Rockin' like Dokken

Flight of Fungus

One of our cats, Mr. Man, was a mangey stray when we first got him. He showed up on our balcony one day, scratching at our glass door. We took him to the vet because he had horrible patches of skin with no fur on them. It turns out that he had ringworm. For a month, we kept him in our laundry room, medicating him and always being sure to wash our arms, hands, and legs well after touching him. He was such a sweet kitty, and I felt so bad for him. We had to keep him locked up so that he wouldn't infect Kitty.

Well, you can probably guess what happened, but I ended up with a small patch of ringworm. It was on my leg, so Mr. Man must have brushed up against me and I didn't get it washed off well enough. Ringworm isn't as gross as it sounds, but it's still pretty foul. And it itches like nobody's business. If you're not paying attention (or you are asleep), you'll scratch it and then spread it to other parts of your body. Or you'll shave your legs, not thinking, and then a week later you've got ringworm in your armpit. There is no rhyme or reason to its spread, and it's nearly impossible to treat it well enough so that it doesn't spread. (Incidentally, ringworm is just athlete's foot or jock itch on different parts of your body. I mean, if the fungus is on your stomach, it's called ringworm. If it's on your foot, it's athlete's foot. If it's in your crotch, it's jock itch. They're all treated the same way.)

For me, though, the creams were not working. I went to the doctor who just prescribed a stronger cream. I knew there was a pill, but the doctor did not even mention it. Needless to say, the new cream didn't really work that well either, but I decided to give it a shot.

Now, seven months after I first got ringworm, I am down to one lonely patch. I haven't treated it in a few weeks -- it seems all healed except that it is still red there.

Somehow, I telepathically gave ringworm to Sparklehead. She too tried treating it with the cream, but she just ended up with more and more spots. Finally, she went to her doctor and demanded the pill. The doctor said she is very adverse to prescribing the pill, but that she would as long as Sparklehead promised to report back immediately if she started turning yellow. Apparently this pill can affect the liver hardcore. Sparklehead promised and promptly went to fill her prescription. The pharmacist was so floored by her prescription that he had to special order it. It's only used for ringworm, so they don't stock it.

The other day, I got a picture message on my phone from Sparklehead. The caption read, "Ringworm pill done gave me the shits." I'll let you sort out what the picture was of on your own.

Trying Again

Constant state of flux, here... Hopefully things will be normal soon.

New and Defeated

So now evier.org is redirected here, as if you couldn't figure that out. For the moment, I am almost pleased with this decision. At the same time, though, I really felt as if the old layout/site was starting to come together. It was a nice distraction from the back to school/family death/Hurricane/lack of school/back to school again that has plagued Shark and me for the past two weeks.

Here's what happened. My hosting service suspended evier.org last week because of "abuse." I later found that someone had hacked my account in order to phish... whatever it is that they were wanting to phish for. Speaking of. First Spam the canned meat becoming spam the email junk. Now Phish the band becoming phish the verb for stealing information on these here internets. Isn't the evolution of language fun?

So anyhow, I had to update the software I was using and change all my passwords and blah blee blah to get rid of the phishers. The only problem was, the software company's web site wasn't coming up. At all. And it hadn't since right after I had installed the software. (Incidentally, it's coming up now. Now that it's too late.) There's no way to update if there's no way to access. I had received a pretty stern email from my hosting company telling me I had to do fix this, but quick, or I'd lose evier.org forever. Here's the thing, though. I am pretty stupid when it comes to web design. Like I mentioned before, I know enough HTML to get around, but that's about as far as it goes. I messed around with the different softwares that the hosting service "strongly recommended" I use, including Wordpress, which can kiss my rosy red ass far as I'm concerned. There were some others, and I did like pMachines or whatever it was called, but there was no way in the blue blazes of hell for me to figure out how to change the style of the webpages. There were hundreds of beautiful templates to use, but no way to upload them. (I know that sounds ridiculous, and it is. I can explain further if you need more explanation.)

I began playing around a little bit with Blogger and realized I could just point Blogger toward my site and everything should be wonderful. Only... even that wasn't working. And I have no idea what was wrong. There's a very simple form to fill out so that Blogger can FTP to your own domain, and I filled it out easy as pie. But I kept getting all kinds of shitty errors. It makes me want to cry. I've tried everything I could think of, and nothing works. And so. This is how it is for now. Or perhaps permanently. Who knows. It's hard to find your own "home" on the Internet when that home has to keep changing its disguise every few weeks.

Please just bear with me.

Ironic, Don'tcha Think?

Everyone knows that damn Alanis Morissette song, right? You know the line in the chorus that says, "It's a free ride when you've already paid"? Up until very recently, Shark believed that was, "It's a free line when you've already paid." He couldn't figure out why she was griping over free coke.

He was quite shocked to learn the real lyric.

Please be Gentle, It's my First Time

Hello, Katrina.

Lesbians, Schmesbians

I had a dream last night about an old friend from high school. I'll call her Daisy for reasons probably only she would know, but it fits anyway. I don't remember much of the dream, except I think she was hitting on me.

Daisy and I were really great friends all through junior high and high school. We had a brief period of estrangement towards the end of high school because she went out with The Boy I Liked. Which was silly on my part, because I knew he and I would never have gotten along anyway. Plus, he had tiny feet, and that is just a general deal-breaker. (I later grew to be not so shallow, but I really needn't have bothered.)

Anyway, we made it past our differences, I dated a Friend of The Boy Whom I No Longer Liked, and Daisy continued to date TBWINLL. We had fun together sometimes as a group, but mostly Daisy and I hung out on our own. I really felt it my duty to help her because she grew up in a house full of crazy. She was not allowed to live on campus when she started school, even though her parents' house was a good 45 minute drive (if not more) to our university. This would have made sense if her parents were paying for her school and they just felt that that was an unnecessary expense. But I think she had to pay herself, and mainly they just did not want her having The Sex and catching The AIDS and The Herpes and The Pregnancy Virus. Her classes ended around 12:00 or 1:00 every day, and she was beaten one afternoon because she came home at 3:30 after going to lunch with TBWINLL. It obviously shouldn't have taken her two hours to get home from school, and how dare she come home just three hours before sundown. You know crazy kids and the trouble they can get into in broad daylight.

There were other weird things I recall from early in our friendship as well. Daisy was not allowed to use tampons because, according to her mother, "your husband will think you're not a virgin and then he will divorce you." Daisy's parents are most definitely in the Harry Potter is an Evil Satanist camp. Daisy was not allowed to read certain books, watch certain TV shows and movies, or do anything remotely close to interesting at any time in her life.

Eventually, she got to the point where she couldn't take the crazy anymore and she moved into TBWINLL's grandmother's house. That was necessitated by the beating she took for breaking her 2:00 PM curfew. I thought it was an excellent move at the time. It was closer to school, a block away from TBWINLL, and the grandmother was a very sweet old lady who enjoyed Daisy's company as much as Daisy enjoyed having a positive role model in her life.

In retrospect, that was probably not the best move because it meant that she saw TBWINLL on a much more regular basis. I think she grew tired of him; she always complained about him. She was never upset that he was around so much, though. It was more along the lines of, "Oh my god. TBW[Y]NLL bought me flowers again today! HE IS SO ANNOYING." As you can imagine, hearing this every day was about as fun as poking my toenail clippings into my eyeballs. Meanwhile, Friend of TBWINLL and I were starting to disintegrate and I was scared to death and really needed someone to talk to. Whenever I tried to talk to Daisy about it, she would roll her eyes and say, "Yeah, well LET ME TELL YOU what TBW[Y]NLL did yesterday! He took me out for ice cream, that asshole!"

I began distancing myself from Daisy simply because I could not handle it anymore. She got a job at Wal-Mart, made some friends there, and started hanging out with them. I moved out of my parents' house into my first apartment and things just kept floating along. Daisy and I still ran into each other every now and then (we did happen to frequent each others' workplaces from time to time), and eventually she even moved into the same apartment complex I was living in with a girl she met from work, Pickle. Daisy and Pickle came to tell me this exciting news one day while I was working, making sure I knew exactly which apartment was theirs so that I could drop by at any time.

I never did.

Years later, Daisy ended up working for another friend of mine (the same friend that introduced Shark and me). There was a picture of me in her office, and Daisy saw it, commenting on how we used to be such great friends. My friend asked her what happened -- that we even knew each other was news to her -- and Daisy replied, "Oh she found out I was a lesbian and quit talking to me."

Let me repeat that for you. She found out I was a lesbian and quit talking to me.

There are so many things wrong with that assumption that I don't even know where to begin. As my friend pointed out to her, though, it is a ridiculous notion that I would stop being friends with someone based on their sexuality. My friend herself was bisexual, so this made absolutely no sense. Also, the last time I truly talked to Daisy, she was still with TBWINLL. I had no idea that she and Pickle were dating. She never told me that. How would I have known? Hell, I saw Daisy and TBWINLL together at the pool of our apartment complex one day. I didn't know that they were no longer together. And besides all this, she used to spend hours at my house looking at porn and talking about penises. I got so bored looking at penises with her. She always lamented that there was no special porn just for straight girls. It seems all porn is geared towards gay men or straight men or lesbians. I dunno. Like I said, I got bored with it after awhile.

My friend later told me that even though Daisy and Pickle were still living together, Daisy got her a piece of ass on the side with TBWINLL. Apparently, Pickle hated TBWINLL but had no idea anything was still going on with him and Daisy. It's quite a sordid soap opera, and I am glad I no longer have to listen to complaints about it.

The dream seems to have stuck with me today; I can feel its residual and I see images from it clearly. I find it strange that I had this dream. The last time I saw Daisy was at the pool that day, which was three years ago. Of course, I had heard of her recently, what with her working for my friend. But even that was a year and a half ago. I wonder why sometimes we dream of things so removed from our current lives that we wonder all day what the fuck our mind is trying to tell us.

The Professional Woman's Pissing Contest

The one-uppers* are annoying, but amusing if you're not actually participating in the competition.

You know the types. The people who try to out-do each other in I Have the Worst Problems Ever. I once knew a girl like this. First, her parents beat her. Then the story changed: her dad molested her. Then her father molested her while her mother watched. Later, her mother watched while eating popcorn. When she grew up, her first boyfriend verbally abused her. Then he raped her. Then he and his friends gang-raped her. Then the entire school watched while this group of guys gang-raped her. You get the idea. No matter what you said to her, her experiences were always so much worse. You needn't bother actually having a conversation with her, because it wasn't a conversation but a competition. And you would lose. Being a compulsive liar helps to win the competition, of course.

I've met a new person like this, but I do enjoy talking to her. It's just sort of different. Perhaps because she is mature: married twenty-plus years with two children, so I like to think she has more experience and less of a competitive "I've got it worse than you" drive.

I just witnessed, though, The Professional Woman's Pissing Contest, which is directly related to the one-uppers. The people involved in the Pissing Contest consisted of New Co-Worker (the person in the previous paragraph, henceforth NCW) and Other Co-Worker's Daughter (OCD).

OCD: I didn't take my medicine today. I can tell.
NCW: Oh, I know. I have to take one pill in the morning for my [deleted], one for my [deleted], and Zoloft. Then at night I take [deleted] so that I can sleep better.
OCD: Yes, I take Zoloft, too. I get really bitchy if I don't. No one wants to be around me.
NCW: Well, I'm up to 100 mg of Zoloft a day!
OCD: I was almost there, but my doctor changed me because --
NCW: They're probably going to have to raise it again soon.
OCD: -- that was too much.

I haven't been able to fully convey the tone of voice here, but take my word for it: NCW was definitely trying to one-up OCD. And OCD saw no alternative than to try to one-up NCW if she were to stay in this conversation/competition.

I found the whole thing quite amusing, and it is just one of the social quirks I have noticed since I got this job at the beginning of June. The other involves NCW and OCD's mother. Perhaps I'll be able to write about it later on this week.

*[I think I have finally figured out why this behavior bothers me so much at times. Sometimes, you just want to vent to someone. When you're upset, you need to just let it all out to someone, and it sucks to have that person make you feel inferior because you're upset, let alone have them turn the conversation around to themselves.]

I'll Pray for You

During my lunch breaks at work, I read while I eat. This is not a new thing with my current job; this is how it's been ever since I had my first job and I only got 15 minute breaks. It makes eating more interesting, and it keeps me from having to make small talk with people I don't necessarily like (or know). I could probably prevent the latter by simply eating at my desk, but I do enjoy reading and the change of scenery is nice.

As is wont to happen, today a co-worker (with whom I share a cubicle as well) asked me what I was reading. Normally, I hate this question, because the other person doesn't really care and usually no one is familiar with what I'm reading anyway. Not that I read obscure high literature or anything, it just seems that when I say what I'm reading, I get this glazed, empty look in response.

It just so happens, though, that I am reading the new Harry Potter. I realize I'm a little slow here, and I've already been spoiled of course -- through no fault of my own nor by my own choosing -- but I'd been excited about reading this book for two years. And I'm enjoying it quite a bit more than the last one, as well. That's beside the point, but there's my opinion. Anyway, for once I had the opportunity to say what I was reading and and not have to make awkward chit-chat about it when I got that glazed look, since everyone's heard of Harry Potter.

I really wish I had gotten the glazed response, though, because when I told her what I was reading, her eyes got as big as saucers and she shuddered. "Hu-nuh!" she said. "That's an evil book. Don't be letting that get in your
soul."

Dammit. "It's just a fun, silly little kids' book," I said. She shook her head, muttering, and walked away.

Well, that's just great, I thought. I get so sick and tired of everything being evil, and I know these Harry Potter accusations have been around ever since the first book, but give me a break. I won't go into too much of a rant here, about how it's no worse than the original Grimm Fairy Tales, or Hans Christian Anderson, and how these people who say these things have never read any book except the Bible, ever, which is fine but maybe try reading something else before you go around judging every one else (which, you know, Jesus wouldn't like you doing anyway!). Or at least try reading one before you assume that it's gonna eat my soul from the inside and I become a crusty black shell or something.

While I sat there fuming with all those thoughts rolling through my head, I realized that -- oh great -- now she's gonna pray for me. Having grown up in the Southern Baptist chunk of the Bible Belt, nothing is closer to fingernails on the chalkboard than hearing someone say, "I'll pray for you." Actually, there are times when it doesn't bother me. If something truly horrible has happened, a death or terrible sickness or something, that doesn't bother me. Praying is a viable response and how some people deal with stresses such as these.

But what really gets me is the condescending way that some people say it, and they usually say it when they want you to stop doing something fun. Like reading Harry Potter, or playing video games, or watching zombie movies. Things like that. Harmless things whose sole purpose is to provide you with escapism and to entertain you. And here's the thing: I don't believe in prayer, necessarily, but I do believe in mind over matter. That if you think positively and focus on a better outcome, you might receive just that. I mean, it's not hurting anyone to try it anyway. But praying to try to bend your will... that's what kills me. I mean, the former is sort of the same thing, but not exactly. I'm talking about praying for a loved one's cancer to go away (or hoping, as the case may be, without prayer) as opposed to praying for a pony (à la Ruthie Camden on "7th Heaven"). Besides, how many times have those types of prayers worked? I'm not going to stop doing something because someone prayed for me to stop. Not stop reading Harry Potter or looking at bad body modifications online or anything that could be construed as "bad."

Then again, maybe that's why I quit listening to Bon Jovi all those years ago.

Weak-Minded, Like the Advertising Execs Like 'Em

I am very susceptible to advertising, especially visual food advertising. I hate it, but I accept it. I can usually fight the urge away, even if I remain hungry the rest of the day.

For instance, you know how when you go to the movies (not something I enjoy in general, anyway, on account of theatres always having their thermostats set to "Siberia"), they advertise the concession stand before the movie begins? Goddamn, does that ever make me want to have a Coke. I don't know why, but the way those soft drinks look make really really really want a Coke. I can generally resist this urge, because I don't like getting up once the theatre has darkened and because I really don't see the sense in spending $5 on a Coke.

Another example occurred once when The Pixie and I were driving through downtown. There was an old building on a corner that I assume used to be a soda shop or something. There was a 1930s style Coke sign on top of the building. I said to The Pixie, "Is it wrong that that really makes me want to have a Coke?" She laughed at me but didn't think it was too bad. We were en route to dinner, anyway, so I figured I'd just order a Coke when we got there. By the time we reached the restuarant, though, my craving for Coke had disappeared. (And I ordered something like 6 sangrias instead. It's hard to remember.)

Finally, today, I passed a billboard for Jack in the Box's "real" milk shakes (not "fakes"!). Basically, the picture on the billboard was a giant vanilla shake, all swirled into the cup, with this "real" milk shakes slogan written to the right of it. It made me desperately want a milk shake, vanilla, even though I'm a hard core chocolate addict, and even though that amount of lactose would surely send my intestines spiralling out of my body.

I was finally able to push this craving aside when I realized that 1) the way the vanilla was swirled in the cup made it look like poop, and 2) that's probably why they weren't advertising chocolate.

Lizard This, Bitch

There was something that happened the same night as this entry that I didn't write about.

When Shark finally came to bed, he told me that Mr. Man had attacked a lizard. Apparently, a lizard had come inside with Shark after he found those thongs on the stairs. Mr. Man attacked and was able to rip the tail off the lizard. You know lizards, though. It just ran away without its tail. Mr. Man ate the tail, Shark killed the rest of the lizard, and everything was fine.

I was still mostly asleep, and this story just sort of washed over me. "What did you do with the body?" I asked sleepily.

"Threw it away."

"Goddamn it."

Shark cracked up at the way I said it. "Well, it's not like I do it all the time!" That conversation still makes him laugh.

Anyway, Wednesday night, I went to bed early to read some. When Shark came to bed, he told me that Mr. Man had eaten part of a lizard again. It turns out that basically the same scenario had played out; Mr. Man chased a lizard and ripped its tail off. "Mr. Man had the tail in his mouth and it was all wiggling around!" I was so squicked out. I asked what happened to the rest of the lizard, and Shark replied, "Oh, it got away."

I had pretty much forgotten about it because it was just a lizard, right? Whatever. Last night, as we were eating dinner, I glanced over towards the couch. There was something beige looking on the border of the wallpaper above the couch. "What's that?" I asked Shark.

"THAT'S THAT LIZARD!!!!!"

"Well get Mr. Man!"

The problem was that the lizard was so high up, there was no way for a cat to get it. Shark grabbed a mop and handed it to me. Then he picked up Mr. Man. "Use that to scoot the lizard down this way, towards Mr. Man," he ordered me.

I went into complete girly freak out mode. "I can't! If I touch it with the mop... I'm touching it by extension."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes, I'm sorry."

"But I thought this would be easier for you, because you'd be pushing it towards me."

"I can't."

Shark took the mop and I held Mr. Man. Shark poked at the lizard, and it started to crawl down the wall. It came down diagonally so that it ended up halfway down the back door. I let Mr. Man go and sort of pushed him towards the door. He immediately saw the lizard and began attacking. It was the funniest and creepiest thing. He ended up with the lizard in his mouth and then he ran into the kitchen. Where the lizard disappeared.

Shark used the mop to rub the bottom edges of the cabinets looking for the lizard, but it was no use. He finally found a crack that the lizard must have gone through.

Mr. Man was not so easily deterred, though. He searched all over the kitchen, and then he realized he should start at the beginning and try to pick up clues. It was so cute watching him sniff all over the door, trying to find that lizard. He spent a good hour searching for the lizard. You could just see it all over his face.

Goddamn it.