…the who cares girl…

I attempt to teach Maggie how to say “I love you” and she ignores me.

I know the reason why every puzzle has 1-4 pieces missing is your dog mouth, Maggie. I’ve only caught you in the act TWICE, but JUST WAIT! (wait for what, I don’t know exactly, but I like to threaten my dog…on my blog)

Corinne tried comparing my current puzzle addiction to her WoW addiction. “You have a gaming addiction!” she shouted triumphantly over the phone.

“Yeah, but my obsessions are short lived. I’ll burn out soon, but you’ve been WoWing now for…how many years?” I said, defensively.

Potatoes, po-tah-toes. She’s slaying dragons, or whatever the fuck, I’m assembling bits of colored cardboard together into boring pictures. No I haven’t looked at “cool” puzzles online! I don’t even want to know they exist! I’ll just stick with my 3.99 “specials” from Walgreens!

My teeth hurt in the place where I had the root canal last year. I have an appointment with the dentist this week. I’m kind of hoping he fucked up so he’ll give me Vicodin, pffft. He was such a tight ass with the Vicodin before. Maybe if I dress nicely, he’ll treat me better. And by “better” I mean “not like an addict”. Addictive behavior? What do I know about addictive behavior?

CONCIERTO RICKY MARTIN EN BURGOS, originally uploaded by NACHO CUBERO.

…is gay. And?

Alright, self, it’s a brand-new week, let’s try to think positive.

The Boy’s completed skateboard top.

I bought us a book about graffiti artists around the world, but I enjoyed Banksy’s “Wall and Piece” more.

Maggie standing guard over sleeping Mommy. I’m working on a series of sketches of the various ways Maggie’s dog body presses up against mine in bed.

Speaking of Maggie, this morning I was e-mailed the best comment ever on youtube, on our “clap your paws” song: “gay”. Thank you, “runescape1802″. It IS gay!

More scribbling, less thinking, that’s this year’s art mantra.

I think I have a cold, the Boy thinks I have seasonal allergies and I’m in denial. Yesterday he gave me a giant allergy horsepill and because I can’t swallow pills (unless they’re MDMA–I get those down FINE) I chewed it up and right as I was swallowing he told me it’s a 24-hour-release pill and I’m not supposed to chew it up. So all day yesterday I kept falling asleep while reading my exciting new book “In the Woods“. I totally blame the allergy horsepill–that book is great!

Today I still feel like I have a cold, but he can forget his allergy pills. If I take any pills today they will be the “Super Energy PLUS!!!” pills I picked up on a whim at the grocery store the other day, hoping that 12 dollars worth of “invigorating herbs” would blast away my current depression/lethargy/desire to eat terrible things phase. You know. I’m still sort of an optimist.

AINSLEY, originally uploaded by neil △ krug.

Neil Krug‘s photography is so dreamy.

Here’s the Boy’s magical mystical drawing of a kettlebell booty that he was busy creating this morning when I woke up, reeling, from nightmares. I don’t feel like handwriting these nightmares into a dream journal today, so here they are, for future reference:

Part 1: The chauvinistic maintenance guy at work’s child was kidnapped by Barry, and everyone knows he did it. We live right next to Barry and parts of our house are glass and I have the feeling of always being watched. I can’t stop thinking about him kidnapping the kid and I can’t stop staring at his house, wondering what he’s doing inside and I draw a very cryptic drawing in crayon to leave on his doorstep and then obsess over whether or not to leave it. I wonder if his front porch is video monitored, and chicken out.

Part 2: I am on a team working on some type of timed, multi-sectional contest, and I am frustrated with my team for being slow and stupid. Part of the contest involves using a stamp and paint and I am disgusted with my team for their choice of a dinosaur stamp. I inform them that I’m leaving and I’ll be back when they HURRY UP and I go see what the other teams are up to. The other teams are nearly finished with their portions of the contest, and I realize that winning is hopeless and I am depressed. Nico makes a guest appearance and sings to me in an Elven language. The dream ends with me running through a shoe store.

Part 3: I’m in a store riveted by the cutest little girl’s clothes I’ve ever seen–everything is faux fur and glittery and dotted with sequins and I’m in love with a little jacket, wondering if it came in extra large could I wear it? And then the dream shifts into a commercial telling me that an entire store with these clothes just opened up and they carry women’s clothes too, and I’m so happy! I hurry to the store but the women’s clothes look nothing like the little girl’s. Everything is drab in shades of taupe and yellow and seem to feature nothing but long, calico skirts and I realize that all the women shopping at the store are wearing long, calico skirts and suddenly, to my horror, I too am wearing a long calico skirt and I scream that I am NOT LIKE THEM but it’s too late!

My husband just told me to stop sitting on my feet while I’m on the computer. “You’re going to get nerve damage,” he warned me.

“I think I already have that.”

“No, that’s brain damage.”

He was getting undressed last night before bed when I noticed it.

“Oh my God!” I said, running for the camera. “Hold on, I have to take a picture…don’t worry, I won’t post it online…this is just for me…”

“That’s what you always say,” he grumbled.

Now, I’ve always thought the Boy had an excellent bubble butt, a near-perfect specimen, but somehow, somehow it’s gotten bigger. Not big like fat, big like…perfect. Bouncy.

“Looks like you have a couple of cantaloupes in there,” I said dreamily. “Now, pull your underwear down, and turn. I need a profile shot.”

He tells me this bubble enhancement is due to his current exercise regime of hoisting a Kettlebell around. I told him that if that’s the case, his ass would make the perfect advertisement for the Kettlebell: “Kettlebell: You Too Can Have a Bubble Butt”.

I’m not going to post the pictures I took of his ass (I’m going to make them my new desktop photo). You’ll just have to take my word for it. I’ve had this song in my head ever since last night.*

* The “I think your ass looks delicious” line, anyway.

I’ve been fussing over that drag painting for weeks. We’re taking a little break now, the drag painting and I.

I’ve been envisioning a painting of a happy freckled redheaded woman, with most of the painting’s emphasis on her red hair, but I’ve had a helluva time finding the right photo. I’ve looked in Flickr and Deviantart and then I just googled “freckled redhead” but nothing, nada. So frustrating when I can’t find the right photo. I was thinking if I could find the right photo of a smiling freckled woman with long hair I could just paint her hair red, after all, I’m the artist and I’m supposed to be “imaginative”, but I haven’t found that either.

I keep waiting for the funk to disappear, like one morning I’ll wake up and it’ll just be gone, I’ll feel normal again, instead of feeling like a weight is pressing down on me, like the lead apron they make you wear when you get x-rays.

We watched a movie wherein angels smoke cigarettes and can’t fly, supermodels turn boyfriends into living room furniture and the meaning of life can be summed up into six easy steps, but no one wants to hear about it.

Maybe I just need more vitamin d.

You wanna know what a terribly satisfying activity is? Lying horizontal on the couch with a sharp pair of scissors and snipping off your split ends, one by one. If you have long hair and rarely get it trimmed, this activity can take quite a while.

I just glanced over and Maggie had mounted Bear Cub from behind and was just sort of hugging her and nuzzling her neck. Aw, how sweet. I always figured Maggie was a lesbo.

My mother bought me this rouge from Sephora. The packaging is very 1920′s, and it comes with a teeny-tiny puff and the rouge itself smells like fruit, which is just about the cutest thing ever, really.

Ah, M.A.C. Nothing compares to Uuuuuuuu.

I am depressed, and the best I can do today is make some banana bread. My homemade banana bread is nearly orgasm-inducing, nearly, this is true.