Saturday, May 9, 2015

Television Brain Suck, Pain Hell, and Suchlike

I promised myself and all of Facebook I'd write today, then I went off to be an incredibly loud soccer mom for someone who says she hates sports. 

Things are different when my own little baby I created my damn self is out there in her little uniform and her little team, the most adorable and underdoggiest team ever, score their first goal of the season. In their second to last game. 

They still lost, but not with a score of "Some little number to zero". Not that we're caring about scores. But we screamed so much one might have had the impression that we cared. 

We then visited the in-laws where I lived an ancient and well-cherished Appalachian Woman's tradition: I sat on a glider on a shaded porch sipping iced tea and watching gorgeous half-dressed men operate heavy equipment.

The hot dudes were my husband and brother-in-law and the iced tea was water, but we take artistic liberties, you understand. They weren't even half naked. It was sad.

Then the Bird went to the movies with her BBBFF, or Big Brother Best Friend Forever, who's actually her cousin obviously. The phrase, and I should not know this, is from My Little Pony.

Rainbow Dash 4-evah! 
Ahem...

Then I got sucked into the telly that has much, much more brain suction power now because we got expanded cable and BBC America is in my life now. Shane asked today if I was aware we had more new channels than just BBC. I said, "Yes, I've found there is also Syfy."

After my television-induced fugue I thought I'd try the PC just one more time in case it had only been moody and not broken. Broken AGAIN. And then I gave up and am blogging on my iPhone.

My refurbished iPhone because what the fuck IS IT with me and tech?! Shane calls me a Techubus, which sounds vaguely cool but is really just everything breaks all the time and I swear I didn't even touch it.

It's my aura, he says. It's made of chaos, he says. 

And I can't argue so I quote Delirium or Loki and shrug.

So that's my day. 

Previous days have mostly been a narcotic or muscle relaxer haze in a pain flare up that was just bonkers.

In lucid moments I've been sharing the gigantic collective swoon experienced right now by Neil Gaiman fans in and near Charleston since finding out he'll be here for our Book Fair in October. Jodi Picoult is coming too and the couple of books I've read of hers are fantastic.

Souster introduced the idea that the book club (which I keep intending and then failing to attend) should do 'Trigger Warnings' and a Picoult book that month. Genius. 

She's also been conscripted into service as a wheelchair pusher so we can go have our book and tits and such signed. I kid—I'll ask him to sign my ass. The man doesn't have all day. (My boobs are big, you see.)

Be well, fair bl'eaders who may well be demented imaginings by this point. I love you even if you're pretend. If you are pretend, I'm going to start calling you 'Boners because what—are you gonna be offended? You don't even exist. Uppity figments, you lot.

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