Find the dumbass in this selfie who totally forgot to go to his dentist appointment this morning:

You get only one guess.

Some jetés land you gracefully on your other foot. Some jetés land you in the ER.

You know how sometimes pain can make you flop sweat all over your existing sweat? Yeah.

I’m pretty sure I just have an epic muscle strain in my calf, but the pain has been breathtaking enough that I decided to have it looked at right away. And a nice theater mom took me to the hospital because there’s no way I can drive. Or dance in the show for a while.

Shit.

Well, shit

I was THIS CLOSE to posting that I’d gone all day without having a bandage on my wrist with nobody noticing my still-hideous-but-no-longer-gaping wound UNTIL! someone who will not be named (because she isn’t on Facebook so there’s really no reason to shame her here there or here) noticed as we were leaving rehearsal tonight.

(Apparently I’d at one point very creatively described my wound to her as looking like a vagina because her first observation was that it doesn’t look like a vagina. I’d truly forgotten that I’d ever made that comparison. But I cannot disagree with the poetic imagery.)

So the key takeaways here are:
1. My wound is so much better that I feel safe leaving it unbandaged for a day.
2. It’s still gross enough, though, that I’m politely refraining from posting a photo of it here for fear you’d vomit all over yourself when you innocently scrolled by it.
3. HOLY SHIT DONALD TRUMP IS SO FUCKING BBEEYYOONNDD OFF THE RAILS TODAY WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH HIM OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD

Shit

Yesterday was International Cat Day, but I couldn’t find Bitch Kitty to take a picture of her to post. Please enjoy these flowers instead:

Well, shit

So my meticulous efforts to measure and level and tape and double-check it all again to to ensure everything I hang in my Dr. Seuss/theater corner it lined up neatly along the tops is so far working out to be exactly, consistently ... crooked ...

SHIT!

I WAS GOING TO GET SO MUCH DONE THIS WEEKEND.

I was going to finish all the final details on my bedroom and finally be back in my own bed by tomorrow night. I was going to start and finish a little caulk-and-touch-up project in my bathroom while I had all my supplies out. I was going to get rid of the last of the little stuff in my storage unit so all I’d have left would be the big pieces of furniture. I was going to help a friend move some stuff.

But NOOOOO.

As the anesthesia wore off this afternoon I found myself getting nauseous and profoundly exhausted. So I left work early to crash for an alarming FIVE HOURS in not-my-bed and miss our office’s fun summer party tonight. And since I’m forbidden from lifting anything heavier than a gallon of milk FOR TWO WHOLE WEEKS—no hauling boxes, no helping friends move, no throat-punching Mitch McConnell, apparently no putting my pants back on after my nap—I’m left with no options but to stuff myself with pain meds and cookies and watch MSNBC. With no pants.

Well, shit

Rob ran with me this morning and I said up front that I needed to run at my normal human pace and not his jet-fueled-kitten-screaming-down-a-hallway-at-3:00-am pace, but as we ran I thought I could tell we were slowly ramping up to the sound-barrier breaking point and I psyched myself into stopping just shy of 2 1/2 miles so I wouldn’t cough up a kidney. But I think all of the GPS satellites must be broken because when I downloaded our run from my watch to the app, it somehow mistranslated our Olympian 4:00 pace to a quite reasonable 12:10, which is silly because I can run at a 12:22 pace just fine and only a total wimp couldn’t bump that down to a 12:10 pace without a problem.

So the key takeaway here is: Running rots your brain and warps your perception of time and space worse than a Bill Barr testimony.

CRASH!

You know when you’ve had a great day and you’ve fixed your broken lamp and you bought a new bulb for it and as soon as you get it screwed in you have big plans to touch up your baseboards so you can start moving furniture against the walls but instead the bulb flies out of your hand as you’re screwing it in and crashes to flesh-shredding dust all over your floor and by the time you get it all (you hope) cleaned up your great day is now your dejected night and you’re in zero mood to paint baseboards so you just whine about it all online and go to bed?

Shit.

Well, shit

In all my fun Cedar Rapids Pride Festing I never took any pictures. But I rocked my rainbow couture with hundreds of lovely rainbow-clad people from all over the LGBTQ+ spectrum along with more lovely friends than I can count. And when I just left, I passed a woman on a motorcycle parked next to a requisite bitch-crazy hate preacher. She was reviving her engine at full rev to drown out the goat-fucking vomit he was trying to yell into his sad little bitch-boy megaphone while a huge circle of us perverts blew bubbles at him. They weren’t ribbon-festooned gift bags of flaming shit, but it was a lovely start.

#LoveWins #ExceptForBitchBoy

When you order some totally awesome shoes that you totally don’t need

but they were 70% off plus your employee discount and you hoped they’d be ugly or uncomfortable when they arrived so you could just return them because god knows the LAST thing you need right now is more shoes but when they show up they’re just as totally awesome as they looked online and they’re totally trendy and totally comfortable so you’d be a total idiot to return them especially given how cheaply you got them but you have nowhere to put them and well, shit.

Well, shit

When we got our fabulous new marbled quartz counters last summer, the profile of the new peninsula countertop was smaller than the old one and we ended up with a little halo of unpainted wall around it that was so horrifyingly unsightly that I immediately waited an entire year to try to paint it in. Since I have all our household painting supplies out for my bedroom painting project right now, I figured I’d use the opportunity to finally touch it up. To make sure I didn’t use the wrong color from our many saved AND UNLABELED containers of leftover paint from throughout the house, I made little sample sticks of paper that I could hold up to the wall first to make sure I had the exact right paint. Which I did. AND WHICH DIDN’T WORK BECAUSE THE TOUCH-UP PAINT IS SIGNIFICANTLY LIGHTER AND I WASN’T TERRIBLY EXACTING IN MY PAINT APPLICATION AND NOW WE HAVE TO BURN DOWN THE HOUSE AND START OVER.

STRIKE ONE:

"Hi Jake -

Thanks for the crack at this one, but I’m afraid we aren’t going to use it.

Best,
Chris
McSweeney's Internet Tendency"

What’s the ONE THING you IMMEDIATELY find

the first time you walk into your storage unit after having given up all hope of ever finding your TV remote and then buying a universal remote that you’ve already programmed?

That’s right: red whorehouse throw pillows!

When you start to really have to pee during the keynote speaker’s address at your niece’s induction into the Adastra National Honor Society

so you run to the bathroom the moment he’s done talking but then you discover that all the auditorium doors locked behind you and you have to watch your niece walk across the stage—and the rest of the induction ceremony—through the window in the lobby door.

Well, shit

Bitch Kitty is curled up as adorably as her cold, black heart—which is as cold and black as this winter midnight—will allow with a plush squeaky poop emoji dog toy propped in front of her to undermine the last moth-eaten shreds of her courtliness, elegance and dignity.

The first thing to come off in The Full Monty is apparently the damn binder for my damn script

When you’re in a show

and when it’s over you race to another theater to catch the end of a show you have a bunch of friends in and then you catch the end of a wedding reception and then you catch the end of a cast party where you have a jalapeño burger you soon learn to regret and you finally get home at 2:30 am to take your Saturday pm bipolar meds really late and you carefully calculate that you should take your Sunday am meds about 11:00 to keep them somewhat evenly paced but when you go to take your am meds at 11:00 you discover that in all your careful late-night planning you accidentally took them last night and WELL SHIT:

Guess who’s probably getting a new battery as soon as AAA comes

At least this time AAA is coming to my nice cozy garage instead of trying to find me and my blown tire along a lonely highway in rural Vinton like last time.

For those of you keeping score at home, that’s two AAA calls in three months, after zero AAA calls in probably a decade.

Also for those of you keeping score at home, it’s been so long since I've had to pop my hood that it took me forever to find the damn hood-poppy thingie.

Remember how I said my knee was sore and it would probably become a problem and I would bitch about it on here when it did?

I AM NOW BITCHING.

We ran about a quarter of a mile this morning before I decided my knee hurt too much for me to push it and maybe make it worse. So thank goodness Scott ran three miles without us yesterday and Rob had car troubles and couldn’t join us this morning so I don’t feel like I wasted anyone’s time and effort.

Well, not thank goodness about Rob’s car troubles; car troubles suck. But thank goodness he wasn’t here; he’s a tedious bore and all he ever talks about is grapes and owls. I mean I’m glad I didn’t cause him an unnecessary drive to join us for what ended up being a two-and-three-quarters-mile walk. That first part was a typo.

Also: I forgot to wear my awesome-o running watch this morning, which undoubtedly contributed to my knee pain. Stupid watch.

Anyway, we took our didn’t-running selfie in front of this cracked, brittle old stick wreath, which is the perfect metaphor for the circle of our friendship. Plus it’s round, so if you squint really hard it kinda looks like a human head, which in turn kinda looks like a semi-plausible maybe-ish stand-in for Rob. Plus if you squint really hard you could also strain your optic nerve, and I’ve always thought Strain Your Optic Nerve would make a great band name. Or not.

Plus ignore that CD that’s tucked in the wreath. It’s filled with high-definition scanned photos for a book I’m editing. Apparently nobody was home when my scanning guy dropped it off. And apparently I forgot to check for it when I knew he was dropping it off. TWO DAYS AGO. I blame my knee.

Stupid knee.

There comes a day after every man's 50th birthday

when he gets that dreaded call from the hospital scheduling nurse for that not-sounding-fun-at-all-no-not-even-a-little-bit carnival ride that rhymes with Tollhousebosspuppy.

I'm so excited I could just shit.