Hazards of Daytime TV

Yesterday was supposed to be the first of three productive writing days. It turned out to be pretty much the opposite. While I'm sure at least some of what happened must be my fault, I'm mostly blaming Mark Henry. Also Dr. Oz, and Oprah since I figure it's her fault Dr. Oz has his own show.

It's mostly Mark's fault because he writes ridiculously good books and gives away awesome schwag. I already have a signed cover flat from his first book, Happy Hour of the Damned.

(Buy it. Chock full o' lots of creepy hilarity.)

I do not (yet) have any goodies from his second book, Road Trip of the Living Dead. (So. Mark. Whassupwiththat?) Which is why when I learned he'd recently received the advance reading copies of Battle of the Network Zombies, which will not be released until February 23, I began plotting ways to get my paws on one.

My initial plan involved breaking and entering. I Tweeted:


But clearly that plan was flawed. Witness the exchange:


Plus, he lives in Seattle and I live in Minnesota. So, curses. Foiled before I even began.

Then yesterday morning I was goofing off getting ready to start editing Make or Break, when I decided to see what was going on with Twitter. I soon discovered that Mark was conducting a contest... and the prize was one of his advance reading copies of Battle of the Network Zombies!

Must. Have.

To win, I had to come up with the most awesome slogan for a zombie strip club. (If you knew Mark, you'd realize that this makes perfect sense.) Naturally, this was all my brain could think about for the rest of the day. I came up with 18 slogans, including such gems as "The only club in town with dancers with interchangeable parts," and "Our dancers are all dropped-dead gorgeous." I won. Of course. The winning slogan? "Totally Nude! If you ignore the staples and duct tape."

I entered way more slogans than anybody else, so it's possible he's giving me the book because he feels sorry for me, or it's like a perfect attendance trophy in second grade, but I don't care. I get to read the book way, way before any of you will! (Which makes me happier than I can tell you.)

At any rate, thinking up zombie strip club slogans makes it really tough to edit a romance. So I got nothing done with that.

From 12:30 to 1:15 I chatted with Curt. 'Long about there I decided to mix a drink. Since I wasn't editing, anyway.

At 2:00, the Dr. Oz show came on television. Normally I would either ignore it or turn it, and get on with wasting time building entertaining and enduring cyber-friendships on Facebook and Twitter. But he was going to talk about exhaustion, and I've noticed feeling an exceptional amount of exhaustion lately.

By this point, I was on my second drink. Dr. Oz was demonstrating how to feel your own thyroid gland, so you could figure out if it was too big or too small. Relatively speaking, I guess. I quickly learned that I should seek out a Certified Thyroid Professional, because I nearly ripped out my own jugular trying to "really get in there" between my trachea and neck muscle so I could swallow and try to feel my thyroid. (Conclusion: I don't have one.)

Which meant it was time for another drink. Or two.

I really should've stopped watching Dr. Oz. The next segment was about a female stand-up comic and her addiction to cigarettes and alcohol. She spends almost every night in clubs, working, and this leads to a lot of free drinks and smoking, and she recently became aware that this has turned into a problem.

Let's think about this. She is on Dr. Oz for an intervention because she has issues with smoking and drinking. I was watching her on Dr. Oz. And smoking. And drinking.

Dr. Oz had performed a number of tests on the woman. He concluded that although she is 33, her physiological age is 39, because of the damage she's doing to her body. This made her cry a little bit. I am 44. And I figure my physiological age would qualify me for social security. (Mental note: See if I could get a doctor's note stating that I am actually 65, and if that would entitle me to retire and begin collecting social security.)

Then Dr. Oz, who is either a saint or a sadist (I'm leaning toward sadist, mainly because my neck still hurt from trying to find my own thyroid) showed her a computer-generated picture of how she'd look in 10 years. She cried a little bit more.

Then he showed pictures of a healthy lung and a diseased lung. And a healthy liver and a diseased liver. Guess which ones mine probably most resemble?

I was starting to be a bit sloshy, so it seemed perfectly logical to freak out and rush over to the computer to email Dr. Oz. My message went something like, "I'm watching your intervention with the woman who is addicted to smoking and drinking. And I'm smoking and drinking. I'm 44, but I'm sure my real age is much older. I've already had gastric bypass surgery, and I know this is just a transfer of addictions. I already don't have any circulation in my feet. Help."

I'm thinking I should pre-emptively block Dr. Oz's email address, because I'm reasonably certain that I don't want to be outed on national television, so there's really no point.

Right before Dr. Oz came on, I had texted Tom and told him I'd give him $10 cash if he'd bring me a pack of cigarettes so I didn't have to go out. Then I sent him 8 more between then and 4:53 PM. Including one that said "I just wrote to Dr. Oz. I hate daytime TV. About smoking and alcohol. His next spot was g-spot. (Note: It was. Very interesting. I did not try to locate mine, however, remembering how the whole thyroid thing turned out.) May be a god. Am drinking. Was bored."

The texts are increasingly less coherent, and mainly focus on whether he was or was not bringing me cigarettes. I also just noticed that one of them got sent to my friend T by accident, because her name is right above Tom's in my address book. (Sorry, T!)

Then I felt the need to get on both Facebook and Twitter and announce that I'd had too much to drink. It should be noted that my spelling and punctuation is always perfect when I post such things, though I seem to like to use the words "drinky" and "drunky" a lot. (I think I'll go delete those posts now.)

The whole point is that I got off track by writing zombie strip club slogans, and the day went downhill from there. But I won the advance reading copy of Mark's new book, so that's awesome.

The second point is that daytime television is dangerous. And just like operating a motor vehicle, you should never mix it with drinking.

The third point is I really need to re-think some things. I'm not sure I'm ready to give up either vice completely, but I sure would like to find a way to moderate. The problem there is that moderation and I don't seem to work well together. Seriously addictive personality. I could become addicted to vitamin water if I decided that was my thing. If it's worth doing, it's worth over-doing, apparently.

Today I hauled my carcass out of bed, got myself together, went to the library, and had lunch with a friend. Life goes on. It just goes a lot better when I use my head, which I'm going to try to do more often.

Now where's my vitamin water, dammit????

Early Winter Doldrums

I don't really have anything exciting in my mental file of potential blog posts, but I feel like I've been neglecting the Faithful FFFans, so let's just start writing and see what comes out.

I went shopping last week. Twice. I normally dread shopping the same way other people dread going to the dentist. Oh, wait, I did that last week, too. Twice. Sigh. It was not a banner week.

Remember this paisley silk blouse, which I bought almost a year ago in anticipation of a January wedding which then turned out to take place in April?


I got winter-white slacks to go with it, but they're miles too long, I don't sew - not even hems - and am too lazy and/or introverted to take them to a seamstress, so I've never worn this awesome blouse. But last week I got winter-white corduroys (which are not miles too long). Then I realized that my office is so cold that unless I had a sweater to wear with the outfit, I'd either still never wear the blouse, or would be found frozen at my desk. So I shopped again and found this...


...nifty red sweater blazer. I can either tuck in the blouse and wear the blazer buttoned, or leave it open and wear the blouse tunic-style with a gold chain belt. Way too nice and cute for an office filled with kitty claws and dog drool, but if I don't wear it to work I'll never wear it anywhere.

I also realized that my $5 Wal-Mart white canvas tennies were probably not suitable for a Minnesota winter, so I got...


...these tan Skechers shoes. Only I opted to put the brown laces in them. I noticed a lot of the shoes came with an optional extra pair of laces. When did they start doing that? I was half afraid I'd be detained by security for attempted shoe lace theft as I tried to leave the store.

Now, wasn't that all just thrilling? When I got the red sweater blazer on Saturday, I also decided to get the ingredients to make a pot of vegetable soup. (Reason to follow.) Since it was, in fact, Saturday, I also had to hit the liquor store... and one particular little shopping cluster in Rogers has Kohl's, SuperTarget, and a liquor store all in the same lot. The Weekend Shopping Trifecta.

I needed soup because it snowed on Saturday. On October 10. This is the earliest measurable snow in 24 years. I could've gone another 24 before breaking that particular record, because by then I'll probably be dead and won't care. It was only about an inch, but since even Minnesotans don't have their snow tires on yet, the traffic situation was a bit of a disaster, according to Tom, who had to go to work that morning.

So I came home and made soup. I don't cook, but for some reason I do make soup. Awesome soup. But I do not know how to make a small pot. I started out with a 6-quart Dutch oven, discovered it was too small, thought about panicking, then remembered I had an enormous soup kettle in the hall cupboard. You know... the kind you'd use while volunteering at a soup kitchen and needing to feed seventy-five hungry homeless people. Whew. By the time I added the peas, carrots, corn, potatoes, diced tomatoes, gnocci, green beans, onion, garlic, zucchini, yellow squash, tomato juice, etc., I had enough soup to feed a family of six for a week. We're going to be eating soup for at least a month.

I must confess that I did make a big dent in it over the weekend. Four bowls in a day isn't much, right? Even with the buttered roll that accompanied each bowl? Actually, it might have been five bowls yesterday, because it's always better re-heated the second day.

Which brings us to today. A Monday, and I'm not at work. It's not because of the Columbus Day holiday (which sort of strikes me as a strange thing to celebrate anyway)... but because my schedule is flexible, and it's snowing. Again. At last look, I had about 3" of fluffy, wet snow on the deck. The sun has just peeked out for the first time all day. Since Tom plans to get my snow tires on this week, I opted to skip the rush hour mess today... my 35 minute commute was guaranteed to be somewhere between an hour and an hour and a half. Don't need that.

I am aware that I live in Minnesota. I came here sort of on purpose. I'm not a snow-hater. I'm fine with the white stuff... in December or January. By February I'm starting to hate it. By April I start to feel a wee bit suicidal when I see snow in the forecast. I'd say I'm neutral on November snow. But we're not even to the official mid-point of October, and this is way too soon. the leaves haven't even all fallen yet. If it's going to start this snow crap already, and I know it's likely to continue to show up through April... I'm just not ready.

I've been looking at U.S. maps, pondering where would be a more suitable place to live. Right now I'm considering southern Missouri. The Ozarks. I'd get hills, rural areas, small towns, seasons (but not the extremes of Minnesota), I wouldn't be in a hurricane zone, wouldn't be in earthquake territory (as long as the New Madrid Fault behaves), be at least slightly out of Tornado Alley, and I'd be closer to a higher number of Cross Canadian Ragweed shows. If we could ever sell this house. Or it (accidentally) burns down. On a day that neither we nor the dogs happen to be home. Or if I just sell my book(s) and we can live wherever we want because I can earn money while sitting on a futon in dog-fur-covered sweats. (My Dream!)

Regarding the current weather here, the dogs are ecstatic. They love snow. But we haven't had a stretch of good freezing weather yet, so snow + Darwin's giant paws + high-velocity fence-running = sloppy, slushy bog. Not a good combination.

Looking out at my cold, wet, white yard makes me want soup. Good thing I have gallons of it. For anybody who's keeping count, this will be Bowl #3.

I Think I'd Have Been Happier If It HAD Been Cat Litter

Until this week, I hadn't been to the dentist in eight years. I'm not a dentalphobe. The last time I was there, I was having a root canal on one of my top right molars. At some point, things went wrong, and the root cracked. We put in a "temporary" filling, assuming that when it gave out, we'd have to come up with a Plan B... and that was eight years ago.

I haven't chewed on the right side of my mouth for, oh, about a year and a half. Allowing anything to touch those teeth could, at seemingly random moments completely unrelated to what I happened to be eating, cause excruciating flares of pain, as if a lit match had been inserted into my gums.

So why didn't I go to the dentist? Because for about the past six years, I haven't had insurance. I knew I'd have to do something about my teeth eventually, but other things always took priority. Until Monday.

Witness my Twitter feed:


I thought I was joking. Because I'm funny that way. Then this...


Seriously, I crack me up. And the clinic cats truly are that annoying. And then...


Suddenly, I'm not laughing anymore. One of my bottom right molars, which already had a filling... broke. Like, half of it became one with the chicken sandwich. I guess the "good" part is that since I had a filling in the middle of the tooth, it didn't hurt just sitting there.

But once you know you have a giant tooth-hole in your mouth, you can't keep your tongue out of it. This is not only annoying, it makes you look funny, as you contort your face to get a better angle for your tongue to explore this new topographical dental feature.

I called the dentist, and they got me in the next day. I warned them. They were not going to be amused when they found out all the crap that was going on in there. Then, because I don't have insurance (or money), I got online and applied for Care Credit. Thank goodness for that option. Otherwise I'd have had to call friends and family and beg for tooth-fixin' money. Because despite being originally from West Virginia, I prefer not to go around with fewer than the customary number of teeth. In my case 28, since I had my wisdom teeth out when I was about 20. (Mmmm, nitrous oxide. Can I have a mirror? I wanna see what you're doing in there. No? Bummer. So can I have more nitrous? No? Jeez, you people suck.)

My dental evaluation on Tuesday was pretty much what I expected. Apparently I have the dental health of a Medieval serf, but with more coffee stains. Besides the half-completed root canal from eight years ago - which still has to be dealt with - and the brand new tooth-hole, I have four or five cavities. Or it might be six. I forget. Every time I thought he was done, he mentioned another one. I also have so much calculus buildup that if I opened my mouth and looked up, it would be visible on Google Earth. Once I get my pain-inducing damage repaired, it's going to take a few heavy cleanings to dig it off and even see the surface of my actual teeth. Still, I maintain that the calculus has served a useful purpose during my dentist-free years. I bet it's been the only thing holding some of my teeth together.

Today, I have just returned from having two cavities filled, and my temporary crown installed. I was a whisker apprehensive. I'm not normally afraid of medical-type things. My pain tolerance is fairly high. It's the surprises I don't like. You think things are going along fine, then... ohmyfuckinggodthathurtslikeasonofabitch!!! Unlike my wonderful husband, dentists do not provide "good" surprises.

Here's the bizarre part. I was settled in my "stretch out and try to relax" chair, two blankets keeping me toasty warm, and the doctor asked me if I'd like nitrous oxide. And I said no. Really! I said no to floaty-dreamy-feeling gas that would have made me not give a shit if I were at the dentist or home snug in my bed.

I did, however, tell him don't even think of skimping on the numb-juice. He didn't, and it didn't hurt much at all. I've had manicures that were worse. (Ow! Bitch! That's my cuticle!)

This particular dentist was a client of mine when I worked for the Veterinary Axis of Evil, back in the day. I remember he had found a kitten. The good news is that a) he no longer uses the clinic owned by the Veterinary Axis of Evil, and b) he now has a 7-month-old golden retriever named Fergus. We're practically related.

I paid surprisingly little attention to the procedure. More than ever, I live inside my own head and seldom take notice of my surroundings. This is the reason my house can progress from "messy" to "health code violation" with my being none the wiser. It's also why I hate to drive, because I never remember how I got anywhere. Regarding today's appointment, I can verify that there were various mirrors, buzzy things, jabby things, squirty things, sucky things, and one thing that looked like a phaser. That's 'bout it.

At one point, the sun broke through the clouds and tried to sear my retinas. They exchanged my plastic eye-shield glasses for nifty black sunglasses... I'm sure this was not only to protect my eyes from debris or sun damage, but because I looked totally awesome in them. I mean, they're the ones that had to look at me.

Now I'm home sipping a drink and trying not to drool on the keyboard. I'm waiting for numbness and facial paralysis to abate so I can eat something. You know... without accidentally chewing a hole in my own cheek. I go back for my permanent crown in a few weeks, and then I guess we'll figure out what to do about the other cavities and the temporary filling that lasted eight years.

I have the whole rest of the day till Tom gets home. I doubt I'll do any re-writing today since my head is kind of distracted. And it's a safe bet I won't be bitten by the House Cleaning Bug. I'm kind of starting to wish I'd asked for the nitrous oxide. To go.