I gave myself a rather nasty little burn last week which I didn’t whine about here. (I have NO idea why the hell not because it hurt like a sonofabitch!) It’s on the outside of my wrist. My aim in pouring the freshly boiled water into the freshly ground coffee waiting in the press was, uhm, shall we say lacking?

So…. it began as a flaming red patch, which turned into a weird looking glossy white/pinkish thing, which then morphed into a strange black/brown gangrenous hue.

It now looks like this;

Pay particular attention to the dry rolled up lizard like flesh around the edges. It’s super attractive. The brand new shiny pink skin under the shriveled pieces is really creepy. I kind of can’t stop looking at it. And touching it. And kind of poking it a little.

Yeah. Like I said;

Creepy.

As a child, or even a younger adult, who did you look up to? My hero was always my crazy mother. Perhaps a strange choice for a role model given her “eccentric nature” but that was who I looked up to. I am shocked at the roles models that kids today chose. (I know, I’m a pair of polyester slacks and one “early bird” dinner special away from checking myself into an intermediate care facility, right?)

But seriously.

Have you flipped through a magazine lately? I use to laugh when the generic carbon copy people like Paris Hilton and such would say things like “I take my position as a role model very seriously.” To me it was all very amusing. Until that is, I realized that young kids do look up to ridiculous characters like that. Most of them are famous for simply existing- famous for nothing really- and that scares the shit out of me a little bit.

Odd that the world would turn into a place where my pot smoking, turtle stealing from the zoo, hash brownie making, trucker mouth, hard working mother would be the better role model.

Jesus in a sandwich do I ever feel sorry for today’s kids. (Now pass me the damn alka seltzer.)

I’m pretty sure that the “L” on the bottle stands for “Lysol”

My dog Maggi is sick today. I’ve been up with her since 4:30 am and now I’m at work. Fretting. She’ll be fine, it’s happened before and will happen again–she’s covertly eaten some nasty “alley surprise”–and now her stomach is all blown up like a balloon and she has that “Mom, please help me I’m dying” look on her wee little face. Steve is at home with her, but I will still fret. All day. I might even leave early.

Can you imagine if I had children? I would be the mother that puts her kid in a bubble by choice, rather than for disease protecting necessity. In fact, even though Susin is probably rolling her eyes so violently right now that they may pierce the back of her skull, I’d like to order this little man a bubble. I really would. It would have cool fun shit in it (with rounded soft corners) but it would be a bubble nonetheless.

If I had kids they would have to learn karate or something because otherwise, my kids would definitely get the shit kicked out of them.

Well, as much as the bubble would allow.

Criss Angel/Drinking coffee out of Styrofoam/That creepy guy from Mythbusters/Newspapers that bleed on to your hands/Hypochondriacs/Goat cheese/Cheap licorice/skorts/censorship/paper cuts/stupid people/weak coffee/people who leave their dogs in hot cars/Dictators/GW Bush & Cheney/pantyhose/stinky feet/apathy/pulpy juice/fat people in low rise jeans and short shirts/spandex/TV golf/golf in general/those stupid subscription cards in magazines/warm beer/anything fake pineapple or apple scented/puking/litter boxes/cold sores/people being “trendy”/pap smears/bad bras/bad breath/pens that leak/homophobia/cancer/tight shoes/mosquitoes/Nancy Grace/Oprah/liars/doughy pie crust/wanna be “gangstas”/rap/people who don’t pick up their dog’s shit/chamomile tea/pimples/that white stringy shit between the orange & the peel/government web sites/close talkers/strangers who share way too much personal info in random and often inappropriate situations/skittles/the guy in the stupid shorts and tie from ACDC- get over it already/romance novels/prop 8/war/inequality/drinking beer out of cans/mayo/cheap crayons/tilted baseball caps/puppy mills/cheap ice cream/pretentious people/today’s lower standards (for everything)/the bailout/orange scented hand sanitizer/people who never shut up but have nothing to say/ad hominem attacks/unwrapped toothpicks/scotch mints/snot/Kim jong il/hang nails/dry skin/bad attitudes/creepy moustaches/candy canes/clowns/team mascots/people who don’t like animals/the colour purple (the actual colour, not the play)/ walnuts/excuses/alarm clocks/beauty pageants/Whiners………

Wait- Is this considered whining?

The end.

I don’t care what the critics said, Obama’s joke at the radio & TV correspondents dinner last month about Schwarzenegger being on “I’m a Celebrity, Get me Outta Here!” to help the cash strapped California was fucking hilarious. Considering the sates precarious financial situation, maybe it will come to fruition because it seriously seems like everyone is boarding the shitty reality TV train.

Shows like “I’m a Celebrity…” are where z-listers go to die. On camera.

This cringe inducing trend of craptastic shows has spawned a whole new job pool for those actors/singers/famous just because I’m pretty people that we had completely forgotten existed. When you think about it- it’s pretty fucking clever- though unbelievably embarrassing. Agent not calling you anymore? Ring up spike or MTV or TLC and sell your soul to their latest train wreck. MC Hammer has a show. MC fucking Hammer! Scott Baio, Brett Michaels, Flava Flav, Danny Bonaduce, and the list goes on and on and on, down through the depths of a cauldron of bile and quivering pinkish body fluids.

Did they really think that this would be something lucrative? A sound business move? A reputation building venture? How are they not suicidally embarrassed by their fame whore aging self trying to look relevant and cool? Presumably they have no real friends because if they did, why the hell didn’t they lock them in a basement somewhere until the lure of publicly humiliating themselves had passed? If that were me and I tried to pull that shit, Susin would have me committed right after she slapped the stupid out of me for even considering it.

Seriously, who thinks this shit up? (better yet- who the hell watches it?)

I get that he was a globally famous performer/artist/freakshow, and yes, I understand that millions of people worldwide are devastated by his death and it is certainly sad that he had children who are about to be thrown into the vicious custody battle that appears to be brewing…… Upon hear of the death of Michael Jackson, I was fully aware that the media coverage would be seconded only by the death of Princess Di and that it would run on endlessly.

I thought I was prepared for this, I really did. However, I have to say, enough is e-fucking-nough people! This mornings news consisted of two pseudo “anchors” sitting around musing as to how the performers at the funeral were chosen.

THIS IS NOT NEWS! The only things missing were a couple of shitty stained bathrobes, some slippers and a squalling baby in the back. If there is something to report- some new fact- by all means, report away. The shit that I watched this morning on a ‘News” program should have been a random conversation in someones fucking LIVING ROOM!

I had the surgery on Monday and all was well until Friday when my face swelled up like a creepy grown up version of a cabbage patch doll. By Saturday, I had reached full fledged circus freak status. As of this morning (Tuesday) my face is pretty much back to it’s normal size but I am still dealing with the flavor in my mouth. Part infection, part medication and all disgusting.

My mouth tastes like Parmesan cheese and death.

The other day as Steve and I were walking I started lamenting the fact that the surgery was 6 whole fucking days ago so;

“Why the hell aren’t I back to normal?”

He looked at me and said “You expected to be 100% by now?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact, I did. This is ridiculous.”

“Babe, I think you have unrealistic expectations.”

Oddly enough, this isn’t the first time I’ve heard that said of me.