The Way Things Are






233-page dog-eared paperback.
2006-06-12, 2:55 p.m.

Hey, so I forgot Joseph Heller’s name. ::cough::suckmydick::cough:: I have a whole lot of extraneous bullshit flying about my head like there’s a blender blade fitted into the base of my neck, and the bits that I forget or that get lost in the swirl on a daily basis would fill a 233-page dog-eared paperback book with half the back cover torn off, and somebody else’s name written in pencil inside the front cover.



I have this theory, this Monday morning, reading about various peoples’ forays into the world of the heavy workout. We have already explored here the theory that when you are working out vigorously, burning fat, and losing weight, that you really end up pooping out the excess weight. I mean. Where else would it go? You lost 20 pounds, 40 pounds, 150 pounds? How do you think that weight left your body? Via the crapper, that’s how.

But how does that excess weight become poop? Here’s how: when you are working out vigorously, burning fat and losing weight, YOU ARE ACTUALLY DIGESTING PART OF YOUR BODY. No WONDER some of you people are tired, weepy, and in horrid moods. I get like that, too.

You’d think that all those nice endorphins would get you all cheery and chatty, but I know there are times when a workout puts me into a wretched mood, and I believe those are the days when my bodily tissues are being greedily eaten and dissolved by my own body, to be pooped out later. So take heart. If your workout has left you cranky, weepy, tired, or on-the-edge-of-breakdown, it means you are actively losing body mass right this very minute via self-consumption.

I took a botany class in college, and our professor – Mark - aside from forcing us to memorize the chemical equation for photosynthesis, provided us with an explanation along with the equation for the build-up of lactic acid in the muscles, an anaerobic process (which is further down that page that I linked thar).

Because everyone knows that when photosynthesis turns anaerobic, you get lactic acid. It’s a little hazy now, 22 years later, but this is the kind of information that hangs around in my brain, MAKING ME FORGET THE NAME OF THE AUTHOR OF CATCH-22.

And great – now it’s not so hazy anymore, which means I have forgotten something else in order to remember this. I hope I remember how to get home this evening.

It all leads up to this: I wonder if there is an equation that explains the process of the body digesting and pooping itself, and whether Mark is teaching that in a freshman-level botany class anywhere.


Hooo, y’all. I hung in there on the Haven Kimmel novel, and I’m glad I did. What it took was, getting past that opening spate of Amos’s theological and philosophical confusion and conflict, and getting to know the characters besides this confused, arguing-with-himself-in-his-own-head pastor, and finally catching sight of the plot as it moseyed around the corner and clip-clopped past the house.

This is a beautiful book; it’s like diving right into Haven’s head – a woman who SURELY spends much of her time inside her own head – and spending a day or two in there with her. Haven’s head is a world in which people speak very differently from anybody I know, where people are well-acquainted with philosophy and literature and theological theories…let’s just say my folks – my ilk – are the farmers hanging out in the town diner eating eggs and bacon. I related to them, not the people down the street correcting each other’s quoting of Kierkegaard and Whitehead, whoever THAT is.

But it was fun there in Haven’s head, and once I resolved myself to being in there for a while, in that strange, different world, I thoroughly enjoyed it and hated to see the end of the book.

If that’s the WORST thing she’s ever written? Well. She’s good.

Just in case you did not already know: I don’t live so much inside my head. Sure, there’s a whole, fun, strange world in here, but it’s rather shallow.


Yesterday afternoon, I sat out on the front porch, reading my book, enjoying the late afternoon with Piper hanging out there with me, eating bugs. Piper eating bugs, not me. I took the phone with me because I was expecting a call from Lil Guy, who was at the water park with his friend.

This morning, I realized that I had left the phone out there, so I went out to get it, and as I approached the chair where I had left it, something dropped off the ceiling and landed on the chair next to me.

Wanna see?

It’s a giant walking stick, and it’s the size of a puppy.

How fun to live in the country, eh? If this had landed on ME rather than that hapless green chair, today’s entry would have been brought to you courtesy of my sister EB, who would be posting here to let you know that I had died of a hysterical girly bug-fear heart attack. As it was, I let out a hearty “Good CHRIST!” and Piper, who follows me everywhere, hopped up for a closer look (yummy bug! crunchy!) and in this picture, the walking stick is rearing back at her threateningly.

I called Don, the Varmint Whisperer, to let him there was a fine specimen picking its way around our front porch. He captures these things, kills them by freezing them IN HIS FREEZER where the frozen food is kept, mounts them and sells them on eBay. As weird as it is that there are humans who will capture and kill bugs without squishing them and screaming hysterically, it’s even weirder that there are folks who will buy them.


The new Philosophy adult confused skin (acne) (“confused” is my name, not Philosophy’s, because, what the fuck, skin? What gives?) stuff that I am using seems to be working, but EVERYTHING seems to be working the first week I use it. Who knows what next week may bring? Boils. Hives. A pox? There seem to be no boundaries.

The cleanser has sulfur in it, and a hint of sulfur-whiff clings to me after I use it. I guess that’s okay – whatever the sulfur is supposed to be doing, it’s still hanging in there doing its thing hours after I rinse. The smell of sulfur really doesn’t bother me. It reminds me of creek water. I grew up swimming in a little creek in rural central Texas, and I guess this creek has a pretty high sulfur content.

You might smell me and think “Mmmm, rotten eggs,” but I smell me and think, “Mmmm, creek.”

If I could invent the Smellernet, I’d give you a little smell-clip, and we could do a poll: egg, or creek? I think creek would win. I hope it would.


How many socks do you have? Do you have a drawerful of socks, like one hundred pairs of socks, and stick to wearing only about 7 or 8 pairs of them? I do.

In fact, my whole house is awash in socks; we can’t walk down the hall without socks hitting us in the face. Every time I look at one of the dogs, she has an orphaned, ratty sock in her mouth. They are everywhere, and I let the dogs have their ways with the ones that they capture. Thin the sock herd for me, dogs.

What I seem to have the most of, is white cotton athletic socks. Some are too big, some are permanently dirt-stained, some are worn into a thin, scratchy mesh on the heel, and some have giant holes in them. And some have the most evil of all unspeakable evil: sock knots.

Sock knots are those little hard balls that form on your baby toe, where the seam balls up at the end, and mashes into your baby toe BECAUSE IT IS POSSESS-ED OF EEEVIIIIIIL.

Why have I hung onto all these socks? I have grown to loathe all socks, and every time I pull out a pair of even slightly unsuitable socks, I toss them, and may I say? That is so very liberating. I intend to whittle my sock drawer down to only the best and brightest of all the socks, which might mean I have maybe one pair left. And then I can go sock shopping and restock with only clean, soft, whole, and well-fitted knotless socks.

I’ve extended my drawer purge to underpants and bras, too. Do you know how light and floaty you will feel when you toss out that stretched-out, itchy, god-awful excuse for a bra that has that loose wire that pokes you in the breastbone, and you realize that it will never, ever assault your buzzums again?

Anyway, after reading Inside Haven’s Head, I am seeing religious experience potential in the most mundane of happenings, like throwing out bad socks and bras.

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