Cranky Fibro Girl

Harnessing the healing power of snark

Out Of The Mouths Of Babes

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The other day I had a session with one of my new students. I was testing him on his vocabulary in preparation for a test, and we got to the word “edad”, which means “age”.

He couldn’t remember the English definition, so I tried to give him a hint.

I said, “If I tell you, ‘yo tengo treinta y cinco años’ (Literally, “I have 35 years”), then ‘treinta y cinco años’ is my ‘edad’.”

He thought about it for a while, and suddenly the light of comprehension dawned on his face.

So proud with himself for finally arriving at the right answer he yelled out, “I’ve got it-it’s OLD!”

I Am Drunk On My Own Power, Mwa ha ha ha ha!

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A few years ago I was a teacher at a small, religious school.

Fortunately for me, the head of the school was unshakably convinced of my secret identity as The Spawn Of The Devil, or else it would’ve been really easy for me to get the big head.

Because what I didn’t know, having no children of my own, is that kids? Are really easily impressed.

For example, one day I was teaching my third graders, and while I was talking to them I was writing on the board without looking at what my hand was doing!

And dude, once I revealed my magical super hero power of Doing Two Different Things At The Same Time, I totally owned the third grade.

So it’s lucky that I live with three cats, cats who are totally shameless and amoral, cats who condescendingly tolerate our presence in their home because we are the only two beings with opposable thumbs who can open the tub of cat food, cats who pee on every single square inch of the bathroom floor EXCEPT the very expensive, state-of-the-art, self-cleaning litter box we purchased especially for them, because it helps keep me humble and grounded.

And I need that kind of real life reality check to balance out days like yesterday, where I once again used my Magical Superhero Powers Of Awesomeness to outwit The 12-Year-Old Boy Who Is Laboring Heavily Under The Delusion That He Can Totally Play Me.

We were once again forced to confront his evil nemesis-Spanish vocabulary words, and once again he decided that the session would yield much better results for him if he could trick me into telling him the answers, rather than looking the words up himself.

We’ve been on the same chapter with the same vocabulary words for an entire month. We’ve had tests and quizzes and homework assignments on all the words related to clothing, and yesterday he still did not know the Spanish word for “clothes” (did I mention that it’s been a month?!), a fact which did not at all make me feel like a failure as a Spanish tutor, or heavily tempt me to become A Person Who Drinks.

So of course, I told him to look it up in the dictionary, and of course he used his super-keen spidey senses to hone in on my super hero weakness by saying, “Why-don’t you know the answer?” (accompanied by a disgusted head shake and heavy exhale) “Yeah, I bet you don’t even know the answer.”

Right.

Do you have any idea how hard it was not to smite him with the razor-sharp edge of my sarcasm? Really. f*&#ing. hard.

But I’m happy to say that I was able to restrain myself, and instead decided to use my powers for good, limiting myself only to saying, “That doesn’t work on girls.”

He was quite surprised to be let in on that little secret of the universe, telling me that, “If I’d said that to a guy, he would’ve told me the answer.”

Well, little one, welcome to my world.

A Completely Random Entry, Loosely Related To The Beach

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My husband and I are enjoying our yearly trip to the beach. He is especially enjoying the opportunity to eat great seafood. I am not.

I was recently informed by a friend of mine that vacationing at the beach but not liking seafood is “just as big a waste as being a gay man at a women’s festival.”

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As we were shopping for hats tonight in one of the many beach-wear stores on the island I heard what I am pretty sure is one of the signs of the apocalypse; namely, Santana’s “Black Magic Woman” as arranged for steel drums.

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Why I Love My Husband So Much: Reason 3

While I l-o-v-e the beach and the ocean, I am a total wuss about actually going into the water, because I am afraid of being touched by scary sea-dwelling objects that I can’t see.

Instead of running away screaming, my totally awesome husband bought me some Aqua Socks-protective foot coverings that allow me to fully participate in the beach experience without actually touching any part of the ocean.

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For some reason, whenever I am at the beach my naturally curly hair bypasses “frizzy” and vaults directly to “Medusa-like.”

One Of Those Days

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Have you ever had one of those days where you actually fear to go outside because your hair is just basically giving you the finger?

And on one of those days have you then had to spend the entire afternoon in the doctor’s office thanks to the fact that you are experiencing your very first ever, searingly painful, urinary tract infection?

And as you were walking out the door, with the precious, infection-clearing prescription in your hand, did your doctor mention that this problem could be caused by a combination of hot weather and “Wearing Fancy Britches” (meaning non-cotton, non-white underpants)?

Have you ever had one of those days?

Yeah, me too.

Great Imponderable Mysteries of the Universe #4

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I realize (I don’t like it-especially when it is performed directly in front of someone who has just entered our house, a person we are trying to welcome into the warm, comforting blanket of our hospitality-but I get it) that for cats, sniffing one another’s ass is the social equivalent of “catching up” with each other and small talk.

But, Tigger: if Pip has spent the last 8 hours sound asleep, in the exact same spot, in the exact same position-not moving a single muscle-then has the information contained in her furry grey hind end REALLY changed so much that you need to investigate it as if it is the feline version of the Rosetta Stone?

I think not.

Isn’t It Ironic-Don’t Ya Think?

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I am a spiritual seeker-always have been, always will be.

I hunger for more and more experience of the Divine, and I love helping to facilitate that experience for others.

Until today.

Today I found out that the man who is supposed to be helping Dave with the repairs on our house is not, in fact, coming over to deal with the ants currently infesting our chimney but is, instead, off in the mountains of North Georgia performing a vision quest.

Today, karma and the Law of Attraction can just suck it.

Coming Up For Air

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I know I haven’t had a lot to say here lately, and that is due to the fact that I have been deep in the bowels of Being A Homeowner.

It all started so innocently back at the beginning of May when my husband uttered those four little words: “We’ve got wood rot.”

So that meant that I performed all my tutoring sessions for the rest of that month to the mellifluous background soundtrack melody of huge pieces of wood being ripped off the side of the house.

Because you know that the repairs did not stop with just the affected section. Oh no. Because that section was right next to the porch, a porch that of course became sadly shabby and run-down looking when compared to the brand spankin’, freshly painted new side of the house. So naturally we had to rip out the entire porch railing and prepare to “redo the deck”, a portentous sounding project if I ever heard one.

Apparently I then spent a lot of time beseeching the universe for Ways I Can Get Out Of Having To Do This Please!, because one day when I came home from working out, there, in my driveway, was Dave.

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Week At A Glance

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Septic Tank Man: You know, you guys really need to think about switching toilet paper. You really need to be using something like [name of a brand]. You know-that stuff that’s just like sandpaper.

Me: Um, yeah, we’ll get right on that.

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Veronica Mars, who is 19, apologizing to her father, the sheriff, for providing her friends with fake ID’s.

Veronica: I promise that from now on, I will only use the Mars powers for good and not for evil.

Keith (looking wistfully around their apartment): There’s never a stenographer around when you need one.

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My dermatologist, after successfully removing a skin thing from directly under my right boobie.

The doctor: I’m not even gonna send this into the lab to be biopsied since it wasn’t in a bad place.

Me (to myself): As someone who is a DD, I would seriously have to disagree with you on that one.