The damages
This looks a lot worse than it feels.
I’m doing great today. I haven’t needed any pain meds, and it doesn’t even hurt to cough. Much. I should be fine for work tomorrow.
In addition to the hernia, I had my surgeon remove this:
See that pale, square area? This thing looks like I tried to remove a Charlie Manson tattoo using a spork. Don’t know if it’ll look any better after it heals, but for now, it looks like hell:
Me? Vain? Naaaah.
I’m gonna bail on live-blogging this weekend. You don’t need to see me yawn.
D.
NaBloPoMo: how tough can this be?
I mean, really. Post once a day for the month of November? Since I started this blog, I don’t think I’ve missed more than two or three days.
I like this kind of challenge. Far more rational than NaNoWriMo.
Tech geek flame warz
Flame wars take wildly various shapes depending on the nature of the forum, but the bottom line is usually the same: one poster believes “A,” the next poster says anyone who believes in “A” is an idiot, and the war is on*.
On my ENT forum, folks have fought over the age at which septoplasty is a safe operation; more recently, there was a big stink over one poster’s anti-Christian sig line. On Karen’s ArachnoBoards forum, arguments range from the sublime (bickering over the finer points of tarantula cladistics) to the ridiculous (“My spider bit me!” “Really? You’d have to be an idiot to get bitten!”) It always boils down to the same thing.
You’re stupid.
No, you’re stupid.
Only a stupid person would come up with such a lame response.
What amazes me: no matter how genuinely, ridiculously, and undeniably STUPID an idea might be, someone, usually several someones, will adopt that idea and defend it to his last breath. Case in point: high def TV aficionados and their high-priced power cords.
The Distaff Meme, second attempt
Thanks, Darla. I’m wiped out, so this is about the best I could manage anyway.
The basic facts:
Who is your significant other? Karen
How long have you been together? Since early 1983. Married, June 1984
Dating/Engaged/Married? Married. Didn’t I just say that?
How old is your S.O.? 45
Which one?
Who eats more? I do.
Who says “I love you” first? I do, usually. But not always.
Who weighs more? I have her beat 2:1.
Who sings better? I do. And that speaks volumes for the truly horrific nature of Karen’s singing voice.
Who’s older? Me, by seven months.
Who’s smarter? Karen. Nothing like going through college together to establish THAT fact.
Whose temper is worse? I get p.o.’d at my son easier than she does. She gets p.o.’d at me easier than I get p.o.’d at her.
Who does the laundry? Me.
Who does the dishes? Me.
Who sleeps on the right side of the bed? Karen. Why do you ask?
Whose feet are bigger? Mine, duh!
Whose hair is longer? Karen’s.
Who’s better with the computer? For most things, Karen.
Who mows the lawn? Our gardener.
Who pays the bills? Karen, always.
Who cooks dinner? I do.
Who drives when you are together? That’s about 50:50.
Who pays when you go out to dinner? I do.
Who’s the most stubborn? Karen, of course!
Who is the first one to admit when they’re he’s wrong? Yo.
Whose parents do you see more? I think we see Karen’s mom a bit more than we see my parents.
Who named your ferret? I named Zappa. Karen named Harmonica.
Who kisses who first? That would be me.
Who asked who out? I passed her a note in p-chem lab. Don’t you read my blog?
Who’s more sensitive? I am.
Who’s taller? Me again. Better be, if I outweigh her 2:1.
Who has more friends? Oh, probably me, thanks to the blog.
Who has more siblings? We each have one brother and one sister.
Who wears the pants in the relationship? Karen.
To see who I tag . . . read the next post. Hopefully, I’ll have something more substantial for you tomorrow. G’night!
D.
Cuteness overload, NC-17
My sis sent me a bunch of awwwww-how-CUUUUUUTE photos today — yeah, another viral email, and doubtless many of you have seen this one, too.
But I doubt your mind occupies the same gutter as mine, so perhaps these captions hadn’t occurred to you.
But all the other girls at Zeta Beta Theta practice with carrots!
Carl, you don’t have to wipe up after fog.
- The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
The trouble with little cat feet? They leave little cat paw prints.
Two or three prints right there (I drew a box around one), several dozen on the rest of the counter. Karen says that on Arachnoboards, a list devoted to tarantula enthusiasts, someone once said, “The trouble is, they don’t just walk on your counters. They sit on them, too. Try putting red lipstick on your cat’s anus; later, you can count how many red smooches dot your counters.”
I don’t need red lipstick to prove it. My powers of observation suffice! And I shall not admit defeat to a cat. I have enlisted the aid of a motion-sensing ally.
The candles flash, the red eyes flash, and the speaker booms, “TRICK OR TREAT, BWAAHAHAHAHAAAA!” If it works, no paw prints, no butthole prints.
I haven’t checked yet to see if it’s working.
Live blogging tonight . . . oh, let’s make it 8, but I may be here sooner.
D.