wow. just…wow.
who’d've thunk?
space…the final frontier… 26 February, 2008
five or six months ago, an idea was formed. a coworker asked me if i’d be willing to help start a sci-fi book club at our library, and, though the thought made me cringe, i agreed. mind you, it wasn’t the thought of starting a sci-fi book club that brought me to wince; rather, it was the thought of starting one with her. when we first met, she dismissed my taste in goofy sci-fi (terry pratchett, piers anthony, doug adams) as me being “one of THOSE,” and that might’ve set a negative tone for our first meeting. she’s never explained who, exactly, THOSE are, but as time’s gone by, we’ve become better friends.
but, i digress…
so last night, we had our FIRST OFFICIAL MEETING of the sci-fi/fantasy book club, and it was quite a success, if i do say so. there were nine of us total, including the two founders, ben, and josh (husband of coworker friend april), which is actually a pretty good size crowd for our little library. april made us chocolate chip cookies, and the meeting overall was really productive. here’s our schedule and reading list, posted mostly for mel’s benefit (but also if anyone else wants to come out…):
march 24: discuss “good omens,” pick up “snow crash” by neil stephenson
april 28: discuss “snow crash,” pick up “hyperion” by dan simmons
may 26: Memorial Day, no meeting
june 23: discuss “hyperion,” pick up “wicked” by gregory maguire, discuss next 5 or so books to read
july 28: discuss “wicked,” pick up next book
august 25:
september 22:
october 27:
november 24:
december 22:
so yeah, if you guys aren’t doing your thang any of those nights and wanted to come out, that’d be awesome! 
the prescription is for WHO now…? 23 February, 2008
funny story of the day:
the larger of our two cats is 18 pounds of squinting, love-biting fluff we lovingly call “heffer.” she’s a good little cow, she is, and a more laid-back creature you’ll rarely meet. she is the personification of bovine serenity…unless you take her to the vet, and then she channels the very devil himself. she hisses, she spits, she growls, she screeches, she pisses herself. the burly vet tech has to help hold her down and finally, when the whole ordeal is over, we bring her back home, at which point she scampers to a hiding spot and refuses to speak to us for hours (fortunately, the little moo has a very short memory span, so it’s not long before she’s back to normal).
during the last vet appointment, it was suggested that we drug her. a little xanax, the vet reasoned, would mellow her out and make for a much more productive check-up. i’m certainly not keen at the thought, but in all honesty, i’d much rather slip her a little somethin-somethin than face the shrieking demon she’ll no doubt otherwise become during her appointment next thursday. so, i asked the vet to call in the prescription.
ben and i went to pick it up at the walgreen’s down the road today. the exchange went something like this:
me: i’m here to pick up a prescription, please.
pharmacist: certainly! what’s your last name?
me: freund, spelled f-r-e-u-n-d.
pharmacist: (checks her screen for a couple minutes, looking confused) freund, you said?
me: yeah.
pharmacist: what prescription were you here to pick up?
me: well, it’s funny you ask…our vet called it in for our cat…
pharmacist: (her face lighting up) oh wait, i think i know where that is…
she walked over to the prescription bins, picked up a bag, came back and showed us. there, in the patient name section, was very neatly typed, “heffer the cat friend.”
yes, yes she is. she is heffer, the little cat friend.
laundry puppets 22 February, 2008
her: I’m going to try to vacuum like Freddy Mercury today.
me: i imagine that would be quite cathartic, as well. but do you intend to mimic his fabulous fashion sense, his intense vocal stylings, or his lithe prancing?
her: All three. I’m going to need a feather boa, a fake mustache, my old middle school gym shorts and a hefty dose of panache, with a pizzazz chaser. Also, I’ll need to find the words to “Another One Bites the Dust.”
me: ben plays a mean bass (guitar, not fish), and while i’m fresh out of fake mustaches, i do actually own a feather boa…although, it was part of a pretty cheap costume, and tends to shed when involved in anything more vigorous than sitting on one’s shoulders…
her: Mean bass are notoriously difficult to play. They’re always on guard against playas.
me: you think the bass is difficult to play, you should try the trout.
(don’t hate the playa, baby, hate the game.)
an open letter to my oldest and dearest friend 22 February, 2008
dear body o’mine:
we’ve been friends for a long time. and you know better than anyone that i’m the last person on earth to give two sacks of siberian sheep shingles about what hollywood or the media or anyone says about what is beautiful and what isn’t. i’ve never really bought into the whole idea that only one body shape is acceptable, and as a result, i’ve always been okay with the fuller shape we’ve shared.
and i’ve always loved you. oh sure, there have been times when i’ve pondered losing a few (or quite a few) pounds, when i might’ve despaired at the extra chin or the buddha-like belly. but i’ve never looked in the mirror and hated what i’ve seen (winced, maybe, but never hated). i love your soft curves, your little dimples in unexpected places, your velvety skin, the complete absence of any hard edges or angles in our silhouette. we’ve been all about soft, comfortable suppleness for thirty years now, and if simple happiness were the bottom line, i think we could go another thirty, sixty, ninety years with nary a complaint.
but it goes further than my feelings.
for all the voluptuous fabulousness we embody, there are bigger concerns. concerns like how all this extra weight is doing damage to our already-damaged spine, or how it will complicate things even more when we decide to bring new life into the world (after all, we gotta carry those little ones around for nine months or so). there’s also the fact that both of our paternal grandparents died from complications arising from type 2 diabetes. as comfortable as i might be in our 2XL skin, there are things that are just out of my control…
…or maybe they aren’t. i could control our weight, and reduce the risks of further spine stress or 8 months of bed rest when we have company in utero. i could…but i don’t. you see, it’s so much easier to buy frozen meals or fast food than it is to cook healthy meals for us. and i don’t care what anybody says, chocolate will always taste better than any vegetable and nearly any fruit (we are suckers for cherries and grapes, after all). and we both know it’s a lot more fun to hang out on the couch with the little heffer-cat and read or watch the telly than it is to exercise. body, i am a woman with very little willpower, and i’ve used self-image satisfaction to explain that away. because, you see, it’s easier to tell myself and everyone that i’m happy just the way i am than to make the changes needed so that we can be healthy AND happy.
remember when we were in the army? remember how we used to weight 150 lbs? by most people’s standards, we were plus-sized even then, but we know better. we looked damn hot, and we weren’t the only ones who thought so *wink wink*. when we had the accident, the doctors predicted it would be two months before we would walk again, but you, my sweet body, you were up and shambling down the hospital hallways within a week. you never ceased to amaze as you exceeded every expectation…even with three shattered discs, we worked together and made believers out of all those chumps when we passed a diagnostic PT test six months after the accident. and even today, you continue to astound ~ with all the extra weight i’ve piled on you since then, you continue to work hard for me with only the occasional (and certainly understandable) downtime.
you’ve done so much for me, body, and i thought it was enough to love you and be happy with our shape. but i’m starting to realize that loving you doesn’t mean i have to give you that delicious cheeseburger or wendy’s fries dipped in frosty (well, at least not all the time). loving you can mean taking better care of you, and maybe helping you realize that broccoli can be tasty too (even when it’s not smothered in cheese) and, hard as it may be to believe, even exercise can be fun. i don’t think we’ll ever be anything below a size 10, sweet body, but that’s okay. even at our sexiest, we were still a size 12, and as i recall, we were still turning heads. i think we can do it again.
i love you, o shrine, my temple of luscious femininity. thank you for thirty years of dedication, protection, and fun.
your unworthy inhabitant,
steph
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this idea swiped from the lovely mrs. esmon, who swiped it from BlogHer. Go check out the other letters and maybe add a link to your own!
i’ve heard these things come in threes… 20 February, 2008
my oh my.
i could try to tell you how busy the past week has been. the operative word there is “try.” holy crap… (more…)
at least the puppy bowl’s on tonight… 3 February, 2008
the weekend started on a bit of a sour note. we had received a call last wednesday (or, i suppose at this point, the wednesday before last) that my baby sister kayla (who is, admittedly, 23 and so not much of a baby anymore, but once a baby sister, always a baby sister…) was getting married.
on saturday.
to her 32-year-old, soon-to-be-released-from-prison, former junkie tattoo “artist” fiance.
as you can probably imagine, i was less than delighted at the news. (more…)
