Wonderful Things Heard Over the Weekend

  Everybody is better & funnier than me, so I will steal their words & share them out of context & without attribution, as God intended:

“I love my girlfriend. I don’t want to be with anyone else, ever.”

“Is it hot or am I weird?”


Schubert’s “Ave Maria“. For free. But with organ.

Bowie’s “Blackstar“, at least five times.

My sister saying the rosary.

“O Worship the Lord in the Beauty of Holiness”

“Nobody hugs Arthur.”

“I said hello to him this morning.”

“I remain correct. Nobody hugs Arthur.”

“Oh, I’ll hug you, Arthur.”

Arthur, hissing at me: “What did you do?

“I got dragged to an Eagles concert when I was a teenager & it was just old people. And cougars. That’s what turned me toward homosexuality.”

“And cougars’ll turn you right back, if you let ’em.”

“What’s the Latin for ‘Fuck it?'”

“Father would know.”

“We got engaged last night!”

“The wait is almost over. The new X-Files is next, after the NFC championship!”

(That last one was a bit of fiction, as there was a game recap, but still.)

Two Poems

Poem 1:

Mitosis is
when one cell splits to heal
repair and
But meiosis makes new people
I don’t know which happened to us

Poem 2:

It might be a camp fire
or a small sun but
it is the beam of a lighthouse
to this blinding cone

All light penetrates darkness but
yours penetrates yet more light
That’s a hell of a trick reserved for
angels and
their baked goods

The Vampire’s Lament

  The legend, at least according to some films & books, is that a vampire may not enter a home unless they are invited. And, seeing as how I live off the blood of virgins, I have this problem.

[Editorial note: predictive text would have you believe I live off the blood of Virginians, which is absurd.]

I don’t go anywhere unless I’m invited. “How come I see you tweet about Target, then? Huh?” you ask because you are such a clever dick. Target invites me to them every day with about 79 emails. CVS, too! They beg me to come in & offer me coupons, which is like an invitation with a demand to bring gifts (of cash or credit).

I literally had to be told to come to church by a fellow parishioner. I have not shown up to things only to receive plaintive texts asking me where I am, to which I reply “I wasn’t invited.” They seem to think I was, because they made some vague statement about everybody coming down to something.

But surely that doesn’t include me. Nobody has dropped by my domicile with a calling card, requesting my presence at Applebee’s or at whatever fresh hell “everybody” has congregated.

I just assume I am not included if I am not specifically told to be present.

I now realize this is less a vampire thing & might be an English thing. Americans seem to have no problem showing up to stuff for which there is no specific request for the pleasure of their company. In fact, if an American is asked to RSVP, there seems to be some confusion, like that maybe RSVP stands for “Right…So…Victorian protocol? Well, fuck that. We won a war!”

Simmer down, Some Americans. I know it’s not all of you.

The problem with my problem is that I sometimes inadvertently hurt feelings. “We all went to So&So’s house, but you just went home. Do you hate us?” Well, now, yes, because you have asked me this dumb question. But no, I didn’t hate you. You were looking at everyone else when you said it. I was petting a cat or whatever. Nobody made eye contact with me or said my name. 

Is that weird? I guess so. Also, nobody was offering the blood of virgins. Do you know how hard it is to find adult virgins these days? So I had to return to my lair, I guess. I don’t know.

I also assume people can only take me in small doses, because small talk is exceedingly difficult for me. I am also guaranteed to say something awful if I’m allowed to be around too long. It will never be intended to be awful, but I know it is awful because half the people burst into hearty guffaws, & the other half look as though they long for pearls to clutch.

I admit also that once I learn you are a blusher, it becomes my mission in life to turn you 8 shades of pink by midnight. The trouble is, I am also an irredeemable blusher.

So if you want me somewhere, you have to say. Text, FB invite, look into my eyes, say my name. Preferably pin a note to an adult virgin & send them round my place two weeks in advance. That’s a love.

Or just enjoy this song, where the strings are sadly arranged on synth, but oh well: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=bCukHL4L-5Q

The New Rule

I have a new rule regarding exercise & fitness that I made up based on my experiences today:

If you can’t Beyoncé, then Betty Page.

Look, I have fibromyalgia & because I can’t Beyoncé like I used to, I am a chubby girl. But I need to exercise & move because that actually makes fibro hurt less. I’d also like to weigh less so that my fibro muscles aren’t carting around so much chub. I have gone the Beyoncé route with a fabulous trainer who had me doing HIIT & I lost 30 lbs in 4 months. Ridiculous rapid weight loss. Amazing. I looked fantastic.

I was also constantly injured. This is not my trainer’s fault. This is me being a dumb ass & not expressing my limits. This was me not acknowledging limits. This was me going 7/11.

Today it began El Niñoing all over Los Angeles & rain is pretty much garbage juice for fibromyalgia. It’s the pressure change plus the cold & the damp. If you have any arthritis in you at all (& my hips are a mess; thanks, huge boobs!), it is triggered by the damp & that makes the fibro worse.

Thankfully my sister & her boyfriend got me a Hurry Cane for Christmas. This may seem like a ridiculous thing to get a person like me if you are one of those people who only sees me at parties or out dancing. I’d like to remind you that you only see me like twice a year. 

The Hurry Cane is amazing because I can bust it out for a few hours, take some of the stress off the affected muscle or connective tissue, & then I feel fine. I feel fine.

My new dilemma is that I was also gifted a Fitbit Flex for Christmas by my attorney, & I am a competitive asshole with a fitness instructor cousin in England who constantly invites me to step count challenges. I am intellectually incapable of resisting a challenge. If you challenge me to a thing, it will become my goal in life to 0wnz0r you, even if that goal is unrealistic or possibly dangerous. Challenge me to a duel & see what happens to you, which will probably end with you driving me to the hospital.

So here I am, hobbling about in the monsoon with my Hurry Cane, puttering around work, the Jiffy Lube, & the Ralph’s, & not wracking up many steps. THIS IS TORTURE. I am watching everyone blow by me & I haven’t even met my my modest step goal. I am seething with rage. It is cold & wet & flooded outside.

Then I remembered that I own, on DVD, Leslie Sansone’s Walk Away The Pounds. Let me preface this by saying that I was the girl who took kick boxing & did Tai Bo & did Susan Powter’s Stop The Insanity & religiously attended step aerobics all through college. I took 2 hour dance classes. I jogged. I worked out with a celebrity trainer & ran around with kettle bells.

But when I was first diagnosed with fibromyalgia, I could barely walk 2 minutes without curling into a ball in pain. So I got myself Walk Away the Pounds.

I put it in. I didn’t need the cane. I hit & then exceeded my step goal. I took a shower with my Philosophy Sparkle Holly Berry stuff (thanks, Mum) & got into bed. 

I could not Beyoncé, but I could Betty. Betty is better than nothing. Betty is better than a lot of things.

So if you can’t Beyoncé, Betty. And if you can’t Betty, eat a cake, light a cigarette, & call your ex. Now you’re Adele*.

*Don’t be Adele.

Making Up For Lost Time

  I told Len & promised Richard that I would write daily in my blog, & I have completely failed to do so thanks to being sick basically since  December 20th. I imagine, however, that I would have failed anyhow as Advent & Christmas & then New Year shenanigans were upon us.
I had a number of super pithy observations to make about all that until my non-promise-keeping guilt took over & erased all cogent thought from my head. I might also blame the Benedryl that is keeping me from sneezing my pituitary gland out. I’ll probably randomly recall things here for a few days until it’s all out. First I will tell you about the phenomenon of drunk, rambling adults. Because we spent New Year’s in Vegas.

Drunk kids are sad & boring. Drunk adults are sad & boring on top of mortifying. When a 21 year old girl with a 24″ waist & 36″ extensions in a 20″ sequened dress & 6″ heels squeals with laughter & stumbles down Las Vegas Blvd, it’s kind of annoying but you also have to golf clap & say “Well done. You are taking advantage of your rapid recovery & cell turnover. Enjoy it now, creature who is no doubt called Ashley or Jaydyn.”

When two guys in their late 50s from North Dakota are stumbling around the monorail station with yard long margaritas & blowing noise makers & screaming “Happy New Year” while the wife frantically hobbles along behind yelling at them to be quiet, you understand why Vegas is Cabo for the aging. The wife was also drunk, wearing a fur coat with Lady Dockers & nursing Skechers, & making the error of attempting to talk sense into a drunk.

My boyfriend had never been to Vegas. He remarked immediately that it smells like cigarettes & sadness, which is exactly correct. We found pockets of Vegas that are Vegas-awesome, which is not like other kinds of awesome. It’s kind of like Epcot-awesome or Walmart-awesome. 

Things that are Vegas-awesome would be the 3535 at the Linq: old school jams & cheap drinks with random elderly Filipino couples dancing. That place was magic. We thought the Museum of Mob & Law Enforcement History might be cool, too, but we didn’t get to go. Sam’s Town, a staple of my high school days, has never stopped being Sam’s Town, & that is wonderful. Calamity Jane’s ice cream parlour is still there, but now there’s an atrium & animatronic mountain creatures.

I don’t recognize the Strip any more; when I lived in Vegas, The Dunes was still around. Now it’s like a mall & Epcot’s World Pavillion knocked boots in a Trans Am & the baby is the current Strip, but Times Square is the step-dad of that baby. Each casino-resort is an entity unto itself that it takes a full 20 minute walk, even at a brisk pace, to traverse. They’re like small towns with obscenely priced sandwiches.

Vegas is the exact opposite of a vacation destination to me, but my mother was kind enough to invite us all along & put us up at The Signature while she went to see Michael Buble for the 97th time. So we made the most of it. And she had an absolute blast, which is what counts.

My ideal vacation would involve a bit of sea side, museums, gardens, small reasonably priced meals in good cafes, & music. I also need a sinky tub. Must be why I like San Francisco so much, though it’s been a while since anything was reasonably priced there.

My boyfriend has gone back to his part of the world & I am still wrestling with the cold I’ve had since Advent & the glutening I got Wednesday night. All this to say I’ve felt better. But I have also felt much worse, & this has actually been a very nice Advent, Christmas, & New Year. Now if only I could get healthy up in here.

Here are some more pictures, worth at least another 762 words..


Spot the elderly Filipino couple dancing to Eddie Murphy’s “Party All The Time”!


1/28 would be a legitimately good time to be in Vegas.