Saturday, February 21, 2009

sounds of silence

Daughters are with “writers” and brain scientists young and old are visiting grandparents overnight. I am alone. Alone! With work to do, and quiet in which to do it. And Peter Frampton (comes alive!) And Tom Quinn (does not come alive! as he is pillow-Tom-Quinn and not non-pillow-secret-agent-Tom-Quinn.) And it is springtime in Satan’s Nethers, so I can ride my bike and think exercisey thoughts and then come home and think other thoughts completely uninterrupted. Hooray for cohesive thinking!


It has recently been brought to my attention that the posting around here doesn’t seem to happen that often. It has been further noted that I posted a lot of stuff in September of 2008. This is why: I started a blog on myspace so I could post installments of a tale I was telling about my ridiculous ex-husband – installments that were to be read by my lone myspace friend KRD. But then I realized that I hated myspace and that anyone can have an actual big girl blog and so I told Tom to cram it and decided to start an actual blog wedged into this tiny corner in the internet’s overcrowded crawlspace.  This way if my ridiculous ex-husband ever googles “the son of the man whose father owned the oldest piano store in town”, he’ll see my tale and have to choke down the bitter little pill that is my stark depiction of his stupid writing “career”. Hence the frenzied fall transfer of goods! So far the google hits to this wayward pit have consisted primarily of people looking for “lovely labia”, and while it’s plausible my ridiculous ex-husband was one of those people, the only thing he’d learn from the lovely labia post is that I now on occasion eat pork rinds. And that’s actually more of a bitter little pill for me. Pork rinds. Wow.


I am deeply conflicted as to what is appropriate fodder for this space. I would very much like to share my recent adventures at local events (e.g., political functions, burlesque shows), but I question the pragmatics of creating an electronic record of such things back here in the internet’s overcrowded crawlspace. People say all sorts of stupid things when nervous/post-coital, and I will feel like a tremendous tool if someday I’m chatting with a politician and freak out and mention this whole qwanty thing and then have to deal with the repercussions of having yammered on about wanton designs and shag carpeted ice jets. One might be given the impression that I am both creepy and irrational. And one needn’t be given that impression! These things are meant to be slowly discovered. They are the creamy middle of the qwanty ding dong.



Thursday, February 5, 2009

failure, an epiphany, and a glimmer of hope. but mostly failure.

1) It turns out that many Ph.D.s are idiots. It’s true! People who know idiots undoubtedly know a couple of people with doctorates. People who spend their days interacting with non-medical professionals who call themselves doctor undoubtedly have days peppered with idiot-interactions. Test this theory! Take a random sample of five idiots. At least one of them has successfully defended a dissertation. Now take a random sample of five people who have successfully defended a dissertation. At least one of them is an idiot. See? Idiots and doctorates go hand in hand, just like train station parking lots and anal sex. Or trains! Wait. A Brain Scientist is now sirening something about logical fallacies and me and commitment or committees or committed or something like that. Really? I see. It seems I am guilty of a logical fallacy with my Ph.D./idiot reasoning. Of course I am! I almost have a doctorate. Quod erat demonstrandum.

2) Even seasoned mothers with twelve years of formal experience with multiple womb fruit can inadvertently fling the entire contents of a diaper right onto the carpet and then not notice it until the baby is merrily squishing shit between his fingers. Now I have to revise my resumé.

3) I have an exercise plan I’d like to pursue, and it involves the person standing outside of H and R Block in the cartoony statue of liberty costume. If I paid that person $15, perhaps he or she would let me wear the costume for an hour and dance around with the Tax Credit! sign. I could bring my discman and listen to Siouxsie and the Banshees and get all hot and sweaty inside the foamy lady liberty (Paging Dr. Freud! – Ed.). I could probably even smoke a pipe while inside her! In addition to whittling my waist, this would put me one successive approximation closer to going to an actual dance club and actually dancing with an actual lady.

4)  Hey! I wrote foamy lady up there. I already disappoint many a poor, wanton sap who happens by after googling lovely labia or potsie cock. Now I can disappoint a whole new segment of the population. Or what I suspect is a whole new segment. I imagine the overlap in that Venn diagram is relatively small.

5) It turns out POTSIE COCK! is a very satisfying thing to yell when you realize your child has a handful of shit. It works nicely in non-fecal-fist instances too, but research thus far suggests that one’s potsie cock pleasure is maximized when one has just experienced profound failure as a parent. I imagine Marion Cunningham would say the same thing.

Monday, February 2, 2009

still working out the kinks

I have developed a huge crush on a local openly bisexual state legislature representative, and am devising an elaborate plan with which to bed her. I’m still a little sketchy on the details, but I know this much: it will require that I start a band. I never imagined that my rock star and lesbian fantasies had the potential to come together with such Wonder Twin power to shape up the form of hot girl action!/political scandal!/groupies! and a shag carpeted ice jet I will use to haul amplifiers and fly slowly past her outdoor speaking engagements. As for Gleek’s useful prehensile tail, we’ll figure that out later. I’m really taking a big step with this whole bang the sexy politician/rock band endeavor, as prior incarnations of the rock/lady combo have been limited to variations of a fantasy in which I give a karaoke performance of a suggestive song (e.g., Centerfold, Jesse’s Girl, etc.) in a lesbian bar that is SO HOT and SO HARD ROCKING that someone lets me feel them up. I first conceived of this fantasy that night I accidentally went to a lesbian bar when it was full of naked dancing women because I thought “Revue Night” meant open-mic poetry. It is a particularly ridiculous fantasy because a) I am terrified of karaoke, and b) I suspect that women who are swayed by Rick Springfield karaoke are few and far between. This new fantasy is far more attainable. Think I jest? Guess who asked me to be her facebook friend? While she may not have any clue as to my libidinous intent, District 27 Representative will at some point be mine, or will at the very least find one of my band flyers stuck to her windshield.

Saturday, January 31, 2009

at last, some context

I wrote a list of 25 “random” things about myself on a social networking site for all my “friends” to “see”.  I am posting it here with bonus items. So often I find myself wanting to write something down but realizing the story will make so much less sense than it would if I had at some point bothered to mention that time I accidentally went to a lesbian bar when it was full of naked dancing women because I thought “Revue Night” meant open-mic poetry. Without that kind of background it is often difficult to see what my point is. And so:

1)      The first 20 or so items I generated for this list were too X-rated, humiliating, or illegal to make the final cut. Consequently, I had to make two lists. I was plenty stoked about this, because a) I love lists, and b) I love dicking around writing stuff that doesn’t need to be written.

2)      I have a secret space in the corner of the internet reserved for stuff that doesn’t need to be written, including but not limited to lists of scandalous activity, stories about my ex-husband, and evidence that my parents were secretly huge stoners.

3)      I’ve come to suspect that I experience emotions in a way that is wildly disproportionate to the actual instigating experience. It’s all YAY! BOO! SOB! GRRR! with me, and sometimes the various emotions will combine in a way that is almost totally unrecognizable. It’s confusing to those I love and kind of a pain in the ass for me. 3a) I’m not sure I know how to properly use the word “disproportionate”.

4)      I have always been prone to crushes of colossal proportions. Given (3) this should be no surprise. I can’t even begin to think about the amount of time and money I have blown on crushes without feeling kind of sick: time lost due to swooning and weeping, and money lost to the delusion that if I buy enough pairs of earrings, that gay guy at 2 + 2 will suddenly become interested in a 14-year-old me.

5)      I have been in love either  0, 1, or 5 times. Maybe 2. My uncertainty in this regard is all a function of (3) and (4).  I think I’ve been in love at least once. In fact, I think I’m in love right now. Does being in love sometimes make you want to pull your hair out because your beloved will not stop babbling on about the proper way to execute a down block/a fascinating research idea/his pants? If this is consistent with “love” then I think I’m in love right now.  If we go with the most generous estimation of number of love experiences (i.e., 5), then I think I was in love for the first time in high school, and I still get slightly twitterpated when I think of him. Shhh. Don’t tell.

6)      Most of the nicknames I use for my children are food-based. My middle has the most nicknames, and they’re all ham-based: Hammykins, Hamtastic, Hamalamadingdong, Ham Sammich, and my favorite, Hambrosia. My daughter is Greenbean and Peanut. I’m still exploring names for the baby. So far my favorites are Porkchop and Puddin’.

7)      Nineteen to go! This is fun. Okay. I’m drinking rum as I write this list. Which brings me to:

8)      The older I get, the more profoundly socially phobic I become. If it wasn’t for social lubricants I would never leave the house. Think I have a problem? Suck it. You can call me Dr. Has a Problem.

9)      I’m way lippier in the written word than I would EVER be in person.

10)  I have a disco ball in my living room, and a chandelier in my dining room. The disco ball has an accompanying blue light that I whip out when I’m trying to set the mood for a party/orgy.

11)  Okay, I’ve never actually had or even been involved in an orgy. But there’s still time!

12)  I must confess that (4) is probably the reason I almost have a PhD in psychology. I had a wicked crush on my first psychology professor. I don’t think I’ve ever been so sprung on a man who I was not openly pursuing. That whole thing really blew up in my face, and yet I still love psychology. That’s devotion!

13)  I have received two formal marriage proposals. Both were on holidays (the first, St. Patrick’s Day, the second Valentine’s Day) and both came from men who were kneeling next to the bed I was in/on. WTF, proposing men? PS – One of these men was perched atop a pile a laundry. Double WTF.

14)  I had a tremendous crush (surprise!) on a really hot female graduate student when I was an undergrad. A friend once hypothesized that my X-Men power was turning ridiculously red whenever she came around. He may have been right, because I have yet to do anything quite as remarkable…

15)  Unless you count gestating tiny adorable X-Men with my Brain Scientist. Our oldest just turned four and is reading, doing math, and using words like “conscientious”. Our ten-month old is walking and starting to say words. It’s both freaky and charming.

16)  Ten more to go! I’m fine with watching movies I’ve never seen, but would probably prefer to watch the first two parts of the Godfather over and over again. Up until recently I had serious issues with the third film because of the whole Sofia Coppola thing. It was only on my last viewing that I was able to get past all the obvious flaws and really attend to the story. I have to say, I really love the way it ends.

17)  The crush mentioned in (14) caused me to pester my closest friend about going to a lesbian bar until she finally caved in. We went on something called “Revue Night”. I remember being so delighted that the lesbian bar had an evening devoted to poetry. Imagine our surprise when we discovered that “Revue Night” actually meant dancing naked women.  Don’t get me wrong – it was awesome and all. However, I will admit that a) I was flabbergasted, and b) it took me some time to find the right balance between looking enough to see the naked woman dancing OVER THERE and looking so much that the naked woman over there felt compelled to come over to dance RIGHT AT OUR TABLE, maybe expecting money or something.

18)  I also love watching the Lord of the Rings trilogy over and over again. I love the series, but I particularly love Eowyn in “Return of the King”: I AM NO MAN. That makes me teary and tingly every single time. I also cry every single time I watch “A Mighty Wind”.

19)  I always thought I wouldn’t be able to stand the pain of childbirth until I experienced an unmedicated transition on Pitocin while hunched over with an epidural needle in my back. To labor I say BRING IT.

20)  It turns out that I whisper when in a lot of pain, and when in moderately extreme pain I sing the Sesame Street pinball song: “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve.” I never would have guessed.

21)  When my daughter was three years old she went on a field trip to a bowling alley. I was a chaperone, and when I was helping other children put their shoes on someone’s grandma decided to give my daughter a ride back to the pre-school without telling anyone. For fifteen minutes our entire bowling alley full of people thought she’d been abducted. That was the worst thing I’ve ever experienced, and if I can live the rest of my life being able to say that I will consider myself very fortunate. 

22)  I once made turkey for an entire third grade. Every year at my daughter’s school the third graders have a Thanksgiving feast. The year she was in the third grade lots of people volunteered to bring gravy and pie, but no one signed up for turkey. I couldn’t bear the thought of all those little eight-year-olds with sporks full of gravy and no turkey, so I bought frozen turkey breasts, thawed them over night, cooked them early in the morning, and hauled them to her school. Being eight months pregnant causes one to do some wacky shit. Come to think of it, the next time I was eight months pregnant I made her class Valentine’s Day cupcakes shaped like human hearts. They were red velvet and filled with red jelly and as frostingly anatomically correct as a baked good can get. They were fabulous and delicious and kept me up until three in the morning. That is only the beginning of the list of ridiculous things I have done for her. Further proof that children can turn you into a total lunatic.

23)  Only three to go? Okay. I have nightmares about being forced to skydive.

24)  When I am feeling particularly crabby I go here  and wait. When the Brain Scientist finally happens by and offers an unsolicited opinion (which happens all the time), I click on the box in the upper left and try to look bad ass. Try it! It feels great.

25)  Wow. Last one. I have a feeling no one’s actually reading this by now and I am JUST FINE with that. Anyway, finally: I have a pillow named Tom Quinn. He’s a body pillow that the Brain Scientist bought me the last time I was pregnant. He is snuggly and plush and named after my favorite MI-5 agent. But hey!  I’m only on season 3 right now, so please don’t say anything about what’s to become of him. Right now my favorite joke is to offer to loan him to the Brain Scientist. I tell him he can flip Tom Quinn over and call him Zoe. Man, that just cracks me up.

26)  BONUS ITEM!: Every once in a while I have a day where I wake up and think that Ringo is my favorite Beatle. I’m not sure what’s going on with that. 

27)  BONUS ITEM!: I had a very difficult time calling this a list of random things. These things are not random. Further, they correlate in a way that makes me seem like a moody, horny degenerate.

Saturday, January 10, 2009

such a fine line between stupid and clever

I am ready to punch Today in the cock.

Wait. It’s Tomorrow. I’m sorry, Tomorrow. I have no issues I wish to resolve by way of violence against your cock.


Today was awesome. Awesome right up until 8:30 pm, when everything went to hell in an exceptionally priced handbasket in the middle of the IKEA parking lot. It is Jimmy Page’s birthday. Early today I began a letter to Jimmy Page –  a letter in which I expressed my love for him, for Led Zeppelin, and for Robert Plant’s pants circa 1970. But goddamn it! I couldn’t finish it. I couldn’t find the words to ask Jimmy why he is dressed like a box of Tastykakes at their (Zeppelin's, not the 'Kakes') 1970 performance at Royal Albert Hall. Why? Because I am downright belligerent. I AM PISSED. Again the question: Why? That’s hard to say. I know what triggered this whole mess, but I can’t say with certainty what’s sustained it. Perhaps together we can figure this out. I will be Trixie Belden, and you can be my Honey.

First, Jimmy Page. If you are like me then you love Led Zeppelin. Love. I once knew (or know, or am) a girl who loved Led Zeppelin so much that when she received a most coveted  Zeppelin DVD for Christmas while pregnant, she tucked it away for a time when she was very much not pregnant and could  enjoy it to its fullest capacity. She saved it until New Year’s Eve when, after her son’s fourth birthday party, she and her co-creator shared a pot of tea and settled down sans children to watch Led Zeppelin circa 1970, totally stoked at the magical rock-and-rolliness of it all and what they were about to behold and still not at all expecting the magic which was awaiting them in the form of Robert Plant’s goddamn pants. It may have been the tea talking, but that girl swore those pants were made of nothingness and sex. And I’ve seen the pants – she’s right! Nothingness and sex, which is just about as good as it gets in Pantsville.

So anyway. Happy birthday, Jimmy Page. I love you.

Now, because it is Jimmy Page’s birthday, I decided to celebrate in an appropriate fashion by getting high (on life!) and going to IKEA. Being high on life, I also submitted a manuscript for publication and applied for a job, because I love Jimmy Page that much. The Junior Brain Scientist decided to celebrate by dressing up in his blue and white seersucker suit, complete with linen shirt and tie, and parading around IKEA like a tiny Matlock hungry for the sweet embrace of an exceptionally priced stuffed bird that might have been a flamingo. The Other Junior Brain Scientist (i.e., the baby? Who has no blorum name? Formally known as the person who came out of my vagina?) decided to celebrate by sitting affably in his car seat while we pushed him around the store and waved tiny pencils in front of his face. Finally, the senior Brain Scientist decided to celebrate by being totally cool for the majority of the day and then donning his dick hat right around 8:30 tonight when IKEA put a dog collar around our necks and forced us to smell the glove.

Things went to shit in the parking lot. IKEA has that kind of parking lot. Walmart has the kind of parking lot that inspires people to at long last pour out the gallons of old milkshakes they’ve been hoarding in their cars, which is why I don’t ever go to Walmart and only send someone there on my behalf that one time per child when I have a breast pump emergency at 3:00 am because the bride and groom have whisked off to “consummate” their marriage with my breast pump in their car trunk and I am hammered and still dressed up like a (very heavily disheveled) lusty Renaissance wench maid-of-honor who may or may not have been photographed in compromising positions. IKEA, on the other hand, has a parking lot in which families are destroyed, because who knew that if you put 25 items that are only $7.99 in your cart, plus two that are $40, you will spend way goddamn more than you meant to? Not because you are irresponsible. No. Because you aren’t. You go to IKEA alone and have a list and a budget and do not allow any impulse purchases unless it is an absolute screaming deal, and you don’t really do that very often because a deal has to be screaming at you in a Scottish accent, like Ewan MacGregor, and usually needs to be saying something about The Velvet Underground or quantitative graduate student moms being really, really sexy. And typically that does not happen! And so you do not overspend. But then you go with other people! Impetuous cognitive scientists. Tiny southern attorneys. Adorable babies made of tolerant buttercream frosting. Then one thing leads to another, and there are purple bath mats and – oh my bitter ironic god – some other stuff that I can’t even remember right now, and suddenly you are being implicated in overspending at IKEA.

But You didn’t overspend.

The Collective You overspent.

No big deal, right? Yes, you fucked up, you exceptionally priced toothbrush holder loving whore. And yes, your living room does have a dearth of lamps given its size. But still. Was anyone talking to anyone else about numbers? Who was in charge of addition? Why are you such an idiot? I mean, some of you have advanced degrees. Whatever. You can take something back. But not until after someone has unjustly blamed you and your carefully considered list for the foible. You will take a moment and examine the receipt and point out to your associates that some serious do-re-mi was laid out in an effort to properly illuminate the living room, a series of purchases which was not on your list and was IN FACT motivated by your associates! You will be slightly perturbed, but will remain collected. Unfortunately, very soon something will get all fucked up in the course of the communications and their accompanying emotions and you will get frustrated to the point that you are hunting through the re-usable bags! which are only fifty-nine cents! in order to find the elegantly designed, exceptionally priced item that can be used most efficiently to slap the self-righteous indignation out of the bozo driving the mini-van. And perhaps the bozo will issue lame apologies at some point once he gathers himself and stops being an idiot or notices that you are about to brain him with a LACK end table for which you are also not responsible. But by then it’s too late. You are already wickedly pissed and trying to engage in the skillz you were taught in therapy, but for some unfathomable reason the bozo is saying But WHY can’t you talk about this right now? That’s RIDICULOUS even though you have patiently explained over and over and over again that this is one of your skillz and please show a little respect when you are asked to shut up about something for a while.

Before you know it you are home, and things are being brought into the house. You calmly identify items that could easily be returned. But then –  then! – someone criticizes the CD rack you’ve just agreed upon and purchased and then claims they’ve NEVER liked it, but since they’ve told you that the last two times you were at Dr. Sveelgood’s Household Item and Opium Parlor and you still keep asking about it they thought they’d just give up and let you purchase the goddamn thing which will look totally out of place in the living room.

And that’s it.

Suddenly you’re asking they remove the big exceptionally priced metal shampoo caddy that they’d moments before placed in the shower. You’re planning on returning that! You are eager to continue your routine of picking up everyone's toppled bottles while you bathe and answer questions about socks and factor analysis! And when they ask just where you’d like them to put the shower thing – because the whole house is already such a goddamn mess! – you suggest that they put it up their ass. Reconsidering your words a few minutes later, you throw it in the front yard. The shower caddy, not the ass. And then you retreat to a bedroom where you nap with an innocent ball of buttercream.

Later you will wake up and rapidly consume the remaining half of the bozo’s bottle of wine. You will be alone. You will tell your troubles to a made-up friend inside the computer. You will long for a real friend. You will drink more wine. You will lament not being able to see your Jimmy Page Birthday plans to their conclusion.You will curse – fuck! You will curse all things Scandanavian – fuck! get out of the sixties, Ian! You will wish you were a Buddhist lesbian. Actually, you will wish you were involved with a Buddhist lesbian. Because of the whole desire (IKEA)-and-ignorance (CAN’T ADD)-at-the-root-of-suffering thing. And, you know, the tits.


Sunday, January 4, 2009



It is morning, and we are nursing our hangovers and asking ourselves the age old question: Was that fifth martini really necessary? We are feeling sheepish, because we're wearing a combination of clothes that makes it perfectly clear that we might still be drunk. We are periodically weeping over a movie about talking cars. We are pathetic. Pa-the-tic. We recall many other occasions in which we have made questionable judgments with regard to alcohol, in both the procurement and consumption of. We intend to commit to electronic paper the story of the first time we obtained alcohol, and how that led to us nearly being suspended from school, but how it was truly someone else's bad judgment that time. We attempt to type the following sentence: I've been involved in many an ill-conceived plan. But this is how it comes out: I've been involved in many an ill-conceived man. The salt of truth rains down on the slug of our dignity.


I've been involved in many an ill-conceived man. Many of these weren't men at the time, but rather adolescent males who inspired me and members of my female cohort to hatch plans guaranteed to make us look ridiculous. Looking back now, I can't understand what we were even thinking. Here is a sample male:

I recently showed this to a ten-year-old child and was mocked.

Never in all the man plans did one fail as miserably as Plan JK. JK was an intelligent preppy boy (not our illustration fellow, above) who I developed a crush on around my junior year in high school. Plan JK: Defcon 5 strategies involved announcing to any and all that I liked JK, doodling his name in between the Smiths stickers on my pee-chee, and gazing at him through the window that connected our math classes. Had I not lied my freshman year and claimed algebra was too hard so that I could be moved to pre-algebra – I was afraid of two older boys in my algebra class – I might have actually been in the room with JK. Instead I sat next door, enjoying the mathematical stylings of Harley Potampa – which sometimes involved him drawing on his undershirt to make a point – and starring at JK as I developed Plan JK: Defcon 4.

            It became obvious to me that the reason I had yet to pique JK's interest was that I wasn't preppy enough. The solution? Wear my mother's clothes to school. My mother at this time wore a lot of crisp, pressed shirts from The Gap and owned penny loafers. These I gathered and began wearing with zeal. One day it was cutoffs, polka dot tights, and a Church of Elvis t-shirt, and the next day it was my mom. I pulled out all the stops, and began to purchase preppy clothing of my own, completely selling out my own fashion sensibilities.

            It still wasn't working. I was wearing preppy clothes – I was wearing the fuck out of them. Nothing. It was time for Plan JK: Defcon 3. I needed to actually interact with JK, but how was I going to do that? The answer was obvious: I was the photo editor for the school paper, and I could get him out of class to take his picture. Throwing aside all photojournalistic integrity, I convinced fellow newspaper staff members that we needed to do a center spread feature on the diversity of fashion styles at our school. We would photograph different students who had a "look". JK would be our smart preppy guy.

            I have no clear memory of the actual photo shoot. I can tell you this: it did not result in JK taking any interest in me whatsoever. My friend Kristin would later remark that never has anyone ever been less interested in another person. She probably told me this at the time as well, repeatedly, but I wasn't listening.

            Plan JK: Defcon 2 was met with similar failure. Kristin would drive me past his house on a regular basis – as in 6 times in a 15 minute span – after school. We would listen to the song The Darkest Blues by Stephen Duffy, over and over and over again, because it contains the following lyrics:

I can't forget you no matter how I try

I can't forget you no matter how I try

For every time I see you my heart dies

Every time I see you my heart dies

I am the one that you ignore

You are the one that I adore

Oh won't you come back again?

Nevermind that there was no coming back for him to do, as he was never there in the first place. The ignore and adore part struck a chord that was deafening, and I couldn't hear the rest of the song.

          Plan JK: Defcon 1 was really more about retribution for all my wasted time and money. It was simple: I selected the very worst photo from the fashion shoot to print in our center spread feature – the one where one of his feet looks freakishly huge. The rest were flattering, and featured him straddling a chair while using a graphing calculator. The one that was printed was not – it's just him sitting there with his legs crossed reading a book to his big, freaky foot.  I include this here, for all the internets to see:

Take that, JK. How do you like me NOW?

Saturday, December 13, 2008

candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker (to ignite)

I broke my core. I was trying to strengthen it, but I accidentally broke it. I thought I was operating once again with a reasonably aligned pelvis, but it turns out I was wrong, wrong, wrong. I went to the doctor yesterday and got shot after shot of lidocaine, and am now taking prednisone and percocet. I can’t really move. I have crutches. Crutches that smell weird. Bad weird, not good weird like patchouli or glue. I’m stuck on the couch. I’m being cared for by a Brain Scientist. It turns out that he was not meant to be a nurse. If you know Dr. BS you will nod knowingly at this point. I’m trapped. I never saw that movie Castaway but I know Tom Hanks talked to a beach ball or whatever and I am like that now but with no balls. All I have is this computer.

I am glum because I can’t bake cookies. Or decorate anything. Or take BS, Jr. shopping. Or make anything. Or pick up my children. The brain scientist is doing these things, though. He was making candy. But then he went outside and was gone, leaving me in one room and a cauldron of candy in the other. When the smoke alarm went off in the kitchen it seemed plausible that stuff had ignited, so I called feebly to Dr. BS and hobbled off to accidentally catch my pajamas on fire. Fortunately it was all smoke and no fire, but by the time I figured that out Dr. BS was in the kitchen giving me a scoldly voiced WHAT ARE YOU DOING OFF THE COUCH YOU WILL NEVER GET BETTER IF YOU… while the smoke detector BEEEEEEP-BEEEEEEP-BEEEEEEP-BEEEEEEP-BEEEEEEPED. Are you serious? What am I doing off the couch? Goddamn it, Willy Wonka, I am saving lives. Don’t leave your fucking candy unattended, you everlasting gobstopper.