Wadded panties for everyone!

OK. Fine!! I'll stop ignoring you and write something. SHEESH. Have a cow, whydon'tcha. A girl can only take so many begging and pleading e-mails. Threatening phone calls. And one packaged unmentionable delivered by a poor, unsuspecting UPS man.

I am of course lying.

The truth of the matter is, I'm lazy. Not just lazy. But laaaaaaaaaa

See? I didn't even finish the word. I've started about 7 posts that, while brilliant in my head, end up sounding like an ad on Craig's List for a used frathouse sofa, slightly damp, you pick up, har har har.

I think I'll blame this lack of motivation on the heat. Yea, that sounds good. It's been so fucking hot for so fucking long my brain has melted like Swiss cheese in a fondue pot where the sterno thing went out and the cheese got all hard and separated from the oil and smelled a little. That is my brain. A lactose chunk as a 70's side dish.

Since it's been hotter than Satan's asshole for darn near 2 months around these parts it certainly doesn't make me want to venture outside of my air-conditioned house with the spanking new AC unit that, if I let it, would have pointy icicles dangling from the rounded parts. My old unit had seen its day and after taking the plunge for the expense of a new one I told that AC man that I wanted it as cold as the penguin encounter at Sea World and he'd better deliver that environment to my stinking ass or I'd be very cranky. And he did. Yay me. And being inside in my penguin encounter makes me want to lounge like a penguin and not do much of anything else. Blame Satan's asshole.

Since I haven't finished a cohesive thought or rant I'll put a random sampling in the basket and you take as many as you'd like. No givesies backsies.

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I live in Southern California and get to enjoy nicer weather than most. However, nicer to you means fuckass hot to me at least 6 + months out of the year. And don't get all crabby at me saying I'm spoiled and you don't know what it's like to live in blizzardtowne because yes, I know but I don't feel spoiled because this is the desert afterall and being uncomfortable for the majority of the year sucks just as bad as frozen snot and icy balls. Trust me. Plus I'm a Princess and I don't like to be one degree too hot or too cold so can someone please do something about this goddamned heat. Gawd.

The subject of hot weather always reminds me of this story that is one of a few my mother makes me tell over and over and over again.

After college my first real job was as a preschool teacher. Don't be horrified, they weren't your kids. The first summer after working with a senior teacher I was given the opportunity, which I would later realize was more of a swindling, to teach a shortened summer schedule of 6 weeks as the head teacher with a couple of aids to help me wrangle the rug rats. (Our child development center was on a community college campus so we pretty much went along with their calendar.)

To set the stage a little, we had the most kick-ass yard of any school I've ever seen. We had a suspension bridge, a rocket, slides, tire swing, regular swings, a huge sandbox, a tower, an "island" of trees and shit, a big bike path that went around the island, and lots of grassy areas. This place was a kids dream. And in the back was a GIGANTIC tractor tire that was about 4 feet high and 10 feet in diameter and most of the kids had to use chairs to get in and out of it. OK? OK.

This particular summer was no different that most and we were experiencing some blazing hot days. So hot, in fact, that we had to keep our kids inside so they wouldn't croak of heat exhaustion. So see all you snow-day bitchers? We have heat days. Anyway, this one afternoon it had reached at least 100 and I was just about to call all their sweaty asses in when one of my favorite little guys came running up to me all half-panicked about something.

Little D. stopped in front of me and as he tried to catch his breath he said;

"Betty, help help. I need your help. Fast! Hurry!"

And of course I wanted a little more info because did I need an ambulance or just an owie report? So I asked;

"What's wrong?"

And D. gulped a little more steamy air and blurted;

"It's not me, it's T. T needs your help. T's stuck in the tire and he can't get out!!"

So I asked;

"What do you mean he's stuck in the tire?"

And D. got a little frustrated with me and reiterated;

"T. is stuck in the tire. Because it is hot. It is too hot for T. to crawl out. He needs your help!!"

Then D. lifted his chin up, put his fists on his hips, widened his stance doing his best Superman impersonation and proclaimed with preschooler pride;

"But I did not get stuck! Because I am brave! I am brave, of hotness!!"

And then he grabbed me with his dirty wee hand, drug me off to his friend and we saved T. from the hotness.

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I buried another friend last week. It sucked. She was 71 years young and still riding her horse 6 months ago. Her years-long battle with breast cancer finally won but she squeezed every damn drop out of life she could, right up until the end. For chrissakes, she was at a polo match via wheelchair and oxygen tank the day before she died. Now that's something to aspire to.

She rode at my barn and lived nearby and was such a sparkling light to be around. She was no-nonsense and was always asking me how I was doing when it was she who was going through chemo and not me, but we had cancer in common and I've found that's always an instant bond. She'd been married for a million years to her adoring husband, had 2 kids and some grandkids and was an inspiration.

Her death didn't come as a shock but her presence will be desperately missed. And we all thought it was fitting that she died and left us to wilt in another asshole heatwave with an outdoor reception after her service that had us all sticking to our pants. She would have been the first to point and laugh then say, isn't this a beautiful day. We cried some tears, enjoyed some Sangria that was her special recipe, and then smiled. And that's just the way she would have wanted it.

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Boo kitty is still alive. Darn if she didn't miss the swordsman by about 12 hours, too. I had made the decision on a Friday night that it was time and called my vet who agreed. I didn't make an appointment to nuke her that day because I needed one more week. I spent the weekend fawning all over her and pissing her off accordingly for the previously mentioned fawning and kept thinking to myself stupid shit like, this is the last Saturday, this is the last belly rub, this is the last pile of puke. Boy was I wrong.

I had to pick up food for Fat Cat Triple Scoop, her sister, and had read that Science Diet Hairball formula can help barfing subside (it does NOT, btw). And since our house is now referred to as the vomitorium, I was willing to try it. In fact I'd be willing to sacrifice a parakeet if the puking would merely slow down to oh, once a week or so, but meh, not so much. I bought it, brought it home, let it sit there for a day, then finally poured some in the bowl.

Not 2 seconds after I put the bowl down on the ground than was Boo kitty on top of it crunching away. That cat hasn't eaten real food in months. She's skin and bones and has to sleep on a heating pad all day just to keep warm but she's been chowing ever since!

After that rally how could I not give her some more time? Unfortunately she's really not eating enough to help her gain weight and she's puking almost every 24 hours (blech), which the vet said were all still very bad signs, but again, meh, at least she eating and I don't think it's time, yet. At least I'm not ready yet. Meh.

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Sweet fancy Moses, what is up with the bathrooms at my office? I had many, many bad experiences in the restroom of my old building and now this new building is getting its fair share of weirdness/grossness/blechness.

First off, they fuck with the AC around here so much that the bathroom which used to be ice cold and unstinky is now a big ol' fart sauna. And the toilets are somehow connected to the toilets of the mens room on the other side of the wall and on the odd chance that you're sitting on one at the same time as some dude, and he gets up before you, it rocks the damn thing like a 5.9 earthquake. I keep waiting to come crashing to the ground with me, the toilet and everything in it. And I swear, I've already cracked a toilet seat at home, if I RIP an industrial crapper from the WALL I'm wiring my own jaw shut with all the twisty ties my mother has saved from bread loaves since 1973.

Now some genius has put magazines in there with giant permanent marker notes all over the covers that say, " FOR LADIES BATHROOM ONLY. DO NOT REMOVE. DO NOT REMOVE!!". Um, the thought of touching the handle of the door makes me want to puke through my eyes. If you think for one minute that I'm going to paw the June 28th issue of People magazine that is now spending its life being balanced on some chicks knees while she wipes her ass and checks it out, you are smoking some bad dope cut with all-purpose flour and ground fish food.

Then there was the poo ball incident.

Yes, I said poo ball.

I went into the handicapped stall because fuck it, I don't enjoy being crammed into 9 square inches of space, having the backs of my legs brush up against the commode while I try and smash the door past my tits to get out.

So, I walk into the end stall and grab an ass-gasket and I see a little black spot on the seat. I'm thinking hmm, a little fuzzy from someone's clothes. No big deal. I leaned over a little and tried to blow it off and it didn't move. Hmm, no big deal. It's just a little fuzzy from someone's clothes.

I covered the seat and did my biz, finished and rose, pulled up my jeans and turned around to kick the flusher. And to my fucking horror, the little fuzzy from someone's clothes was in fact NOT A LITTLE FUZZY FROM SOMEONE'S CLOTHES BUT IN FACT A LITTLE POO BALL FROM SOMEONE ASS AND MY ASS JUST SHMOOSHED IT INTO A NICE LITTLE ROUND POO PANCAKE!!

Now, mind you, I had the magical safety shield of the butt cover, and it was a teeny tiny spot, but FUCKING HELL. What went wrong in the wiping process? Who the blue fuck manages to drop a tiny piece of shit onto the seat? How does one flick a speck of crap from the asshole to the porcelain without smearage? And what kind of person in their right and nondisgusting pigfucker mind LEAVES IT THERE??

I had to cut out that section of flesh from my ass but the skin graft is taking nicely.