I just got a call from Monmouth University Polling Institute,

It's one of the country’s leading heavyweight polling organizations. I’ve never been polled at this depth before. The questions were nuanced and focused and let me lead with my knowledge and opinions instead of the general and useless yes/no/like/dislike questions most half-assed polls ask. When I was in advertising, many of our clients insisted on using general-feelings polls that gathered zero actionable information WHICH FRUSTRATED THE HELL OUT OF US AS AN AGENCY because they gave us zero to work with when we needed to articulate demographic profiles and map out communication strategies. But I digress.

The point I’m trying to make here is I just told the person on the phone that trump is a shithole and I’ve single-handedly brought down his presidency and you’re all welcome.

A moving story

Not to toot my own horn (TOOT! TOOT!) but in the middle of all my don’t-get-my-wrist-mole-excision-sutures-wet bullshit (TOOT!) drama, the flapper in my toilet (WHERE I TOOT!) tank started leaking. LOUDLY. LIKE A BIG LOUD TOOT. I’M SURPRISED YOU ALL COULDN’T HEAR IT. And not only did I buy the right-size replacement flapper ON ONLY THE SECOND TRY, but I also managed to remove the old one, install the too-small replacement one, remove the too-small replacement one and finally install the right-size replacement one ALL WITH ONE HAND.

TOOOOOOOOOT! Flush.

Stable Genius is in Iowa today

In totally unrelated news, I just had a huge basket of high-fiber bran muffins for breakfast.

Three things I’ve done tonight:

1. Photographed a tree:

2. Split a hosta:

3. Purchased a gorgeous new tablesetting and grippy placemat for Bitch Kitty to replace the ratty old plastic bowl she kept pushing next to the litter box and presumably filling with poop dust every time she buried a treasure:

SWEAT POO

I’m trying to decide if it’s wise to work out right before our production-week rehearsals

On the one hand, I’ll instantly look 97 if I miss just one workout. On the other hand, my pre-workout shake—like ALL pre-workout shakes—can make me what we will politely call did-you-know-that-bathroom-in-Spanish-is-baño?-y.

I’m leaving the gym right now for thong rehearsal (yes—we strippers are literally having a rip-away thong rehearsal in the interest of establishing consistency in our stripping moves) so I’m about to find out how things ... come out.

In the mean time: I wore my NYC shirt today because The Full Monty takes place in Buffalo! Which totally made sense when I was getting dressed this morning!

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.

Are you sitting down?

Because I was WHEN BITCHY KITTY OF HER OWN VOLITION AND YET-TO-BE-ARTICULATED-BECAUSE-SHE-ONLY-KNOWS-HOW-TO-MEOW-AND-WE-HUMANS-DON'T-SPEAK-MEOW-YET AGENDA JUMPED INTO MY CHAIR AND SAT NEXT TO ME PRESSED UP AGAINST MY INCREDULOUS LEG ON WEDNESDAY NIGHT:

It took me 60 hours to post this photo because I'm still processing this lurching plot twist in the soap-opera-frenemies Bitch Kitty Life storyline. Also because Mom didn't send it to me until late yesterday. But still.

Granted, once Bitch Kitty jumped into my chair she sat in an extremely weird position with her face buried in the back cushion and her self-righteous butthole gazing out into the room ... and she growled like an over-torqued automatic-pencil-sharpener motor as I tried to pet her ... and her over-torqued-automatic-pencil-sharpener-motor growling only intensified if my attempts at petting left her ears-and-head area and ventured down toward her tail-and-butt area but then again we did teach her to be a lady who doesn't put out on the first date so I guess we should be proud of her for that ... and I had just emptied her litter box so I was probably dusted in minuscule-but-still-possibly-scented particles of litter-box floaties so perhaps she was just following her nose and her baser instincts when she jumped into the chair with the intention to poop on me and quickly realized her error but was staying there only under a pathetically inept veneer of politeness ... but the fact remains that I now feel obligated to beg for her love every moment of every day until she deigns to jump butthole-out into my chair again one day next year ... and then one day the next year ... and then one day the next year ... until she up and dies on me and breaks my heart because I thought we had a thing going but her yet-to-be-articulated-because-she-only-knows-how-to-meow-and-we-humans-don't-speak-meow-yet agenda all along was to make me think I had a chance with her and she gave me the ultimate dis from beyond her over-torqued-automatic-pencil-sharpener-motor-growling grave. Sigh.

Also: I look like a short, wide squished marshmallow in this photo but I swear it's just the evils of foreshortening and shadows and I'm actually totally swole and ripped for my big stripper reveal in The Full Monty and you should come see it but you should also squint just in case I actually do become a short, wide squished marshmallow before then please pass the doughnuts oops did I say doughnuts I meant celery but I'll totally eat that box of doughnuts if you don't want them because it's a shame to waste perfectly good food.

Also: Mom and Dad hate those plaid chairs (we have two of them because civilized people have sets of matching chairs and we as a family no longer live in a cave) but while I'm not in love-love with the plaid I still love the chairs' clean Mid-century lines and confident geometries so tell Mom and Dad that we should keep their clean Mid-century lines and confident geometries incorporated in our gracious home décor and just re-cover them in something that doesn't look like it came from the textile tumble table at an Eddie Bauer Home Store going-out-of-business liquidation event.

Also: Textile Tumbletable would make a great drag name.

Also: Or not.

Also: I just purged a ton of shoes I haven't been wearing and I rediscovered these blue Chucks and aren't they awesome?

Also: I think that's enough alsos so I'll stop now. Also.

Goodbye, weekend vacation home with the poop-n-greet bathroom and the towering living room and the dearth of pie servers and the peek-up-my-little-black-dress over-the-sofa “art” print and the lovely Chicago friends and the glass table that has Gilloollied all of our shins AND THE AWESOME-ALBEIT-KNOTTY-PINE-APRÈS-SKI-LODGE-ESQUE EVITA BALCONY

Every time I look on the mirror, I conduct this same cost-benefit analysis

#antecedents

There is a wicked-ugly fight brewing that just might tear our friendships asunder about the name for the structure behind us: campanile, carillon or bell tower

We would have had a kickfight deathmatch over it this morning, but we couldn’t move our legs because we’d just run 11 miles.

Oh, yeah: Did I mention that WE RAN 11 MILES!

(Minus about 3/4 miles for walk breaks, but still.)

Some thoughts about this morning’s run:

• The 5.5-mile turnaround on our route is out in the middle of a cornfield and along a lonely highway.
• It seems REALLY FAR.
• Plus NO SHADE.
• Our route also runs under two highways that we think are 30 and 380, but it would be cool for them to be labeled along the route just to quell our curiosities.
• I like the word quell.
• Quell.
• It would also be cool if the lonely country road were labeled to quell the curiosities of people on the trail.
• There’s that word again.
• I’m on a roll!
• Anyway, I have NO idea what highway it might be.
• We saw four hot guys running on the trail with their shirts off.
• I didn’t get any of their numbers.
• But the one in the yellow shorts ...
• Wow.
• (Call me.)
• I have some kind of knee soreness that feels like it might become a bit of a problem over time.
• Stay tuned for updates—I’m sure I’ll bitch about it here ad nauseam if it gets worse.
• I also love the term ad nauseam.
• Though people often misspell it with an -um ending.
• Don’t do that.
• On one of our first long runs on the Cedar River Trail, I swear I noticed an old-timey wooden staircase overgrown with weeds and climbing up a hill from the trail to a dense thicket of woods.
• Which, of course, is evidence of witches.
• I like the word thicket.
• Thicket.
• Rob and Scott didn’t see the staircase, and I was so exhausted and hurting along the run that I truly considered the possibility that I’d hallucinated it.
• Or I’d missed my opportunity to visit Brigadoon.
• We’ve been looking for it on our long runs ever since, with no luck.
• So my money was on Brigadoon instead of witches.
• Anyway, I FOUND IT AGAIN TODAY.
• So maybe I’m a witch.
• It isn’t as old-timey as I remember it, but it definitely climbs from the trail through a bunch of overgrown weeds to the nowhereness of a thicket of woods.
• So it’s definitely witches.
• Thicket.
• Anyway, if you want to see it or you’re looking for a local coven to join, it’s at mile 4.4 on your right as you head south on the trail from its intersection with the Lion Bridge.
• WE RAN 11 MILES, PEOPLE!
• Quell.
• Ad nauseam.
• Thicket.
• Campanile.

One final note: I took all my non-car keys off my car key ring before the run so they wouldn’t bounce and jingle in my pocket for 2.5 hours, and I randomly left them on my bed before I headed off to run. When I came back exhausted and slightly loopy and for some reason holding my glasses in my hand instead of wearing them on my face, I saw the copper-brown lump sitting there and my first thought was that the cat had pooped in my bed.

It’s not that very good a story but I’m still exhausted and loopy from our 11-MILE RUN! and that’s all I got.

Campanile!

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.

Do I look like Grumpy or do I just look grumpy from stubborn constipation?

Either way, it’s my first unscheduled evening since Fuddy Meers ramped up to high gear and I can’t shake my exhaustion and my whatever-the-hell-is-wrong-with-my-hip running pain is only slightly better and my laundry hasn’t magically folded itself so I’m scrunching up my face and going to bed early.

I have one of those on the end of my toilet brush too!

#ElfShelfies

Flashback Friday: Celery in the Bathroom Edition

I loved what I did with that long-ago bathroom. The paint color was called “celery,” so it provided built-in roughage in case you needed it during your bathroom visit. But we all know that at 49 years and 20-too-many pounds, I’m not posting this picture to talk about long-ago bathroom paint colors. I’m posting it as a PSA warning against using white grout in a small room with heavy humidity. It is a BITCH to keep it looking pristine and white. And scraping it out and replacing it with more white grout is both another bitch AND a trump-stupid idea.

You’re welcome.

PROBABLY

#WeirdStuffICollectOnMyPhone

Flashback Friday: Donkey Edition

Ah, the good old days, when the nephew was just a jumble of gangly limbs, a bald round head and a preternaturally hearty belly laugh whenever I made a poop joke. Here we are maybe 12 years ago at Old MacDonald's farm in Cedar Rapids' scenic Bever Park, where the words "donkey butt" were valuable social currency with a 1:1 exchange rate for the aforementioned belly laughs. Now the nephew towers over me, drives a car, and is by all accounts loving his new life and his new chapters and his new adventures in college. But he still has time for a laugh or two with Uncle Jake. And that's all any uncle can ask for, really.