So, for some reason I’ve been incredibly weepy the last few days. Driving into work this morning, Pearl Jam’s "Last Kiss" came on, and I got all teary-eyed. I can’t blame it on pms, since I just finished my period last week. Come to think of it, I guess I can blame it on hormones, since I recently stopped taking the pill. Recently as in, I was supposed to start a new pack Sunday, and didn’t. I’ve been on the pill for three and a half years now, and I’d like a break from it. Don’t get your bippies in an uproar, though; we’re not trying to get pregnant. Fred claims to want children — or rather, a child, but you should have seen his face when I suggested we use no birth control at all. His bippies went into a serious uproar, I’ll tell ya that. I thought he was going to clutch his chest and collapse.
Our current birth control is method is the Vaginal Contraceptive Film. It’s a "contraceptive film that has an effective rate as high as 96% when used properly and can be inserted without an applicator." Well, guess what? I have short, stubby little fingers, and have a hell of a time getting it where it needs to be without an applicator.
Isn’t that more than you wanted to know! Change of subject…
Fred is a semi-smoker again. He quit smoking 4 or 5 months ago, cold turkey, but slowly he’s been going back to it. It’s got to be a psychological thing, because the only time he smokes is at work; he doesn’t even crave cigarettes when he’s home. Is it just me, or are smokers cooler than non-smokers? The ex and Fred are both smokers, my sister is a smoker, and I grew up in a house where both my parents smoked. How I never ended up smoking is a mystery.
Actually, it’s not.
When I was 18, I smoked for a week. Ohhh, was I cool, buying a pack of cigarettes at the store and puffing away on my way to and from work. Then I went to a party, and someone noted that I wasn’t smoking right. Not smoking right? What the Hell does that mean? Well, I was drawing the smoke into my mouth and holding it there, then blowing it back out. Smoking does not come naturally to all of us, you see. The smokers at the party stood around me and gave encouragement. "Breathe it in! No, when you drag on the cigarette, breathe it in!" I just could not get the hang of it. I continued for a few more days as a fake smoker, and then on my way to work, I did it right. I breathed the smoke in, alright.
I thought I was going to fucking die. I hacked and coughed and choked and gagged. And unlike those who hacked, coughed, choked and gagged and went on to take a second drag, I quit right then and there. I’m pretty simple in that if something causes me physical pain I tend not to do it again. The above story is also why, when Clinton said he’d taken a puff off a joint, but didn’t inhale, I knew just what he meant.
Today was an absolutely gorgeous 75-degree, perfectly sunny Alabama day. When I got home from work, I opened the back door to let the cats play in the backyard (it’s fenced in so they can’t escape). Minutes later, I looked up to realize that one of the cats had discovered a huge grasshopper and carried it inside. They were all standing around it, taking turns poking at it with their front paws. I shooed them away and herded it outside with my foot. Five minutes later, they’d dragged it inside again. I grabbed it by one leg and tossed it outside. Outside, around the grasshopper, the kitties gathered. "See? It moves. And then it moves again!" Snoopy informed his brothers. He poked at the grasshopper. "What if you do this?" Stimpy asked, sniffing. The grasshopper moved feebly along the ground.
Beth said it best when she said cats do everything by committee. If you want a real killer, you need a dog. I checked on the cats about half an hour later, and there was nothing left of the grasshopper but a few legs scattered across the concrete.
Thank god tomorrow’s Friday! (Yeah, I know. Poor me. Four day weekend, and a few days of work and I’m whining already)
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