Just beneath the surface of normal

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Evil Haunted Dolls Made Me Do It

Okay, before we even get started with today’s madness, let me just apology-preface this by saying that Helen Keller is my hero. Not just because she kicked all the educational ass despite her considerable difficulties, but also because she was an outspoken activist who used her fame to talk about poverty, civil rights, and pretty much all the causes that I care about. She was BAD. ASS. and I love her. So I’m sorry, ghost of Helen Keller, for my inappropriate sense of humor. I like to think you’d have appreciated it though, and I’ll bet anything all of your closest friends knew the sign for “eat a bag of dicks.”

Now I do too:

Now to the point: It’s time for another installment of IMs with David!

David: Going to cabin in mountains in West Va for two days
David: In a room with creepy dolls.

you can't even turn them around because they'll see you in the mirror.


Maya: I would have sex in front of them just to spite them.
David: Yes. But what if they moved mid climax?
Maya: fear makes it better. Why do you think people go fuck when they think they’re gonna die?
David: The dolls watch me pee
Maya: you’re bigger than they are – ask if they like it.
Maya: make them as uncomfortable as they make you
David: Also, 1830s house…so they could be possesed
Maya: …that doesn’t mean they don’t get uncomfortable…
David: By spirits from school for the deaf from across the street
David: They just can’t hear me
Maya: even better. bigger gestures then
David: Like the miracle worker

With penis
Maya: Rule 34
Maya: I refuse to look it up though
David: You know what the miracle worker is
Maya: yes. that’s mostly why I refuse to look it up. Hopefully it’s at least done with an ADULT Helen Keller
David: Ohh
David: Ppeee nnidsss

Helen Keller: Eat a bag of dicks. Both of you.

I’m sorry, everyone. It’s totally the dolls’ fault.




Geriatric Cats are Totally Ungrateful

Our cat, Annie, is seventeen. We got her when she was six from parents who claim their toddler was allergic to her, but I suspect they just couldn’t deal with her constant, noisy demands to be held and carried around while their toddler was also making constant, noisy demands and wanting to be carried.

This past winter her thyroid developed a nodule and started overproducing, so we’ve been saving to send her for radiation therapy so we wouldn’t have to struggle to give her expensive anti-thyroid medicine twice a day for the rest of her life. In preparation for the procedure, we took her for her pre-treatment blood work. Because she’s a member of our family, something medically weird happened: her thyroid levels were normal, but her kidney function was low enough that the doctor suggested we take her to a 24-hour emergency vet clinic an hour away in Wilmington, DE for two days of IV fluids. Which means we spent all our cat savings anyway, just on something more unexpected. After two days, she came home looking like this:


I’m a poodle now. Poodles are cool.

And also with an unhappy prognosis: months? Probably. Years? Very unlikely. Her Creatinine levels are high and we get to give her subcutaneous fluids every other day to keep them as low as we can. But there will be a point in the near future where she’ll stop eating and just be miserable and it will be time to let her go, which really sucks, but that’s having pets.

But let’s back up a minute: subcutaneous fluids.

What I imagined was the skinny little needle we use to administer her monthly arthritis medication shot, which she takes without even flinching. What I was confronted with was a full-sized IV drip bag, and a needle that looks like it was stolen from a certain galactic Seattle monument. Still, I reasoned, if she has so few nerve endings between her shoulder blades that the smaller needle doesn’t faze her, maybe the larger one won’t either.

You’ve probably already ascertained that this was magical thinking on a level that would make even Walt Disney raise an eyebrow and go, “really?”

My first attempt was sad and awkward, and involved replacing the needle several times, because she always managed to move and the needle would fall out and saline would spray everywhere like one of those old sprinkler toys.

Just hold still while I put this in your back.

Trying to hold her still is seriously 95% of this battle. Jim usually tries to hug her while I do the dirty work. Here’s how that generally goes:

Me: Hold still asshole, I’m doing this to save your life.

Annie: You’re literally stabbing me in the back right now. I’m supposed to hold still while you murder me? How about no.

Me: No, murdering you would be not trying to fill you up with enough fluids that you look like a tiny furry linebacker. You’re welcome.

Annie:  Seriously, you need to cut this shit out right now. You’re lucky my other family – MY REAL FAMILY – had me declawed. I am not even kidding. Let. Me. GO!

Me: If you’d just hold still the needle would just go into loose skin and not hurt, but the wiggling makes me stab you in the hurty parts, so you’re actually doing this to yourself. You’re stubbornness is making it hurt AND poisoning you from the inside.

Annie: Don’t care. It can’t be worse than that horse needle you keep trying to kill me with. I’m out!

Sometimes I manage to get about half the fluids in her I’m supposed to, sometimes not really any. Sometimes we both give up and glare at each other angrily from across the room. She’s been a really healthy cat up until the last year, so I guess I’ve been lucky. But this is the worst kind of payback. And it comes with suffering and death at the end.

Gosh, isn’t having pets just great? (Yeah, it so is. And there will be others because not having them is way worse than having them.)


The Scourge of Pervlexia

So I have this thing that happens when I read blocks of text, where letters from lines above and below the line I’m reading get all wrapped together and combine to make entirely different words. Sometimes it’s just weird, but probably 98% of the time it creates something dirtier than the original intent. Today my friend posted this on Facebook:


I am stalked by my own dirty mind.

A normal person would go, “hell yeah, me too!”, hit Like, and go on with their day. But because of the triangular proximity of “on call” and “my back” and “bliss” in the two lines, my brain interpreted it as “when I win the lottery, I am going to have someone scratch my balls,” which is sort of an odd thing for a cis-woman to want, really, but who am I to judge.

I would have rolled my eyes at myself and kept going, but I seriously see that every single time I look at that text. So I finally had to admit to her what I saw. And that’s when a miracle happened: someone else commented that they saw the exact same thing. I learned something important: I am not alone. We are multitude (or at least two) though we suffer in silence.

On the spot, I came up with what I thought was a brilliant and original portmanteau: Pervlexia. Alas, Rule 34 (well, it’s not exactly porn – maybe Rule 33 1/3?) was in effect, and someone already thought of it twelve whole years ago. Which just goes to show you how special Barbiesaurus really is.

So now that we know we’re not alone, it’s time to end the silence! It’s time for we who constantly misread things inappropriately to come out and say it loud, “I’m Pervlexic and I’m proud!”

Now to be clear, Pervlexia is not the same thing as this phenomenon:

Admit it, you saw “I have a flower in my butthole” too. If you didn’t, I’m frankly not sure why you’re even here. You should probably see a doctor

No, it’s not just misreading “pens” as “penis”. This is the tendency to create new dirty words/context out of combinations of entirely different and benign proximal words. And I do it all. the. time. Though of course I can think of no examples of it right now -other than the one that started this- because I have the memory of a drunk gnat. Except when it comes to things that don’t matter at all. Which you would kind of thing this would fall into, but it’s like my memory knows when I’m going to need something in the future. Because my memory is kind of a spiteful asshole with psychic abilities.

But so, In another shameless attempt to get my comments section to actually DO something, tell us, dear reader: what have you hilariously misread recently in your struggle with Pervlexia? Bonus points for inappropriate context like teachers, bosses, and priests.


Jesus Has My Motivation

You know how sometimes your to-do list sort of stacks up – especially the stuff you actually WANT to do – because all the crap you don’t want to do is more urgent will deliver unwanted consequences if you don’t do them first, but there’s too many of those too and before you know it your to-do list is threatening to avalanche on you and you don’t actually even remember what’s on the first page anymore? Yeah, I know -“sometimes.” Except only sometimes does this list make me feel like I don’t know how to adult, which is what’s happening right now. I blame Jesus. I know, “what the hell, Maya? That doesn’t even make any sense! You can’t just blame Jesus every time you can’t get it together.”

The feeling is totally mutual, Jesus.

But I can, and what’s more it will make perfect sense to you by task 3. So buckle up and prepare for a ride though the wild and fearsome jungle of my inner monologue.

To-do list for this blog:

1) finally make the damn Christmas ornament from my old Mirena already. You exorcised that demon two and a half years ago! Exactly how long do you intend to keep it a plastic bag in the bathroom cabinet? You’re never going to win the “it has to move with us” argument if it isn’t coated in glitter. There is glitter, there is glue. What exactly is the holdup? Oh, time-shame is it? It doesn’t roll backward, sweetcheeks, so you might as well do it now.

2) make a barbie-saurus. Seriously, somebody has to do it, and it should be you since it was your idea. If the leg sockets aren’t compatible there’s always x-acto knives and glue. And duct tape. And big poofy barbie dresses to cover the mess, which you’ll probably need anyway to cover the giant dino-hips. Better to do it badly than not at all. Goodwill is Right. Down. The Street. There’s not even snow anymore. Just go!

3) Make a t-shirt that allows wearers to decide what of theirs Jesus has today (for those following along, go read this post, just the part about the Jesus Easter Eggs; now go read comment 23. Now understand why I blame Jesus for stealing my motivation. He’s probably a kleptomaniac though, so don’t be too hard on Him because it’s an illness). The Bloggess hath spoken, and this t-shirt needs to be made. Okay, admittedly this one was more complicated than you might have guessed. It took a whole day to set up the (still empty) Zazzle shop, then there was the unsuccessful day spent trying to find a place to make custom patches that don’t belong on paramilitary gear, followed by exasperation and lust-shopping for embroidery machines. And then there was that wasted hour making custom Pantyhats™ that resulted in nothing because leggings aren’t in stock right now. This one is a puzzle. I totally forgive you for not finishing this one yet. [thanks, me!]

4) Eulogize Terry Pratchett. Okay, granted, this one’s been really hard. How do you finish a post when every time you try to write it everything goes all watery? I know it’s sad, but this is important – your writing deities don’t die every day (thankfully). So suck it up, buttercup, and honor the honorable already. What would Sam Vimes do? Agreed: bacon sandwiches (and yeah, Do What Must Be Done).

5) Write a post about Corinne turning 18 on Tuesday. Again with the weepy; it’s a wonder you’re not completely dessicated! It would have been way more meaningful to do it ON the birthday, but she’s no less 18 now than she was Tuesday. There’s good material in this story, you just have to remember to not go all maudlin, though admittedly the apple/tree issue makes that difficult. Still, time’s a-wastin. “My baby just turned 19” has a much less dramatic ring to it. Hop to it.

The trouble is, that’s only one of like seven conversations happening in my head right now. It gets very noisy in here.

The upshot of all this is that these are all things you can look forward to here…at some point…hopefully soon. I have a day to myself on Saturday, so my fingers are crossed that I’ll get a bunch done and then stack up a bunch of posts to release over the next few weeks. OMG, it would be so nice to get ahead on posts. Yeah…this is me, holding my breath.

Jesus could at least be helpful and take my excuses or fatigue or something. Or figure out those damn t-shirts for me. You’d think He’d want the PR, or at least a convenient way to keep track of whose stuff He has right now.

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UPDATED: Shower of Awesomeness (now with much less awesome)

UPDATED: after I announced to the entire Internet how up I was, it was kind of inevitable that bad news would follow. It did, though shockingly in the form of the passing of the great Terry Pratchett. I feel somehow personally responsible (though obviously I’m not). Certainly I’m ridiculously sad because when I think of how I want to be in the world, he is the person I think of first. I’ll write another post shortly with my own personal remembrance, but it’s hard to write when your eyes are all swimmy. I think I mostly just wrote this update to appease the Internet gods so they won’t kill off anymore of my heroes.

The Internet is just spewing awesome at me this morning. Which is kind of nice, because yesterday was regression day and I made myself sort of miserable. But I guess sometimes you have to go back to see how far you’ve come. So I went home and had a good cry and a nap, and you guys I ATE DAIRY AND GLUTEN MAC AND CHEESE, which is like forbidden love and your first high all rolled into one creamy, glutinous orgasm when it’s off limits. How? Through the miracle of Gluten Cutter I am able to indulge once in a blue moon. Yesterday the moon was bluer than that stupid dress evidently is. It was glorious.

So this morning I got back on the journaling horse and sorted through the stuff crowding my brain and got my mind re-organized to function again. And then I went online, where the Internet was apparently conspiring to make today a whole lot better than yesterday. Also, this isn’t a sponsored post, just things I think are awesome that you, being still here, might also think are awesome.

1. Holy crap, you can now play Cards Against Humanity online!

The majority of my most inappropriate friends are far away, and the prospect of playing a not-exactly-MASSIVELY-but-not-small-either Multiplayer Online game of inappropriateness chicken with them from afar is just about the best birthday present you could give me. I envision it in conjunction with a big Google hangout with wine. I will be setting up a public game in the very, very near future. Look for information in a future post.

 2. Princess Rap Battles

I know I’m late to this show, but in case you are too: How have I never heard of Whitney Avalon before now? Aside from her work on TV, films, theater, web, etc., she writes these hilarious Rap Battles between characters, including Gladriel vs. Leia, Mrs. Claus vs. Mary Poppins, and Snow White vs. Elsa. Today she released a battle between Belle (played by Avalon) and Cinderella (played by Sarah Michelle Gellar, y’all!), which is going viral as we speak – and not just because SMG could get views for picking her nose. This shit is the best since Garfunkel and Oates (who have their own show now – how did I not know that either?!). Thank goodness smart, funny women are a trend…if only online.

3. 90s Hip-Hop

Actually manages to hold up, and I suddenly find myself on a throwback hip-hop kick. I really object to the way Spotify treats musicians, but I can’t help but love the ability to make playlists that include awesomeness like The Humpty Dance and Ladies First. I dare you to feel bad listening to those songs. You will lose, because you simply cannot. Which is actually sort of a win. Except probably for Digital Underground and Queen Latifah. I should probably just go buy the tracks.

4. Prismatic Privacy Film

Sure, privacy, yeah, whatever. You can cast rainbows all the hell over the room. It’s like your bathroom is suddenly the setting for Dorothy Gale’s first acid trip**:

“you don’t have to GO ANYWHERE to get to rainbows, man! Rainbows are, like, everywhere. They’re on us right now. If you open your mouth and let them in, you can have rainbows INSIDE YOU! If I were lactating, rainbows would totally shoot out of my tits and I could feed them to the world! Whoa, that’s deep – I should write this shit down so I don’t forget it…. Hey, is that guy really a munchkin or is my vision just that distorted?”

Hopefully these things make your day as thoroughly as they made mine. You’re welcome. Unless you already knew about this stuff and didn’t tell me, in which case thanks a lot. Anyway, excuse me but I have to go buy rainbows for everywhere.

**not that I’m advocating taking illegal substances, because that would be wrong. Unless you’re using it medically. Because somehow that’s different. Also, I kind of miss being young enough to want to do crazy shit like that. Except not really, because then I’d have to be that fucked up again, and yesterday’s anxiety-hole would be permanent. So hooray for adhesive light-benders!

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Fifty Shades of Que?

I turned 40 today. It’s not nearly as bad as everyone makes it sound, not that that’s particularly difficult with all the “welcome to 40 – you’re actively dying now!” paraphernalia on the market. Personally I think that’s bullshit. Your forties is when you hit your stride; it’s when you really perfect not giving a fuck, and start living your life for yourself. Also, now that I’m 40, when people go, “no way – you can’t be a day older than 25!” it sounds like I’m TWO decades younger instead of one! (Don’t feel bad, though – the women in my family have a portrait in the attic made out of estrogen, and the day we hit menopause we go from Betty Boop to Betty White pretty much overnight. I’m rocking it while I have it, because I see the Bassett Hound jowls coming up the road at me.)

But the point of this post is that nobody knows you like your best friend. She’s the one who knows when it’s time to tease you, and when it’s time to just shut up and hold your hand; The one with whom you can pick up where you left off, no matter how long it’s been; The one who knows exactly what to give you for your birthday, even if you didn’t even know you wanted it. Mine is no different. Today she sent me this, with the comment “all I can think of is crochet bondage now…is that wrong?”:

Yes. Yes, it most certainly is.

Followed shortly by “yeah, I had to look it up”:

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!! No, you really didn’t!

And that is how I learned about what my cousin calls “the dark underbelly of fiber arts.” Because evidently this isn’t just a thing, it’s a movement.

I have friends with all kinds of kinks – and a number in the BDSM and leather communities – it  makes them happy, so I ain’t judging. But something about crochet and bondage makes me think “grandma’s going to dominate you….WITH CUDDLES!” more than sexy fun time.

I thought it would be hilarious to put a teddy bear in bondage gear here? I was wrong. Trust me when I tell you it can’t be unseen. Instead, here’s Secret Bear to protect you. “Some secrets are better left alone, kids!”

WTF: it’s exactly what I wanted! Give WTF for any occasion, so that your loved one can spend the day chuckling quizzically and periodically dropping the laptop and running in amused terror. And maybe even pull a blog post out of it! Thanks, sweetie. You’re the absolute best.

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If You Liked it Then You Shoulda Put a…

I was raised Catholic. In the Midwest. By an alcoholic. I win the codependency trifecta if ever there was one. If there were a gold medal for codependency it would be mine; unless you want it and then you’re more than welcome to it – I wouldn’t want to hog it unfairly. Also, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble I’d really like to inhale and exhale maybe just once…but I don’t have to if it would really bother you or be inconvenient in any way! I’m sorry I even asked, but I’m sort of starting to pass out.

You can imagine about how well this kind of “relating” flies here in the Northeast, where the middle finger is more of a greeting than an act of aggression. By the time I’ve set up my apologetic proposal, I’ve already annoyed at least 3 counties with the waiting. My boss (bless her) doesn’t say a word when I ask her if she’s sure, she just waits for me to say “yes, of course you are – I’ll take care of that right away then,” and thanks me. I can suck the oxygen from any relationship in record time. If only I could use my powers for deep-sea diving. Or scrubbing carbon from the atmosphere. Or pretty much anything useful at all.

As I’ve said here before, my therapist keeps trying to get me to “own my power,” which I would totally do and be my own damn public utility if I could just figure out how it’s supposed to work. We talk about it week after week, in which he throws metaphors at me and I stare at them blankly as they fall to the floor, kind of like when I try to give my cat a treat and she doesn’t understand that it’s food because it’s a) not on the plate and b) smells/looks different than food so it must not be food, so she just sniffs it and looks at me with her special accusing/puzzled expression and then sadly walks away. She’s the only cat I’ve ever known who didn’t understand tuna water, people. And I cannot throw stones, because I am just like my cat, except the tuna water is being powerful.

Anyway, I had a particularly bad episode of anxious codependency that I brought up in our last session and it (sort of inevitably) came down to the fact that I am just giving way too many fucks about stuff that I actually want to give a fuck about but not to the point of damaging myself with anxiety and paralysis. So, to get to the punchline:

Steve: Codependency is a hemorrhaging of feminine energy – it’s over-caring – and it needs to be balanced with some more masculine, aggressive energy. Which is what’s so great about “not giving a fuck” because it’s a very playful expression of that energy.

Me: So…what you’re saying is, when I’m getting anxious and codependent, I should put a dick on it.

Steve:……..HA! YES! Yes, that’s EXACTLY what you should do!

Me: Oh my God, why didn’t you just SAY so!? HOW many angles have we tried to approach this problem from over the years? If you’d just made it something simple and disruptive that I wouldn’t forget, we’d have moved onto something else. Now I have “don’t give a fuck” AND “put a dick on it” – we might be close to done here.

Steve: probably not.

And that’s why I love Steve. I mean, aside from having helped me become a functional human being. Because without batting an eye, he just rolled with my thinking and called it progress.

More importantly, I have a new tool. And a new theme song**: “All the Codependents” (to the tune of “All the Single Ladies” of course). Because if you’re worried then you shoulda put a dick on it. Someday I might be drunk enough to create an awesome/terrifying video to go with it. If your follow-through is better than mine, please do feel free to make your own. There can’t be too many, in my opinion. Or maybe one is too many and a hundred is never enough…

“What. Have. You. DONE?!”

Bonus: I explained all this to Corinne, who said, “so when you’re being annoyingly over-caring I should just be like, ‘MOM. Put a dick on it!'”

At that moment I realized that my work here is done. And that I really, really like having an adult daughter.

UPDATE: I want to be clear that I am totally supportive of my variously-gendered friends and that this is an inner dick, so you don’t have to have one or put anyone else’s on it, so it’s totally gender-fluid. Except that was probably the wrongest place ever to put “fluid”. Sorry about that.

**It occurs to me that if you don’t respect artistry, you can always go with Bobby McFerrin’s classic “Don’t Worry, Put a Dick On It.”


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