Some things that have been falling out of my dog's face lately

More Spidermobile

So where did we leave off? Ah yes, the spider in the purse. A few days passed, and the spider was forgotten. I don't know what ended up happening to the purse. I drove back to Chicago thinking there was just three of us in the car. It wasn't until a week later when I was driving somewhere - the trauma of the experience has erased my destination from my mind - that it revealed itself. Hanging onto the ceiling by the shotgun oh shit handle. Jackass. And of course, once I noticed it I was totally able to focus completely on driving and not watching that little asshole to make sure it wasn't going to launch an attack on my face. It could happen.

Everything was fine until it started crawling along sunroof towards the backseat. "Oh, hell no." I thought and grabbed the only smoosh weapon I had on hand: a granola bar wrapper. I went to smoosh and missed. On my second attempt, the little bastard fell between the seats. Great. Now I knew there was a spider in the car but couldn't see it, and it was most likely angry since I had tried to smoosh him with a granola bar wrapper. Fantastic. Abandoning my car on the side of the road seemed a very real and appealing option at this point.

Spider has made one more appearance since, in the dark on Halloween night. Fell on a friend, which is appropriate for the holiday I guess but still awful. He may be dead now, but I have no proof. I won't feel safe in there again until I see his crispy, dead body. Until then, have you any idea how many spider-sized holes and crevices are in your average Corolla? A LOT. I know this because I now notice them all. Small holes in the console, seams in the light above my head, the entire damn lining of the sunroof... the little bastard has so many options he could live in a new home every day.

My plan now is to carry a dustbuster to the car each time I use it, only entering after I ensure that the ceiling doesn't harbor any hitchhikers. Ugh, this whole post is just making me paranoid about spiders - I just thought I saw one on the wall behind my screen. Otherwise I guess it will starve to death eventually but I don't know exactly how long that will take. Anyone have any data on spider starvation? I removed the granola bar wrapper and all its invisible spider-sized nutrients if that helps your calculations. The only other food in there is another granola bar that expired in 2007. Good friggin' luck, Spider. Your days are numbered.

Birth of Spidermobile

There is a spider loose in my car. I know this, because when I was driving with one of my sisters, she suddenly spazzed out and screeched "SPIDER!!!!" while flapping her arms and slapping at herself. You're an elegant lady, Jenna. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

Anyway, I managed to keep the car on the road as she threw her purse to the floor. "It's in my purse. No, no. It's in there. It was on my neck and now it's in my purse." I saw this as moderate containment of the spider situation; she saw it as the complete and utter ruin of her purse and all the items it contained. Potato, potatoh.

"Well how big was it?" I asked. I have a very specific formula I use to calculate how much I hate/respect/fear spiders. Size factors very heavily into this formula as do hairiness, leg thickness, color and whether or not I have just walked into its web. Ugh. It's a pretty simple formula to use, as no matter what you input the answer is always 100% of possible spider hatred. Still, it's good to know one's enemy.

"I don't know."
"Well, it was on your neck, you have to have some idea. Dime? Fingernail? Quarter? WAS IT QUARTER SIZED?!?"
"I don't know! It was smaller than a tarantula."
"Okay, well thank you for narrowing it down."

Jenna spent the rest of the drive staring fearfully at her purse while I spent the rest of the drive looking for skittery movement out of my peripheral vision. Once we hit the driveway, she leapt from the car holding her purse at arm's length. She then found a clear spot and then dumped out the bag and began kicking through her belongings. When an item was found to be spider-free, it was transferred to her jacket pocket. My job was to hold the purse upside down, its lining all barfed out, while watching Jenna kick epipens and tampons around the front yard. Pretty effective strategy, really. I kept an eye on the purse I was holding in case the crafty spider was hanging in it. It was at this point that I noticed that the lining was torn in several places.

"You know, Jenn- there's holes in this lining. He could have crawled in there and be setting up shop right now. He could live happily for quite some time in your purse and you'd never even know it."

"No!" she wailed. "I love that purse!"

I forget what happened next because I got bored holding the purse and went inside. The next time I saw the purse it was on the kitchen table, which in my opinion is a crappy place for a potential spider house. Jenna was planning on making my mom sew up the lining of the purse, sealing the spider within a satiny, faux-leather grave like some kind of tiny, postmodern twist on The Cask of Amontillado or however you spell it. We both assumed that the spider was in the purse.

But you know what they say happens when you assume. You end up with a damn rogue spider in your car, and do you even KNOW how many hiding places for a spider there are in your average car? Way more than in a stupid purse, that's for sure. Ugh. We'll have to get into that tomorrow.

NaBloPoMo

Well according to Christine (I didn't verify this with other sources, so this may just be a trick) November is NAtional BLOg POsting MOnth. So basically an acronym with training wheels is cajoling me into writing. I'm okay with that. I'm a little late to the party, which is pretty typical, but if I feel really inspired maybe I'll backdate a few of these. Yeah, I'm not above lying. Lots has happened since I posted last, and I don't feel like doing a formal update. So... I'll give you little pieces as background is required for these daily posts and you can take them as given. Tidbit #1: I now have a puppy, her name is Moo.



She has about a billion toys, but a few are her obvious favorites, like these squeaky balls.



Alas, the squeaky balls are rapidly reaching their own individual fates. I thought I'd use this post to commemorate their passing. (Note: this might not be a good idea for a post. I can't tell. It seemed funny when I was thinking about it earlier. It's been so long since I posted that until thirty seconds ago I was writing in the HTML window thinking hmmm, when did blogger get so complicated? Maybe NaBloPoMo will be good for me. You damn kids and your HTML.)

Red Ball

They say that only the good die young, and although I have no way to measure your goodness versus other mini squeaky tennis balls, you certainly bit it first. I guess you can take that as a compliment. You accompanied us to the dog park for some fetch, an overly ambitious idea on my part for at that time Moo's idea of a "fun time" at the dog park was avoiding all dog contact and sitting on my feet. An insane Jack Russell terrier (but I repeat myself) overheard your squeaky attempts to engage Ms. Moo and extended you an invitation to play. I hesitated, as you were small and cute and I had no guarantees of this dog's retrieval abilities. Eventually, I relented and the dog proved to have impressive fetch and drop-it skills. I'm sorry. This was the beginning of the end. Your end.

A surprisingly far throw sent the terrier running, but the ball was intercepted by a boxer. A dog, not the guys who hit each other. The boxer soon realized that what he had caught was truly a prized possession, as the Jack Russell chased him to get it back and then his owner followed suit, realizing the dog had stolen a toy. Also, the ball was the perfect size to lodge in a boxer esophagus, making it that much more attractive. The chase went on for hours, or at least twenty minutes. By the time you were returned to me you were no longer the bright cheery Red I had come to know. Your time in that dog's mouth had changed you, transformed you into a matted, muddy, dented shadow of your former self. Seriously. It was friggin' gross. There was no way you were coming home with me looking like that. It was your time for you to start living your own life as a designated dog park ball. I discreetly rolled you away and headed home. Is that bad dog park etiquette? Hmm. I'm not sure, but if it is, then disregard that and know that I threw Red away like a responsible dog owner.

Either way, I never saw Red again. Hope everything worked out for you, buddy.

Green Ball

You were the next to be drafted for dog park duty. Don't thank me, thank your fluorescent color that stands out so well against the grass. I'm not sure what colors dogs see but half the time she gets distracted and I end up going to get the ball anyway. As for your fate, I'm honestly only including you because you were included in the ball family picture up there. You just kind of disappeared. I think you might be in my dog park bag but I'm too lazy to get up to look. Hey, I just said all the balls had stories. I didn't say they were all interesting.

Blue Ball

This was a walk related incident that was entirely Moo's fault, as she has no blog and cannot refute this. We were walking along the lake on those giant steps which I'm sure have a name but if they do, I don't know it. The edge looks like the top of the castles that I draw. I'm sure you have a very clear mental picture based on that terrible description, but here's a picture just in case.


I let Moo run free to drain the last of her crazy puppy energy. To facilitate this, I rolled you, Blue, and you performed admirably. In my defense, I was careful to roll you towards the step and away from the water. This strategy worked out quite well for some time until you bounced off Moo's paws and headed for the lake. Ugh. What the hell were you thinking, Blue?

At this point I'd like to say that I'm sorry if I seemed more concerned that Moo turned and bolted to follow you to the edge than the fact that you were clearly already going over. You're an $.80 toy and she's a puppy whose swimming skills are limited and certainly wouldn't be helped by a 10-foot fall into cold water. Luckily Moo stopped and we both crept to the edge to see you floating helplessly in Lake Michigan. Not even near one of those ladder things, which to be honest I totally wouldn't have used to rescue you. They look slimy.

I did have the presence of mind to say a few words on your behalf. If those words sounded a lot like me saying, "Whoops, sorry Moo! It's gone. We've got more at home" well then I can only say that you were half submerged and clearly in shock. I said some lovely things and I'm sorry if you missed them. If it makes you feel better, it took Moo a good forty-five seconds to stop looking for you in my hands. Sigh. Good-bye, Blue.

Orange Ball

Hmm, Orange... you might be under the couch. Again, I really only had stories for Red and Blue but you and Green are part of the package. Don't get all full of yourself, based on the early demises of your brethren you don't have long to live. Come to think of it, I recently I saw Moo holding you between her paws and tearing off your orange fuzz coating. So even if you do make it to old age it will likely be a patchy, balding and miserable existence. So quit it with the smugness, Orange. I don't like your attitude.

All right, that's all I got. See you tomorrow.

More Tales from Hollywood

On the sidewalk in front of the Chinese Theater, a shifting cast of wannabe actors mill around dressed as movie characters. Passersby can have their pictures taken with the character of their choice, most likely for a small fee. A trick I will not be falling for again, after some stupid FAKE gladiators outside the Colosseum in Rome got me to take a picture with them and then bilked me out of whatever the lira-equivalent of five dollars is, which, yeah, five dollars but it was one picture with costumed idiots and I can’t even look at it and enjoy the memory without getting pissed and wishing I had castrated that idiot with his stupid plastic sword for tricking me. So I scoffed at the tourists partaking in these photo sessions. One woman we saw, though, took it to a whole new level.

As we were walking around, we kept seeing a reasonable facsimile of Captain Jack Sparrow foppishly running to and fro in front of the theater. With a woman following him with a camcorder. All while shouting at him to keep running. Um, what? On and on they ran, weaving through the crowds, and were quickly out of sight. An hour later, this craziness mostly forgotten, we were confronted with it again, head-on. While walking down the sidewalk, we heard the voice of the amateur director behind us.

Sparrow, in front of blue polo shirt guy; Camerawoman in red hat; Zorro, obvious.

“Keep running! Run through those girls! Run through the middle of them!” Oh, hell no. I was not going to be a part of this foolishness. I stepped to the side and glared as Captain Sparrow flounced by, carefully followed by the camerawoman. And let me tell you, a half hour of running around Los Angeles mid-day did not do anything for their aromas. Phew. Also, there had been some casting additions since the portion of the storyline we had seen earlier.

The story now also involved Zorro sauntering behind Sparrow, absently hitting on people he passed. Now, I was only seeing some chase scene segment of the movie, but I am really getting the sense that this is a movie I would not like to be forced to watch. Because you know she’s going home to splice her hours of footage together on her iMac with her collection of instrumental soundtrack MP3s, burn off some DVDs and then lure her unsuspecting friends over to force them to watch her cinematic catastrophe. Those poor fools.

Someone please tell Zorro that he has to be IN FRONT of the camera to be in the movie?

I never did find out what Sparrow was running from or how Zorro factored in. Maybe she was reshooting the end of Pirates of the Caribbean: People Are Still Paying to See This Nonsense So Let’s Make a Third Movie, because that was one suck-tastically terrible ending. Seven years of single motherhood punctuated with one day of barnacle encrusted visitation rights? Bullshit. I agree: let the Z-man pick up some of the slack. Sure, he may step out on Keira Knightley’s anorexic ass for Catherine Zeta Jones every once in a while, but at least he’s bringing in some income by slashing Zs into stuff. My knowledge of Zorro comes pretty much exclusively from a trailer I saw ten years ago, but I think that’s a pretty accurate assessment of his persona. But for serious, the end of that Pirates movie sucked hard. They should have had the whole trilogy end and then cut away to Robin and Spongebob discussing the ethics of piracy. That would have been more satisfying ending. Or, I just had this picture I wanted to use again because it cracks me up.

Robin and Spongebob offer unique perspectives on piracy. Unfortunately, no one listens.

To whom it may concern: If you are secretly in love with Jack Sparrow, Zorro, Keira Knightley, Catherine Zeta Jones, gladiators, barnacles, Robin or Spongebob and feel that I have slighted them, been flippant with their good names or offended you, please know that I don’t care. Please also know that these people are fictional, not people at all and/or not interested in you. K thanks bye.

Mysteries from the Past

At one point, I knew what everything on this list meant. I wrote down each word for a reason and then carefully tucked it away in a hidden pocket of an old wallet, where I found it this past weekend.

Alcohol transform slutty… rapping. It’s just cryptic enough to sound vaguely profound. Like something that would be needle pointed on a pillow in the sitting room of a drug-addled poet to curb his homicidal tendencies. Or encourage them. I’m not sure.

And then there’s the question of the Target shopping list. C sub 1 W sub 1? I’ve been thinking about this since I found the note, and… apparently I needed to purchase a Star Wars robot. I don’t have any robots, so I must never have made it to Target.

PS - YOU'RE WELCOME for the free advertising, Bonar Group.

I'm Not a Genetic Counselor, But I Play One On TV

Until last fall, I had never been west of the Eastern half of Minnesota. That’s no longer true: Fancy New Kinsley went to Los Angeles for a (grumble) educational conference (grumble) week! No clinic (true), no homework (false); nothing but fun in the sun (false, false, false). The trip got off to an inauspicious start, as most of my better trips do. Three of us hitched a ride to the airport with my dad, who was in town for a meeting and also to take the cat back home for a week so I wouldn’t come home to find her shriveled up on my windowsill… like my crispy flowers. We went to the check-in counter to claim our tickets and see just how much I had overpacked. Answer: not enough to have to pay a fee. Win. The friendly SWA agent printed my ticket and asked for my ID, a security measure I usually appreciate. “Uh-oh,” she agent said. Oh, this is going to lead somewhere good. “Your license is expired.” Okay, but my name and picture haven’t. I’m not asking to drive the plane, so what’s the problem? Unfortunately I don’t carry my passport with me, though I should in case I need to flee the country if a spy who looks like Matt Damon needs my immediate assistance. Although how long do passports last? That might be expired too. Anyway, as it turns out, what we do now is red-stamp and write all over my boarding pass and tell me I’ll have to go to “special” security. Whatever. As long as I get on the plane, I don’t care. Dad’s already gone, there’s really nothing else I can do. And so it was on to our gate, special boarding pass in hand.

I was separated (we got sTHeparated! Ha! Does Tara even read this? Who knows) from my travel pals fairly quickly and shuttled off from the main hallway – alone, with my head hanging in shame. I lost sight of the rest of the airport while walking down a hall into a walled-off area of the terminal. It was horribly traumatic and we’ll have to leave it at that because I was forced to sign a non-disclosure document about my brief, nightmarish experience.

Just kidding, they were totally nice. I had to put my bags in trays and the first guard told me that actually, since my license has been expired less than a year the airport didn’t have a problem with it but the SWA people are persnickety little bitches and they call shenanigans after two months, which may or may not be against the rules. And for the record, my license had been expired for four months at that point, because who the hell ever looks at the expiration date of their license? Well, me, now. The guard put my cell phone in a bin and asked what sounded like “Have you ever been to the Buffra?” I believe “Uh, no? I don’t know what you’re talking about?” was my clever reply. “Have-you-ever-been-to-the-Puffer?” he enunciated. “Oh. No.” Apparently this is new. It’s an arch that you stand under, and jets of air are blown at you, and you wait there while a computer sniffs you and decides whether or not you smell like terrorism. After a tense moment, the green light went on and I was free to go, most likely because I had neglected to put on my Victoria’s Secret purple whore spray that morning. The spray is purple, not the whores. My shoes were returned to me, and I put them on while watching the mild violation of my bags. The process was pretty interesting, mostly because I knew I had nothing to worry about. That they could find! I’m kidding. Or am I?! I am. The only possible contraband would be the crochet hook I’d brought; even then, seriously? Terrorism and handicrafts hardly go hand in hand. They wiped my electronics and the insides of my bags with filter paper and took them to a machine that would decide my fate. A few beeps and boops later I was allowed to go free. As it turned out, I made it through my “special” security before my friends. Huzzah! We hit the food court (where they were performing flu shots. Huh? Exactly) and then went to our gate. The flight was long but uneventful; I didn’t have to sit next to a crazy alien believer, so what’s the point of writing about it? I got a window seat because I am a child. I saw mountains and deserts and clouds, and when we landed it was warm with a 100% chance of palm trees. The internets helped us find somewhere to eat, and then the night was pretty much over.

The upholstered expanse of central Nevada.

The next day I woke up absurdly early thanks to the two hour time difference. I’m talking 5 a.m. no problem. It was not natural. Conference stuff didn’t start until four, so we decided to head to Hollywood to be tourists for a while. We were dropped off by our weird and possibly dishonest cabbie in front of the Kodak Theater, where popular award shows are apparently held. As soon as we got out of the car we were standing on the Walk of Stars… right on Britney Spears’ star, essentially guaranteeing I’d have her music stuck in my head for the rest of the day. I’d pretend to complain but if you read this you probably know me and the lie that would be.

First on the list of stuff to do was Coffee Bean, because Kelli was dancing around and composing ballads about their coffee, having been in CA for nearly 20 hours and not having been to one yet. We sipped our drinks through the famous (á la TMZ) purple straws, with me getting an ice cream headache with every sip. I think my drink was freezing the short-term memory center of my brain, thus explaining why I’d continue to chug a drink that was clearly causing me pain. In true tourist style, we walked around with our heads down, reading the ground.

She's a man, baby. XY.

We passed Grauman’s Chinese Theater, also famous for hosting things. Probably some award show. Chinese Oscars? Who knows. We saw a giant TomCruiseOlogy center, took some very original and hilarious pictures and then walked quickly and silently past so they wouldn’t leap out and grab us to extract our alien souls and then marinate our brains in crazy juice, as is my understanding of the organization. After that we entered a rather sketchy area. We could see glimpses of the Hollywood sign between buildings, but the buildings themselves were definitely not hosting any red carpet events, unless you count “hosting” a Halloween costume sale by putting turboslut costumes on mannequins with THE biggest boobs I’ve ever seen. But I don’t think that counts as an event when that’s what you do all year long.

Buy, lease, or dump a body.

I also saw a store that sold pimp suits. I got a picture, but due to some Designer Protection Integrity Technology®, the pimp suits were invisible behind a large glare.

The fabrics are lovely. For smackin' a bitch up!

We turned back when the sketch factor got too high, and also when the stars on the sidewalk started repeating. Alfred Hitchcock has two? I admit I enjoy the man’s work but come on. Is one star for his shadow?

When we returned to civilization, we went to Highland Center to get some pictures of the Hollywood sign that didn’t have an abandoned construction/murder lot in front of them.

From our lofty tourist perch we surveyed the eateries available to us, settling on a nearby California Pizza Kitchen seeing as we were a) in California and b) being stupid tourists. It was going well until a “grave error” was made with one of our orders Mer had to wait approximately ten years to get her food. Our waiter, Alphabeta Kentucky (not his real last name, but okay fine it was another state south of the Mason-Dixon line that rhymes with Bennessee, I shit you not) told us our drinks would be comped. Woo! Should have ordered more than just an iced tea. This is a good general rule I will be implementing.

After lunch we had time for Grauman’s Chinese Theater. I’m not really sure what the purpose of this place is. What goes on inside? Why is it Chinese? Does Grauman have a variety of ethnic theaters in his possession? All of these questions have no clear answers, unless of course you Google them, but I’d rather leave it with its shroud of mysteriousness.

Another mystery: why does Samuel L Jackson write like a girl?

We walked around and compared our feet to the freakishly tiny feet of the stars of yesteryear. Seriously – Judy Garland may have had something wrong with her.

TCBFS affects tens of people a year. Please, won't you help?

Foot binding, tiny creepy baby foot syndrome (TCBFS), something was going on. I realize I’m tall (thanks to random guys in hospital basement hallways) and therefore have larger than average feet. But I don’t know how she was teetering around on those little nubs. One entire foot could have gotten caught in a chink between the bricks of the yellow brick road. Especially where the road fell into disrepair in the ghetto of Oz. Wait, was there a part like that? Maybe that was in ‘Return to Oz.” Ever see that? It is cracked OUT. The fact that I saw the movie while on codeine for my tonsillectomy (and then, of course, recreationally) may affect my memories of this cinematic surprisingly-not-straight-to-VHS gem. Talking couches, heads in cabinets, a rolling Nothing taking over the land (actually this may be from the Never Ending Story). What is up with movies from my youth? Speaking of tangents, what the hell was I talking about before? Oh, right. Tiny midget feet. Freaks! The fortune teller was roaming around here now, claiming to everyone that she had some good news for them if only they’d pay her for a reading. I couldn’t spend my money on her, though. I had to buy some postcards because I am a very good sister and friend so we went to Hip Hop Hollywood, and awesomely trashy souvenir shop. I carefully picked out cards for each person and if you are reading this and didn’t receive one, it must have gotten lost in the mail. Damn you, USPS! While we were browsing the other fine merchandise, we noticed a commotion outside: a bunch of people standing in front of a semi-circle of photographers. Things are happening...

We somehow figured out that a star was being unveiled. But whose star was it?! I SUCK at identifying celebrities, so I was staring at the crowd desperately trying to recognize someone when two of us come leaping through the store, whisper-shouting for me to get my camera (get? Please, it’d been in my hand since we got out of the cab that morning). Who had just arrived via gleaming white Dodge Caravan but Doogie. Freakin’. Howser. The Doog.

(Related but uninteresting fact: I did not watch Doogie Howser. The only episode I ever saw was one where his weird friend had to deliver their teacher’s baby in an elevator.) Was it his star? Were we waiting for the Doog? I didn’t see one for him during the walk, could today be his day? Hmm. He hung back playing it cool while I pretended I wasn’t taking his picture. No one congratulated him. I was still scanning the crowd to see if any faces looked familiar… nope. Then suddenly a giant emerged from the crowd. That nose! That gross Weird Al-esque hair! Those tiny Scrooge mini-glasses! We have it, folks. My first independent celebrity sighting. Penn Gillette. Towering over the unmagical masses

Funny story, even though it should have been obvious to look for sidekick Teller next, I didn’t. In fact, I didn’t even know he was there until I read a story about the event, and then noticed that he was even in the pictures I had taken.

Whoops. I see you now, Teller!

But the question remains: why was this unlikely duo being photographed mid-day? Who do they have in common? In the absence of any real answers, I kept taking pictures and speculating wildly. I love the lack of photographic responsibility afforded by digital cameras. Somehow, possibly by sneaking through the wall of photogs, I saw a name on the newly revealed star: Houdini. Oh, of course. Houdini. That explains Teller the Magical Giant, but Doogie? I got nothin’. A brief photo shoot later and Doogie skipped back to his Caravan and zipped away to who knows what. Probably not much if he has time to attend unveilings for long-dead magicians. Possibly the opening of a PetSmart or a Star Trek convention. You know, more logical events for him to attend. Before the crowd could disperse, we had to head back for some NSGC ice breaking newbie foolishness, effectively ending any opportunities to gawk at famous(ish) people. On our way out, the gypsy tried to peddle her crazy one last time. None of us were buying because we knew our immediate futures: ten hours a day of non-stop lectures and all the cheap plastic shit we could carry. And so until next time, I leave you with some words of wisdom on the timeliness of wearing striped sweaters.

Spongebob and Robin discuss the age old issue: sweaters vs. capes

P.S. Sorry about the formatting, it's screwed up and I don't know how to fix it and everytime I go back in I get yelled at about HTML or some nonsense and it was risking everything to come back in and make this P.S. That was the end of that sentence but you probably can't tell because of the period that is a part of the P.S. Shit, now it happened again. Do I need to put another period after that? I dunno. Sorry about the formatting.

Pepper and Ass

Bought some new body wash the last time I was at the ol' Jewel-Osco... yeah, I know how to treat myself right. I decided to go for the grapefruit and lemongrass scented Dove. It's supposed to energize you, and with two 7 am tumor boards a week I need all the energy I can get. It smelled pretty good in the store. Citrusy. However, the story changed when it combined with water.

Chemical reactions of an unspeakable nature combined to create the one of the top three foulest stenches I've ever been trapped in a shower with. (Don't ask.) It was a overbearing, peppery stank. And I mean both pepper the spice and Pepper my family's dead rabbit who's been decaying underground in an HP printer box for quite some time now. Pepper and skunk. Pepper and hot wet garbage.

I thought I was clear of the stink but a few hours later while sitting at the computer in clinic, I caught a whiff of it. Oh, God no. It was lingering and combining with my perfume to give me a light, delicate aura of peppered ass. Not to say that my perfume smells of ass. It was some chemical reaction or something. I can't explain it. Science.

It seemed to come and go all day, so I avoided getting close to anyone lest they begin to question my personal hygiene. After all, it was bathing that got me into this mess. I had to go back to Jewel-Osco tonight so I bought new body wash: swirly blue with an ocean-fresh scent. Until the water hits it, anyway. Hopefully I smell better tomorrow.

Who loves computers?

I don't.