Oh, my stars and garters!

Slightish bepuzzlement

I know there must be a sound, rational, engineering-based reason for constructing a foundation out of sand-filled surplus food aid bags, but I do not know what that reason is. It's got to be a placeholder for some future real foundation, right? And how does one get hold of surplus food aid bags? Are we no longer sending wheat to other countries and so have a bunch of empty bags lying around to fill with dirt and stack in muddy vacant lots?

Can anyone answer my questions? My mild curiosity grows microscopically every time I walk past this site.

Hole in head

I got my molar pulled today. I wasn't particularly sorry to see it go. It had been a very bad tooth for a very long time. Over the years it's cost me a ton of money and delivered some of the worst pain of my life, and its final stage as a ragged ham trap always made me feel less than attractive.

The extraction itself was quick, easy, and painless. I had a little chuckle when I exited through the waiting room and smiled at the other patients around the huge bloody wad of gauze I'd been given to bite down on. They did not smile back.

The whole thing was so easy that I didn't understand why I felt so tired and, well, bereft after I got home. I moped around for a while and finally took a nap.

When I got up and commented that I felt pathetic for feeling so low, Eric pointed out that, however minor, it was surgery that I'd just had. Then he cooked me an egg and I took a couple of Vicodin, and aside from feeling a little sore and stupid, everything's been pretty dreamy since. Oh, and I had some peach Jell-O a little while ago. That was okay.

Friendly Friends Crossing the Delaware

Eric finished this painting last night. I think it's terrific, and I wish we could keep it. Alas, it's intended to live with his friend's newish baby instead. So I guess that's all right. It would be a nice painting to grow up with.

Commerce!

I haven't been doing much, art-wise, lately, although I intend to remedy that as soon as I get the slightest bit inspired about anything. No inspiration means no art means I have almost completely neglected my sad little online store all year, and pretty soon I'll decide whether I should start putting time and effort into it or just put it down like a sick animal.

On that cheerful note, Pointy's Outpost is still up and running, I have some stock left, and Christmas is all of a sudden fast approaching. So* I thought I would have a small sale. This means that "I am not lonely" T-shirts are now just $14. That, by the way, is a whole dollar less than the same boring non-I am not lonely tees for sale at the American Apparel website. Also, my model is much hotter than theirs:

I also still have a couple of packs of superhappy cards for sale--those actually sold pretty well last year--and if you place an order, I'll throw in a button of my choice for free, and maybe some other stuff I have laying around if it's handy.

If Pointy's Outpost doesn't have exactly what you're looking for, then I don't know what's wrong with you might instead be interested in the colorful fine-art photography at Dan Machold Photo, the whimsical and beautiful pendants of In My Head Studios, or the viciously cute jewelry and embroidery at Deadly Little Things.

This concludes my yearly foray into online self-promotion. Please have a beautiful and meaningful Monday.

*Buttons on your underwear!

Foot turkeys!

(Because hand turkeys are so November 21st.)

I hope everyone gets to eat good food with good people today. I think it's pretty damn great that I get to do so year after year, whether I decide to visit family or stay in town with friends.

There's no better holiday in my book, and that's saying something when you consider the amount of beer and explosives involved on some other holidays I could name.

Coat of smarms

I know, I know.

It's just not fair, you're thinking. Joolie finds all the bargains. Why, I would gladly strangle my own children for that jacket. But can I have it? No! Because Joolie already bought it. And there she is again, looking all exquisite and acting as though it were nothing. Nothing!

Here's the thing you might not know: It's not always so easy to look as pulled together as I do. For example, I'm beginning to sense a lot resentment from the people around me. They take in my cool, impeccable style and assume I must have the world by the tail. It gets quite lonely sometimes.

And you're right, it's not fair. I should give someone else a chance every once in a while.

So tonight, with all that in mind, I reluctantly left this coat on the rack at the Savers on Burnet Road.

I don't remember how much it costs, but you probably can't afford not to buy it. There's only the one, so you'd better hurry.

Good luck, and you're welcome.

Distinctions

How I spent the 1,691st weekend of my life

Friday night was very half-assed. I started many activities but could not fully commit to any of them. So I drank, but not very much, flipped through the channels a few times, and worked on a painting for about 20 minutes. I also read, but only while I was outside smoking cigarettes. Somehow I managed to kill eight hours like this. It seemed hard at the time.

We tried to see the East Austin Studio Tour on bike Saturday but were hampered by downpours interspersed with drizzlepours. We saw a few good things before we had to pack it in; the prints at Slugfest were especially good. They had a hand-colored lino print of a naked mole rat that was not only naked-mole-rat-centric but technically stunning.

After it became clear the rain wasn't going to stop, Eric and I parted ways from Dan and Choo and soggily rode the five miles home, puddles and road grit splooshing up our shorts the whole way. It's actually pretty fun to ride in the rain, as long as you're headed home and know you can shower, change, and crack a cold beer as soon as you get there. I felt too clean and lazy to do anything else after that, so Eric and I drank delicious Prima Pils and watched Pan's Labyrinth.

This is getting boring to write, so I can only assume it's getting boring to read; I'll try to make short work of Sunday: Many loads of laundry while watching most of Withnail and I, then the grocery store, which was so hellish and annoying I wrote an e-mail to HEB asking them to please not pipe in Christmas music before Thanksgiving next year.

After that, friends came over for dinner and ate the manicotti that Eric made, and the house still smells very nice, so nice that I am hungry all over again, even though I should have been in bed a half an hour ago. And that was my weekend the end.

False alarms

So many lately! Last week we had a vague and ultimately unverifiable report of a sniper downtown that shut down several blocks, brought out the SWAT team, and caused the office where I work to go on unofficial lockdown. Then yesterday there was the vague and ultimately unverifiable suspicion of a person holed up inside the local gun store that brought out the the SWAT team, shut down several blocks for seven hours, and evacuated all the schools in the neighborhood.

And now I read this from Dallas: Rhino on the loose! Except, never mind!

There were also some real problems. Our now very busy SWAT team had to come out again today when man barricaded himself in an apartment across the street from an elementary school; never a good situation. Also a chimp escaped from a research facility in Bastrop last week.

Both situations were resolved within hours; meanwhile, I had a great time watching the statesman.com headline evolve on escaped-chimp day: "Escaped chimp captured." "'Dangerous' escaped chimp captured."'Jake,' dangerous escaped chimp, captured."

Now I see the headline in the final edition was "Bastrop facility does not monkey around in capturing dangerous escaped chimp," which, in my opinion, sacrifices poetry for cheap wit.

So it's been a pretty interesting week for fans of the daily metro section, and who knows what will happen (or not happen) tomorrow?

P.S. If you only click on one of the links, please make it the rhino story.

Twolips

Have you ever met someone who you can tell just immediately doesn't like you? Because I have run across a few of these people during the wedding planning process, and it's always kind of a drag.

I am willing to concede that I am not the wittiest person in the entire world. I mean, I truly believe if you don't think something's funny, you shouldn't feel like you have to laugh. But, in my defense, if you're in the middle of a supposedly very serious discussion about something like, say, wedding flower colors, it's very hard not to make a few mild cracks, and I have to say it's always disheartening to have those cracks met not with a laugh or even a blank face but with a single raised eyebrow and a kindly-don't-leave-that-turd-you-just-laid-on-my-nice- clean-table brand of tolerant smile.

I got a bit of that vibe today when Eric and my parents and I were at the florist, and it sort of pissed me off. Am I not asking to have enough money spent here? Am I expected to know in advance the exact color, size, and shape of everything? Isn't that why you have all those sample books and all that expertise? My god, I am but one woman! etc. etc.

I was especially irritated with her impatience because I was very proud of myself that I had, despite my general lassitude, decided on a bouquet flower ahead of time. I think tulips are pretty and simple and would look really nice.

Unfortunately for me, I didn't know what color, what size, or whether I wanted a bunch of shit mixed in with them. And that was apparently displeasing to the florist. You don't know what you want your bouquet should look like? Haven't you been dreaming of this day since at least six months before you grasped the concept of object permanence?

Eric and I had joked about and even mock-rehearsed our request for tulips. I was supposed to say, "Well, I was thinking about tulips. How do you feel about tulips, Eric?" And that would be his cue to stand up, leer, grab his crotch, wave his free hand around in the air as though he were spinning a lasso, and say, "As long as yer talking about yer two lips on mah cock, that's A-OK with me, baby!" All weekend, that never failed to cheer me up; I made him do it again and again.

As we sat there today in the increasingly airless showroom, talking so, so seriously about flowers and greenery, I prayed and prayed for Eric to step up and lighten the mood. But apparently he was as intimidated or as bored as I was in the face of the joyless florist. He just sat there, motionless and silent, and that right there proved to me that when it comes to the wedding industry, at least, there is no god.

High tension

Yesterday Eric and I went to check out Walter E. Long Lake (or Decker Lake; I'm not sure why everything in this city has to have 15 different names). It's not too far from our house, and we thought we it would be awesome if we had a swimming and picnicking spot close by.

It's true that swimming is allowed there, and it's apparently a popular boating and fishing site. But it turns out the lake is primarily a giant cooling pond for the power plant. I might not mind that so much, but it also looks like tossing diapers and beer cans all over the goddamn place is second only to fishing in terms of recreation. On the whole, I prefer my water diaper free.

The park itself is pretty enough, but the giant power lines marching through the main recreation area sort of distract from the whole natural beauty thing.

Still, it was an amazingly nice evening, with a warm breeze and several hours of really nice light, so we walked around for a long time. We got to watch a group of little birds (sparrows? swallows?) break off from their main flock and chase a cruising hawk away, then pump frantically to catch up with their friends. That was pretty entertaining.

We also saw some cypress roots that were strange and beautiful and looked undeniably penis-y. Those were not entertaining at all because they are nature and therefore not funny.

I probably won't go back any time soon, but I can think of far worse ways to spend a Saturday afternoon.

Bzzzzzzzz

It's turned out to be one of those weeks where everything is going okay, but nothing of note has happened. I can't blame the ennui on Tyra Banks, either. The early dark makes me feel aimless and lazy all evening, until midnight, when I get sick of that and restlessness sets in. That makes it impossible to get to sleep. Of course, that causes me to oversleep in the morning and feel dull and staticky all day. Also I might be coming down with a cold.

With all that going on, there just isn't a lot of time for adventures. Tell me a joke, will you? I like jokes.

Pretty lights

I can't think of anything to post about tonight because my sister made me watch America's Next Top Model. Some girl she knows slightly is a contestant, so my sister feels she should watch at least until the girl gets axed.

I thought this would be a harmless, slightly campy activity, but the dull, tragic uselessness of this show caused my brain to leak out of my ears and into my lap; now my skirt is ruined. And, as everyone knows, having your brains encased in your skull is a prerequisite for thinking up (less) dumb shit (than this) to write about.

So that's all I've got. Please feel free to look at this picture I took with a novelty camera three or four years ago, and have a productive and enjoyable Thursday.

Surplus

I needed something to shove my bank statements and insurance bills in, so I went to the state surplus store on my way to work this morning to look for a good, solid filing cabinet.

That place is great. It's absolutely huge and crammed with all kinds of battered office furniture from at least the 1940s to a few years ago. Lots of stained office chairs, whiteboards, and peeling modular furniture. They also sell all the pointy stuff that's been confiscated at airports and random stuff like patrol car lights and ceiling fan motors. Most of it's crap, obviously, but it's fun to poke through, and you can find some pretty good stuff without looking too hard.

This is the filing cabinet I got for $20. It's a little scratched, but otherwise it's perfect:

It's also pretty old:

(Long paragraph here about how they just don't take the same care they used to with even the simplest designs and most basic construction, blah blah blah. I do really like this logo.)

These were the real finds:

They had just come in and hadn't been priced yet, so the guys there said I could have them for $5 each. It seemed foolhardy not to, so I bought them.

They're not really my style, they don't fit in with my plans for the room they're in now, and there's no place for them anywhere else in the house. But I love them, so I am going to make room, dammit.

Arbiter

Nothing, but nothing, is more punk rock than an aging frontman standing on stage passionately bitching about parking like a fifth-rate Jerry Seinfeld. I think the quote was: I'll tell you what sucks: The fucking parking situation you got going on out there! It took me fuckin' forever to find a place to park! Sucked!

Eric and I exchanged a long look. Then we wandered away to get nachos.

Still, the guy has a point. Who likes finding parking? Fuck parking! Smash the municipal government! And you know what else sucks? That guy who goes through the express line with, like, 14 items! Who the fuck does he think he's kidding? Fuck that guy!

Ok, we're going to try something tonight. Let me hear you say, "FUCK THAT GUY WHO GOES THROUGH THE EXPRESS LANE WITH FOURTEEN ITEMS!"

All right. That was a little weak, but all that's all right 'cause now we're gonna have everyone to the left over here say, "FUCK THAT!"

Now all y'all on the right say, "GUY!"

Now everybody on the left say, "WHO GOES THROUGH THE EXPRESS LANE WITH FOURTEEN ITEMS!"

Say it again!

Louder!

LET ME HEAR YOU SAY IT LOUDER! YEAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! Onetwothreefour!

That's how it's done. 

Why my house smells like there's a Glade Vanilla Breeze Plugin in every outlet:

Crab(hic)by

I have the hiccups. Just now I tried to make like I didn't for the benefit of my friends (as if they'd care), but they noticed soon enough and offered their sympathy. Like I need their sympathy. Like I need anyone. 'Cause I DON'T. I don't need anyone! I don't need anything! I'M FINE (hic), OKAY, JUST FINE! (hic) I DON'T NEED ANY(hic)THING!

I hate the hiccups.

I don't know why people get so upset about kids without costumes trolling for candy on Halloween. A lot of people seem to really, really hate that, and in a way I guess I can see why, but listen: Everyone bitches about kids staying inside watching TV and being so disassociated from their communities, and then everyone bitches when they do venture outside and go around talking to their neighbors on the one night it's socially acceptable to do so. So maybe they're a little old. So maybe they're not a little old but their parents didn't buy them a costume and they didn't have the wherewithal to put one together. So what? If you take the time to walk up to my door and say hi under any circumstances, I'll be more than happy to give you 20 cents' worth of shitty candy.

Finally, I liked my oral-surgeon-to-be (so many engagements lately!) just fine, and he seems competent enough, if a bit overconfident. But two things, Mr. Oral Surgeon:

1. You might think framed photos of yourself playing polo are a tasteful way to decorate your office and something pleasant for your patients to look at, but be warned, as much as your services cost, a bit of resentment might be expected. I understand you and your colleagues' expertise comes at a premium--I'm almost positive I wouldn't seek out the services of Crazy Jay's Discount Extraction and Implantorium even if it were an option--but I've done the math, and after insurance, I'm pretty sure the removal of my tooth and the replacement you're pushing would at least buy you a decently bred polo pony's back legs. So don't expect me to be too impressed with your cool little hobby in this particular situation, is all.

2. (And this applies to dentists everywhere) The Magic Blahdeeblah-point-blahhhhh radio station is not relaxing. It is not blandly acceptable. It is not okay. It is an incitement, an insult, an abortion. Nothing I will ever see or hear in a dentist's office will make me as tense and as susceptible to pain as Peter Cetera's solo career, not even the terrible whine of the drill nor the agonized screams of other patients. Really, is nice sweet beautiful silence really so awful?

Oh, crap. I still have the hiccups. I hope they clear up in a few days, or else I may have troubles.

The hell with this. I'm going to bed. There's no trouble there, so far as I know.