It's right around the corner...

I'm going to get this out of the way a week early... Valentine's Day is around the corner.  Bleah. I've never liked Valentine's Day -- even when I've been with someone.  Maybe even especially when I've been with someone.  Why?  Because there are so many expectations of gestures of romance and love and chocolates and roses and jewelry.  Since I seem to pick men who are either poor or just not romantic, I am always disappointed.

It doesn't help that, at this particular moment, I'm pretty pissed off at Mr. Man.  I won't go into the reasons, I'll just say that he's a butt head and I don't see it getting better in the next week -- unless he has a lobotomy.  Unfortunately, you can't just order those up.  A professional has to say you need one and I guess it's a pretty big deal and stuff.  So ...

In years past, I always wore black on Valentine's Day in protest.  But it's not really a protest.  It's a billboard proclaiming, "I'm bitter because this holiday has always sucked for me so I want to suck any joy that you might have on this day."  That's why I'm getting this rant out early.  Even though I hate the day, I know a lot of people love it and even look forward to it.

Or maybe I just have a really bad past life memory from Ancient Rome and the Lupercalia Festival.  Getting hit by men bearing thongs made out of goat skin doesn't seem all that romantic or alluring.

At least my History major gave me something -- the ability to rationalize my own bitter attitudes with the help of knowledge about obscure, ancient pagan rituals.  I wonder where a girl could get a goat skin thong ...  Or maybe I need to get on a plane to Edmonton:  Lupercalia MMXIII.  Probably after a weekend of this kind of celebration, I just might long to be underwhelmed by the lack of effort of any of my Valentines.

Is that scale of yours accurate?

You might recall my triumph at finding out that I weighed 11 pounds less than I thought I would two Sunday's ago.  I shared that good news to anyone who would listen because everyone cares, right?  Of course I told Mr. Man.  Of course, he has no frame of reference because I've never told him how much I weigh.  He's seven inches taller than me and I know I weigh more -- or, on good days, the same.

So, later that week, Mr. Man and I were enjoying a snuggle under my newly cleaned down comforter.  The conversation went a little like this.

MM:  Is that scale of yours accurate?

SS:  Yeah.  Why do you ask?

MM:  I dunno, I just saw it in the bathroom and wondered if it's accurate.

SS:  It has to be because I always weigh myself before I go to the doctor and it's only two pounds off their scale.  If anything it must be heavy because when I weigh myself at home, I'm naked, I've peed, and I've had nothing to eat or drink yet that morning.  When I go to the doctor, I've had breakfast and am fully clothed.

MM:  [nodding]  Makes sense. [throwing back the comforter and getting out of bed] I gotta pee.

I'm not sure this is so cutting edge...

Ooof.  It's Monday morning and I find myself with another hangover.  Not a HBB induced hangover, but a LMN Movie Hangover.  A 1996 piece of artistry called Mother, May I Sleep With Danger? starring Ms. Tori Spelling.  I can't resist me some Tori Spelling or Jennie Garth or Shannen Doherty.  Don't get me wrong, I love Tori, but I think she might have been in porn if she wasn't Aaron Spelling's daughter.  She really gets into kissing her costars.  Sometimes I can't watch it -- other times I'm fascinated that her jaw can move that way.  So ... kind of like porn.  Sometimes it's just gross, sometimes it's fascinating.

LMN can't get all the credit, however.  I managed to twist my back last Wednesday afternoon.  I laid in bed all night alternately crying and dozing -- mostly crying.  I had to make a 2.5 hour drive home the next morning to see the doctor.  Let me just say he set me up.

I've never had the pleasure of prescription pain killers.  I had 400 stitches across my chest after breast reduction.  I used regular Tylenol.  I had a kidney stone.  Midol worked that time.  This was something entirely different.  I was expecting Vicodin, but instead received a nice little cocktail that involved two pain killers and a muscle relaxant.  Oh, and an antibiotic for my sinus infection along with a nose spray (which I only used once because it was grody feeling).

From Goddess to Groundhog

from: authorlauradelua.blogspot.com

Happy Imbolc!  What the heck is that, you say?

Well, if you didn't or don't feel like clicking the link that would bring you to my favorite Wikipedia, here is the short story:  It's the third Sabbat of the eight Sabbats of the Wiccan year.  Oooh!  Did I say 'Wiccan'?  Indeedy I did.  I'm not coming out of the witchy closet here because I can't really say I'm Wiccan...  I do little witchy things every day, but because I'm not disciplined and doing full blown rituals, am not a member of a coven, etc.  I don't want to say, "I'm a Wiccan." because I think it's disrespectful to those who are very devoted to the Craft.  I just kinda do it my way.

It's kind of funny too, considering I'm a Spinster.  I would have been a certain target of the Inquisition what with my unmarried, childless, hairy chinned status.  Oh, and I love baking sweets for the little kids.