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I have just noticed that a certain faction of over accessorized males no longer refer to one another as dawg. Also, no one has been referred to as cat for several decades, although I hear that when they were it was quite hep. The meshing of these realizations has led me to one conclusive hope for the future. If the animal as dude substitute trend continues any further, I hope that it will extend to Hamster or Mongoose.

Peace out, my hamsters.

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interstellar update:

March 22, 2009

Found cheese grater.

Made omelet.

Ruined omelet.

Made unsatisfactory scramble.

Ate toast.

The world = a vampire.

As you can see, it is approximately the color of nasturtiums, the ‘stersh’ part of which eluded me for my entire life until one week ago. For some reason I always thought the word was pronounced nast-ree-um, which, I don’t know. But apparently it is not. However, yay nasturtium colored hairs!

orange-hair

I can’t find my cheese grater. As there are only two places the cheese grater has ever been before, the drawer in which it belongs, directly under the silverware with all the other random smaller bits of cookery implements, and dirty, in the dishwasher, I am kind of at a loss. I have checked the drawer three times now, even though I know it isn’t there, simply because I can’t believe it would be anywhere else. I have even stopped the current load of dishes in the middle of its cycle to check the dishwasher. Logically the next thing to do was search the entire kitchen, which I did and which took about two seconds because the kitchen is so small, to no avail. Wait. I did not check inside the oven, which, I know, no way, but now that I have thought of it I have to go do that. One moment.

Nope. Not in the oven. I am kind of relieved, because if I ever put the cheese grater in the oven I believe it would herald the beginning of my well and true mental breakdown, but still. Now I cannot make myself a delicious omelet for breakfast and this makes me cranky.

In happier news, I got up this morning and did yoga. It’s been roughly two months since I last did yoga, so my body is feeling kind of stretched to all hell and certain long unused muscle groups are shaky and not to be relied upon, but overall I feel like the interstellar shit. (like star dust, except cooler). Therefore, a fat juicy omelet with cheese and more cheese and maybe some rosemary seems very much in order, and it is not going to happen. Plih. Maybe I will make a pie, as pie is the next best thing.

Oh! And there has been a state of freak out emergency over here ever since yesterday afternoon when I discovered that there is a tiny bump inside my left hand. I promptly freaked the fuck out, oh god tumor/damaged tendon/small scale alien infestation/death, but according to all my unconcerned friends it is simply a strained something or other and it will go away in a few days. I am not necessarily sure I believe them, because to me it feels exactly like one of those bumps that Neo sends burbling under the Agent’s skin at the end of the first Matrix, right before the Agent dies, and so I have been freaking out and cautiously touching my bump every so often and freaking out some more. BUMP. In my hand. Gah. The yoga seems to have made it smaller and flatter though, so maybe yoga is the alien invasion answer we’ve all been looking for.

Because we are all so fond of me when I do this, I will now indulge you in another of my dreams. Also because the only other things I have to talk about so far this morning are the glorious sunshine (yay) and the abysmal payment plan I have just set up so that the state income tax bastards can continue to squeeze blood out of stones (boo).

In my dream I was sitting on a sidewalk, waiting on a bunch of friends to be done with a party. I was already done with this party, as I had discovered the kegger cups full of buttermints seconds after my arrival and immediately eaten enough of them to passionately encourage a diabetic coma. This is amusing to me, as this was a party we were all crashing and the buttermints were clearly marked ‘DO NOT EAT’ (what?) and the hostess herself had firmly reiterated this to me when I took my first handful. I spent my entire party time slipping out of her line of vision just long enough to dip in for another handful, and the amusing thing is, once again, how very well I seem to know myself while sleeping. Buttermints are like sweet sweet crack to me, and there are no levels I will not stoop to in order to have their melty goodness flood my tongue; I will even steal them one or two at a time from the bin at Winco, and this is a strange and pathetic testament to my love for them, as I have a remarkably delicate conscience when it comes to taking things without paying somebody somewhere for them. I even feel guilty helping myself to incredibly rad shoes from free boxes on the neighborhood sidewalk, just in case the person who was short sighted enough to put them out there realizes the error of her ways and wants them back.

But, in any case, I had had quite enough buttermints and the party was over as far as I was concerned. I sat on the sidewalk and watched a bush that was also sitting on the sidewalk, several feet away from me, looking queerly human. In fact it was human, and as I watched it woke up and turned into a man. I immediately moved the several feet closer to him, and we started talking. His name was Ben, and he was a Capricorn who was going to university in Moscow. As I am wont to do in my dreams, I fell instantly fathoms deep in love with him and he took me back to his RV to meet his pets. His pets, it turned out, were a pair of snakes whose names I forget but who were completely horrifying. My love suffered severe damages, and I thought maybe Ben should just go back to Moscow without me. He begged me to just give the snakes a chance, one chance, and when I refused he wrote me a heartbreakingly eloquent five page love/goodbye letter. Not that this would sway me in real life or anything, but in my dream I was so touched that I agreed to give the snakes a chance. First, however, I had to be prepared. I mixed up a solution of ipecac syrup and that vile electric blue Boones whatever flavor that is wine cooler as an antidote (for what? What could that possibly cure, that mixture of deadly vomit inducing evils?) and Ben and I decided that the snakes and I would bond best if I helped feed them. Fortunately even my sleeping mind balked at involving me in any actual snake feeding activities, because these snakes drank milk out of nipple topped bottles, just like human babies. At first it was fine, for some reason while the snakes were being fed they stopped looking like satan incarnate and instead had cute fuzzy faces kind of like capybaras at the business ends of their tails. I was feeling happy and motherlike and fully in love with Ben again when I looked over at him to smile adoringly and suddenly realized that his snake had regained its dreadful arrow shaped head. I looked down at mine, and sure enough, I was nursing the devil. I screamed and flung it away from me and we all began to run, me for my life and they for…my blood, probably.

I woke up absolutely petrified and am currently suffering from a highly unjust disinclination for persons named Ben, born under Capricorn, and studying in Moscow. And I crave buttermints like a sonofabitch.

I am the oracle.

March 9, 2009

I just baked two pansful of oatmeal raisin cookies from damned scratch and the smoke alarm did not go off once.

Yes, I am very pleased with myself.

I just burnt my tongue on my tea. Waiting for hot beverages to cool is the bane of my existence.

I had very strange dreams, mostly centered on trying to metal claw a truly fabulous gold lame’ coat out of a fifty cent a pop money sucking vending machine…I never did get it, but I wound up with an awfully lot of stuffed animals to give my siblings, most of whom consider themselves too old for stuffed animals. So I woke up kind of cranky, without a gold lame’ coat or any stuffed animal loving siblings, and cleaned the house. Now I am considering finishing a couple of paintings, all of which are currently annoying the hell out of me with their minute incompletenesses, or going to the library because I’ve read every book I own at least twice. I don’t really want to do either of these things, because fiddling with tiny imperfections in paintings drives me crazier faster than anything but bad traffic or dirty dishes; and going to the library requires leaving the house, which is so sparkly clean and full of sweet cats and the Gorillaz. Life is rough, I tell you.

In other more interesting and happy news, Obama is working towards advancing stem cell research, which, yay. Some of us will be hooked up to oxygen tanks by the age of thirty five if we don’t stop smoking soon, and I would like for stem cell research to pave some sort of lung regenerating procedure before too long. I know, I am selfish and extraordinarily politically incorrect in this wish. You may calm your (possibly) outraged sensibilities with the thought that: oxygen tank.

Ugh, rain and hail. Looks like it will be the painting after all.