Has Something Gone Afoul?

I have been doing some extremely uncharacteristic things, and it's starting to worry me. If this continues, I'm going to be asking one of you to examine the back of my neck for signs that anything has been implanted or injected in such a way as to tamper with my brain.

Twice in the past week I have gone into some sort of fugue state and found myself... cleaning closets. Seriously. I know you're shocked. I, who steadfastly refuses to clean up visible messes, was actually sorting through thirteen years of accumulated mess in a place that I can't even see. And when I say "can't even see," I'm not exaggerating. These closets were so full - overflowing, actually - that the doors were stressed to the point of bursting and couldn't slide on their tracks anymore.

Closet #1 yielded several bags of trash, two bags of clothes for Goodwill, and two or three bags of craft supplies (because I'm big on ideas and fail utterly at completion).

I found all kinds of cool things, the first of which was a red and black vampire cape, which I wore throughout the rest of the project. I figured if I was going to pretend to be someone who cleans things, I could pretend to be a vampire who cleans things.

I also found a pair of black suede oxfords that I have absolutely no recollection of ever owning, a bag of seashells we gathered on our last trip to the beach in 1989, a rock shaped like a penis (no idea where I found that, or when), my religion textbook from my senior year in high school, a purse containing a three year old energy bar, and a Trixie Belden mystery (way cooler than Nancy Drew).

This process was repeated yesterday with the other bedroom closet. This time, one bag of craft stuff, five bags of stuff for Goodwill, and one full trash bin out in the driveway. I found about eight assorted duffel bags and/or carry-ons (Where the hell did I get all these, and why do I have them??? I don't even go anywhere!), a bridesmaid gown, two whole bags' worth of sheets (including water bed sheets, and we haven't had a water bed for ten years), a nun's habit (from Halloween, circa 1994) (Tom was a demon monk), and two pairs of black dress shoes (including some cute strappy sandals that I would swear I'd never seen before). I guess every time I need black shoes I say, "I don't have any," and go buy a pair. I then wear them, throw them in the closet, and forget they ever existed.

The other unusual thing I did happened yesterday. I went to Wal-Mart. Twice. In one day.

Wal-Mart.

Twice.

In one day.

I don't think I'd been to Wal-Mart twice in the last four months. Probably longer. Because I loathe Wal-Mart. Not so much for the sprawling, corporation-that-ate-the-world reasons, but because it always seems to be full of screamy little snot-machines (children). Plus, I've seen the People of Wal-Mart website, and it's disgusting, and I don't have a camera in my phone, and I'd hate to run into someone worthy of being depicted on the site and not be able to do anything about it.

Wal-Mart is conveniently located two miles from my house. Super Target, however, is located an even more convenient quarter mile away. Plus, their stuff is a teeny bit nicer. Tom always complains that I pay more at Super Target, but as far as I'm concerned, it's worth it. Besides being more conveniently located and having a slightly higher quality of crap, the bratty-child quotient is considerably lower. Totally worth it. I mean, I'm paying a few cents more for discount junk... not shopping the designer collections at Neiman Marcus. Which is fine, because a $20 pair of shoes or a $500 pair of shoes... I can't tell the difference, and I'm just going to throw them in the closet and forget I own them anyway.

Yesterday, though, I needed craft supplies - specifically yarn. Super Target does not have yarn. The nearest craft store is 15 miles away. So... Wal-Mart.

To begin with, they've rearranged the interior of the store. I do not approve. The vitamins weren't where they used to be, resulting in my not buying my sublingual B-12. The seasonal junk is where the pet supplies used to be. The craft stuff is where the shoes used to be. I have no idea where the shoes are now. Or the books. It was all very unsettling and disorienting. My "get in and get the hell out" strategy was destroyed. I was there. For. Ever.

By the time I left, I had obtained mascara, black fishnet thigh-highs (another thing Super Target doesn't have), 8 balls of 100% cotton yarn, a purple and black ruffled Miley Cyrus mini-dress (shut up, I liked it, it's terribly cute, and I can wear whatever I want as long as I do not subject the general public to it), turquoise sweat pants, a turquoise/green/white print long-sleeve shirt, and a crochet pattern book.

Except I left the crochet pattern book in the cart and consequently never checked it out. I discovered this while unloading the bags at home. In disgust, I went to my craft-basket (which was much easier now that I've cleaned the closet and only have a craft basket instead of sixteen bags of tangled, disorganized crap) and got out all my patterns. I found a couple of patterns that would be acceptable... but both of them required more yarn than I'd bought.

I either needed 2 more balls of yarn or the pattern book containing the project I'd planned, and which required the amount of yarn I'd actually purchased. Back in the car. Back to Wal-Mart.

I got both the pattern book and the extra yarn, because no way in hell was I going to take the risk of having to go back a third time.

In between trips to Wal-Mart, I also went to the library. This was the only typical thing about the entire day. The scariest part is that this all happened before noon. I'm usually still on the Sofur drinking coffee at noon.

If I get any more Stepford-y or begin to exhibit any additional odd behaviors, please investigate. I'll tell you I'm fine, but that's what the person who has been invaded by the pod people always says. Don't believe me. I'll be lying. It shall be your duty to liberate me from my crafty, cleany, Wal-Mart shopping hell and allow me to return to my peaceful, slovenly, lazy, filth-filled existence.

Seriously, it will all be up to you. Tom isn't going to do a damned thing about it till I finish all the closets, and by then it will be too late.

Food Foto Festival

It's been ten days since I quit smoking.

Hold your applause. It's really not that big of a deal. It hasn't been that hard. I'd like to throw myself on the ground and press the back of my hand to my forehead in a stunningly dramatic fashion, and tell you that every moment has been an unimaginable agony, and the only way you could possibly help me to feel better would be to clean my house or groom my dogs. For free, of course. Alas, this is not the case. I simply put out the last cigarette in the pack, exhaled a final toxic cloud into the air, poisoned my husband and dogs in a second-hand manner one last time, and didn't buy another pack.

It's harder at work. Peer pressure. I was always susceptible to peer pressure. (That's why I was always such a slut good student in school. Because all my friends were such sluts good students.) But at home it's not that difficult. Would I like a cigarette right now? Oh, you better believe it. But I don't need it.

Because I'm too busy eating. Which probably isn't good.

It's not much of a secret... smoking is an oral fixation, and I'm a girl who is prone to oral fixations. Yeah, I know. There are a whole bunch of jokes you're just itching to unleash. And most of them probably apply. Just remember that, as much as I tend to over-share, I do try to keep the blog more or less in PG-13-Land most of the time. But you can email me your jokes and one-liners if you want, because I'm sure they're hilarious. I'll probably steal them and use them later.

So, since I'm not smoking, I'm eating. More than usual.

Remember, eight years ago I had gastric bypass surgery. I was a size 22.

(Were there some of you who never saw this size 22 pre-op picture? If so, enjoy. I can show you this now. But back then it was a source of deep, painful, devastating humiliation.)

A year and a half later, I was a size 2.

(A little too skinny. I kind of look like a bobble-head. Actually, this picture is only 14 months after surgery.)

A year after that, I was a size 4, and stayed there till about a year and a half ago, when I moved up to a 6. Lately, I've been a 6-But-In-Denial-And-Should-Probably-Admit-It-And-Buy-An-8-Already. But as long as I have a single pair of size 6 jeans that will zip, I'm a 6.

This might not last long.

Know what happens when I am A) Bored, B) Hungry, and C) On Day 10 as a non-smoker? And I foolishly wander into the grocery store?

First, there's the "Savory":

(Mmmm... seasoned steak fries, two kinds of pickles, sharp cheddar, black bean enchiladas...)

Then there's the "Sweet":

(Enough sugar to put me into a diabetic coma. And I am not even diabetic. Yet.)

Okay, in the "Savory" category, the peas and the frozen egg noodles are technically for Thanksgiving. Which consists of me, Tom, a ridiculously large turkey, stuffing, the peas and noodles - not mixed together - mashed potato flakes, jars of gravy, pre-made green bean casserole, a can of sweet potatoes (for me) and frozen rolls. We are not going out to dinner because this way we have leftovers. I will stand at the refrigerator and eat cold stuffing directly from the Gladware container until it is gone. It's the only thing I make myself, and I can never, ever get enough carbs. Carboliciousness.

In the "Sweet" category, the marshmallow and butterscotch topping is to go on chocolate ice cream already in the freezer. The whipped cream is for the ice cream, too, and for the frozen pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving. (Nobody will be huffing the nitrous oxide from the can, because I saw this on the Today Show recently, and also on Intervention, and those people are terrifying and pathetic.)

One of the containers of flavored coffee creamer is for work. But I'm the only one there who will be drinking it.

The Hostess Cupcakes are already gone. But... as a public service, because I love, love, love you all so much, I have photographed a tutorial on the correct way to eat a Hostess Cupcake. (I mentioned I was bored, right? And it is still a wee bit too early to start drinking.)

First, you will notice that I purchased actual, authentic Hostess Cupcakes. Anything else is an abomination. If you don't agree, there's nothing I can do to help you. Little Debbie cupcakes... cause Swine Flu. I'm pretty sure.

(Visual aid: The REAL Hostess Cupcakes, as opposed to "Creme Filled Chocolate Cupcakes of Death" peddled by Little Debbie, the Snack Food Whore. Those little squiggles on the top ain't foolin' anybody, bitch.)

(Authentic twin pack of non-swine-flu-infested REAL Hostess Cupcakes)

First, examine the cupcake:

See all the chocolaty frosting that has oozed over the edge of the cupcake, and how delicious it looks? That's your first target. Nibble around the side of the cupcake, savoring the rich deliciosity. Your cupcake should then look like this:


Now, you want to save that remaining frosting and the delightful squiggle on the top, so you now must proceed to the bottom of the cake. Eat the cakey part off the bottom, so you can determine the exact quantity and location of the creamy center, as below:

And another view, showing the still-intact surface frosting and trademark squiggle:


Next is a fun part. You may now eat a layer consisting of all the cake and frosting around the circumference of the remaining wafer of cupcake. You may not, however, encroach upon the creamy center, or the small area of cake/frosting/squiggle directly beneath it. Mmm, Mmmm! This will leave you with something resembling this:

At this point, you get the extreme pleasure of popping that creamilicious, chocolate-frosted nugget directly into your mouth and licking all the crumbs, melted frosting and residual cream off your fingers. Cupcake Nirvana!

Now you must repeat the process with the second cupcake. Because it's lonely and misses its package-mate, and it would be cruel to make it go on without him/her. I'm not sure about the gender identities of the cupcakes in the twin-packs. I'm not sure if it's a male/female combination, same-sex couples, or some sort of snack-food siblings, in which the sexual relationship is presumably irrelevant, or at least one would hope. But the point is they've been together in that package since they were baked, and you shouldn't keep them apart. Plus, you must verify if the second one is as delicious as the first. (It always is, but you have to be sure.)

Next time: The correct procedure for eating a Hostess HoHo. Do not even get me started about Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls. I'll just mention one word. Gonorrhea.

See, this is what happens when I'm not smoking, hungry, bored, Tom works late, and I haven't opened the bottle of wine yet. But that's coming. Real soon.

The other thing I did today is print three new copies of the most recent edit of Make or Break. I haven't printed one since the summer, and this is the first/only since my major re-write. I'm excited. You should be, too. Honestly, there's nothing I enjoy as much as sitting here, reading a copy of my book, indulging in a few glasses of wine, and making amusing notes to myself in the margins, mostly focused on what an amazing writer I am, and how certain passages are pure genius, and possibly literary perfection.

(My Official Reading Kit. The wine is Alice White "Lexia," which I've never had before. I'll let you know.)

Why should you care, you ask? If you've read this far, you're about to be rewarded. Unless you don't care about my book, in which case you can go screw yourself, and what are you doing reading my blog in the first place, you insensitive, illiterate asshole???

OK, Curt and FFFan1, you've already received a copy. Ditto Sally and Delightful Daughter-In-Law. Kelli and T, you've read it, too. But the rest of you... I have one spare Beta Reading Copy of this most recent edit. If you'd like it (bastard costs me about $30 to print and mail, so you'd better really want it), go to my author page, and sign the guest book, telling me WHY the two chapters posted on the website are not nearly enough, and why you would LOVE to read the entire manuscript. Do so by 5PM on Saturday, November 28. I'll notify the winner on Sunday, when the hangover passes. I mean, after church. (OK, stop laughing. I'm sure we're all aware I am joking about church. Hey... was that lightning???)

Feel free to share the contest entry process with anyone you know who might not otherwise see this post, but who might like to read a hot new romantic suspense!

Now, time to check out Ms. White's "Lexia!" And maybe put those steak fries in the oven.

But it's not time for a cigarette.

I Scoff At Those Who Thought I Couldn't Do It

Look in the right sidebar, just below the "About Fermented Fur" part and right above the awesome picture of my 2008 Maxwell Medal for Best Regular Blog.

Go. Look. I'll wait...

If you are any good at following instructions, you are now aware that I have quit smoking. I should sit back and humbly (and somewhat smugly) accept your congratulations and your words of encouragement and support... but I am not going to. Because - while I sincerely appreciate them - I don't need them.

I've been thinking about giving up cigarettes for a while now. It's not like I was unaware that smoking is a wee bit unhealthy. I mean, we have the Surgeon General's Warning on every pack, and they recently added words on the little cellophane strip you tear off to open the pack that tells you that "light" and "ultra light" doesn't mean cigarettes are safe. You know, like in case you're a total fucking moron and thought "light" cigarettes wouldn't rot your lungs.

Every other commercial on television seems to be a "stop smoking" public service announcement. Which, I must admit, mostly succeeded in reminding me that it was time to fire up another cigarette. Being me, I took a perverse pleasure in that. (Hey, you self-righteous do-gooders, trying to good-up my life... screw you! If there's any goodening to be done around here, I'll do it my own self and in my own time, thankyouverymuch!)

Yep, lots of reasons to quit smoking. The deepening, increasingly-raspy voice. The cough that never quite goes away. The reluctance to smooch my honey-bunny because I'm aware of stinky cigarette face/breath. The nicotine staining on my fingers. Deepening lines around my mouth. No circulation in my feet. Yellowier-than-they-used-to-be teeth. A younger sister who had a heart-related incident earlier this year... and knowing that my mother died at 55 and that I will be 45 in less than two months. The fact that I've been paying about $5.37 per pack, and I have been smoking almost a pack a day. And I'm poor, so this is a stupid fucking waste of money.

Let's not forget, either, that it's kind of inconsiderate to poison your husband and your dogs with second-hand smoke.

Never underestimate the power of vanity. At least not as it pertains to me. My lungs may rot or my heart may seize up and stop... but those are future, abstract concepts (until they actually happen, then it's totally too late), and - most importantly - I can't see them. I can, however, see wrinkles and papery skin and I do not want to look any older than I have to.

This week something happened that gave me the last little nudge I needed to decide to quit. I learned that a friend died. She was my first online friend back in 1996 when I got my first computer. I had Ripley then, and she had Jean-Marie. The dogs were both golden retrievers and had had the same hip surgery, so this friend and I bonded over that. We stayed in touch all these years, part of the same small, invitation-only dog-chat list. We saw each other through joys and sorrows... even though we never met in person. We almost met in April when I was in Florida for The Boy's wedding to Wonderful Wife, but the 2-hour drive she'd have to make, combined with the small window of time I had free to visit, prompted her to say, "Oh, well, we'll do it next time."

But there isn't a next time, because she died of a very aggressive thyroid cancer. She wasn't a smoker, but she always begged me to quit. And as it turns out, she has remembered me in her will. I'll never be able to thank her for her kindness and generosity... but I can pay her tribute by quitting smoking.

So, I have. As of 5:00 PM on Saturday, November 14, 2009. (Which, coincidentally, is my younger sister's birthday and my older sister's anniversary!)

I've always believed that I'd have little trouble giving up cigarettes once I made up my mind to do so. My mom was helpless against her addiction, but my dad and older sister were able to simply put them down and walk away... and in the area of my addictive personality, I think I'm more like them. Turns out I was right. I'm a habit/ritual-based smoker more than someone who has overwhelming cravings. Do I want a cigarette right now? You bet. Do I need one? Nope. So I'm not having one. (Shoves a Werther's toffee candy in mouth instead)

It's probably way nicer to kiss someone whose mouth tastes like toffee than someone whose mouth tastes like an ashtray, don't you imagine?

I don't take this as a sign that my addictive personality is in any way changed. Smoking just wasn't as compelling to me as some other things. Willpower and I are barely passing acquaintances, and I know if I were truly addicted to smoking... this would be an entirely different blog post. For example, I know my alcohol problem won't be conquered nearly as easily as the smoking problem. That one, should I ever choose to address it, will be infinitely harder. For now, I'll settle for practicing moderation the best I can.

The good news is that, as a non-smoker, I'll be far less likely to burn holes in the Sofur (note to self... safe to buy new slip cover now) or set my hair on fire while drinking.

Sometimes you have to pick your battles and count your victories where you can. And I'm chalking up quitting smoking as a capital-V Victory.

Guaranteed to Make You Smile

This has been around a while, but (surprisingly) I hadn't seen it till today. Now, any time I'm having a lousy day, I will watch this and smile... then laugh... then probably tear up a little. I love seeing the sheer joy shown by Carolyn and Rookie. I love seeing the partnership. And just tell me... have you ever seen a dog look like he's having such a wonderful time??? I've seen and heard people make fun of canine freestyle, and sure, some of the routines are hokey. But that's not the point. The point is the fun the people and their dogs share. The hours of "training" are nothing but attention and play for Rookie - and probably for Carolyn, too. Watch... smile... what fun!

PS: Of course, I became so fascinated that I had to do more "research." Apparently Carolyn and Rookie were quite famous, and I have NO idea how I missed them all this time. I've been elbow-deep in goldendom since 1994 (when I got Ripley) and definitely since 1997 (when I got my first computer). And, as is always the case with any dog-story, there comes the bittersweet parting. Rookie passed away in July 2008, at the age of 15. There's a great montage of video clips of Carolyn's and Rookie's 15-year partnership on The Land of PureGold, here.

Carolyn and Rookie... definitely Pure Gold.

Death Cures Everything

I am sick.

I never get sick.

This is mainly due to my preference for hiding at home or in my office and having as little contact as possible with germ-carrying humans. Or non-germ-carrying ones. Because it's not the germs I'm trying to avoid... it's the people.

I'm not a germaphobe. After all, I live in a veritable petri dish, thanks to my aversion to spending every waking hour maintaining a sterile environment. Or even a single waking hour. I wallow ass-deep in germs most of the time, I figure, but they're all my germs... or those of a human (Tom) or other creatures (BroZarkWin) to whom I have developed an immunity.

I don't spend time socializing or shopping. I'm not a toucher or a hugger in most circumstances. I'm territorial. I don't share well. If I get to work and discover a wrapper or (doG forbid) a half-full pop can on my desk, I am seriously displeased. Passive-aggression will ensue. If my stapler comes up missing, I reinact the Spanish Inquisition until the stapler is returned safely and the abductor is executed.

But some vile plague, possibly deathmonia, is sweeping the clinic. I don't think it's anything flu-related, mainly because I haven't had a fever. It starts out as digestive upset, and then tries to make you cough your own lungs out through your ears. And that's hard to do. But I should be able to provide you with a manual by Sunday. With illustrations.

Then again, I more or less live on ibuprofen, so if I had a fever I probably wouldn't know about it. I gulp that stuff down like it's going to be re-criminalized tomorrow, and I need to stoke my blood levels to get me by until I can find a fourteen year old on a street corner to sell me some.

At the moment, I have two choices. 1) Cough with such intensity and frequency that my ribs ache and my head throbs, or 2) Take medication and lose the power of coherent thought.

Ever since my gastric bypass surgery (8 years ago next week, thanks for asking), I metabolize certain things oddly. The low sugar-tolerance is not a surprise, and is actually beneficial. Before my surgery, I could eat a whole bag of Hershey's Treasures. I could eat spoonfuls of brown sugar. From a spoon. I could eat French toast buried in so much powdered sugar that you'd be hard pressed to prove that there was actually any bread involved. Maybe there wasn't. I only considered it relevant as a vehicle with which to transport even more powdered sugar into my mouth. Oh, and sugar cereal with so much added sugar that it made a gritty, syrupy sludge at the bottom of the bowl. Which I then licked.

Oh, wait. I've gotten off track, haven't I? Damn, maybe I do miss sugar after all.

I also have issues with cheese now. It doesn't make me ill in any way... but it makes me overwhelmingly sleepy. A week or two ago, I got a craving for two grilled cheese sandwiches. I was asleep within ten minutes. Tom said, "Grilled cheese is your kryptonite."

The relevant thing today, though, is that I do not metabolize the active ingredients in over the counter cough suppressants well. I accidentally over-medicated myself into a three-day drool-fest with Delsym the year after my surgery. I've now spent the last two days half loopy on cough medicine, but I'm being careful not to reduce myself to "poke her with a stick and see if she's still alive" levels of catatonia.

This whole sick-thing is coming on the heels of a two-day hangover I could have done without. I realized (again) (re-realized?) that I don't bounce back the way I did when I was younger, and my aging, decrepit, genetically defective body can't handle all the abuse I'm heaping on it. It's not like I can swap out an activated carbon filter in my liver and be good as new. (Hey. Why not??? Check on status of research in this area.) So in addition to trying not to be dead of this current bout of viral lung-rot, I'm taking a break from drinking.

I'm going to be healthier than I've been for a while. Assuming I survive.