Throw away the whole bucket list

We went to the county 4-H Fair today, and for the first time in my life I tried deep-fried Oreos.

I think that it’s probably okay if I die now. Not because they were, like, delicious or anything, but because I have been suffering for the last few hours and I think it’s best if I am never in circumstances where I might put one of those things into my body again.

“Still alive” counts as a circumstance, I think.

Also, I rode a ride with my son, a ride that turned out to have an extra chest belt that I didn’t notice, and when I pointed out to the guy running the ride that there was no universe where the thing was going to fit me, he shrugged and said “You OK?” and then walked away.

I didn’t fall out of the ride, so I guess I was OK, but … is this how we do things now?

In which I am old and fat and out of shape

Spent a few hours cleaning out the basement again, and I’m ready to collapse into a puddle and die. In theory, some of the things that will be replacing the years of cruft we’re tearing out of the basement will help with that, and there’s probably going to be a garage sale next weekend, but … yeah, I’m unhealthy. To a degree that’s frankly kinda scary. My stairs aren’t the friendliest either, mind you– there ain’t a damn thing on ’em cushioning any of the shock to my knees when I go up or down– but today shouldn’t have been as hard as it was.

There will be more tomorrow, including a great amassing of cardboard for a camp the boy is going to next week. At least in theory. My understanding is that it is supposed to be about 700 degrees on Tuesday and Wednesday, so we may have some heat cancellations in our future, which apparently has to be a thing now.

Anyway, I’ll post some pictures of the basement when we’re done with it. And probably of the garage sale too, next weekend. We’ve been here 11 years and haven’t ever done one, so there ought to be a LOT of stuff to get rid of. And very possibly a big-ass dumpster in my driveway the week after. I may have said all of this yesterday; my apologies if I’m repeating myself. I’m fucking tired. 🙂

In which this isn’t going well

Trigger warning: I’m about to complain about having too much time off. Adjust your expectations accordingly and if your initial reaction is “Wow, fuck you, dude,” I would encourage you to roll with that feeling and just bail on the post right now.

Because my God, y’all, it’s just amazing how terrible I am at relaxing. And I actually got some stuff done in the last couple of days! The lawn’s been mowed, and we got the pool set up today, and so far I have been out of school for a week and I have already started to slide into nocturnal behavior (I was up until 2:00 in the morning last night– granted, I was in bed and finishing a book, but still) and I’m not sure but I assume the last time I managed a shower before noon was last Friday. We’ve got another week and then the boy’s summer camps start, so I have to be at least nominally human by 11:30 or so to get him fed and to camp on time, but … damn, it’s just amazing how fast I transitioned into a ball of greasy, overfed sludge.

I gotta start getting up at Going to Work time starting tomorrow. Up and out of bed by, say, no later than 8:00, have a cup of coffee, and the second that cup of coffee is done it’s get in the shower time. Like it’s literally 7:03 PM right now, I’ve been sweaty as hell for hours, because it was crazy humid outside while we were setting up the pool, and at this point I may as well make it two hours to bedtime before I shower. I have this thing where I don’t feel like the day has really started until I’m clean and dressed and that means that the way my brain works today effectively didn’t happen.

Also I had Arby’s for lunch and they have a burger now. Go ahead and have one if you’re curious but I doubt you’ll feel the need to have another. Just don’t do it right before having to go outside and sweat for an hour; it’s not gonna work out well for you.

Gonna go shoot Nazis now, g’night.


middle-finger-poster-flag-6185-pDon’t bother reading this.  tl;dr: I am fat and pants are stupid.  Okay?   Just stop here.

I have, as anyone who has been around here before is already aware, been effectively out of work since October and genuinely out of work since January 4th.  Before anyone bothers to tell me: I am aware that I should probably be getting some exercise, and the fact that I’m struggling with depression right now is not a fucking excuse.(*)  But one way or another I have spent the last several months as a full-time writer, or at least a full-time-sit-in-front-of-the-fucking-computer person.

Also a problem: I have been hungry constantly for most of that time.  Like, all day, every day.  That might be a side effect of my medication; I don’t know.  But it’s a fact:  I’m ravenous.  Constantly.  I could eat six meals a day and not even blink at it.

You may have an idea where this is going already.

For most of the last several years I have been wearing 38 x 29 jeans.  Specifically, I’ve been wearing Wal-Mart’s Faded Glory brand.  In fact, that’s virtually the only reason I’ll set foot in a Wal-Mart.  Why?  I can find 29-inch inseams at Wal-Mart.  They’re fucking rare, I tell you.  Inseams like to be in even numbers, and 38 x 28 jeans don’t fucking exist.

Also: I wear jeans when I’m not working.  Only and solely jeans, carpenter cut, because they have the side pocket for my phone and are roomier.  I loathe khakis and would no more wear them when I wasn’t at work than I would wear a tuxedo.  I also tend to wear jeans for a couple of days in a row unless I spill something on them.  Go ahead, call me a slob; I don’t give a fuck.  They’re more fuckin’ comfortable on day 3 and nobody needs to do that much damn laundry.

ANYWAY.  Somehow, a week or two ago, I took off a pair of 38 x 29 jeans at the end of the day before going to bed, because they were getting musty, and in the morning no other pair of jeans in the house— and I own several pairs of identical jeans— would button.  Cursing and gnashing my teeth, I put the musty jeans back on and went to Wal-Mart.

Wal-Mart didn’t have a fucking thing in a 29 inseam.  In fact, they only had one pair of pants that were 40 x 30.  So, after hitting a second Wal-Mart, I went into full “fuck it” mode and bought one pair at 40 x 30 and one pair at 42 x 30.  Note that other than the measurements they were the same fucking pants, same brand, same cut.

The 40s only barely fit, when I’d been wearing 38s when I bought the 40s.  That wasn’t the worst thing, though.

This, somehow, is what a 30 inch inseam looks like– on BOTH pants– when a 29 inch inseam fits me perfectly:


Those motherfuckers are cuffed by at least three inches.  Walking in these in the damn house without shoes on is fucking ridiculous.  And it’s both pairs, meaning that mislabeling seems highly fucking unlikely.  Again: same brand, same cut.  The 40s fit eventually but the 42s were a little more comfortable, and fuck it, I don’t mind my pants a little baggy.  I am too old to give a fuck about the fact that I’m also probably too old to wear my pants the way I do.

But I cannot deal with cuffing my pants like I’m nine and wearing my older brother’s hand-me-downs.  And I’ll be fucked if I’m taking Wal-Mart jeans to a goddamn tailor, either.

I did something that no one should ever have to do: after searching around on Amazon a bit I ordered some 42 x 29 carpenter jeans.  Now, these were Lees, not the Faded Glory pants, but again: a 38 inch waist fit me last fucking week.  42s should be a damn no-brainer.

They just showed up.  It took me ten minutes of truly asstastic contorting and fuckery to get the goddamned things buttoned– yet now that they are the pants don’t feel tight, which doesn’t make any fucking sense at all.  Also, I’m still using the same belt and the same underwear size I’ve been wearing for forever.  My boxers claim to be a 34 inch waist.  My belt is, I think, a 44-incher.  Yet my pants have expanded by six inches overnight.

Oh oh oh and also these do have the side pocket typical to carpenter jeans, but it’s too small for my fucking phone.  I have hope that it’ll stretch out but right now nothing doing.

Here’s the new inseam:


Fucking perfect, in other words, despite supposedly only being an inch shorter than the other two pairs of jeans.

There is, by the way, no way that I’m aware of to increase my waist size any longer without giving up and going Full Sweatpants, because 44 x 29 does not appear to be a thing that exists anywhere.  I am terrified of what’s going to happen once I have to put on a pair of dress pants for an interview.

Fuck pants, is what I’m saying here.

(*) And before anybody jumps my ass for that:  It isn’t an excuse for me.  And I’m talking about me, not you.

In which I am ambivalent

Deep_frying_chicken_upper_wingI had fried for dinner.  It doesn’t even matter what the hell was fried; the point is it was fried.

And now, half an hour later, in full accordance with prophecy, I’m contemplating vegetarianism again.  I’ve done a veggie week or two at a couple of points, and every so often I catch myself toying with the idea of trying it on a  more long-term basis.  The problem is that I like meat, and that– and I recognize that the answer to this is “cook at home more”– acquiring lunch near where I work that does not include meat is virtually impossible.  But you know what plant-based meals have never done to me?  Made me feel horrifying and gross and I’m going to die soon and like it, and my fourteen pounds of fried that I just ate are doing just that.

Ugh.  I’ve ben fatter and I’ve been thinner at various points in my life, especially over the last eight years or so where I’ve gone through at least two complete cycles of it, but right now I’m at the fatter end of the scale.  Time to start slimming down again one way or another because I am sick of this shit right now and the older I get the harder it’s going to be to reverse this on even a temporary couple-of-years level.

But goddammit, meat tastes good.  Fried tastes good.

Until the part where it makes you want to throw up.



In other news, I appear to have survived two days of Running the Building, and tomorrow is a teacher record day and there will be no kids around.  I’m only expecting to be at work for a half day but it’s possible that my boss will disabuse me of that notion later this evening.  I rather hope that he sensibly declares that he doesn’t care so long as Shit Gets Done, which is his usual MO, because I sort of have people coming over tomorrow to put in a new garage door opener.  I probably ought to actually be in the house for that.

Yesterday was startlingly easy, if tiring.  We paid for it today.  It’s not quite worth two-hours-of-ranting-and-six-thousand-words paying for it, but it was bad enough.  I’m tired as hell right now.  Time to watch TV and kill orcs.