I was prepared to write a bitter and angry blog about how Loony exposed me to Zika virus without my consent but then something really good happened and I’m finding it hard to work up a good head of hate.
But I’ll try … because I’m funnier when I’m angry.
After Loony started feeling all woozy and was certain (because Google) that he has Zika virus, he looked into the ways it can be transmitted. Turns out that Zika can be transmitted through sexual activity from man to woman (but not the other way around). To put a finer point on it, three specific sexual acts.
He tells me this after we had engaged in two out of the three. I’ll let your imagination run wild with that … or not if this is my dad reading. HI DAD!
Loony thought he was being all cute when he was like, “Wanna go three for three, babe?”
Hahahahaha. Fuck you.
I don’t know if I have Zika, or if Loony does either. I’m just as likely to be feeling ill due to stress, over exertion, poor sleep and being old. And inhalation of dried mouse turds. For a week.
But frankly, having Zika just sounds more exotic than being old and I can leverage something out of Loony if I pin it on him.
I woke up this morning totally exhausted because someone didn’t feel like getting up at 4am to walk you-know-who.
I was extra tired because of my foreign affliction and because I do handstands every day and I forgot to do them before I went to bed and didn’t feel like going downstairs so I closed the door to my bathroom and kicked up into a handstand but the door wasn’t latched and opened while I was upside down and I completely freaked out because I had nowhere to bail out and ended up landing on my head.
I might have a concussion.
I was still wearing my head-to-toe sweats ensemble this morning and considered going with it all day (at My Parasitic Twin’s urging) but then felt like I should probably get it up, if not for the mental boost.
Check out this podcast from 2 Dope Queens. The one to listen to is called Billy Joel Has The Softest Hands (episode 2). You can skip the opening monologue (but don’t because it’s really funny) and start listening at 11:30 to Naomi who is perhaps the most perfect woman in the world. She totally embodied my state of mind … cold, wanting to wear comfortable clothing, and giving zero fucks.
Pamcakes, you need to listen to Naomi. EVERYONE NEEDS TO LISTEN TO NAOMI! I laughed so hard at Target that people looked at me.
Anyway, I managed to rise above my need for heather gray fleece and put on a cute little sundress number, but guess what? I’M COLD! and this really nice checker at King Soopers (the short, older lady with the curly, short red hair who always asks about my kids because she’s a doll) said I looked really pretty.
I told her about my foreign borne pathogen and concussion and how what I really wanted to do was to wear matching sweats with a stain on the top but I decided to doll up so I would feel better.
“And do you,” she asked? “Feel better?”
I don’t know if I feel better but I definitely look better.
I’ve been giving away tons of free shit on Freecycle lately and the nicest little hippy gal brought me some kombucha as a thank you. As a rule I am highly suspicious of home brews with stuff floating in it but she was so dang cute and sunny, why not?
Maybe I’ll be healed.
My friends are being very helpful about my purging process. My good buddy Dan sent me this oh-so-helpful text …
Why not be in a great mood, right?
But you know the real reason I’m in a great mood?
I GOT APPROVED TO ADOPT A CHIHUAHUA!
I swear, rescue organizations are such control freaks. I get it that they rescue dogs from horrible situations and just don’t want to see it happen again. I get it. But when you have someone like me, who has fostered a dog and rescued a dog from a local organization, you’d think they’d give me a break.
But no, they sent someone all the way from Colorado Springs to make sure my house was suitable, that I wasn’t doing experiments on live dogs (as if I’d tell them that, unless you consider blogging about your dog a social experiment), or something horrendous. As if anything I would do would be worse than their original fate. Oh well.
But I passed! And tonight I get to meet this little guy.
His name is Harley and because Scratchy has been dying to name a pet Bartleby after his favorite character in Bone (a graphic kid’s novel) I’m going to rename in Bartleby, Barley for short.
Harley … Barley … get it?
I always think of the time I asked my mom what barley was. She said, “It’s a small, round grain. Rather cute.”
Rather cute is right.
His description …
Tan from his perked ears to his long tail, Harley is the warm color of toffee. With soulful brown eyes that will melt your heart, he’s a lover not a fighter, preferring cuddling with his people to cavorting with the other dogs in his foster home. Which is not to say he doesn’t like playing, because he does. But when it’s time to call a time out, his need for privacy has him burrowing under a pillow or blanket while the rest of the world whirls by without him. Much to his foster mom’s surprise, pint sized Harley has a big gruff bark, although he seldom uses it, and although he enjoys being outdoors or exploring the house, he is, well and truly, the ultimate lap dog.
And he only weighs 4.5 pounds! And he has a Tom Waits bark!
If anyone wants to drive down to Colorado Springs with me tonight, just let me know. I have to leave around 5:45.
Loony said to me that this time he wants to be part of this process. Unlike all the other times when I just bring home a pet.
I guess he should have thought of that before he gave me Zika and risked the life of my yoga teacher’s unborn child.
Really. I’m just kidding.