I had a seriously hot dream last night* that was interrupted at the critical juncture by me asking if the dream-guy had a condom. Which he didn’t. Which kinda put the kibosh on that.
My freshman sex ed teacher would be so damn proud.
*And by this, I mean there was both sex and good birdwatching. A particularly showy and probably unreal species of kingfisher, to be precise. “Ooh, baby, you’re so–hey, a lifer! Get the binoculars!” Yeah, my subconscious’s got my number…
This morning as I went out to pick up yesterday’s mail, I saw a squirrel plummet two stories from the roof of the building and land on the sidewalk about three feet away with a loud slap, like a dry towel smacking the pavement.
“Whoa!” I said to the stunned rodent. “You okay little guy?”
The squirrel shook himself off, gave me a scornful look, and ran somewhat unsteadily off across the lawn.
I looked up and saw a second squirrel on the roof, peering over, who turned and scurried off.
Being me, I immediately began constructing scenarios in my head–were they playing chicken? Had one squirrel pushed the other? Was the squirrel on the roof thinking some variation on “Oh god, oh god, what am I going to tell Mom, oh god…”
Given the capacity of wild animals to survive shocking injuries, I sort of wonder if the squirrel was really okay, or if one more Gimpy the Squirrel will appear in the next few weeks…
I spent much of today pacing the floors waiting to find out if the LA thing will go through. Glory of glories, my agent got ahold of me, and it looks like it’s a go–ballpark date would be leaving May 7th, for around two weeks. This is a great strain off my mind–I was afraid I’d be gone a whole month, and the practical details would have been woogly. Now I may even get to keep my job at the art supply store, Digger will only go on a brief hiatus, and all will be well.
In celebration, have a very vivid, fairly silly frog. Because it’s been a long ass time since I painted a frog.
I think the relationship dissolving thing has made me more girly. Or possibly it’s my buddy Carlota’s influence.
Either way, I am…actually…looking at shoes.
Online.
And thinking things like “Cute!”
Now, bear in mind that I am a woman who traditionally owns exactly TWO pairs of shoes at any given time–steel-toed hiking boots for stompin’, and Birkenstock sandals for…well…everything else.
And yet…I look at mules and clogs and wedges and I think “That is a cool shoe.”
I am afraid.
Ya know, the people in “Lost” treat wild boar waaaay too cavalierly. “Oh, look, a wild boar. I’ll just scoff and turn my back on it and walk broodingly off through the jungle.”
Dude. It’s not a possum.
Ya know, despite the fact that I always always say “There is no predicting anything,”–despite the fact that I SAID that to a bunch of college students, several times, last weekend–still, it manages to surprise me.
I did not see the interest in the sloth coming. I never thought I’d get so many inquiries that I had to send it to auction. You people delight me to no end.
Thank you.
Well, as I’ve said before and will say again, relationship angst sucks.
But on the bright side–and I will find a silver lining if I have to goddamn well sew one out of tinsel and dental floss!–it is one HELL of a diet plan. I’ve dropped twenty pounds since shit met fan back in December. Everybody who sees me for the first time in a month or two utters some variation on “Holy crap, have you lost weight?!”*
And I’m eating, too. Not skipping meals, nothin’ like that. Heck, thanks to the frozen food aisle at Trader Joe’s, I’m actually eating quite well, I am self-medicating with chocolate, and furthermore, on at least two separate occasions, I have had ice cream for breakfast.** So I’m not sure WHY I’m losing weight at such a rate, but I’m not complaining.
A buddy of mine in similar straits thinks that unrelenting emotional stress of this variety may fire up your metabolism. There’s probably something to be said for that, because common wisdom has it that women getting divorced always lose weight, and you can’t tell me we’re not doing chocolate therapy like crazy.
All of which is only tangential to the point that my bras haven’t been fitting any more. Adjusting the straps only went so far. Finally I was down to one that had straps so folded and doubled back it looked like I’d somehow invented the Klein brassiere, and I knew it was time to go bra shopping.
So I slogged glumly into Victoria’s Secret, expecting nothing much. Despite the models all being triple-F and whatnot, they do not carry much in the DD and up range, particularly not if you’ve got a ribcage wider than a pencil. They apparently do not believe humans come in these sizes. Occasionally the staff is foolish enough to make a comment like this to our faces, and this makes us humans who are that size wish to pick them up by their scrawny little teenybopper A-cup necks and shake vigorously.
And whaddya know? I’m down a cup size. I am D, gloriously D, and finally out of the double letters! I can shop at Victoria’s Secret again! I can buy bras in colors other than white and beige! I can find something wireless!***
I was getting ready to sing hosannas at this news, when the woman at VS frowned down at her tape and said “Actually, y’know…you’re not even all that far off from a C…”
Good lord. No wonder my back hasn’t been bothering me lately. My jaw dropped.
Of course, I could wish the belly fat went before the boobs, but I’ll take what I can get, man.
*This is immensely gratifying. Were I the enlightened feminist I really ought to be, my body image shouldn’t be tied in any way to my self-worth, but c’mon.
**I am single. Ish. If you can’t take advantage of that state to occasionally have ice cream for breakfast, then what GOOD is it?
***Hate, hate, hate underwires. Have never found an underwire that didn’t make me feel like my boobs were being put through the Inquisition for some obscure mammarian heresy.
I am too busy. I have no time to paint. But I did it anyway, because if I don’t start getting my productivity back up again, I really will get depressed.
This is a purely silly Weird Animal Pin-up, just ‘cos…y’know.
Some of us just shouldn’t try to paint out our emotional traumas…
Hey there, world!
Are you creative? Can you fake it? Got a great idea for an article about Stuff You Have Learned About Art/Writing/Creativity/Chickens*? Got art? Got anything?
EMG-Zine, which carries my column “Wombat Droppings” (and yes, there’s a new one this upcoming month–enough moping out of me, back to the grindstone!) is lookin’ for content for the next coupla months, and needs your help! Text, art, whatever! If you can write coherently, if you have something to say, or can say nothing in an entertaining fashion for eight or nine-hundred words, if you can paint, if you have already painted and have something thematically appropriate–EMG-Zine wants you!
It pays in EMG credit, which can be used to Buy Stuff at the cool EMG store (and have I mentioned that they carry my t-shirts? They do. Plus a bunch ‘o prints, mousepads, and all kinds of cool stuff.)
Go! Write! See your name up in pixels! Get cool stuff! AGGHHHH! THE COOLNESS, IT BURNS US!
(pant, pant)
See, this is why I never went into advertising. I sound like an insecure carnival barker with a bad bladder. Still!
*I can’t swear they need chicken related content, but if it’s good, it might be worth a shot.
I write & illustrate books, garden, take photos, and blather about myriad things. I have very strong feelings about potatoes.
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