I'm in hiding.

You maybe be wondering what I've been up to. The answer is simple. Let us turn to my sponsors for clues*.

  

*I made that up. These companies are not sponsoring me. I'm sponsoring them.

**And to be fair, I'm buying the generic brand of these medicines. 

*** And I'm not using Kleenex, I'm using toilet paper.

 If the people at Walgreens do not recognize me by now, they are blind. And deaf. I've been haunting their tiled floors, coughing non-stop, for more than a week. 

So until I feel better, I'm on sick leave. 

It started with a shirt and then turned strangely medical in nature.

Around about two hours into my day of work, I realized the shirt I'm wearing is probably not a shirt at all, but one of those really long swimsuit tops that pregnant and/or fat woman wear.

I went into the bathroom and needed to scratch a part of my body under my shirt (I'm wearing a new bra), as I was pulling my shirt down, I noticed the shirt has a rather strange lining. I ultimately ended up undressing, in the men's bathroom of a Kung-Fu studio. Don't ask.

 Fine.

It is the closest bathroom to the office. The last time I went to the actual lady bathroom, I had to walk through the Kung-Fu studio and there were three women doing a fan dance. And then I got performance anxiety thinking these women, doing a very beautiful and serene Japanese fan dance, were going to hear me peeing.

Once again, Google Images comes to my rescue. 

As for my shirt, sadly, there was no label to confirm my suspicions. But it feels like swimwear. This is what happens when you do your shopping at Goodwill. Not just Goodwill, but the Goodwill Bins.

Have you ever been to the Goodwill Bins (also known as Goodwill Outlet)?  They are simultaneously the coolest and grossest place you will ever shop. Essentially, the other Goodwill stores send unsalable items to the outlets where they dump the product into gargantuan bins. The shopper then digs through the bins to find their treasures. You pay by the pound, so you could walk away with the some good stuff for cheap.

Unfortunately, the products are usually dirty and stained. You never know when you will come across a poop blanket as you paw through the bins. I've found some cute purses and scarves and a number of shirts. So the risk of catching small pox from a dirty shirt is worth it in the end.

If you are thinking of taking a trip to your nearest Goodwill Outlet, may I suggest the following supplies.

Apply liberally. 

Great for dirty piles of clothes and rectal exams. 

Bargain hunters are strangely aggressive.

My housemate AM recently started a Tumblr of the weird shit found at the thrift store she works at. I highly suggest you check it out. It is funny and disturbing.

First Rate Secondhand is the blog. Here is a sample.

Don't even think of dressing like this. Ever. Not even for  Halloween.

I wish I'd snapped that up. Mom's birthday is in a few months and I'm sure her nursing home staff would love a statue like this.

As for my bathing suit couture. Am I going to continue to wear it? Probably. I paid cents on the dollar for this frock and I intend to get my money's worth. Also, you never know when you need to jump in the river at the drop of a hat.

Be prepared. That's what being a Boy Scout taught me.

I'm not the only hobo creature in my Mom's life.

I've been trying to email with my Mom more often. What I would really like is for her to keep a blog of her own. She is quite funny and I think you would like to read about her daily life in Montana. But she is very busy and I also like having her to myself.

When I was in college, she wrote me pretty often and I kept all the letters. I think I am going to dig them out of storage and reread them. I'm sure it will embarrass her, but maybe I'll post a few of her thoughts here.

What I like most about Mom's emails are the bits of randomness in the midst of paragraphs about other things. A few days ago, she completely buried the lead. In the midst of a paragraph about going to a convention, and before a comment on the weather, she says "We have a peacock who has moved in up by the greenhouse. I have not had much interaction with him but BN has been feeding him."

And then the email ends shortly after that. I had to wait a few days to hear more about the peacock. Who just finds a peacock in their yard? People from Montana, that's who.

Apparently Mom has yet to see this peacock but BN is feeding and watering the bird. I demand a photo of said fowl once Mom returns from her convention.

Symbolically, peacocks mean different things across cultures and religions, but I believe it is universal to find luck, patience and renewal in their presence.

Except for those times when they are being TOTAL jackasses. Case in point, this peacock. We took my nieces and nephew to the Portland Zoo a few years back and had a sort of run-in with this creature.

You can see TG standing behind the plumage, in an orange jacket. The kids had made friends with another little girl while we were riding the train. Said little girl and her mother were going to accompany us to our last stop in the Africa section of the zoo and on the way, this fowl got aggressive and scared the bajeezus out of the new friend. She freaked out and cried and we ended up getting separated.

In the search for that peacock picture, I also came across this doozy.

Look at my babyface! And how young the kids are. This photo was taken in June of 2006 on the same visit to the zoo.

But back to the peacock.

I think the idea of a peacock showing up at your house and deciding to stay is a sign of good things to come. My Mom deserves good things.

Regrets, schmagrets. And all that jazz.

They say don't make any big decisions after eating breakfast.

Okay, only I say that, and it is pretty true. You have a window of clarity between waking up and eating breakfast and then after that the day can go all to hell.

Which is why, after eating some hard-poached eggs and toast, I did something I will probably regret for the next six months.


Here is a photographic hint.

Remember how I always tell that one story about cutting my bangs to look like Janeane Garofalo's in Reality Bites?  Or about watching Kill Bill in the middle of the night and then cutting my bangs to look like Uma's?  No? Well those two things happened.

And then this morning, after finishing my poached eggs, I got up from the table and I walked with purpose into the bathroom and lopped off three inches. I can't explain the steps I made in between  eating and the bathroom. I kind of feel like Lorena Bobbitt, suddenly there was a chunk of hair in my hands.

I said a bangs, bangs, bangity bangs, a bangs, bangs, bangity bangs!

Now here is the real question. What should I do with my hair? I kept it in a sandwich bag.

How weird would it be to use it in a craft project?

Should I:

1. use my bangs in an art project?
2. throw them away?
3. mail them to an ex-boyfriend with a note saying "You're next."

Is there a non-profit group dedicated to the re-hairing of Barbie dolls? Perhaps you have a bald Barbie and would like my chunk of hair so you can make a wig.

Speaking of health and beauty, I got a mani/pedi today and the aesthetician kept showing me the skin she scraped from my feet and the cuticles she cut from my fingers.

Thanks lady, for making me make me feel worse about my manly size 11 feet. And when she gave me a massage, which consisted of beating my legs with her fists, she stopped and said "Strong legs? Very Strong." Then she mimed walking by moving her outstretched palms up and down. Like a horse. I'm surprised she didn't offer to shoe me.

But my hooves do feel silky smooth and look mighty fine.

New bangs and fancy phalanges. What will I think of next?

A Sunday in the life of a dog.

I love Sunday mornings.

I realize an unemployed person can have a Sunday morning every day of the week, but the problem is the rest of the world knows the only Sunday morning that counts is actual Sunday morning.

Everything feels more relaxed on a Sunday morning. You can wake up and just lay in bed.

You can fall asleep on the couch in the middle of mending a coat pocket.

You can drink coffee all day and wear your pajamas to do yard work.

This is Mondo's Sunday morning. Not to be confused with every other morning.

Our fearless puppy sleeps quietly on the couch.

His little ears softly twitching as he snores like a lumberjack.

His little feet are small but strong.

Don't let his pig-like position fool you, he is ready to fight crime at the drop of a hat.

"Did someone say treat? sausage? jerky?"

"No?"

"How rude."