4 posts tagged “foxy”
Look at my adorable dog:
I haven't been able to stop calling my adorable dog "nappy headed ho." It just rolls off the tongue, as in, "Who's my favorite nappy headed ho? YOU'RE my favorite nappy headed ho, yes, you are!" I find Imus' phrase offensive on so many levels, but it's so catchy! Just look at all the talking heads in the media who repeated it ad nauseum -- because of all those people, I can't get "nappy headed hos" out of my non-nappy head. I've heard the phrase so many times that it has lost its meaning. Luckily, my dog really seems to respond to it.
My roommate brought home a new dog today. He also brought this in from the garden:
That is one freaking huge zucchini. Lest you think I was shooting it from some funny angle to exaggerate its size (that's how they shoot pornos, no?), here it is on the ground; keep in mind that I wear size 6 1/2 shoes:
Why would a vegetable even need to get that big? What kind of evolutionary advantage is there for a dog-sized squash?
And why didn't the other vegetables in the garden get so grotesquely huge? Check out our cucumber -- which, by the way, I think is a much superior veggie when it is properly proportioned:
Yep, that's the cucumber basking in the other vegetable's glow. I think someone has zucchini envy.
I had my adventure in sleep medicine last night and what did I find out? Not a thing. Well, at least not yet. I really hope they discovered something -- apnea, narcolepsy, I don't really care -- because I don't want the elaborate process of attaching 20 some electrodes to my head, neck, and legs to be all for naught. I had to sleep with a tube in my nose last night, man, and it left a deep imprint on the left side of my face -- I really don't want to have done that for nothing. Plus, I'm not sleeping and I would like to know why.
The whole experience was pretty surreal, actually. The last thing I expected to do last night was get into a conversation about Courtney Ellis with a sleep tech who had that permanent makeup stuff (tattooed eyeliner!). You see, Courtney Ellis lived across the street from me in 4th and 5th grade when I lived in northern Illinois; strangely, the electrode tech lived in this same town at the same time and is the same age as me, so she went to high school with all of my little friends from when I was ten. Isn't that a little odd? I mean, we both live in freaking Montana now, and no one lives in Montana (it is quite a sparsely populated state). I didn't expect my electrode-putter-on-er to be a friend of my childhood friends from a town 1600 miles from here. Bizarre.
Other than that small-worldiness, my visit was pretty unremarkable. The sleep techs monitored me with a video camera and had a two-way voice-activated intercom. So, when I needed to pee in the middle of the night, all I had to do was say out loud from my bed, "Is anyone there? I need to go to the bathroom." Then, immediately, someone was in my room, helping me and my head full of wires out of bed (I looked a little John Travolta-in-Battlefield Earth-esque, minus the gratuitous crotch bulge).
Yeah, that's so not hot.
Now, I wait and hope to hear that my insomnia can be cured. That would be much more preferable than finding out that it's just a result of depression and anxiety. Here's the thing about anxiety and insomnia: when I'm anxious, I can't sleep, but since I'm so tired all the time, I can't get out of this depression or over my anxiety. It's cyclical like that.
Foxy (my cute dog) isn't a fan of my insomnia. She sleeps in my bed (yes, I'm single and I realize that sharing a bed with my dog will probably keep me that way for some time; I'm okay with that). Every once in awhile when I'm tossing and turning, I catch her looking over her shoulder at me with this expression of, "For real, just calm the f*ck down and go to sleep already." Yeah, she can be kinda bitchy when she wants to sleep.
So can I. At least I don't have a gratuitous crotch bulge to deal with. I like to sleep on my stomach and I think that having extra materials in that area might impede that.
I'm finishing up my coffee here and getting ready to take my dog Foxy (also known as my foxy dog) down to the farmer's market for some more coffee. Foxy loves going down there because she gets a ton of attention (she's pretty cute) and I love going there because it's something to do. Weekends stress me out. I know that's antithesis to the purpose of The Weekend, but holy crap, what am I supposed to do with myself from 5pm on Friday until 7am on Monday? I miss being in college because at least then I had homework to occupy my time. Now, I have what? Fixing my bike? Going to the gym for a couple hours? Killing time until Monday?
My therapist (yeah, that's right; that's the kind of person I am -- might as well lay it all out there) said that it's important that I plan things. I'm digging out of a deep depression right now and trying to get over my insomnia; two weeks ago I decided that I need a big life change, and so I'm moving back to Florida from Montana. Anyway, so I think I may cook dinner with some of my friends tonight. That would be good for me. I've kind of pulled away from them in the last few weeks because I've been so down. I need to "get over myself", as much as I loathe that phrase. I especially liked the episode of The Sopranos where Edie Falco's character said "what does that even mean?" when her son said the phrase to her. The Sopranos is the perfect television show.
So, anyway, I used to blog regularly on Blogger, but I haven't since I moved back to Montana in April. I can't write when I'm depressed, which I realize means that I can never be A Serious Writer (what would Hemingway be without depression?). But I need to start writing again and I need to get over this hole that I'm in. I've just got to suck it up and Do It. My deepest apologies for me feeling sorry for myself. If you don't like it, don't read it. It's just that easy. Keep in mind that I am trying to make a concerted effort, though, not to be Debbie Downer.
