Tuesday, we get to laugh. Over and over. And over.

Oh, South Carolina, I am so, so very sorry.



Also, really, Michael Vick? I mean, REALLY?

I live in a jungle but there's good music there

My "indoor" cat which now spends the vast majority of her time outdoors brought me this lovely present the other morning -- a shrew, it's tiny belly pressed to the carpet, little scooper hands splayed out to the side, right there in my living room. It looked asleep, almost. So much so that I stood over it and stared at it for a good four minutes before getting up the nerve to pick it up with my paper towel-wrapped fingers and toss it out.

And Keelah sat there watching me watch it, and then watching me dispose of it, the whole time purring violently and making figure-eights between my feet like she was so proud of herself. I gotta give it to her, though, for being a three-pound cat with no front claws, she's a helluva hunter.

Later that day, she killed a 3-inch spider in my sink and laid it up on the counter for me to find in the morning.

I didn't realize, until my cat started hunting, that I was surrounded by bugs and vermin. Reassuring, isn't it?

Oh well. She may be a pain in the ass, but at least she brings home the bacon. Which is significantly more than I can say for one of my roommates.

Monday playlist:

Night Swimming -- R.E.M. Just try it. You'll like it.

Brighter Than Sunshine -- Aqualung. This song makes me feel desperately, irreversably, incurably in love, even when I'm not. But just for the record, I might be.

Almost Lover -- A Fine Frenzy. They're a band led by a lilting, dramatic, piano-playing female vocalist. They opened for Rufus Wainwright at the Moore, and were a distinctly non-sucky opener. This song is pretty much the saddest "almost love" song ever. My boyfriend wants to sleep with the redhead. For all the above reasons minus one, I love them.

No Love -- Team Facelift. Thier name is Team Facelift. They have a song called "Lotion in the Basket". The three rappers in the group are called Machine, Fat Jew and Ginger Ale. They care most about, according to their MySpace page, "not giving a fuck". I like that.

Try not to panic, it's only heaven.

Heaven is totally overrated. It seems boring. Clouds, listening to people play the harp. It should be somewhere you can’t wait to go, like a luxury hotel. Maybe blue skies and soft music were enough to keep people in line in the 17th Century, but heave has to step it up a bit. They’re basically getting by because they only have to be better than Hell.

–Joel Stein, Columnist for The Los Angelas TimesRead his whole post here

My personal heaven? Lots of sun. Lots of water. Lawn everywhere -- a little long, but not unkempt. Popsicles. Footballs and frisbees and fishing off docks. And kissing.

And dogs. Many dogs. Maybe a dog to person ratio of, like 1:1. Have you ever noticed that usually dogs are a lot easier to be around than people or, say, cats? And sometimes more interesting.

Speaking of interesting, can somebody please explain to me what a jellyfish actually IS? Do they drift, or swim, or both? Do they hunt, or just run into their food, or both? And where does their food go? I've seen lots of jellyfish, but it appears to me they are all hungry, because I've never seen a jellyfish with a fish in its "stomach". Because I'd know. Because they're clear.

Also, while we're talking food and confusion, what is the nutritional value of a mushroom? As far as I can tell, their closest relative is dirt. Or maybe rocks. Or sponges. In any case, they're delicious.

My friend's aunt drinks non-alcoholic beer. Which is funny, because while I like the taste of beer, I also like the warm fuzzy feeling it gives your brain, right at the outer edges, kind of like when you're just about to fall asleep or orgasm. But my friend's aunt just drinks non-alcoholic beer because it reminds her she used to have orgasms, I think.

Speaking of things that are manufactured to impersonate good things but minus certain unsavory parts, why hasn't anyone come up with a non-tobacco and nicotine cigarette yet? For all the orally-fixated people of the world (me, for instance) that would be a delightful thing -- and unlike non-alcoholic beer, you would be getting the ultimate satisfaction of smoking (hand to mouth to hand to mouth) with none of the gross side-effects, including but not limited to stinkiness, wrinkliness, cancerousness, terrifyingly gutteral chronic cough and poorness due to ridiculously high tobacco taxes. (Not that I suffer from any of those afflictions, as I am not a smoker; I just think it's worth noting.)

Last night I was so anxious about having been on (lovely, relaxing) vacation and away from (interesting, fast-paced, exciting) work that I decided to throw a party, cook for 8 of my closest friends, and drink a bottle of red wine. Which was a good idea, up until the 3 a.m. panic attack, when I woke up and was so stressed out all I could do was reach stiffly for the blackberry next to my bed and breathe too fast (in and out, shiraz-flavored panting) while scrolling through the next four months on my outlook calendar frantically, the whole time convinced that I was going to drop dead of a heart attack at the tender age of twenty-something-too-young-to-die.

Panic attacks are interesting because when they strike they are stealthy, only waking you up from a dead sleep when you are already apparently in the grip of death, grim reaper with his gnarly hand on your heart, which is pounding out of your chest. Your limbs tingle, giant tears hang out in your eyes threatening to roll down each cheek. And my panic attacks, at least, are about nothing specific, but rather everything minute and inconsequential.

For example: My toilet is clogged, not flushing right. No big deal, need to plunge and draino again and that will probably fix it up, right? Right?

But if plunging and draino doesn't do it, what then?

What if I damaged the plumbing in the house and the pipes break and water goes through the second floor ceiling and down into the kitchen and they have to dig giant holes in my room to repair it and I get kicked out and my cat escapes or drowns in the runoff and my friends have nowhere for me to stay and I can't find another place to live and I get fired for missing work because I have to canoe through my house and then sick from the standing water and can't afford the medical bills and then my boyfriend leaves me for someone less quirky and confrontational and significantly less disasterous in every way and I am left with only that hooded sweatshirt I hate because it chokes me and my highschool yearbook and a guitar I still can't play, lying on my friend's parents' couch where I die alone and still unable to play "Blackbird"?

Panic attacks are about, you know, stuff like that.

And all you want is for somebody to tell you you're not going to die and maybe pet your head like when you were five years old and remind you that you're not alone, not at all alone, and not a crazy person, well maybe just a little.

But nobody's there, so instead, you picture the worst case scenario: you, dead.

And then it occurs to you that maybe, just maybe that might not be so bad. And then you have an idea: Distract yourself from your own unnamed panicky dread by picturing heaven. (Aaaah, and here is where this post starts to come together. Do you see it now? The genius? Thank you.)

And then, as fast as they came, the panicking and palpitation and panting are gone and you are waking up extra early later that morning and going to the gym to get the lingering panic out and then you're at work, all early-like, and things have changed since you were gone, but not that much, and people are glad to see you and your things are still in your office. Even the stapler and your plants, Spike and Henry.

And there are flowers on your desk. And a friend mailed you a book while you were gone. Both these things make you smile really big even though nobody is looking.

And someone tells you you're "glowing". Which is funny, because if a panic attack and 4 hours of sleep following a bottle of wine makes you glow, you think, you should be basically beaming most of the time.

...

I'm back, and while perhaps not entirely recovered from my vacation, I'm thankful for it almost without exception -- the only exception being the overflowing "in" box on my desk.

I'll get back atcha when I've had a bit more oxygen and maybe a little something to eat. In the meantime, welcome to a whole new week. Try not to panic.

You know what works for me? Picturing heaven, with the dogs and the lawn and the docks and the sunlight. And the kissing. Especially that. That's better than Hell and panicking, both.

Goodness update

There are many good things happening (BO-RING, I know) at the moment -- in fact, so many that I have no time for a proper (or, rather, completely inappropriate, lengthy and unnecessarily sarcastic) post. So, instead, a list, which I'll come back to for discussion as soon as humanly possible (and I return from vacation):

1. I'm going on vacation!
As usual, this will entail lots of sun, shit-talking while playing various games and sports, alcohol and lying around when not shit talking, drinking, or playing sports. Or frantically waving on-fire marshmallows around my head trying to extinguish them when I accidentally over-toast them (in my toasted, overly, state).

2. I'm alive, surviving the world's worst flu of all time. (Okay, it wasn't that bad, but I didn't eat or work for 3 days, so for me, that's major).

3. My escape artist cat is now an indoor/outdoor cat! This means I 1) don't have to feel guilty about being a bad mother and giving her away and 2) she's smarter than I gave her credit for: when she gets out, she kicks it in the great outdoors for a while, then realizes it's boring and scary out there and there's nothing good to eat and comes home, sits outside the door and meows until someone hears her and lets her in. Hurrah!

There's more, as always, but before I can fully re-commit myself to you, humble readers, I must bake myself for four days outside cell phone range and far, far away from the Interweb.

Wish me luck, have a lovely weekend, and we'll talk soon.

Sick sucks, but has its moments...

I've slept for 72 hours in the last 5 days. That means I've been awake for about 48.

I have some sort of virus that completely knocked me out, and sent me scampering home Monday morning at 10 a.m. after a pretty valiant attempt at actually going to work. In the car on the way home, in fact, I was doing that thing you do when you're feverish: shaking and whimpering. Audibly whimpering.

And sweating.

The only time I got up Monday and Tuesday was when the boy showed up and made me drink liquids and when I sweat through my sheets so badly that I had to get up to shower, change my sheets, and go back to bed.

It was MISERABLE.

But there were perks.

In two days, this is what I ate:
4 Otter Pops
8 spoonfulls of soup
5 spoonfulls of ice cream
2 bites of bread

This non-eating policy my stomach launched over the course of the past week had a delightful side benefit. When I finally got up Wednesday morning feeling slightly better, I went to the bathroom in a bra and underwear to brush my teeth and was greeted by a pleasantly super-flat stomach and tinier than usual waist.

"Huh," I thought. "Well, at least there's that." I might have had the energy of an Ethiopian boy, but I was looking lithe. And I was feeling much better. So much better that I could go to work.

So much better that after work, I thought it would be a good idea to celebrate my newfound health at a work function with 4 to 5 tasty beers along with my colleagues and executives (we wone a big award, so everyone was celebrating).

And that's when the perk turned on me.

You see, a girl with a virus who doesn't eat and just sleeps and sweats for two full days has the alcohol tolerance of an eight year old. I had nothing in my stomach but beer. And I was feeling good!

Until 7 a.m. Thursday, when I woke up with a hangover like I've never had before -- and guess who was baaa-aaaack? Yep, the fever, the chills, the sweating -- the virus. It hadn't gone away, it was just taking a break. And when I let my guard down and thought I was cured, it came back to bitch-slap me for my stupidity.

Yesterday wasn't such a hot day at work. And though I was sick and brutally hungover, I toughed it out (after all, everyone had seen me feeling SO good the night before... I couldn't possibly take another sick day). The only upside there is that everyone else was so hung over too (no kidding -- literally everyone was dragging ass, and we're a 100+ person company) that nobody noticed me in my office, bundled up in a coat, scarf and slippers with the heat full blast, shivering and sweating like no tomorrow.

Today, though -- today is a new day. I'm hydrated, I'm still boasting the tight tummy, and I'm not drinking a drop this weekend. Because I hate sick. Sick sucks. And I'm never doing it again.

Have a happy, healthy Friday. Do something your body will love you for, for once.

[Note: Don't worry -- once I'm back to 100 percent, all this positivity about "your body is a temple" and whatnot will inevitably fall to the wayside and I'll be back to my usual antics, but until then, humor me, will you? And think happy, healthy thoughts. And send me presents and sympathy emails. Thank you.]

Not technically plagiarism, just extreme, credited, laziness

From Dooce, pretty much the funniest blog excerpt I've read in a while. It's long for an excerpt, which I'm sure violates some sort of copyright law, but what the hell? Drive fast, take chances, I say.

[And Dooce, apologies for the fact that I'm leveraging your shit to entertain my readers because my shit today is actually quite shit-like, which is to say unfunny/uninteresting, whereas your shit is golden.]

At any rate, we enter the scene when our heroine is in the middle of a quick and thrilling livingroom hookup with her hubby (their roommate, GEORGE!, is out at the moment, presumably for the night, hence the rogue non-bedroom hook-uppage):

"...I’ll just go ahead and admit that there is nudity, like there is wont to be in this type of situation, and within a few minutes there is a cloud of shirts and pants and pillow cushions that has sex-ploded in a giant burst over the entire living room, like a herd of elephants has come through and knocked everything over. And we’re being very friendly with each other when suddenly a strange but familiar noise comes ringing through the air, that of a door handle being vigorously jiggled.

I don’t even remember this happening because it is so lightning fast, but somehow Jon is mid-air within, I don’t know, a blink? And just as quickly he has one leg into his underwear. Now, I have no frame of reference as to what I’m supposed to do in this type of situation. I’ve never had to hide the act of sex from anyone because I started participating in it at an age when my parents were not in the other room. And a part of me thinks that if I close my eyes GEORGE! will just go away. If I can’t see him then he can’t see me. That’s called physics.

Meanwhile Jon is waiting for me to make a move, to hop up and carry my bare white ass to a closet or at least behind a piece of furniture. And I notice that he’s looking very confused, so all I can think to do is grab one of the pillows I have thrown off the couch and cover my body, although come to find out it’s only big enough to cover one body part, not two at the same time, and it’s Sophie’s Choice right there in my living room...."

How's that for a cliffhanger? Read the rest, here.