taut plains of her hairless forehead.

Fighting a wave of nausea, I fished through my purse for some gum and tried to fill my mind with other thoughts.  My eyes landed on a pair of women walking arm and arm in the hallway, working their way towards the waiting area.  These women were both a little older, probably in their late sixties or early seventies.  One had short, salt and pepper hair and wore thick plastic-framed glasses.  Her companion was far more fashionable wearing a long sleeved black tee with a wide scoop neck, hair shaped in a smooth white bob.  She reminded me of Helen Mirren on all accounts.  For a moment, I thought she must have just returned from vacation as her skin looked sun-kissed beneath the fluorescent lighting.

As the duo entered the room, I realized my initial appraisal was incomplete.  The skin that had appeared sun-kissed was a deep, painful red.  She absentmindedly tried to brush away the phantom hair from the right side of her face as her partner surveyed the seating arrangement.  Confused, she moved her hand to the left side of her face, comforted as she felt the thin wisps of hair brush her fiery shoulders.  “Radiation,” I thought to myself as I rustled through my purse, looking for any distraction.

Her friend gently lowered the weakened woman into the seat next to mine, then took her place on the other side of her burnt body.  Gently she asked in a lilting Irish accent, “Shall we try again?  Can you remember your address?”

Her question was met with wide sad eyes and knitted eyebrows.  After several long moments, the woman shook her head in slight, pain minimizing movements of defeat.  “I think there might be a four in it,” she mumbled thickly.

Her friend touched her knee, careful to avoid any exposed raw skin and spoke in a comforting tone.  “That’s all right, love.  I’ll ask you again in a few moments.  Just rest a minute.”

Mercifully the technician called my name before I started hyperventilating.  I gave my blood, cracked some nervous jokes, accepted the usual friendly analysis of my hair, and made my way to the next waiting area.  I pulled out Webster to see if I had any service.  I got a little misty honestly.  I was so overwhelmed by the supportive emails and tweets from you kids (you guys really are a bunch o’ softies, eh?).  Not wanting to weep openly in a room full of people going through some seriously heavy shit, I switched over to Suduko, picking the easy level since I was looking for a distraction, not a challenge.  Sadly it wasn’t enough to keep me focused and I unintentionally started listening to the conversation next to me.

A father was expounding to his brother that the last round of chemo hadn’t been as successful as they had hoped, but at least his daughter’s tumor hadn’t increased in size.  They were going to try another round of these drugs then re-evaluate in a few more weeks.  The brother kept hounding for details, frustrating the father who was starting to loose his patience.  Suddenly, his face split into a wide grin as his twenty-something daughter walked back into the room, pulling her hat down over her missing eyebrows.  “Let’s don’t forget, we’ve got to check in at the chemo suite before we grab lunch.”  He snatched the construction magazine from his brother’s hands and swatted his daughter on the rump.  “We best get a move on, Honey.”

Fuck.

You can see how it gets a little emotional up in there, right?  Damn, that reminds me I forgot to hit Aloysius up for more anxiety meds.  Summabitch.

So anyway, I’m fine.  I’m more than fine.  I’m downright impressive with my recovery.  I’m a force of nature.  I’m a champion of justice.  I am Elly, hear me roar!

I’m also a little tired.

I smothered Aloysius with hugs and high fives.  I danced my little jig for the receptionist.  I sprinted through the rain singing my Ben Fold mantra (verb tense changed of course).  I came home.  I made my phone calls.  I fed myself some soup.

Then I passed the FUCK out.

Not dying really takes it out of a girl.  Even though I can see how silly it was to get THAT worked up as I sit here safe in sound in the light of day, I was still on high alert for the past two weeks.  I’m just plain worn out.  So even though I’m ecstatic, and relieved, and jubilant, and twenty other words that mean happy, I can’t help but get all weepy at the silliest thing.  Hell, last night I cried watching P.C.U.

Since I’m still not funny and you’ve had three solid days of somber from me, I’ll share my dad’s new favorite joke.  Yes, my dad tells this joke.  Often.  Come to think of it, maybe there’s a reason people have a tendency to purchase presents for my parents from sex shops, eh?

What’s the difference between erotic and kinky?  Erotic is when you use a feather.  Kinky is when you use the whole chicken.

Oh and P.S.?  Thanks.  I think you’re nifty, too.

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