I’m at my three-month nephrology checkup to monitor any potential kidney damage from my psych and various other meds

My kidney doctor’s office ALWAYS has HGTV playing in the waiting room, so every time I talk about my pee (oops ... creatinine) I hate the countertops and I think the en-suite is too small.

Also: boat anchor shorts!

Also: super-expensive-super-awesome adidas x Raf Simons sneaks that were super-super-mega-super 75% on sale!

Also: adidas doesn’t capitalize its name, lest you think I’d EVER make a fashion typo!

Don’t scream words like UNIVERSAL, FITS ALL BRANDS and REPLACES ALL STYLES in huge bold type at the top of your damn packaging

and then all-but-literally whisper 2” in brown-on-fucking-gradient-brown-on-fucking-beige on the bottom corner under the fucking blister pack with no context that might alert me to the fact that 2” is FUCKING IMPORTANT PURCHASING INFORMATION TO KNOW and not expect me to yell FUCK at you on my blog after I’ve torn my toilet tank apart and gotten myself covered with toilet-tank slime and finally gotten your poorly labeled flapper installed and THEN discovered not only that it was the wrong size but even that there are multiple sizes you should have made me aware that I should consider so I wouldn’t have to make two trips to the hardware store when there is no earthly reason this repair project should warrant two trips to the hardware store, korky.

PS: Your company name is stupid. And fucking LEARN HOW ADULTS CAPITALIZE.

Welp. I’ve emptied the cat box and taken out the garbage for the last time as a 50-year-old.

So the bloom’s off THAT lily.

Facebook has reminded me that I’ve apparently begun commemorating the night before each birthday with a selfie next to the girls. So here we are again. Looking gay as a purse full of kittens.

What I want for my birthday, in no particular order:
• Less stuff
• Someone objective to help me have less stuff
• A hellfire-damning Mueller report
• A fresh start with a normal kitten
• One single little sentence in which autocorrect hasn’t Needlessly capitalized something
• Less stuff
• A bedroom that I’ve finally painted rich-people blue to cover its current state of urine-sample gold
• Someone to help me find the right shade of rich-people blue
• My old abs
• Lots of cake
• But without compromising my old abs
• A Broadway dance career
• Less stuff
• Abs

I love how all the Important Nouns (like Butthole) and Noun Phrases (like Prayer Shawl) are in Capital Letters (which is also a Noun Phrase)

So. Much. Winning.

So. Not. True.

(Back, shoulders and biceps tonight at the gym, if anyone wants to join me. Or see the pictures I post on Facebook.)

Puddin' it out there

1. I live in a condo development named Crystal Estates, but one of our streets is named after a pudding.

2. Pudding was, is and will always be a funny word.
3. Pudding.
4. It’s also scrumptious.
5. Which, of course, is also a funny word.
6. Scrumptious.
7. Scrumptious, scrumptious, scrumptious.
8. Even though it’s probably made with ground-up horse hooves.
9. Horsehooves sounds like the last name of a wealthy Edwardian family dynasty.
10. Scrumptious Pudding sounds like a low-rent drag name.
11. Like when you want to hire a drag queen for your toddler’s birthday party but you only have eleven dollars.
12. But you could definitely serve your child’s young guests pudding.
13. Because it’s affordable.
14. And—lest we forget—scrumptious.
15. And it would help tie everything together thematically when Scrumptious Pudding shows up in her Walgreens rouge and Butterick shift.
16. Like when you get matching Barbie-knockoff plates and balloons at Party City.
17. What would they name Knockoff Barbie?
18. Barlie? Barvy? Blarbie? Barcie?
19. Someone should look into this.
20. Certainly not Horsehooves, that’s for sure.
21. So I ran my three miles with nary a problem this morning.
22. Nary.
23. Nary Horsehooves.
24. Nary von Horsehooves IV.
25. Esq.
26. (note to self: check into trademarking this name for Blarvie’s rich, questionably heterosexual boyfriend)
27. Anyway.
28. Nothing hurts.
29. I also don’t seem to have a terrible loss of endurance wrought by my hiatus.
30. Wrought.
31. Crystal Wrought.
32. (note to self: name for Brarpie’s preternaturally perky younger sister?)
33. (nah)
34. Wrought Na?
35. (Varmie’s nonspecifically pan-Asian sidekick?)
36. (possibry)
37. Anyway.
38. Again.
39. It was—and still is, if you’re on the fence about a morning run—beyond-perfect running weather.
40. So this morning’s run was quite enjoyable.
41. I haven’t checked my pace yet though.
42. Please hold ...
43.
44.
45.
46.
47. It’s still downloading from my watch to my app ...
48.
49.
50.
51.
52. 11:45.
53. Pretty much on par with what I’d expected.
54. Still not the 8:36 pace from my 8K personal best a decade-plus ago.
55. But still.
56. While running with Rob and Scott is always a pleasure, I do not mind running alone at all.
57. Aside from the fact that I’m stuck with nothing to keep myself occupied but the dark, disturbing thoughts in my head.
58. Like if it’s too late to get the Brarphne name trademarked.
59. See?
60. Dark.
61. Disturbing.
62. *shudder*
63. I took my post-run selfie by this street sign because it has two names.
64. Just like Rob and Scott have two names.
65. *taps head to show I’m a quick, clever thinker*
66. Tiffany sounds like the hoppiness sounds a rabbit might make as it scampers through a grassy meadow.
67. If you’re high.
68. Scott always scampers ahead of us after we exhaust our morning pleasantries on our runs.
69. So Tiffany is Scott’s aptly named stand-in in this post-run selfie.
70. Yorkshire—aside from being a scrumptious pudding—sounds like a three-legged basset hound with two of those legs on a skateboard loping determinedly but futilely toward the finish line in a cartoon race that’s accompanied by an unrehearsed orchestra.
71. If you’re super-high.
72. I’m actually the one who Yorkshires in our running group.
73. Like this: YORKshire YORKshire YORKshire ...
74. But Rob usually stays with me for a few miles before he Barknies ahead, so by the transitive powers of Yorkshirity, Yorkshire is his stand-in in this post-run selfie.
75. Oh, dear.
76. Autocorrect has already learned and white-listed the YORKshire capitalization.
77. This will greatly undermine my authority and gravitas in future pudding posts.
78. To review:
79. Pudding.
80. Scrumptious.
81. Harpie.
82. (R)
83. Not-gay Nary von Horsehooves IV, Esq.
84. Crystal Wrought.
85. Nah.
86. Wrought Na.
87. Possibry.
88. 11:45.
89. Crystal Scott.
90. No homo.
91. Yorkshire Rob.
92. No skateboard.
93. YORKshire YORKshire YORKshire.
94. Marcia Marcia Marcia.
95. But different.
96.
97.
98.
99.
100. 100!

All Liquids Day!

(I’m capitalizing it now because it’s fast-tracked to be designated a national holiday and I don’t want to have to search through my archives to update this post.)

I’m more than happy to spend the day consuming nothing but not-alarming-when-it-comes-back-out-red liquids, but it would be immeasurably easier if the hospital’s instructions didn’t make things on its do-not-eat list sound so deliciously tempting: