It is the east, and bacon is the sun.

Bacon.  Is it really bad for me?  I mean, it goes with anything.  Seriously.  I would eat it on a hamburger, on a grilled cheese, with some apple slices, in a salad, or crumbled over some sauteed veggies.  Very versatile.  I also think, not taking into account possible attacks from possible packs of ravenous dogs, that it would make a very nice grass skirt in case you were stranded on an island that had lots of bacon available.  Nom nom nom bacon grass skirt with booby holder made of bacon.  How much more fun would hula dancers be?  Oh man!

Which brings me to my question – is there bacon vodka?  I also feel that vodka is very versatile.  It goes with milk or coffee in the mornings, with iced tea at lunch and with anything at dinner.  You can put it in brownies, or milkshakes, or smoothies.  I mean, seriously, you can.  You can marinate in it, you or a steak, or raisins.  And if it was in a waterfall on my deserted island, I would drink it while wearing my bacon loincloth.

So is there bacon vodka?  I think it would pair well with a fried egg and grits mixer.  Just saying.  Well, when I get totally thin and rationally healthy, I want a straight up vodka with a slice of bacon in it.  You’re right, that’s crazy – put three slices in it.  I don’t drink anymore and I eat bacon so rarely that it’s like having sex when I do eat it.  In fact, I’m salivating even now just thinking about eating it.  Nom nom nom bacon!

Stop watching me; this is a private moment.  Nom nom nom nom nom bacon!


If the crazy fits, live with it.

So imagine you are me.  No!  Stop that.  This is how your day would go if you were to do that, though.

I work from home, with one bedroom shoe on, on my right foot, because that foot uses the foot pedal for my job.  I’m actually an organ grinder.  No, no I’m not.  But how cool would that be!  With a monkey and everything!  Okay, so I’m just a radiology transcriptionist.  Anyway, the foot pedal is rough to my sensitive feet. Well, it is.

And then there’s a knock at the door, while I’m on the phone, and I answer the door, suddenly keenly aware that I’m standing there with only one bright pink Valentine’s bedroom slipper that says, in bold letters, XXOO with a series of hearts.  Just the one shoe.  Part of me is tempted to tell this young pest control man the story but the other part of me is totally unconcerned with what he might think.  And I’m clothed, aren’t I?  He should be happy with that.  After he leaves, I catch sight of myself in a mirror – bald with names across the sides of my head and with my one bright pink bedroom shoe on.

I just have to wonder – Why do I always look crazy?  Why, why, why?


(Side note:  I did not buy those shoes; the GF did, as a gift, our first Valentine’s, before she knew me well apparently.  I wear them because I learned that anything she has given me, ever, has indeed great sentimental value, no matter what it is or how insignificant I might think it was, in actuality, it is monumental.  When we moved and I tried to ‘leave behind’ the microwave s’mores maker she gave me, she started to cry; “but it was our first Halloween together!”.  Okay.  Even though I do not eat sweets, do not like to use the microwave for anything, and we never ever buy marshmallows, or graham crackers, or plain chocolate bars.  It lives in some part of the kitchen (not sure where) but it most certainly did not get left behind.)

At least she’s not pregnant, right?

So on Friday, my GF gets a phone call and I hear her in the other room, a little animated, but I’m not an eavesdropper and I don’t have a short-term memory so three minutes later when she busts into my office / our bedroom and really it was more of a burst into the room as there was no door-breaking involved, I was slightly puzzled when she said, “Guess who called?”  No clue.  I’m bad at guessing games and never on the same page as anyone else.  “Steve Harvey?”, I ask trying to keep up with her animated state.  “The doctor from this morning.  He says my urine test came back positive for being pregnant” and she looks at me expectantly.

Well, of course it did – oh yeah, I’m just that good.  Okay, maybe not THAT good.  I actually just look back at her and patiently wait, thinking ‘alright, let’s hear it.  Tell me your tale’ with a mental eye roll.  This oughta be good and I lean back in my chair.

“I tell him there is no way I’m pregnant.  And he asks me again, “Are you certain that you couldn’t possibly be pregnant?”  And I tell him, “No, I’m divorced and there is no possibility of that.”

Of course she didn’t tell him she’s gay.  She’s still undecided about that one.  Oh I don’t mean she isn’t in any way; she’s just iffy on telling strangers.  We’re of that age, okay I’m not really, but she’s of that age where such things were kept to yourself.  Marriage to a man, shoot, you can share that with anybody but being with a woman, that’s a hush-hush thing.  No need in stirring up the cross-burners or the bible-thumpers.  Would hate to get a stern look from someone you aren’t even on a first name basis with, right.  UGH.  I could give two shits less who knows or don’t know, who agrees or don’t agree.  If you aren’t paying my bills, what the f*ck do I care what you think?  But I digress.

“So the doctor says if there’s no way for me to be pregnant, then I probably have a tumor.”  Well, to be honest, I said this same thing to her months ago. “Hey, babe, you should have a Pap smear…something ain’t right.”  She faintly lightly bleeds after sex.  (I know it’s TMI but I’m telling this story and you guys aren’t going to tell this one in pubs with drunken strangers or you definitely lead some sad sad lives with very poor stories and I’m never hanging out with you if that’s the kind of stories you tell…well, if you do, don’t mention her at all – she’s iffy around strangers.)

Coincidentally she already has a Pap smear scheduled for Wednesday night.  Of course it’s at night.  Some dude in an alley, with a pickup truck camper and a coat hanger.  NO.  It’s a night clinic.  Don’t be so gullible!  She’s already crossed “the line” in that particular clinic as they know “about me” and therefore assume “it” about her, since she’s my shadow, thinner and taller but still my shadow, which is so weird.  Because of course I finally got her to go to the clinic.

Okay, fine.  I didn’t get her to; she refused to go when I said she might need a Pap smear but then her sister called like the next week and said, ‘Hey everyone in the family has thyroid problems; you should get that checked’ and she scheduled an appointment immediately.  I was like WTF to myself but it’s whatever.  I honestly think she feels I am a ‘boob’ and pays no attention to me whatsoever in spite of my awesome advice giving and massive hoards of personal experience.

And the nice clinic folks talked her into scheduling a Pap, considering it would be her SECOND ONE in 24 years.  I know, right!?  Slow down, sister!  Spreading your legs every 24 years!  Geez.  Tying up the medical community with your always showing up, demanding answers every 24 years!  But again, whatever.  At least she’s going.  At least she already had this scheduled.  At least she’s not pregnant, right?!

Anyway I held her while she cried a little and I told her the truth – hey, you’re young, you quit smoking a year ago, you’re healthy, we’re exercising, eating right, and you have not had large amounts of unexplained weight loss so I’m sure it’s nothing “bad”.  Just something.  A thing.  A thing to overcome.  This too shall pass.  You are strong.  Whatever it is, it doesn’t stand a chance against you and your mid-western genes.  Plus you have me!  (She probably mentally eye rolled on that one.)

So cross your fingers out there, folks.  I’m not going to lie to you guys.  I’m not a good caregiver.  I have empathy.  I love deeply.  I’m just more of a Do it yourselfer when it comes to bodily things.  If I needed surgery, I’d look into doing it myself.  I don’t want your help.  I got this.  So conversely if you’re sick, get some medicine; if you’re wounded, wrap that bleeding shit up.  Don’t depend on me.  I’m not your lifeline.  What if I wasn’t here?  You better suck it up, buttercup, and fix yourself.  What if you didn’t know me?  What if I die before you?  You better learn to be independent.  I’ll be beside you of course but I don’t want to do it for you.  That’s self defeating.  At least she’s not pregnant, right?

I may need to lower my expectations a bit, or not.

So I’m not sure if you’re a “Sloppy Joe” fan or not but I feel compelled to share this with you.

We had turkey Sloppy Joes a couple of weeks ago, with ground turkey, and not Manwich but a generic brand that L bought, being cheap but also she said it was lower sodium than Manwich.  I’m all for that as long as it doesn’t taste weird and it didn’t.

The leftovers, however, got lost in the bottom of the fridge and cleaning out the fridge just now, I found the little glass bowl of it.

Disturbing enough to share with you is that – it was not molded.  The fresh guacamole that she made and we never even touched was molded and black.  But neither the turkey meat nor the Sloppy Joe sauce was the least bit moldy.

I will never eat Sloppy Joes again, not out of a can.  And maybe not ground turkey meat either.  A little creepy that it didn’t mold, and it didn’t smell weird at all.  I leaned back when I opened it, but nothing.  Not a hint of impropriety.  No assault on my nasal passages.  Nothing.  No burning and tearing up.  Zip, nada, nil, zilch.

I’m not eating that crap.  If it doesn’t have the foresight to at least rot and decay, with an odor of clear deadness that threatens to invade the deepest recesses of my home as a fervent reminder to clean the fridge out more often, then No.  No, no, no thank you.

Because that’s what I expect from my food.  If I don’t eat it in the proper amount of time, I want it to rot and fester up like a sore in the desert heat and totally scream at me when I get around to finding it – “Eat your leftovers, lady!  Clean out your fridge!  Look what you’ve made me do!  See how bad I smell?!  What is wrong with you?!”

And there was none of that.  Let down, I am.

Plop, plop, fizz, fizz….

You know, relief can come in so many forms.

Like when you’re in the car and it starts to rain really hard but then stops again before you get where you’re going. What a relief that you don’t have to get wet!

Or when you hear about a certain food being recalled but you didn’t buy that brand because it wasn’t on sale that week.  What a relief that you might not die from eating it!  Back up, E. coli, I’m good this week!

Well, this morning, my relief comes because I don’t smell like a dead animal!  Score!

Yesterday, I kept smelling this ‘smell’ while I was working.  I got up, washed my hands AGAIN, even up to my elbows.  And still, I could smell this smell, you know.  Finally I thought I had it figured out as my sweaty bra, from exercising.

So imagine my surprise this morning when, yet again, I smelled that smell…and I’m in clean undies and clean clothes, freshly bathed and everything.  So I went in search of unaccounted for odors.

As it turns out, NOT ME or my sweaty bra.  Small dead animal directly under my newly opened bedroom window.

Oh, what a relief! I don’t smell like a dead animal! Yay!

Why steal when you could just ask?

21 hours ago my post was about how great I was feeling.  This morning, however, I’m just annoyed.

My bike’s been stolen.  Apparently me and the bike had bonded because I woke up and instantly thought, “My bike has been stolen” and then I thought, ‘That’s crazy. Get the flashlight.’  And of course, my bike has been stolen.

You know the funny thing is, if you’d knocked on my door and told me your sob story, I would have given you my freaking bike.  You don’t have to steal from me.

AN HOUR LATER:    Okay, fine. I feel better now. I still hope whoever took my bike develops boils on their backside but whatever.  UGH.  I’ve exercised and I feel great.  Did my triceps extensions.  Did my rowing squats, for what I’ll never know.  Did my 20 minutes of steps, while holding my stomach in and my shoulders back (Dear God, how did I get so out of shape?).  Did my balance exercises.  And showered.

C’mon, Life, what else you got?