Confessions Of An Addled Mind

Okay, so here I am sick again, feeling feverish and stuffy and sniffly and all that crap. I could blame it on Carlos but he only brought doughnuts home the other night, not cold symptoms. I could blame it on The Friend's dog who--as you know if you read me every day and hang on my every word as people are apt to do--pooped on my bedroom floor.

See, Carlos and I have a policy around our house. I take care of what goes into our pets and he takes care of what comes out of them. If, say for example, I wake up in the morning, groggy, sleepy-eyes, and stumble down the hall to the kitchen, and spot a hairball, I stop dead in my tracks, and shout:

Hairball.
To which he answers:
Where?
Hallway.
He comes running and cleans it up and Resolves the carpet and so on.

If, God forbid, we come home and our dog has left a message on the rug, the conversation is similar to that above, except I substitute poop for hairball.
You get the idea.

So, back to my cold. But first, about The Friend's dog's poop. I seriously thought about leaving it on the rug until Carlos came home, but it happened about 9 AM and Carlos gets home about 6 PM, so that was out. I'm not good with poop. I'm not good with bodily fluids of any sort that are left on the floor. I once had a party at my house and one of my very good friends was about to be sick, and someone said, Bob, Stacey's gonna puke. So, I did what any good host would do and I ushered her outside to vomit in the bushes, and closed the front door so I wouldn't have to see it. Seeing puke, hearing it, smelling it, just...typing...it...makes me want to puke.
As does the dog poop.

But I did clean it up, cursing The Friend who, now that I think about it, left very very quickly, and all of the sudden. I wonder if he knew about the poop? I grabbed a roll of paper towels and scooped the poop in about thirty sheets and took it to the garage and put it in the trash can, Then I scrubbed my hands with acid to clean off the smell, the germs, and my skin.
Anyway, so I am looking for someone to blame for my current state of ill feeling. And it boils down to this freaky weather. One day it's in the 70s and I have windows open and shorts on, flip-flops. The next day I have flannel pants, socks, slippers, T-shirt, and sweater, heater on, drinking hot tea, wrapped in a blanket.
How's a body not supposed to get sick?

So, in an effort to make myself feel better I am just going to talk about me. The person I know best, and, in fact, like the best. I'm always there when I need me, willing to lend myself a hand. If I need a ride somewhere I'm always available. When hungry, I make myself something to eat.
I'm good to myself.
I like me, dammit!
And what else do I like:

Anne Hathaway, who, when asked at the Palm Springs International Film Festival what she hoped Barack Obama would do as president, said, "I expect him to explain that choice of Rick Warren. I don't get it. All my friends and I were trying to figure it out, but we just can't. So I'd love that."
Love. Her!

And I love Bonnie Hunt. I love when she just tells stories. She reminds me of my friend, Laura, who is also from Chicago. They both start a story and then head off in a completely different direction, before bringing it all back together. Basket weaving, I call it, with words. It looks like a mess until you're done, then it all makes sense. Of course, you're left wondering what the basket is for, just like the story.

My cat Tuxedo, who slept by my side all night when I wasn't feeling well, and who stayed in bed with me this morning long after Carlos left for work. And because he curled up in my lap last night and let me watch Top Chef.

Top Chef. Because I love to cook, and love to watch what and how people cook. And because I wait with baited breath for David Dust's Top Chef Recap which is as good a s the show itself.

Melissa, from Top Chef, who got the Pack your knives and go last night, because I got the impression she has no idea what she's doing in a kitchen. I know I could never be on Top Chef; I couldn't gut a fish, much less fillet it; I don't have all those knives in the pretty little knife suitcase. But I could last longer, and sound like I know more, that Stammering Mel.

I loved Iced Tea. Even when I am feverish and sniffly. Carlos tries to tell me I need Hot Tea when I'm sick but I love the cold cold tea. So there! I'm drinking tea now, Carlos.

Tattoos. I have six, all on my right ankle. I got five in Hawaii and one in California. I love them because they aren't cartoon characters that I'll look at when I'm ninety and not know who they are; because they aren't names of people I once loved and now don't like so much. I love them because people look at me and would never believe that I have tattoos. So much so that, when I tell people I have them, and then show them, I also say that I once shaved my head and had a map of China tattooed on my scalp and to this day I part my hair along the Great Wall.

I love the fact that I'm slightly nuts and will say just about anything. I'm like Sophia from The Golden Girls, only I am not an eighty-year-old short Italian woman.......yet.

Speaking of speaking your mind and eighty-year-old women....nice segue Bob...once, while living in California, I was on my way to work. Came to a stop light and waited. It was a beautiful sunny day, the windows on the Mazda were down and the BoDeans were playing on the CD player. The light turned green and the car in front of me took juuuuuust long enough for me to tap the horn. But I didn't; the car finally went. I followed along and at the next light, same thing. But I didn't honk. Third light. Same thing. But instead of honking, I say, in a regular voice, not shouting at all, C'mon pigfucker. Green means go.
Pigfucker comes from the Latin porkus fornicatus, which means to love pig.
Anyway, when I said it, there was a break in the BoDeans CD and the woman in the next car, quite elderly, caught my eye.
Pigfucker? I've never heard that one.
Feel free to use it, I say.
I will.
And the car in front of me moves on.

I'm a giver like that.