Girl Date

Just went out for a lovely dinner with a girl I met through one of my internet dating sites. I have not started buttering my bread on the other side; it's just that one of the dating sites is also a friend site and so we are becoming friends. She does outdoor and Jewish education and we're going to get up at 5 am next Sunday to go to a flea market. We had a nice dinner. We have a lot in common -- including our hair -- two thirtysomethings in pigtails and t-shirts -- and enough not-in-common to have good conversation. We got eachothers pop culture references and split a mango sundae and spoke of things both ridiculous and sublime, so all is cool. I still did feel shy though.

Quote of the Day

"When the Betty Broderick Story comes on in my house, it's like a religious experience."

Mine, too.

One of my fellow writers said this to me when we first met. My love for him grew tenfold when I heard this. For the Betty Broderick story is the the penultimate Lifetime Television for Women (read: porn for the ladies) movie. It contains all the essential elements, in spades:

1. Has-been tv star. You might get Connie Selleca, or Linda Carter, or Annie Potts, or Tori Spelling if you're lucky (she starred in a close runner up with one of the stupidest titles ever: "Mother, May I Sleep With Danger?" Yes, Tori, you may. Just be sure to wear a condom.).

If you're really lucky, you get Meredith Baxter-Birney, whose talents were SO wasted playing a loving mother on Family Ties. She was born to this role: Loving wife driven to absolute nuttiness due to dumping by husband she supported on his way up the corporate ladder for a 21 year old. Which brings me to the second essential element of the LTFWM...

2. Horribly depressing totally true storyline in which woman a. gets shit kicked out of her figuratively, b. gets shit kicked out of her literally, or c. woman goes nutso and kicks the shit out of others, or d. all of the above. On Lifetime, nobody's having a good life, ever.

3. Godawful acting. See number 1 for reasons why.

Most of these movies should not exist and most women should not be watching them. If you're going to present a sad tale about a woman in the hopes of bringing light to a cause and thereby empowering women everywhere then for god's sake you've got to do a better job, Lifetime! Because I don't like how riveted I become (for all the wrong reasons) when the BB story comes on and I don't like how it makes me laugh.

And yet I love it.

The McPolack Work Ethic

Dr. Moo's truck suffered further indignities last week when she pulled over on her way to a dairy farm in Rutland because she felt like she was going to pass out and ended up ralphing all over the seat and herself. As the truck has vinyl seats and she's accustomed to being covered with any number of icky bodily fluids and as she has the McPolack work ethic, she decided to just keep on going to Rutland. She had to do a herd check, which involves looking at all the cows. She had the farmers line them up for her while she passed out on the truck seat (she cleaned the barf up first.) Then she did her job.

Which is how she, and I, were raised.

Which is ridiculous.

The McPolack work ethic is this: You must never be unemployed. You must always go to work. There are no excuses, save that you are dead. You must go to work on time every day. There are no excuses, save that you died. You never leave early. There are no excuses, save that you died on the job.

This has caused me me many a tortured moment. I saw the biggest poo of my young life when I was working the night shift at McDonalds the summer between my freshman and sophomore year in college. It was in the men's bathroom, which I had to clean, and it was a MONSTER. I didn't have a cool intern-type job because as soon as I got home from college my mother was running up one side of me and down the other to get a paying job or she would kick me out of the house. So I went to Mickey-D's.

I mentioned the vomiting to my mother last night and voiced my concerns that Dr. Moo could have gotten herself killed if she had passed out behind the wheel -- she was so sick that it hurt to move her fingers. There was no sympathy from Mumsy. Dr. Moo did what was expected of her. The McPolack work ethic was successfully passed down to the next generation. We McPolacks are expected to be as tough as nails and we are as stubborn as mules and if you expect us to show up to work at 9 am, to be there, come hell or high water. Or projectile vomiting.

What this translates into for me (and I seriously think I have ADD because my attention gets diverted and I have to pullitback all day long) is a whole big lotta guilt on days when I just don't feel like putting in 150 percent. I have taken the occasional fake sick day and left early for no good reason and even once looked, at work (but not on my own computer), at a web site where people take pictures of their own caca for you to rate (of course I gave nobody higher than a 4 because NOBODY is going to beat what I saw at McDonald's). I would like to be free of the guilt but then I think the guilt is my friend because it makes me work harder, faster, and better.

Stringy lovers

Is anyone else as grossed out by Sheryl Crow as I am? She's a scary stringy sinewy chicken of a woman. If you were a cannibal, she most definitely wouldn't be good eating. She and that Lancie-loo make the weirdest stringy chicken couple. But at least Lancie-loo has a reason for being so stringy. Tour de France and everything. But what's Sheryl's reason? It frightens me, all these women in their forties being so goddamn thin and muscly. Look at those Desperate Housewives! It's not feminine. Or normal. I say this as a woman who has tried to achieve that look in some very unhealthy ways.

I stopped by a Filene's Basement for some shopping on Saturday afternoon and tried on a pair of Paper, Denim & Cloth jeans. They're all the rage amongst the movie stars, who claim it makes their butts look great. I thought they might do the same for mine. But I couldn't get them over my hips! And I realized...the reason the movie stars like them is because the movie stars have starved away their hips and bums and regular jeans look like shit on them. Hence we have the P/D/C jeans. Which, BTW, cost like a million dollars.

Also I read that in B. Hills they are starting to make new shirts to fit all the skinny women that have had breast implants who now have unnatural breast to waist ratios. When you lose weight, the boobies go first. So these women are adding them back in unnaturally and now nothing fits them.

I just want to be loved for my delightful, normal smoosh-muscle ratio.

...penises penises penises

This is going to make my cousin Molls upset for sharing it, but sometimes when I am at work or walking down the street or what have you I am thinking about penises and sex. You hit your sexual peak in your 30's. I split with my boyfriend midway through my 30th year. I am now pushing 32. It's been awhile. And it may be awhile yet as try as I might I just can't do casual sex.

But. The penises, yes, the penises. When I am having the sex sex SEX thoughts I think to myself "This is what it must be like to be a man." It's very frustrating.

Bork! Bork! Bork!

No real reason for that heading. Just felt like typing it.

Weekend was mainly Work! Work! Work! but I did go see a chick flick at the cheap seats -- Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. I actually was coming down off my monthly estrogen high when I went to see it, so I didn't cry as much as I might have, but it was still, all things considered, pretty decent. I like 3 of the 4 young women who costarred quite a bit; they're talented and up and coming and fun to watch.

What was not fun to watch was all the product placement. It was really overdone. As was the Alexis Bledel storyline, girl-goes-to-Greece-takes-sketchbook-falls-for-smokin-hot-greek-adonis. But, said g. adonis was smokin smokin smokin hot so it wasn't so bad. Which brings me to another thought that probably merits its own post...

Doe Camp

Sent Dr. Moo an email asking her if she wanted to go to Doe Camp with me. Doe Camp is a weekend in Vermont where you hang out with women and get to take workshops on things like how to operate a chainsaw, how to shoot a muzzle-loader, and how to field-dress a deer. You can learn about kayaking and do painting too, of course, but I think I'd like to know more about the muzzle-loader. There's a separate class for the 12-gauge and also one for pistols. I like guns. It's not very ex-Vermont hippy liberal chick of me, I know. And it makes me uncomfortable to admit it. It's sort of like admitting you like, I don't know, midget porn? Okay, maybe not midget porn. Maybe just regular porn. I've fired a Ruger and a Glock. I found the experience to be both repellent and fascinating.

But anyways, back to Doe Camp. You spend less than 300 bucks and you stay at a camp in North Hero, Vermont, and you learn all sorts of neato things. They have a wilderness survival course that I'd like to take -- you learn all the plants and etc you can eat in the woods should you have to. I took a similar course in the fourth grade -- I went to a weeklong sleepaway camp called "Nature's Classroom" where we did, well, Nature-related things. The two big memories I have of the camp were eating ants as part of a class (they taste like lemons and are crunchy and not so bad) and of Jen Wise peeing her bed and claiming that I was the one that did it. Bitch.

Worka worka worka work work

Was in the office for 12 hours today. Eeech. I did technically stop working at 10 and a half hours to go for a run but still, it was 7 to 7 that I was there. More of the same tomorrow and work this weekend as well. But did get doggie therapy -- you can bring your pets to work. There is a medium-sized pooch named Macy who comes in on Tuesdays and Thursdays. She crawled into my lap this morning and sat with me for awhile. Apparently she has never done this before, not with anyone. I guess that makes me the Dog Whisperer.

TMI

I told him I have man-legs.

I wore a skirt that's cute and twirly to disguise 'em and then admitted to having 'em.

Good lord.

So I went on a blindish date tonight, a meet-and-greet with one of the many man of the internet. He was very nervous and talked fast and a lot about himself when we first met which made me feel less nervous and we had plenty to talk about, so our walk turned into dinner, which turned into a handshake and a hug and an "I'll call you when I get back from Seattle" which in manspeak means see you never, most likely, urgh.

But back to the man-legs and the awkwardness of the date who I will call the music man. He has a lazy eye and wouldn't you know it one of the first stories out of my mouth at dinner is about my dad's friend who owns a boat and only has one good eye! I mean, what is my fucking problem? He took it well. And then I somehow worked in that I have man legs (sort of like the man hands from that Seinfeld episode) -- why -- to make him feel better about the eye?

Siggggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Also I outweigh him. Which makes me a tad uncomfortable but only because I wonder if he is uncomfortable with it. My overall opinion of him is that he is quite cute and sweet and has lovely muscley tattooed arms, yum yum, and said he wanted to have a family and sing to his children, double yum yum. So we'll see if there's a second date.

Holy Hotness

Went outside at around 2:30 this afternoon because I wanted to know what a heat index of 105 feels like. It's much like standing in front of the oven door when you're taking out a tray of cookies, only the oven is in front of you, above you, below you, and behind you.

One of my friends from work who talks with me in a fakey put-upon Bibble-Bobble british accent just for fun says he's never felt it so humid in the city before in his life.

My kitty really seems to like it though. She's splayed out in the un-airconditioned hall, soaking it all in.

Ah, Vermont

I went to college in Vermont and lived there for a time after. It's a special state -- they made Howard Dean! And also crazy, crazy Bernie Sanders. And lots of other crazy folks, all of whom tend to congregate in downtown Burlington, as my sister is discovering. I used to walk to work past a couple of homeless guys that drank out of the classic homeless vessel: a bottle wrapped up in a brown paper bag. They said good morning to me every morning and I even went over and sat with them a couple of times on their stoop. They offered me some hooch, which I politely declined. But that's VT -- swell and friendly winos!

VT is also the home of the helpful older lesbian. My sister has met a nice couple at her place. I counted many as friends while living there. There was one who owned an old corgi named Dixie and paid me to hang out in her cool mountaintop home with Dixie, her kitty, and her large rifle while she was in Provincetown. She used to leave me Erica Jong books and a copy of the "Good Vibrations" catalog as reading material. There was another woman whose first name was Clove and whose last name meant garlic. She always stuck up for me when I got blamed for leaving black fingerprints all over the photocopier at work. And she remarked as a rather rotund woman walked by our office one day, "I've fucked bigger than that."

Smooth Moove

Talked to Dr. Moo last night. Apparently it is as dag-blasted hot in VT as it is here.

She (of course!) had an interesting tale to tell...

Dr. Moo drives a special refrigerated vet truck to lots of different rural VT farms. While on her way to one she stopped at a rural VT country store to get some snacks. And forgot to set the parking brake. When she came back outside, her special refrigerated vet truck had rolled into a nearby pond.

Luckily, Dr. Moo was able to get it out of the pond, undamaged.

Unluckily, when Dr. Moo returned to the country store a couple of weeks later she discovered a picture of her truck in the pond outside the store hanging inside the store for all to see.

Heh heh heh.

Summer

I'm starting to see why people move slower in the South.

This is my first city summer -- save for a summer spent in Burlington, Vermont, which just doesn't get as hot and nasty as here, I've been mainly in the woods. And even on the hottest days you move faster there than you can here. I took the T into downtown Boston yesterday -- got off at Downtown Crossing, then walked for a good hour, trying to get my bearings. I meant to figure out how to walk to Newbury Street but didn't quite get there. I did manage to find Chinatown, Beacon Hill, and (almost) Faneuil Hall and the North End. Ended up in the Back Bay. It was definitely meandering, partly because I was wearing bad shoes but mostly because it was just hot and muggy and like moving through pudding. I just did another pudding-walk into the Square for a bedwetters'-special size iced coffee. Noticed some pretty pink and white hollyhocks planted along a chain link fence at an auto body shop, and a fat brown sparrow eating the mulberrys falling off the trees in my front yard.

Oh my good god

There are photos of the race I ran in on Thursday posted on the Internet...with two photos of me, runnin'. I do not look so good. These may in fact be the most unflattering photos of myself I have ever ever seen. Somehow they managed to widen me a bit and also add in cellulite in places I didn't know I had it. Like all over my legs and arms. And I've got a teeny pea head stuck on top of a ginormous white body.

I know the reaction of my kindly friends will be "oh, it is not so bad," but bee-lieve me, folks, it is. Oh, yucka yucka yuckity yoo. I have put on a cute outfit and am leaving my apartment immediately to buy myself a new and sexy outfit to make up for the plummet in self-esteem the pictures caused. I can safely cross "photogenic" off my list of attributes.

Oh, and no, I will not show you the photo.

5-55

Ran a road race tonight with a friend from work. Did 5 miles in 55 minutes, which isn't bad for an, um, filly. I'm normally a 12-minute miler, so this was good for me. Also it was muggy, which can slow me down.

There was a little girl passing out freezie pops...and Artie my office mate who heard at the last minute that I would be running close to where he lives, screaming my name from a corner halfway through the race as I jogged by. Artie also gives dry willies (as opposed to wet ones, thanks for being thoughtful, A!) and can do a spot-on Ethel Merman impression. Oh, I loooooooooooooove Artie! He is a frickin' delight.

Lowlight of the race would be eating a large amount of Chinese food from Qingdao Garden an hour after running. Blech. I should have just stuck to the orange slices.

Still and all, I do love runnin'. Even if I'm slow and horsey.

The smells on the bus go 'round and 'round

Some days it's diesel fuel. Those are the best days. Others it's pee. Or poo. Or a delicate pee/poo combo. Then there's the endless varieties of b.o. Sometimes it's booze. Or puke. Or booze and puke and pee with an upnote of b.o.

Today, though, today was a first.

Today the bus smelled like ground chuck cooking in the Old El Paso taco seasoning mix pack that comes in the nearly-complete (sans meat) dinner kit that contains hard yellow taco shells, seasoning, and salsa.

¡Desea el alimento mexicano americanized vivo!

Naychah

Accepting that I am a city-dweller now is really hard for me -- I have been putting off getting new plates for my car or changing my address even though I've been here since February because part of me is so tied to the woods. I feel like the city is my temporary home -- even if temporary means I'll be here for at least a few years. My heart is elsewhere I suppose -- back at my parents' house where the wild roses and raspberries were out this weekend and everything was green and warm and clean and so alive. This may overly romantic in an Anne-of-Green-Gables sort of way, and quite possibly in a pukey sort of way, but there it is. I love Nature. I am a Nature dork.

There is a bit of Nature to be found in the city even beyond the scraggly trees that grow up from the sidewalks. I noticed these little depressions in the 2 foot dirt border that surrounds a neighbor's lawn while walking home from work last week. It reminded me of the time my father brought me to see a colony of ant lions that had appeared in the earthen floor of one of the outbuildings at my grandparents house -- just a mass of little holes, everywhere. I couldn't figure out what they were for -- until a couple of days ago, when a little brown sparrow dropped himself into one, wiggled his bum, and used his wings to shower himself with dirt. Tonight when I was walked by there were six little birdies in a row, all washing.

Men: They're what's for dinner

I was the guest of honor at a rather bizarre dinner last night...the menu was filet mignon, corn on the cob, potato salad, sliced tomatoes and fresh mozzarella, lemonade to drink, fruit tart with almond for dessert, and boys on the side. A friend of mine, we'll call her V, who is familiar with my tale of woe in the romance department offered to invite not just one but two single men over to dinner for me to inspect. It is important to note that the men were unawares of the true purpose of the dinner; for them, it was merely Sunday night bbq with friends. (God, I love V.) I walked in to find that V's niece, who is staying with them for the summer and interning in the area and is just 19, had a ta-ta revealing shirt on. Did she not get the memo that the only ta-tas to be revealed that evening were mine? Hers still stay up without help. That's not playing fair.

But I digress. Boobies aside, it was, well, a little weird. I didn't necessarily feel a lot of pressure to get all dolled up; I felt more pressure to really try and like one of the men because V had gone to all this trouble. I mean, filet mignon. And 2 men. Certainly I would like at least one of them.

Alas, I did not. Well, sort of not. One man, P, wasn't the friendliest. He was mean to the other man, X, and was snarky with me when I mentioned that Gabriel Byrne was in that crap-ass stateside version of La Femme Nikita. "Just because Gabriel Byrne was in it doesn't make it a bad movie." Um, that's not what I said, asshole.

Okay, that was perhaps a tad harsh response. But he was snarky and mean and, oh, well, V said she thought I would like X more. And X was very sweet and he sails and does judo. But he wears big scary thick serial-killer eyeglasses and he felt a few hairs too geeky for me. (I should mention that V and her hubby are geeks of a stellar nature. Part of the dinner conversation went like this "I hung a door this weekend. It was a door to the server room I installed in my basement." "Well, I don't have a server room in my house, but I do have a router.") Still I told V I liked one more than the other. I don't know. Maybe I should see him again. He did seem (if you can forget the glasses) like a really decent guy. Am I the sort of person who needs to feel an insta-spark? I don't know. I'm still working on that.

Behold the power of the vagina

Big happenings at the McPolack homestead this weekend. Polackpappy and Mcmumsy hosted a party for 50 to celebrate Dr. Moo's Dr. Moo-edness. There was a family softball game, much gossip and good eats. And there was the following delightful exchange:

Me, to Dr. Moo: "Wow, that's a wicked bruise on your arm." (Dr. Moo had nasty brownish-yellowish marks running up and down her left forearm.)

Childhood friend and fellow cow expert: "That's the power of the vagina!"

(In case you can't figure it out, I will expound: Cows don't have to push to have babies. They have Dr. Moos who reach in, waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay in, with a chain to yank the calf out. It's tugtugtugtugtugSPLORP and you've got calf.)

BSD

In which McPolack learns she is lacking in the "meeting facilitation" skill set:

12:50 pm: McPolack arrives in conference room to set up for meeting. Places phone in center of table. Take seat at head of table.

1:00 pm. Nobody has shown up. At other folks meetings, people are early. Not at McPolack's.

1:04 pm: Participant number one shows up. Has curly hair so we'll call him curlytop. He's got a fucking sandwich with him which he proceeds to eat.

1:07 pm: Nobody else has shown up. McPolack calls the guy in the West Coast office. He's got a foreign accent. Verrrrrrrrrrry full of himself. Thinks he's hot and always right. He's neither, natch. He looks like Mr. Bean so that's what we'll call him.

1:07:20 pm: Mr. Bean asks McPolack to call him back on his land line.

1:07:25: McPolack calls Mr. Bean on his land line.

1:07:26: As phone is ringing for Mr. Bean, BB walks in. BB has tendency to make snorfling and grumbly sounds during meetings. Also has ginormous ego. Smells of beef and cheese.

1:07: 35: BB pulls a banana out of his pocket and makes an inappropriate joke directed at McPolack involving having a banana in one's pocket versus being happy to see someone. Then proceeds to eat banana. curlytop is still eating his sandwich.

1:08: McPolack passes around her list of goals for the meeting and tries to get started. BB has already finished his banana and has started to pontificate.

1:08-1:12: BB pontificates .

1:12:01: McPolack tries to break in. Mr. Bean overrides me and he starts to pontificate. She walks to board and tries to follow along and take notes.

1:15: Mr. Bean still pontificating. curlytop breaks in and starts pontificating himself. McPolack (straight blonde hair, normal-sized ego, smells of flowers) is getting nowhere.

1:18: McPolack finally get a word in edgewise when BB's cell phone starts ringing -- loudly. He makes a snorfle sound and answers it.

1:22 pm: Enter in player number four, FNG. He started yesterday. In McPolack's first meeting with him he managed to let her know that if only he'd been here six months ago he could have solved all of the group's problems. McPolack can see he is eager to pontificate himself.

1:28 pm: FNG is pulled from the room to go somewhere that is apparently more important than McPolack's meeting

1:30 pm: BB is pulled from the room.

1:30-1:35: McPolack get a few words in edgewise in the space between curlytop and Mr. Bean's pontification

1:35-2:00: BB returns. All, save McPolack, pontificate. She tries desperately to follow along as they blather on and further on and then on some more. She has a ridiculous deadline to meet and needs to get information from them. She tries a few more times, feebly, to direct the meeting. She fails miserably. Pontificating continues until time is up. McPolack gets perhaps 1/18th of the information she was hoping for.

Conclusion:
McPolack could use some learnin' around running a meeting. McPolack could also use a BSD: Big Swinging Dick. Then she could wave it around just like the boys and maybe get a little attention and respect.

On a more serious note...

...I really wish that even if we all can't agree to stop killing each other, we could at least agree not to do it in the name of God. Because I guarantee you there's no way God's given anyone permission.

Must Love Dogs

There's a new Diane Lane/John Cusack flick in previews -- and the title of the movie refers to the title of an online personal ad. It seems to be on tv a lot lately. Or at least on in between the shows I'm watching. Which means they're hitting their target segment, I suppose, since I have an online personal ad.

Actually, I have four online personal ads. I'm kind of an overachiever. I'm on Match, although I'm going to drop that one mid-month, E-Harmony, where I am considering leaving because they won't let gay people find love (and besides, they matched me up with a toe sucker. no joke. "I like feet. Pretty white feet. Oh, and Southern Belles."), MySpace, where I've actually been getting some cool friend e-mails from women, and Salon, which I think are the same personals that are on Nerve.

My headlines run the gamut from "Readin/writin/runnin" to "Thpbblt." But after seeing the preview for Must Love Dogs multiple times I came up with a couple of new headlines:

Must Love Elderly Polish Women -- my Babcia (that's Polish for grandma) is 89 and I love her a lot. Even when she takes off all her clothes save her underpants and dances around her living room in front of me while saying "Tee hee hee! Take a picture of me and we'll use it to make a Christmas card for your father." Also, I hope to be an Elderly Polish Woman one day myself. Well, make that an Elderly Polish And Irish Woman.

Must Not Be A Chicken Fucker -- this is what my last boyfriend was. Did he literally like to fucka the chickens? Probably not. But he was a Chicken Fucker all the same and I would like to avoid all Chicken Fuckers in the future, be they literal or figurative.

Perhaps I will try these new titles out on the personal ads and see what I reel in.

I'm hungry...

I signed up to run in a road race today. A five-miler, no biggie. It'll be the third one I've run, ever, the first being a time trial to try out for the track team in the eigth grade. I came in dead last at that one after getting lapped at the last minute by a kid who knew enough to save a burst of speed for the end. I waited a good 20-odd years to enter another. Despite being passed by a sweaty guy who was 75 if he was a day at race number two, the embarrassment wasn't near what I felt at age 11. So now I'm entering race number three. It's a pretty simple form -- enter in your address, name, age...and then I see these two weird check boxes. One reads Filly (140 +) and Clydesdale (190 +) I call my friend Alison, who's running the race with me, and ask her what she thinks those things are for. She's as bewildered as I am. Then I get a horrifying thought: are women who weigh more than 140 pounds referred to in the road race world as horses?

Apparently they are.

When I called up the local running store sponsoring the event to complain they told me this is relatively common practice in the running world. I suppose there's an argument somewhere in that the skinnies can run faster than us um, horsies?...so there's probably no way you're going to wrest a cash prize away from a woman who only has to carry 95 pounds across the finish line. But wait! I could eat a skinny or two for extra protein power on my way 'round the track and get a burst of energy that might just put me over the top and help me beat out people not in my weight class...

Filly, indeed.

Doctor Moo

So my little sister is a freshly-minted moo-cow vet. And she did a fair amount of work with moo-cows in undergrad. I don't know if this is true for people doctors, but animal doctors see a lot of weird and disgusting things on a daily basis...growths, oozings...and then there are the various and sundry smells...and feelings...

Anyhoo, there's a need to vent to another human being all of the gross you have experienced in a day. I am that human being for my sister. And since I cannot find another human being to vent to in person (nobody has said yes yet) I will vent here...so consider yourself warned.

Last night I talked to my sis. She assisted in the birth of twin calves...and the birth of some hideous squishy thing all covered in fur. She called it an amorphous something or other. When she gets going on the grody vet talk she just throws all these medical terms out like "well, there was a wretched oozing derfleeglesploken and I clamped it off" and I just say uh-huh and follow along. This amorphous blob had an umbilical cord attached to it. Apparently at some point it was trying to be a cow. Well, it didn't try hard enough. What it became was, well, let's call it a cow ball, of sorts. It had the cow hair and a blood supply but no feet or udders or soulful brown eyes. It was however slimy and squishy.

Yum yum yum!

And so it begins...

By way of introduction: I'm 31. I'm a woman, not a girl, and not not a girl not yet a woman. I like cats. Oh, and cheese. Stinky included. Spray, not so much. Also humor and smartness and your own personal brand of wack, whatever that might happen to be. I work as a writer, by trade, but this means I am somebody else's bitch during the day. (though I must say I am handsomely compensated). Here I am bitch to nobody and I shall write what I please. So. Onto it, then.