Pandemonium In The Court

If you know absolutely diddly-squat nothing of what you are quibbling about, my advice to you then is, shut the hell up.

You just sound stoopid or brain damaged.







I'm just sayin'.

You Want a What

My head is a puddle of ooze.

If you might have a very bad idea that massage therapy school is elementary and/or effortless; you need to take that back. Immediately. Or I may just have to kick you in your adorable heads.

I'm too pooped to feel pooped. And somehow that has to be an oxymoron. But I couldn't tell you why - as I've previously told you, my cerebellum is glop. In fact, my brain is going to start leaking out my ear, my eyes and my mouth right on down to my stiletto clad feet. Which, by the way, are none to happy about having to not wear fabulous stylin' stilleto's every day I leave our Longhorn City home. The feets may just get used to the cushy sounds of . . . dare I say it . . . tennis shoes.

Quick, spork my head.

Ahem. I have a feeling this consciousness (or lack thereof) won't be gone until mid-July 2008. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. In the big scheme of things, it is a small amount of time. Short term brain pain. I can deal. It's just I can't begin to even tell my seven readers which end is up, let alone, read their blogs. Three to five hours of . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . Oh! The husband just called. He's opened a bottle of wine . . . . .






Bye-bye my pretties.

His Name Is Not Egg Salad

I'm not quite wired correctly today on this lovely (& frigid) Monday morning. Or maybe I'm just sleep deprived. Either way it's not yet 7:30 AM and here is what I've accomplished:

• forgetting to shave one entire leg
• forgetting to brush my teeth
• putting on slippers instead of shoes when dressing for school
• washing my hands and then going back to lotion them, but managed more soap instead
  
• putting the milk in the cupboard completely missing the refrigerator
  

Granted I've caught all such misdemeanors, but you need to understand that I have the rest of Monday to screw up even more so. I have far to drive to get to school on time. I'm a bit nervous about this.

Wish me luck.

Stepping In That Thing We Call Love

Words that every woman wants to hear sincerely uttered from their lover, partner, sweetheart, beloved and/or true love:

"You look beautiful today."

Especially, when they murmur it unexpectedly on the day you have chosen not to wear a single drop of makeup.

Tell Us Your Phobias, and We Will Tell You What You Are Afraid Of. robert benchley

So, I'm in massage therapy school. Three weeks and four tests into it now with a mid-term looming tomorrow. Yes, I should be studying. I should actually commence thy studying. It's raining, is my only excuse and,Idon'twanna. . . .

But being a student in massage therapy school, I realize I have to touch people in choosing to do what I want to do. I just did not realize that some of these people could quite possibly be Sasquatch. Or that some individuals might be one big raised melanocytic nevus. And, while these things are not scary, they can tend to make some individuals cringe, take pause or recoil. I may or may not be this person.

Either way, I somewhat naively thought I could take one step at a time. Maybe have a slightly hairy person one day, a entirely clean shaven the next two or three times to another more hairier individual, back to no hair at all and then, finally, on to a single cute little mole. You know, baby steps. To get me out of the "ew zone". It is only my third week.

Well, let me just say that I no longer have the previous two phobias. I'm cured and so over both the Sasquatch and the moles. Two birds with one stone. In one client. For good measure, let's also throw in creepy toenails. Truth be told, I was scratched by some thick, apparently, sharp yellow one's. I got the three-for special. That's trip fantastic.

Bring on the herpes.





I'm just, you know, sayin'.

Possibly, I Could Hurt Myself More

I just stepped outside to let the dogs in from the backyard. Let me first start by saying it is a gorgeous day here in the husband's and my Longhorn City. One of the few fantastic that we will have until it's so bleeding hot that just breathing the air burns your nose hairs off. I'm hearting it.

Now I have to add, that I tripped over my own feet as I stepped outside my back door. ***Yes, I did. If there had not been a wall directly to my left, I would have tumbled into a piling heap o' Jen deposited onto the ground wondering "what the hell just happened"? As it was, I hit a wall and completely stopped falling, but still wondering "what the hell just happened?" I hit it so hard it shook our house.

And my brain.

I'm good like that.





***And, yes, I was in stilettos. Shoish up about that. I won't hear it.

Because I Said So

Note to self:

Do not drink 1016 ml (approximately 48 oz.) of water at 9 o'clock at night.





Right before bedtime.

'Nough said.

Because That's How I Roll

Weekend Round-up:

• Found out that my right lower leg grew to be the size of elephantitis that was accompanied by some nice pretty red itchy splotches and a rash that grew down to my ankle with some hot-pain not because of taking myself out on my very own bike where I then reduced my knee to chopped beef-steak. No, this was not due to that. It was due to the allergic reaction I had to the tape that held on my bandages.

• I am now using hospital tape that pulls my skin off every single day when I change my bandaging. It feels really swell, but at least I avoided antibiotics, allergic reactions and infection. Thankyouverymuch.

• 5-hours into doing the husbands and my taxes I had a Chernobyl size melt-down. It dawned on me at midnight that we pay someone quarterly to do this and why am I feeling like I should be wearing the dunce cap in the front corner of the classroom because someone thought I should be doing their CPA jobbie-job? For the love of all that is good on this planet, I forewent the nasty gram e-mail at that moment in space and time, which would have included too many "Chuck You's" for my own Amazonian good.

***Instead, I am now sending away all forms, "organizer" as you so call it as well as all currently added deductions for a paid someone to scramble. Do not send me an e-mail 8-days prior to taxes being due when you have never sent me a previous due date. If you want something done by a certain date, please send one to me at the original time of request. A "please complete all data as much as possible to avoid a delay in filing" is not a due date. Nor is ". . . to be completed and returned to my office as soon as possible. . . " Fact #1 and Fact #1.5.

***Oh and yeah. . . . do not ask me to prepare a company tax preparation sheet that is 30-pages long. I am the last person you should ask what a "Schedule K-1: Partnerships, Estates and Trusts, S Corporation" is as well as to define it in monetary terms? Because I will inform you that I am in a partnership with the husband, neither of us own an estate in the country and I do trust him explicitly. CPA'ing was definitely not my calling or my current or past form of employment. If it was, I absolutely and categorically would not pay you to do it for us. Fact #2.

***I'm just sayin'. Fact #3.

• Apparently, I am still on my mini north Ukraine city melt-down over our company taxes. This from not even knowing the amount we will be charged by our gracious and loving Internal Revenue System. Wait until that happens.
  

• Our Boykin Spaniel, Dixie takes after moi in not being a morning person. The dog refuses to get out of her bed to go outside for the "biznazz" if it is any earlier than 9 AM. This is our our 1-year and 10-month old puppy. Today, the husband called her out the door at 7:30. He even pulled on her collar. She acted as if her cute little canine legs did not work. When he physically pulled her off her bed, she turned right back around and laid back down. It must be exhausting to be a dog. I started giggling. Finally, in fits of snickering himself, he picked her up and placed her outside. She sat down and stared at us through the door. Doggie torture.

• She still tries to lick my wounded knee.
  

• Catching up with old friends is good for the soul. Spending the day with them while foregoing precious study time is worth more than its weight in gold. Or is it platinum these days?
  

• Earned an extra $185.00, BECAUSE THE HUSBAND WON FIRST PLACE in a field of 75 bicycle racers from the Men's Cat 4/5 road race of 45-miles! Ask me just how proud of the husband I am. Yes, you read that right. . . . he raced and won a 45-mile bike competition. He's kick-assth.
  

• I can also make some pretty kick-assth energy pancakes from scratch. Not first place, but not bad either. No sugar added or fat added. Bou-yah.
  

That is all. I am still not cute or comfy and am tremendously behind in my studies. I am pretty sure of that.

Toodles.

A Mongoose and A Cobra Share a Kitchen

Can someone tell me why my entire right leg is in pain now rather than when I first took myself out on my bike?

I really was fine with no noticeable pain other than the "scrubbing-incident-that-we-shall-never-speak-of-again" that first injured clad night. In fact, I slept like a wee little bay-beeh.

I even awoke with no pain.

Then, yesterday went on. By nighttime I could not sleep with all that party pain going on. The misery was not just from the ground hamburger meat that was once my cute and very likable knee. It now gave birth at my ankle, continued up my shin through my knee and into my hip.

Today was even worse. To add fuel to the fire, my knee is now stiff. It's like it has decided it is not a joint. It can't bend. That's just stoopid.

In all it's glorious stoopidity, can someone please tell me how that works? Shouldn't one start out with massive pain and have it gradually abdicate to the furthest corners of hell with a wave and a kiss goodbye instead of progressively and continually gaining exhaustive agony in one great big hug of love spitting hatred? How. is. this. fair?

Ibuprofen is my very best friend.




***yeah. I'm delirious from studying the brain right out of my head. It's draining right out my left ear and making a puddle at my feet as I type. I'm not even wearing stilettos. And,no,I'm NOTthatdramatic.

? ? ?

. . . . okay, maybe sometimes.

Injuries May Be Forgiven, But Not Forgotten. Aesop

Forewarning:

This post may not be for those of you who are faint of heart. If you don't like blood and guts the following photo's are not for you. It's not like I am holding my actual beating heart in my own hand, but it is not like I'm holding butterflies either. Though they were taken with my camera phone and details have been blurred & they do not look as bad as the original.

This is not a result of playing real-time Frogger in 5" stilettos:

(Please note the husband has already scrubbed out my owie.
During which I kept quietly blubbering some sort of gibberish while rocking back and forth. But it's clean. For now.)

This is what happens when your husband and you, while bike riding, pseudo-shout to a woman you are coming upon to pass, "on your left" but they do not move over. Since there was less than 12" to pass on, it seems I did not make it.

My tire caught the side of the concrete path and henceforth decided I should not remain upright. My nice warm leggings were gashed just like my knee and blood began a heavy trickle down my shin. That was gross. Vile even if you were to ask me. But your not, so I won't. I also bruised my left palm. I'm sure that will help me in school.

Anyway, I popped up right away after nonchalantly exclaiming under my breath something that rhymes with "Chuck" (sorry mom). And the offending lady offered, "I'm so sorry! Are you okay? My husband and I are always listening for cyclists as were are one's ourselves. I never heard you come up on us. I'm so sorry."

Which, to me, is a kooky-mental thing to say to someone when both of your iPod earphones are plugged into each one of your ears!

Um, duh.

So, this is my knee now (again with the camera phone, I know, I know. . . .
But my Rebel XTi's battery died, so these are what you get):

I'm fine. I did not want to wash it at first. I still don't want to wash it. The husband made me. Actually, he had to clean it as I refused to do so, but I didn't like it. It bled again. And I still don't want to clean it tomorrow or even the next day or the day after that. It also doesn't help that my Boykin Spaniel, Dixie, is following my knee around trying to lick it on a consistent basis tonight. That's gross too.

************************

I rode 1/2-way back home and since my tire is bent the husband ran ahead to get the truck. I have to say here that every single man that passed me on the path asked if 1) I was okay and 2) if I needed help. Chivalrous - and I am very okay with that, but I'm going to wait for my husband thankyouverymuch.

The women that passed me if they even acknowledged my existence said, "hello." Oddly, I was reminded of Madeleine Albright who once said, "there is a special place in hell for women who don't help other women."

That is all. I'm pretty sure I don't look comfy nor cute.

If You Can Hear Me, I Believe

I am not supine anymore and I also can move more than 50-feet away from the porcelain goddess. I also should not wear 5" stilettos to massage therapy school anymore, especially when playing Frogger across 6 lanes of road at 7:45 AM.

I'm just sayin'.