Ugh Darling Ones,

Today my plan to escape the infinite sadness involved listening to all The Replacements’ records in chronological order until the sadness went away. This was a brilliant plan and it worked for about 2.5 records. But then “Within Your Reach” came on and, well, that was the end of that. Fucking done in by Live without your touch, I’ll die within your reach.

Goddamnit, Paul Westerberg.

So I did what any modern woman would do in this situation. I put a load of laundry into the washer and then I took to my bed. And for the too much information record, I did not take to my bed like some sort of wilting Renaissance woman.* No, I took to my bed like a fourteen-year-old who just discovered orgasms.

I was gonna say masturbation, but due to shitty, shitty sex education in America I didn’t think girls masturbated when I was fourteen. I don’t know what I called what I was doing, but it wasn’t masturbation. I was pretty sure you needed a penis for that nonsense — wanking, jerking off, choking the chicken. I didn’t have that equipment and therefore could not participate in that activity. I didn’t even realize women could masturbate until the summer I worked at the AIDS Project in 1994 or something like that.

Anyway, I took to my bed because I woke this morning after having a shitty, unsatisfying sex dream about my ex. It was bad enough that I had a sex with my ex dream but for it also be unsatisfying? That was more than I could take. Not only was the dream unsatisfying but it was also weird and involved a co-worker from 2008 continuously walking in and critiquing my performance. SHUT UP, JON-ERICH!

So yeah, I spent four hours in bed in the middle of the day alternately weeping through Addie LaRue, napping, and practicing. It was probably the best decision I’ve made in a fortnight. It was a way better use of my time than staring into the void and trying to figure out what the fuck my problem is.

The only reason I got out of bed was because I was fucking starving and all the food is not in my bed. In fact, there is never food in my bed because people who eat in bed are weird. I also think people who watch TV in bed are weird too. Call me a puritan, but snacks and TVs don’t belong in bedrooms. Though now that I think about it, if someone brought me some French toast in bed I might change my ideas about that. Something to ponder, I guess.

In related news, I got a new ‘Mats poster yesterday that commemorates the RiotFest show I saw, but more importantly is the same color as my furniture. And in more related news, I’m listening to “Tim” now and if you can be crabby while listening to “Left of the Dial” you deserve some kind of trophy.

And if I don’t see ya, in a long, long while, I’ll try to find you,
Jodi
 
*To be fair, I have no idea what the hell Renaissance women did when they took to their beds. Maybe they were doing the same thing I was doing. I’m not good with history.

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Sometimes when you least expect it you take a whole week off from writing. I didn’t plan to take a whole week off, but I did it. I took a whole week off from most everything. The Tibbles were in the Dells with Sister #3. Work has hit the end-of-summer lull.

I spent all that free time intermittently napping, eating, and basically drooling on myself. Oh, and playing Plants vs Zombies 2 as if someone’s life depended on it.

I had planned to take all that free time and write my fingers to the bone. But I was cranky and bitchy and sick of the sound of my own voice — both my actual voice and my writing voice. It was one of those grouchy weeks where my inner monologue was a constant, low-level whine. It was annoying as hell. Orange you glad I didn’t subject you to that?

But now I’ve got to get back on the writing horse and it’s tough. Once you stop writing it’s really easy to act like you never ever write at all anyway. You can usually fool yourself that you are not a writer for a day or two, but then the naggy voice in your head gets going bugging you all the time with the “you should be writing.”

What do the naggy voices say to people who aren’t writers? I should be. . . what? Exercising? Organizing the pantry? I’m curious.

None of this has anything to do with today. Today was oddly productive because after all the napping my body and my brain was ready to rock and roll at 7 a.m. I managed to crank out two book reviews and eat breakfast by 10 a.m., which made it time to lay on the couch and intermittently sleep while listening to the radio.

Then there was lunch, banana bread making, a long soak in the tub while listening to the eye-roll-inducing Inferno by Dan Brown, unicorn chasing, meatball-making, family dining, and now typing. Super boring.

Here’s a picture of some junk I found in a pouch where I also found my social security card (which was what I was looking for). Apparently 2007-2008 was a good concert year for me, that was back when I had a real job and hadn’t turned into the Angry Hermit you know and tolerate today.

The “It’s (Insert Day of Week) and I’m Boring” is a series that Christa and I do to pay homage to the beauty of old-school blogging. (I totally copied this nice explanation from Christa).

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Ever since Walter the dog left two weeks ago, Paco, my one remaining cat, has been needy as fuck. He’s always been a needy, demanding cat. In fact, he’s quite aggressive in his neediness. His latest trick is to plant his ass right next to me on the couch (as seen above), casually creep his way onto my thigh, and then he’ll try to wedge his head between my fingers and the keyboard. It’s annoying.

This has been happening pretty steadily for the past two weeks. The only respite from these kinds of shenanigans is if I throw a blanket over my feet. Paco will drape himself on top of any blanket that’s over my feet. This is his most charming trait, especially in the dead of a Minnesota winter.

However, I’ve noticed over the past few days that Paco might be digging on the blanket I keep on my couch a little too much. He does this weird knead-y/marchy thing that involves some sort of hip gyrations and strange breathing. Really, it seems quite masturbatory. But I googled “cat masturbating” and that’s apparently not the way cats masturbate (according to the YouTube videos I saw male cats masturbate much the way male humans do).

This behavior makes me kind of uncomfortable. It’s not that I don’t want Paco to enjoy self-pleasure or whatever it is he’s doing. I just don’t want him doing it right next to me (and on one awkward occasion while I was trying to nap through “Dance Moms” right on me). Also, this is my favorite blanket and I don’t want him getting any sort cat bodily fluids of any sort on it. That probably sounds pretty selfish but there’s about 923,281 other things he could hump in this house. 923,280 of those things don’t reside right next to me 75% of the time.

I’m suddenly having waking nightmares of having to not only get a ‘real’ job but having to go to a ‘real job’ interview where some HR woman asks me about googling cat masturbation. That will be a really great post, won’t it?

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After I spent many minutes wishing for a robot maid to bring me some sort of sustenance, I got out of bed and checked my e-mail and Google Reader. Lo and behold there was not one, not two, but three jobs that I might be qualified for. Three potential jobs that were not there this morning. And even if I am not perfectly qualified for all of them, I am going to apply. Just the fact that they are there reassures me.

Tomorrow I am going to write a self-piteous post about how I never, ever win the lottery, have private concerts with Elvis Costello, or get to have sex with Al Gore, and frankly how much it terrifies me that those things don’t happen more often. Keep your fingers crossed for me.

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