I WANT TO SEE SOME STUMPS!
----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Steve
To: Janelle
Date: May 22, 2005 6:00 PM
I read your profile and your blogs. I have always wanted to meet someone who is schizophrenic. I find it very sexy. Please check out my profile and then get in touch if you find it interesting. Thanks.
Steve
----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Janelle
To: Steve
Date: May 23, 2005 3:16 PM
I've always wanted to meet an amputee, care to cut something off? I would find that incredibly sexy.
But then again, I'm crazy.
----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Steve
To: Janelle
Date: May 23, 2005 4:48 PM
Well you are in luck, I just so happen to be an amputee. We must be made for each other, imagine the odds of you being attracted to amputees and me being and amputee, and me being attracted to crazy women and you being crazy! I think we should meet some time and see if the magic is real. Why don't you pick a Starbucks in your area and let me know the address and time and I'll be there. I look forward to meeting you. I'll talk to you soon.
Steve
p.s. I can prove that I am an amputee, can you prove that you're crazy?
----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Janelle
To: Steve
Date: May 24, 2005 11:01 AM
Being that the decision has already been made about my relative sanity or lack thereof, I believe that the burden of proof (of amputee-nity) rests squarely on your shoulders. Unless they are what was amputated, in which case you'll have to find some other body part to rest your burden.
In other words, no stump pic no overpriced burnt coffee byproducts.
Showing the love for all things $19.99
One of the few summers that I spent in Boulder, Colorado was spent sharing a townhouse with my good friend, Jake. We'd worked together for a while by then, and had discovered a shared love for music, carpentry, thrift store art, and macrame that all added up to a rip-roaring good time (at least when it came to townhouse decoration). The summer was a long, strange one punctuated by days full of theater work, rushing home to watch the Simpsons (they played two episodes every night, inspiring a level of frantic fandom that sometimes frightened me but the fear never lessened the amount of time my butt was glued to our 2nd-hand sofa), and parties every weekend and most weeknights. Our few evenings off were often also spent butt to sofa, reveling in the cable we'd splurged on for the months of our employment.
It was that during summer of leisure that I truly learned the magic of infomercials. In the past I'd flipped past them, irritated at the hoarse, overenthusiastic shilling and tanned, bright-eyed cheerleaders yelling about their impossibly wonderful products. But now I stared, wondering if that machine could possibly beat an egg inside the shell and how I could justify getting that little chopper thing when I never really chopped much of anything ("I could start, really! Maybe I just need to buy more choppable groceries. Toast. Can you chop toast?"). Still, it took a few viewings for the Nads infomercial to really sink in. The first time we saw it, Jake and I laughed at the grinning women and their reddening skin blooming after the supposedly painless hair removal, and "ewww"-ed them thoroughly when they showed its harmlessness by taking a bite of the light green goo. The second time we discussed the possible benefits of the system on our shaving schedules, you know, IF it worked. The third time we just watched and dreamed, and somehow against my better judgement the phone ended up in my hand and a gargantuan order was placed.
When the box finally came, we threw a Nads party. People hadn't shaved legs or pits in days, some were meticulously planning exactly how to sculpt eyebrows and back hair. We set out the jars of goo and strips of linen reverently on our dining room table, making a little tableau of hair removal goodness. Attempting to be true to the commercial and all its facets, we cracked open a jar to taste it. Not a good idea. Though the products are natural, the combination is akin to mixing honey with yogurt with orange juice with tabasco sauce with grape jelly and a sprinkle of paprika. Not meant for eating. I'm not sure who started the hair removal melee, but once the instructions were read and the process understood, suddenly strips and goo were flying and we were all sitting around looking excitedly at our legs/arms/backs covered in pieces of sticky linen. The way it is supposed to work is thus:
1. Scoop goo with their handy-dandy goo-scooping stick
2. Spread goo on your disgusting, hairy body part in a space equal to a linen strip
3. Put on the strip and push it securely into the goo
4. Rub the outside of the strip vigorously to heat up the goo and help it grab your disgusting, smelly, begging-for-removal hairs
5. Rip off the strip once it is warm enough, leaving a smooth patch of beautiful hairless skin to celebrate its new freedom
(and of course, all of this is to be accomplished with no pain or side effects)
I rubbed and rubbed the first strip I'd put on my scandalously hairy leg, working the concoction up to a heat that I deemed appropriate, and carefully grabbed the bottom edge of the strip (careful to pull against the direction of hair growth, like they said). What happened when I tore the strip off of my innocent leg is not something that I can easily describe in words. Time stopped. I think I may have screamed. Colors all faded into black and then reappeared far brighter than they ever should have been. There was swirling. When I came to, I realized that in my enthusiasm, I'd already placed 3-4 other strips on my legs and was now covered in the devil goo. I whimpered softly and looked around at the roomful of people in similar pain. I finally convinced our department's intern to rip off the other strips for me, as there was no way in hell I could convince my hands to repeat that performance. Luckily she (nickname: Chainsaw) was eerily eager to perform the task, and did so with vigor, ignoring my pathetic tears and trembling. She was occupied for a while, ripping people with both hands and trying not to smile too hard while we compared red strips on our abused skin. The worst part of the whole experience was that the Nads didn't even remove hair well - it got only 1/4 of the hair in any given spot, and less if it wasn't warmed up enough. We gave up quickly and threw the jars aside, scrubbing our poor skin with the included "moisturizing" soap (also didn't work) and promising to never order anything from the TV again (which I kept until I saw the double CD "Monster Jamz" set)(hey, who doesn't love their "Monster Jamz"?).
I found my jar and accessory set when I moved. Not sure how it's lasted so long in my possession, but I'd like to offer it to anyone who has an urge to try out an incredibly painful and complicated method that will rip out a few of your hairs by the roots and make you want to die in the process. S&M? Could be your thing! You could up the ante by ripping a strip and then trying to eat some of the goo from the jar. The possibilities are endless.
Paranoia is fun
Where most normal-sized dogs have one torso, Rooster has about 2.75 torsos all strung together and jointed in a way that is strangely reminiscent of those snake-on-a-stick plastic wiggly toys that you hated to get at the carnival because they were usually a step behind the stuffed animal nirvana you could have achieved by popping one... more... balloon.
Bastard carnies.
The hassle with having such a torsonic excess (shut up, it COULD be a word)(English is an ever-adapting language) is that when Rooster wants to climb on the couch next to you, it becomes somewhat of a production. It begins with the WHUMP of his head, chest, and giraffe-proportioned front paws as they land roughly on or near your head. After a couple of enthusiastic face-licks to convey how excited he is to have gotten that far, Rooster tries to roll over onto his side and wiggle the rest of him up onto the couch. Usually the roll is attempted while still partially on the now-winded previously solo couch inhabitant, so the flailing elbows and rib cage can add all sorts of fun (read: bruises) to the experience. If a miracle happens and his hindquarters make it up onto the sofa before either a.) he is kicked off by the couch-holder for inflicting injury, or b.) he wiggles himself off and thuds onto the floor, he usually gets distracted again and immediately hops off to wrestle with Monkey.
He made it up last week while I was reading (I had to help him, it was sad) and uncharacteristically rolled over on his back next to me and let me scratch his tummy. I was thrilled at the change and scratched away while half-continuing to read, until the following thought process occurred:
"Hey, this is great! He's not hyper or trying to lick me! He's just lying there!"
"He's never done this before! Great!"
"Wait a minute. He's never done this before."
"Why isn't he bounding off in his ADD-induced puppy madness? Is he sick?"
"Oh my, I think he's sick. He hasn't moved in a while."
"I bet he hurt something trying to wiggle up here."
"He broke his spine, that's it. He broke his spine."
"If I poke at his paw and he doesn't move it, he broke his spine."
"Was that a move? I don't think that was a move."
"Now he's mad at me. Better tummy-scratch some more."
"It still doesn't count, he could have broken the bottom half of his spine."
"I'll just poke at his back feet a little."
(sound of more apologetic scratching)
"Maybe he broke his tail. I bet he broke his tail."
"Why is his head crooked like that and his eyes closed?"
"Omigod he broke his head."
Then he started snoring loudly and drooled a nice little spot on the couch, and after a half-hour or so of bliss, reversed his wiggle-roll-flop and casually sauntered over to the dog bed for some serious sleepage.
Good words to say with a southern accent
Sawdust ("saaahhr duuhhst"
Firewire ("faaaahr waaaaaaahhhrr")
Porridge ("porge")
It's kind of a slow day at work.
