Speaking of unfit…

This evening I left a burner on medium-low with an empty pan on it for, oh… three hours. No harm done, and I haven’t done anything like that in a long time, but it illustrates nicely why you can never, EVER let my buy a house that I plan to live in alone.

I’m counting on you, Internet. (Fortunately, I can bribe you with the turkey chili I made this evening.)


I am not generally an insane person, at least not by the high standards set by those around me. However, I freely admit to bouts of highly obsessive tendencies. These tend to follow certain patterns, but sometimes can be completely random.

Every now and then, when I have a month that is unusual in the pattern of my life, I examine it casually in a number of ways. I wonder what it would be like if my life was usually like that every month (a bit of an eye-opening idea if the month is particularly good or bad). I also tend to monitor months in terms of my health. This became a habit when I was having a lot of digestive problems, and when the rosacea first showed up – a way of trying to diagnose what made things worse or better.

I monitor PMS from month to month, because while I should be physically consistent, I never am (though it’s been many a year since I’ve had the feeling of completely losing my mind and swearing I can feel the hormones coursing through my veins). One month I will have no physical symptoms but will embody the stereotypical emotional rollercoaster (I can have a passing thought about a friend or pet dying and be full-out sobbing in seconds). Another month my mind will be sunshine and lollipops, but I’ll have digestive problems and things will swell up and hurt. Or I’ll be tired all the time and things will ache and I’ll get headaches every day. Or chocolate, Doritos, and pickles will become God’s Own Food Groups. Some months I have sore boobs for almost three weeks. THREE WEEKS. Out of four. These are not small boobs to begin with. It’s Wonderful Being a Girl.

Tied to the PMS tracking and the health monitoring is a little game I like to call “this would be a bad month to get pregnant”. I like to think of it as my most paranoid indulgence. (I’ve always been fairly paranoid about getting knocked up, so it’s not surprising to obsess about it sometimes, especially when conducive activities like actually having sex are going on.)

Basically, I ponder what I’ve been doing, eating, drinking, and ingesting that month. Some months I am a model of health – eating my veggies, getting lots of sleep, exercising regularly. Should the unthinkable occur, at least Cletus the Fetus would be off to a good (if unwelcome) start. Some months are average. Those months I don’t tend to play this game. Then there are months like this month. Eating poorly (I have eaten four… maybe five, grilled cheese sandwiches in less than a week, have embraced Cadbury Egg Season, and cannot seem to make lunch to bring to work to save my life), drinking a fair bit at the wedding, having a smoke with Mark yesterday, abusing cough lozenges (mmm… cherry), sleep deprivation, and I haven’t been to the gym since… it’s probably been about a week. And there was that whole losing a beagle and breaking my lungs in the cold air and murdering my flabby muscles thing last week. And I’m giving blood this evening.

These months I don’t think I should be allowed to take care of myself, let alone anyone else… 🙂

Dear Weezer,

Learn to count syllables. Practise on haiku or something.

Not all the syllables have to fit in one line of a song.

Holy crap, that’s annoying.