I like to call it...

I finally seem to be parting ways with the nasty, hacking cough that moved into my throat and lungs about a month ago. For weeks I would suddenly burst into bouts of what sounded like a goose trying to honk for help while choking. At other times, it sounded like someone was slapping wet wallpaper against the inner wall of my chest.

As you may imagine, I expelled some pretty interesting stuff during these fits. I like to call it "cough confetti". It was so plentiful and festively colored that I considered renting myself out for parades and holiday parties.

Hooray! Paaaarty time!

I'm still working on that whole learning-to-talk thing.

Last night at work I attempted to take a drink order from two guests.

I usually start in on the beverage-ordering process by saying one of two things: either, "Can I start you off with a beverage this evening?" or, "Can I start you off with a beverage tonight?" However, while standing at this one particular table, I mixed up my words at just the wrong moment.

I said, "Can I start you off with a beverage this night?"

This night? Ugh. I felt like such a goon - like the restaurant had me on loan for the day from a Renaissance Faire. I should have followed the question with, "Mayhap m'lord would enjoy a tankard of ale? Or a goblet of wine, perchance? If a tincture of lemon, water and sugar is more to your liking, verily, our lemonade is the finest in all the land!"

What a goober.

Happy National Hamburger Day!

Hooray! Today is National Hamburger Day!

To celebrate, I ate a hamburger topped with Romaine lettuce, avocado and chipotle mayo. It was crazy delicious. How crazy, you ask? Take a look:

My friend Molly posing with my burger.

She can't even believe how absolutely wacky, nutso, CRAZY delicious it looks!

As her modeling fee, I gave Molly a bite of the burger. It was so good that I had to assure her that yes, that really did just happen in her mouth.

True Story

re-crave

- verb (used with object)

1. To crave, with at least double mega-intensity, something recently consumed.

I am totally re-craving the blueberry-banana smoothie I had today with lunch. I'm getting all sweaty just thinking about it.

When I was a little kid and I was craving cake, or strawberries, or lettuce and butter sandwiches* or any other treat not readily available to me, I would sometimes draw a picture of the food I was craving on a small piece of scrap paper. I would then eat that piece of paper. True story.

It never worked very well back then - that dry, chewy wad of tasteless paper didn't really satisfy - so I have no reason to think it would work now. No reason, that is, other than my nagging, desperate re-craving and the hope that more modern technology might save me.

Here we go...

Nope. Still doesn't work. And now I have to figure out the best way to clean saliva smears off a computer screen.




* - That's a story for another day.

Go to the Beach!

Tonight Jay and I went to the beach with a six-pack of Sam Summers and watched the ocean. We will both miss being so close to the sea when we move to Austin. If you haven't been to the beach at night lately, here is what it looks like:

So beautiful, right?

P.S. Those little white squiggly things are moon-sparkles. Not tiny squid emerging from the water to say hello. Alas.

Guess who's a guest star?

Here's a stick figure:

Now go check out my guest spot at Awesometown Reviews!

LOST - "The End"

An Extra Hole

Most people only have two holes in their nose. I have the traditional two nostrils, plus an additional tiny hole on the left side of my schnoz. It looks like this:

(Image not to scale.)

I got my nose pierced a few years ago, shortly after I started dating Jason. I remember being mortified because, as the piercing was being put in, my left eye began to water uncontrollably (the right one stayed dry.) I didn't want Jay to think I was the type of girl who would cry simply because she was being stabbed in the face with a needle.

I'm not permitted to wear a nose ring at work. I think that aspect of the dress code is dumb, but I prefer to choose my battles; once I convince them to let me wear a light-up unicorn horn glued to my forehead, I'll move on to fighting for the nose ring.

My nose ring can both lead to and save me from certain embarrassing situations. Adjusting the piercing requires me to stick my thumb up my left nostril to fiddle with the backing. On more than one occasion someone has spotted me doing this and cringed, prompting me to hurriedly explain that I am simply fixing my piercing and not just picking my nose. On the flip side, I've also been caught, on more than one occasion, picking my nose and I've been able to just gesture to my piercing and claim that I was merely repositioning the stud. Unfortunately, this only works if I'm harvesting boogers out of my left nostril.

Hmm... I wonder how I'd look with both sides of my nosed pierced?

Let me show you my boy parts...

Years ago, a friend told me that I had "boy parts".

Now, before you start spreading crazy rumors, let me assure you that I am, in fact, anatomically female. Having "boy parts" simply means that I possess a few qualities, and enjoy certain activities, that some people would consider to be masculine. I love things like video games, action sci-fi movies, tattoos, rude jokes and farting.

At the same time, though, I love makeup, poetry, unicorns, pictures of kittens and cooking. And farting.

Anyway, the point is: I have enjoyed experimenting with gender roles from a young age. Below, you can see a little photographic evidence.

Here I am at age 11 - I was absolutely thrilled that I got to dress up as a Wild West-era belle:

I remember being completely in love with the huge, feathered hat and the enormous, swoosh-y skirt.

Now, here I am at 21 with then-boyfriend, Peter:

I wanted to be a cowboy so badly! And there I was, living the dream: Me, a lecherous, beer-swilling, prostitute-groping cowboy.

And, clearly, Pete had some "girl parts" so this photo op was perfect for us.

Well, that's all for tonight. Sweet dreams, everyone. Give both your boy parts and your girl parts a kiss for me, okay?

My College Graduation

Here's a photo of me at my graduation from Salem State College on May 17th, 2008:

Hold on, I know I must have a picture from the ceremony somewhere. I can remember getting ready for it - I got up early, showered, got my nails done and... hmmm...

Oh. That's right - I had made a small scheduling error for that day.

I scheduled my wedding on the same day as my graduation.

So, when it came down to it, I had to make a choice: attend my college graduation ceremony or attend my wedding ceremony.

Five points if you can correctly guess which one I picked.

My Preschool Graduation

Here are some photos from my 1986 Graduation Ceremony at the Luv 'N Care School.

What a woman I was already:

See that? Tucking my diploma beneath my chin like an afterthought, tipping my cap to the audience, fearlessly showing off those legs - the very picture of class and courage.

A tender moment:

Me and my dad's mustache.

Finally, an image of bittersweet irony:

I imagine that my inner dialogue went something like this:

"Wheee! I'm free! Unshackled from such mundane tasks as fingerpainting, making sand castles and napping! Here I go - on to bigger and better things!"

Oh, little Lola... if only you knew then what I know now.

The Graduate(s)

Jason's black graduation robe is hanging on the door behind me. I remember when, a few months after we started dating, he became a full-time student at Salem State College. He was so anxious.

On Saturday, I'll sit next to his parents and watch his graduation ceremony. I am very proud of him.

This time of year always has me thinking back to some of the graduation ceremonies that I've attended over the last (almost) twenty-eight years. Of all of them, my high school graduation definitely gets the "Jumbled Bag of Emotions" award.

I vaguely remember enjoying kindergarten, but things went downhill after that. First grade through twelfth grade was like an extended period of slow, soul-scraping torture. My misery and angst knew no bounds.

On the plus side, it was while serving my four-year sentence in high school that I began writing poems to cope with my unhappiness. From what I recall, my early attempts at poetry were pretty dramatic and self-indulgent. They generally revolved around such themes as, "No one understands me," "No one likes me," "The boy I like doesn't know I exist," and "The boy I like knows I exist but he doesn't like me or understand me."

Rough stuff. But it helped shape me into who I am today. Thanks, writing!

I don't remember much of my high school graduation - mostly because I brought a book and read through the whole thing. I was really that intent on not caring and making a small display of it.

See, look how "over this whole thing" I was:

You can tell I don't care because I'm sticking my tongue out. It also appears that I didn't bother bringing any skin color with me that day.

That's all for today, friends. Tomorrow I will write about another momentous occasion in my life: My preschool graduation.

Gifts That Keep On Giving...

For our anniversary, I gave Jason Beaver Fever!

See that cuddly little guy up there? That's a plush version of the Giardia parasite. I had Giardia once as a child (see my April 12th entry), so I thought Jay should have a chance to have it too. We love each other and we like to share everything.

As I was perusing the Giant Microbes plush toy website, I briefly thought about giving Jason something a little more extreme and therefore (according to my sense of humor) much funnier - something like Black Death or herpes. However, I ultimately decided that such a gift might be a kind of jinx that could backfire on me spectacularly.

Here's the kind of scenario that I envisioned/feared:

ME: Happy Anniversary! Look, I'm giving you herpes!
JASON: Too late!

Oh well. Maybe I really should have gone with herpes... we could have made some great "re-gifting" jokes.

Two Years of Awesome

Tomorrow Jason and I celebrate our two-year wedding anniversary!

Here's a picture from our wedding:

Jason and cake - two of my favorite things, both on my face at the same time! Hooray!

Joke... Success?

I have written here about a number of my "jokefails" at work (see entries "Darth Vader Style" and "Jokefail"). Tonight, while working at the restaurant where I'm employed (which is located in a large shopping mall), I made a very successful joke - and it was completely unintentional.

For the purposes of this story, please be aware that mall employees get a discount at the restaurant I work at.


ME:  (Approaching a table of three women.) Is there anything else I can get for you ladies this evening?
WOMAN 1: Just our check.
WOMAN 2: Yes, (winking) and you can go ahead and put our discount at the bottom.
ME: Oh, are you mall employees?
(The WOMEN look at each other for a moment, then burst into wild laughter.)
ALL THREE WOMEN: Hahahahahaha!
(They look at each other, as they're laughing, as if they've never heard such a ridiculous suggestion in their lives.)

Oh, yeah! I get it! HAHAHAHA! What a funny joke! Those mall employees! Those miserable peons! HAHAHAHAHA! What an insignificant existence they must lead! How absurd it would be to imagine that you could ever count yourself as one of them! HAHAHAHAHA!

HAHAHAHAHA!

OMG! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Oh. Hey, wait...

Headband or Hairband?

I think that when most people use the term, "headband", they should actually be using the term, "hairband."

Hairband should refer to an accessory that is used to tame unruly hair.

Headband, I feel, should really only refer to an accessory that is used to tame an unruly head.

The Theory of Relativity: Toy Tantrums and Cat Food

A while back, Jason and I discussed the fact that suffering is relative.

"Think about a four year old throwing a tantrum because they didn't get the toy they wanted," Jason said.

For an adult that has endured a large spectrum of life's disappointments, Jason pointed out, not getting some small wanted item usually causes just a minor pang. But, for that four year old, the experience of being denied a desired toy might genuinely be the most bitter, anguish-inducing and traumatic event they've yet known.

I have noticed that the same principle seems to apply to animals.

My cats get fed a very reasonable amount of food twice a day. Yet, when mealtime draws near, they sometimes begin to meow in a way that is a so pitiful an onlooker might suspect that I like to starve my cats for fun.

Here is a typical conversation:

MINA: Meow.
ME: Shush.
MINA: Meeeow. Meow.
ME: I'll feed you in a minute.
MINA: Meow.
ME: Hey! Shush.
MINA: Meow.
ME: Mina, shut it!
MINA: Meow. Meeeeeeow.

Now, that same conversation, with the cat-ish translated to English:

MINA: WHY?!
ME: Shush.
MINA: WHY DO YOU LAUGH AT MY AGONY?!
ME: I'll feed you in a minute.
MINA: THE HUNGER!
ME: Hey! Shush.
MINA: IT HURTS!
ME: Mina, shut it!
MINA: IT HURTS! SWEET MERCIFUL GOD, IT HUUUUUURTS!

In situations like this, I sometimes need to step away and consider what life is like for our two cats: They spend the entirety of their day in a small apartment. Pretty much the only pastimes they ever get to enjoy are sleeping, cuddling and gorging on their twice-daily meals. I suppose it makes sense that they would attach a very intense amount of importance to these few rituals.

Unfortunately, none of this explains my own occasionally hysterical, all-consuming cravings for tuna melts.

I'm working on that, though. If you have any insights, please let me know.

The Artist is Born

Today I was looking over the drawings I had made of Spike and Mina for POMC Week. While admiring the graceful lines and skillful blending of marker inks, I asked myself, "How long have I been an artist?"

I mean, one doesn't simply make their debut from the womb with the immediate ability to create something like this:

Right?

Then I thought back to a couple of portraits I had made when I was five years old - one of my Aunt Sue and one of my Aunt Shirl. I located and examined a photocopy of these portraits and I realized: I have been this talented since at least the age of five.

And, by "this talented", I mean, "exactly this talented". I honestly just about reached the zenith of my creative ability within a few years of first figuring out that my hands existed.

Here's a photograph of my aunts that was taken two years ago:

Shirl (left) and Sue (right).

Here's a copy of the portrait I drew of them back in 1985:

How can I help but be pleased with myself? Obviously they've aged a little bit but, otherwise, the likeness is uncanny.

The Tuna Melt Incident

Consider the following mathematical equation:

I don't recall the exact sequence of events that led to the discovery of this absolute mathematical truth, but here are some of the memories I've been able to gather together:

• Jason and I got home after a party.
• I begged Jason to make me a tuna melt.
• Jason said something that seemed, at the time, completely cruel and unreasonable - something like, "Lola, it's almost 3 a.m. We should go to bed."
• I started to run down the stairs, brokenhearted, whimpering and determined to make my own tuna melt.

I'll let you fill in the rest. It's been a couple of days since The Tuna Melt Incident of 2010, and I'm still finding bruises and sore spots all over my body.

To be fair, though, I suppose there's really only one person I can blame.

And that person is Jason.

His tuna melts are recklessly delicious.

Dear Mom: I'm Proud to be the Fruit of Your Loins

Today was Mother's Day, so this one's for my mom.

Mom,

I would like to thank you for all the gifts you've given me. Today, I will list three of my favorites.

1. Life - I'm liking this whole being alive thing. It seems to be working out pretty well for me. Also, you managed to pop me out three years TO THE DAY after the birth of my future husband, thus ensuring that I would never have any difficulty remembering his birthday. Well done!

2. Eyesight - Remember when you and Dad paid for my Lasik surgery? That was awesome. Among other benefits, now that I don't have to wear contacts the amount of finger-to-eyeball contact time I used to experience each day has been drastically reduced.

3. My Butt - That butt I got from you makes it tough to fit into jeans sometimes, but it's truly a fantastic family heirloom. Thanks for passing it down! Jason seems to think it's pretty great too.

My mom, pictured here with my dad.

He helped her out with both number one and number two on the above list.

He's a good helper like that.

Jokefail!

Tonight at work I approached a nice couple seated at one of my tables. They had placed their crumpled napkins on their plates. The gentleman was playing with a toothpick. Only a sip or two of wine remained in their glasses.

ME: (Reaching to gather the dinner plates) I see napkins on the plates - that's the international signal for "We're done," right?
THE WOMAN: (Laughing) Oh, is it?
ME: Yup. Just like a closed menu is the international signal for "We're ready to order."
THE GENTLEMAN: (Smiling and waving his toothpick at me) What's playing with a toothpick the signal for?
ME: Playing with a toothpick? Well sir, (chuckling) that's the international signal for "Take my glass of wine before I'm done with it and I'll stab you in the eye.

(A five second pause follows. THE WOMAN and THE GENTLEMAN laugh nervously.)

THE GENTLEMAN: We'll take our check now, please.


My lip still has indentations in it from getting bitten so hard after the words, "I'll stab you in the eye" escaped my mouth.

Quiz Time!

Here's a photo of me at age six. I am being held at gunpoint by a pirate.

That guy in the background looks scared.

Even the stuffed cat looks scared.

Q. So, in this life or death situation, with a scarred, mustachioed, sash-wearing maniac pointing a gun at my head, what's with the big, toothy grin?

Your answer in the comments section, please.

A. ____________________

Happy Sinko de Mayo!

I don't feel quite right celebrating Cinco de Mayo. I can't claim any Mexican ancestry, and the whole thing seems like just an excuse to drink excessive quantities of tequila and Mexican beer.

Instead, I celebrate an equally festive holiday: Sinko de Mayo.

And, in the grand tradition of this wonderful day, today I reworked the plumbing in my apartment so that my sinks would run mayonnaise instead of water.

Yum! Happy Sinko de Mayo, everyone!

Please feel free to use this holiday as an excuse to consume excessive quantities of egg-based condiments.

May the fourth be with you!

Happy International Star Wars Day!

I celebrated by making some Star Wars-themed snacks. Here's a photo of Jason enjoying the Yoda Soda that I concocted:

Okay, it doesn't really look like he's enjoying it in that photo. He looks a little scared.

Ah, much better!

I made my Yoda Soda with kiwi and strawberry flavored sparkling water, Midori, Grey Goose L'Orange and... probably a couple other things. I can't remember - probably because I've consumed too much Yoda Soda.

Oh, and hey, guess what else I made?

Check it out:

Wookiee Cookiees!

These cookies are so tasty; I can't decide if I should eat them all up or if I should freeze some and save them for Shaggy Brown Dog Day.

Or Placid Brown Jellyfish Day.

Or in case Pac-Man ever introduces a new, brown ghost to the game.

Modern Monsters... RARRRRR!

Tonight I was going through some old files of photographs and picture projects I have stored online, and I found something very special.

Readers, prepare yourself for one of the most mystical, maniacal and dangerous creatures to ever walk the earth.

Behold the Unibomber!

I Didn't Shoot My Eye Out!

This past weekend, I travelled down to Connecticut to join my sister, my mother, two of my aunts and over a hundred other women for one of the most meaningful and beautiful bonding rituals that human beings can engage in:

Shooting things.

Here are some photos from our day at Rockville Fish and Game Club's Ladies Range Day.

There were jokes aplenty about how huge the safety goggles looked on me. This brought back memories of when I was well into my twenties and still buying kid-size eyeglasses. The problem, you see, is that I have what an old boyfriend once referred to as, "a tiny pygmy midget head."

At one point in the day, my sister asked me to hold onto her earplugs for her. My pants were too tight for me to comfortably squeeze anything into the pockets, so I went with what was obviously the next best solution:

Oh man, look at me in that photo above - I had totally just let one fly!

Yup. That's my pistol-packin' mama.

Our particular group of ladies was the "Silver Stars". My Aunt Sue was our "shepherd"; she would hold a paddle-like sign aloft as she herded us  from station to station, thus ensuring that no one in our group would go astray.

Early in the afternoon my mom spotted the shepherd paddle lying unattended on a picnic table. She immediately seized it and started waving it around. Below you can see her, laughing maniacally, completely drunk on power!

Here's my favorite shot of me from Ladies Range Day:

I was actually a pretty good shot! Now I just have to be careful not to mix up any of these photos with the old photos I have from when I was a Super Secret Spy Assassin Marksman Sniper Soldier of Awesome. What a good gig that was.

Delicious Boy Brains!

The other day Jason picked up a green scarf of mine and draped it around his head and neck so that he bore a striking resemblance to a Russian peasant woman.

"I like that look on you," I said. "It would make a great disguise."

"Yeah," he said. "An awesome disguise."

Then he lifted both ends of the scarf in front of him and added, "Plus, I could attach razor blades to the ends and..."

He completed the rest of his thought by twirling the scarf-ends, nunchuck-style, at imaginary assailants while making whipping and slashing sound effects. I laughed.

"You're such a boy," I said.

Jason paused and stared at me.

"What, you've never thought of that?" he asked, eyebrows raised, in genuine disbelief.

"No," I insisted, still laughing, "I really haven't."

Jason shook his head and continued his scarf attack.

It's true, readers: I hadn't thought of that. It's something I plan to work on though.