figures.

i went to the doctor this morning regarding some interesting dizziness i've been having of late and it turns out my ears are full of fluid.

yay!

it also turns out this is because of my *ahem* ALLERGIES. which i did not have until i moved here, but which i now have badly enough to fill my fucking ears with fluid. EARS FULL OF FLUID!

this also explains the constant sneezing, the runny noses, the sinus pressure etc etc. i've been taking claritin since we moved here because i figured that was part of it, but apparently, claritin is not enough.

claritin does not keep you from having your ears fill with fluid. and claritin does not help you to unfill them, as this process can take SEVERAL MONTHS.

so.

also the dog will not allow me to spritz his nether regions. he screams and runs away and pees on the carpet. we tried doing it outside, but then he screams and runs away and makes the neighbors angry. so now we have to drug him orally, which means he will either be anorexic to spite me, or get even fatter from all the drug vehicles. vehicle of choice: hot dog. maybe i should get a weiner cutter (thank you robiewankenobie), if only to make it more entertaining when i have to toss the "meat" stuffed with antibiotics and antifungals down his stupid allergic throat.

now i'm at work, trying to work, but more like trying to blog and eat lunch (savory chicken with wild rice) except that everytime i try to take a bite i'm distressed by the fact that the wild rice is dirty looking and curled, and so looks like someone clipped his toenails into my allegedly savory soup.

it's freaking me out.

i think the fluid in my ears is a potent hallucinogenic.

licking my ears will be the new thing.

eeew.

vh1 is my metal lover

has anyone else noticed that sebastian bach is like a medical anomaly? his body is normal looking when he's the only one in the frame, but you stick him next to some other guy and his limbs are FUCKING EVERYWHERE.

i've really been enjoying metal month on vh1 and will be sad when metal goes away again for another fourteen years. supergroup is pretty awesome to watch- they recorded a demo of a song that was actually pretty catchy (except for the lyrics, which i'm pretty sure they stole from me in 1991- yes, i was eleven) and let sebastian spend an evening alone with it. just the song, sebastian and his girl mouth. and probably leather pants. either way, they were surprised when someone then told them it sounded like it was from 1982.

i know i personally find it shocking.

either way, for those of you who either have no vh1 or who did not have the foresight to watch such a show (and, please, don't tell me if this is the case. i don't want to have to judge you.), let me give you the character summation.

jason bonham: seems nice enough. vaguely british. Boy was joking that everyone on this show is washed up- that they don't play anymore and used to support his argument that the bonham drums for foreigner. mostly i wouldn't notice if he wasn't on the show. i'm waiting for him to change that though, when the nuge gets out of control and bonham jabs a drumstick in his eye. and since he's british, it will be done with aplomb.

scott ian: he's in the band anthrax, and pretty much rocks my world.

[aside:] i have decided that henry rollins might be the most perfect man to walk the earth. he writes poetry and sings in a punk rock band and could beat the crap out of all y'all motherfuckers. but he wouldn't, because he is a sensitive band geek and i enjoy that.[/aside]

anyway, scott ian is so genuinely excited about meeting the nuge (i understand that "uncle ted" is a pioneer, but still... ick) that i just want to pinch his cheeks and squish his face. and when the band starts to choke on its own ego, who would have thought that this guy would be the voice of reason? or that he'd be married to meatloaf's daughter?

ted nugent: seriously. this show has TED MOTHERFUCKING NUGENT. when not sermonizing about his own greatness and massive rockitude, he continually harasses "danushka," the blonde chippee they hired to cook for the band. i am rather shocked to admit this, but he is not the most annoying person on the show. i will let the bonham do away with him, whilst i busy myself making plans for the remaining two.

sebastian bach: what a tool. cut your hair, wash off your makeup and shut the hell up. also, put on some sunblock. i'm watching you become a malignant carcinoma over the course of one episode. did you know he wanted to name the band celebutard? now pull your limbs in. people need to walk around here.

evan seinfeld: oh mr. seinfeld, how far the mighty have fallen. i can totally get behind biohazard, and oz was a great show... but i'm really not sure how i feel about a person who claims to be a musician, but whose primary concern seems to be his porn business. so far evan has tried to get danushka in on it, the PR lady, and the vast assortment of breasts and breast attachments he met at various clubs (of both the supposed-to-be-naked and not-supposed-to-be-naked-but-naked-anyway variety.) plus, he thinks he is the most talented one there and even when he appears to be listening humbly to someone else's ideas, you can read the asshole all over him. he knows it will be done his way, or he will walk off.

because he's a giant prick. except not really, because i've seen "reign of tera." not much to be proud of there. (low blow!) (but i'm okay with that) (not really, i'm a good person i swear)

and guess what? the great and powerful oracle "previews" tells me that sure enough, evan walks off.

how is it possible that there is a bigger jerk out there than the nuge? HOW?!?!?!?

either way, this show rules. i haven't had this much fun with television since tawny kitaen.

[aside:]cc deville seems so nice! i want to have him over for pie. do you think he likes pie?[/aside]

oh surreal life, how i miss thee. which just proves my point: vh1 has the best programs this side of dead AND they rerun them in endless cycles so you never need to worry about missing anything.

like purgatory, but without unbaptized babies.


the end

dogistat?

first let me just say that my dog has gained six pounds in two months. that doesn't sound too bad until you realize it's almost 10% of his body weight. because the steroidal treatments increase his appetite and cause cortisol production, he now weighs 74 pounds. fat ass.

anyway, pickles, otherwise known as "go-lay-down," who obviously takes after me in that he likes to do things ALL THE FUCKING WAY, has developed not only a bacterial skin infection but also a topical yeast infection. so it's not herpes, but it is gross. basically the bacterial sores start kind of blistery, then they dry up all scaly and smelly, and then all his hair and skin in the area comes off, leaving him with discolored splotches. that's how we know that he's had this cycling for a while. we had seen the sores before, but none of the other vets had any real idea what to do- they just gave us antibiotics- which treated the infection, but not the cause of it.

so, SURPRISE! both of these infections were started by an allergic reaction, and because he keeps having the allergy, he keeps having the infections. we're treating topically this time (because last time he took the oral antibiotics he went anorexic and my hands smelled like chopped beef for weeks). they gave us some antibiotic/antifungal spray and a whole bunch of suggestions on how to minimize his potential allergen exposure.

the dog has potential allergen exposure.

and so i have spent the last several hours cleaning my apartment because the dog might be allergic to dust/dustmites.

the dog "might be" allergic.

and i have to wrap his bed (the inner stuffing part) in plastic so that dustmites can't bite him and then put the freshly boiled cover back on. or buy some fancypants anti-microbial bed protector. AND i vacuumed within an inch of my life, but our vacuum (of course) only sort of works so now i need to buy a new one.

for the dog.

AND i have to medicate his afflicted regions twice daily, as well as bathing him every other week with special shampoo and re-application of flea treatment, because the stupid shit washes off.

point being, if you need me i will be out back, on my back, sliding up to the dog's undercarriage to apply some of that there spray to the chassis.

do you think he has a hemi?

guess what!

guess what! i don't have to work tomorrow! well, except for the mind numbing missing-limb swollen tongue/exploding scrotum* zombie-style horror that awaits me when i take retardog® pickles to the vet (again) for the spots that cover his nether regions (again). and that's only the first link i found.

anyways, four day weekend means sleep! and knittery! and also some for-reals blogging, that might actually possibly ostensibly maybe occur in my lifetime! until then, just know that i rule.




*seriously that shit was nasty. i have a real problem with texture and watching that dude's tongue go all fat and bumpy just about killed me.

it's like this, fool.

i got to vegas and my camera was dead. this is the only picture i have:



which means you will have to view some pictures over at jiggsblog a little here and some more here.

allegedly there will be more "tomorrow." which means that without photographic evidence, you will simply have to believe that everything you read here is true.

as it generally is.

we were all married, except booty who has a woman (and preternaturally sensitive nipples), and it was the best i've ever had.

this is the absolute truth. i married them all in the following order: jiggs, tasty mcj, slappy. slappy was last because he's tall.

booty was the man of honor, but he slept through most of it so don't listen to anything he says about anything. also he was drunk pretty much the whole time and trying to fondle jiggs' twissleman. we were married by the first elvis we saw, who happened to be on some fat guy's tshirt.

we ordered three hookers from 69-69-69-6 and used them as models for the new jiggswear for women line.

this is less true. we wanted to order hookers, but they all hurt our eyes. this one girl brutalized my retinas with her ann-coulter-face and i understood suddenly why people kill prostitutes, if only for a moment.

by people i mean booty, and i'm only saying it because i can tell you guys anything. he told me not to tell, but his face is obscured so no one will ever really know. just you and me, internet. yup.

someone had nice boobs and it wasn't me.

like i said, i totally have nice boobs. and we did see several other sets, including one set wearing pasties, but they weren't fun or badass or super elegant. they were just plain, and a total waste of vision. pasties are supposed to bring joy to the world, but these pasties made me sad, and that's wrong.

my breast spotting skills are unparalleled. (boobdar.) i found (for my jiggs-harem's viewing pleasure) pastied boobs, hugenormous boobs, and drunken / gratuitously licked in public boobs. that's right. but the boobs most often remarked upon were those of jiggs himself, as he has glorious man boobs, and is not afraid to use them to his advantage. it's how he got us all late checkouts at the hotel.

it's also how he wrangled me. (yes i said wrangled. shut up.) rowr!

someone used the word cock gratuitously and it probably was me.

i think this one is pretty self explanatory. cock! cockle! cockamamie!

it seems that the gentlemen weren't sure exactly what to make of me, and so we met at a buffet to insure a wealth of reasons to break away (in case of creepiness of the not so charming variety.)

later they told me that i had significantly fewer chances to escape, as jiggs had become the keeper of my purse (it sat next to him quietly while we ate; it was full of roofies and that shit makes you sleepy). how would i escape without them knowing i was headed for the door? that's when i told them i needed to get up to change my tampon, and suddenly they knew i was their kind of girl. for i am a real classy broad. oh yes. the class is just running off me.

someone was impregnated with a million babies.

i can't reveal this one, but i assure you that each of these million babies will find a good home.

i hope.

because you, and only you can help. for the cost of a cup of coffee, you could help me send the million babies to school- and i could buy them shoes, and stop putting bandaids on their nipples. because your 2.45 tall non-fat mocha latte means matching sequined pasties for everyone.

god bless america.

4 eva fool!

just keepin' it real. (slappy!)

it teases my cock (for tasty mcj)

this is a little "tease" of my night in vegas with jiggsblog:

we were all married, except booty who has a woman (and preternaturally sensitive nipples), and it was the best i've ever had.

we ordered three hookers from 69-69-69-6 and used them as models for the new jiggswear for women line.

someone had nice boobs and it wasn't me.

someone used the word cock gratuitously and it probably was me.

someone was impregnated with a million babies.

but who??????


who, dammit? WHO??????

wooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

one of my favoritest elvis songs.
evar.

i'm going to vegas to meet jiggs casey et al, and hijinks will ensue.

could you be more jealous of me???

you will be when i get back with photographic evidence.



*coming soon: another installment of "miss kendra's body is weird," everyone's favorite parlor game!*

poetry thursday

i apologize again for my general absence, but i promise that soon you will be entertained with the adventures of miss kendra and jiggsblog in vegas.

i'm hoping that there will be the exchange of clothing with strangers, copious alcohol, several elvis, bellybuttons, hats, and hotdogs from circus circus.

in the mean time, because everyone loves it when i don't post for a while and post a craptastic poem that holds little interest, may i present:

SUNFLOWER SEEDS
(after dean young's sunflower, which i could not find on the interweb)


while vacuuming,
i orbit myself.
i swirl and spin, i circumvolve,
i revolve, evolve—
weigh the effects of my strawberry habit on the atmosphere,
formulate a plan to become a superhero,
absorb the energy captured by the sneaky points of pyramids or
just get out of here, either
graceland or some really juicy part of china
where the light is mathematical and preferably flattering. i hear
the faint and papery sound of aging. i fear the calories expended
do not equal or outweigh those ingested. i develop
a deep understanding of the social significance of rhinestones,
decide that serotiny is not the right method of reproduction
for me because fire sucks and fucking doesn’t.
my respect for full time maids grows large and bulbous—
if someone else were here I might ask him to caress it. memories
of vinyl-skinned dolls built in perfect proportion
by engineers, not god and my mother. her mustard yellow kitchen appliances,
vegan apple crisp (ninety-eight percent fat free),
riding feet up on the dashboard in the old blue car,
walking dogs at midnight… so full
of these ten-cent twelve-stick bundles of past i could
in one undetectable motion
stir them from my ear and watch them fall,
see these parts of myself consumed
by the wide mouth of the machine.

please just kill me

my new "place of work," which you should clearly interpret to mean "place of complete and utter despair," is set up to be like a home. this is so we can showcase our products and services in the manner they would actually be used.

apparently, it is also so that i can clean up after not only myself and the man i choose to be with, but the jack ass i work for too.

i came in this morning to this:
an open dishwasher full of his coffee cups- because i
drink tea from the same cup i use and rinse out everyday.

and even better:
post-its are classy, no?

mother's day

mother's day is a difficult one for me.

i have little relationship with my real mother, after years and years of trying and being hurt again and again.

but of course, a person can never truly give up hope on her parent- there is always something inside that longs for recognition, that wants to hear the stories of a familiar childhood, that always keeps wishing.


in the many years that have passed since i last celebrated mother's day in her honor, i have come to find a new mother, a woman who chose to care for me, even though she had no obligation to. she and her husband gave me many things, not the least of which is the hope that someday, i could be a Good Mother too.

happy mother's day.

send money for crystal methamphetamine. (jut kidding- it's for vegas!)*

i love you.


*laughter is the best defense.

phrases your boss probably should not use*

*especially when alone with his young female assistant in a small office with the door closed



any thing punctuated with a wink

"but i'm cute"

"short and curlies"

yet another reason why i am not a doctor

the following is a true conversation with friend, who may or may not have skin cancer, and who called looking for comfort but instead got me:

friend: so their going to scrape away layers of my skin until they don't find any more potentially cancerous cells.

me: well it's just your face. think of it as a free nose job.

friend: but it's on the side of my nose.

me: that nostril always looked fat anyway.

i am a trophy wife just waiting to be wed

i was going to use this opportunity (my boss is gone for a full and glorious hour) to blog blog blog, but here's the problem: the only time i can do my actual work is ALSO when he is gone. so.

i wanted to blog from home, but my wireless network (*cough*comcast*cough*) S.U.C.K.S. also, there are other things to get done there, like knitting and eating and sleeping and scooping the litterbox. that last one isn't fun, but it's preety important.

really blogging is very high on my priority list, as it's the only writing i do these days (woohoo! masters degree in motion!), but i spend my possibly blogging time keeping up with all of you, who i have come to know and love and stalk via spyware.

if i could find myself a j.howard marshall (like my body?) i would be so set. i could blog and knit and go online bargain shopping everyday.

so far today i've spent about $1300 on my imaginary shopping spree. and that was just at four repro websites.

i didn't even do amazon or ebay or anything.

there's not even a regular everyday pair of pants in there.

if anyone's interested, i can email you a copy of the list, itemized, with prices and sizes. just sayin.


i'm going to go book a hotel for vegas baby! and i swear, i will be clever soon. unless i meet j.howard there, then i will be clever when i'm not busy stuffing my face and buying shoes.

nobody reads friday posts, so let's talk about my vagina.

'the time has come,' miss kendra said,
'to talk of many things:
of shoes -- and ships -- and sealing wax --
of cabbages -- and sheep --
and why men find cameron diaz hot --
and stories of my peep.'*

over the last two weeks at snb i have found myself telling stories of my special purpose. the only problem with that is that stitch and bitch is held in a public place, and shockingly, i have a loud voice that carries.

by "carries," i mean "causes strangers to listen in and then commence laughing at my humiliation by vagina."

and if strangers (some of them tourists, who will now bring back tales of the crazy white lady's nether regions to their assorted homelands) in the west hollywood farmer's market can get a good laugh, why can't you? why indeed.

close encounter of the vajayjay kind, numero uno**:

when i was in college i had this gynocolololologist who lived right nearby. i was having "issues" with my red states, so i saw her fairly often- and not just in the office, but out and about town. i would see her in the grocery store all the time, but she would just glance at me and move on by. the woman NEVER recognized me.

even when i was seeing her at six to eight week intervals, i was just another girl. i imagine that working in a college's gynocology office mean seeing a whole lotta pussy, so i wasn't really offended.

until.

one day i went in for the usual (oil change, tire rotation, coffee, donuts) and per usual, she looked at me with eyes empty of familiarity. so i adjusted my paper robe, scooted my butt down the table, threw my feet up in the stirrups and waited for what i knew was coming.

she turned around, scary pre-rennaissance medical "tools" in hand, and turned on the lamp (you know the lamp. the right-up-in-your-business-lamp.) then she cocked her head to the side and said with something that can only be described as jubilation, "OH! I remember you."

close encounter of the vajayjay kind, numero dos:

one of my sisters is six years younger than i am, so when she was really little we would bathe together, for her safety (and my obvious desire for exposure to fecal choloform bacteria. she totally pooped the tub once. different story.) we would play around and make bubble hats, fun fun etc etc, so when i started wanting to take my baths alone, it was a hard transition for the little sis to make. see, i went through puberty pretty early. i had to start wearing a for real bra when i was eleven, and i have distinct memories of clutching my chest in agony after a full day of fourth grade, wishing the damn tits would pop out already.

so there i am, probably about eleven, laying in the bathtub, swishing my head back and forth under the water and pretending my hair is a mermaid tail, when my sister creeps into the bathroom, gives me the elevator eyes, and runs from the room S.C.R.E.A.M.I.N.G. her face was contorted in terror and agony- bright red- and here arms were flailing about as she rounded the corner into the kitchen, where my mother, father, aunt, uncle, and godparents sat enjoying coffees.

"what's the matter," my mother asked her, comforting her, worried for her safety.

and my sister looked back towards the bathroom where i was standing in the doorway- soaked, wrapped in a towel, and also concerned for her safety. she looked at me, then turned her face up to my mother and with gusto answered, "kendra's vagina has a moustache."

the end. my blush can be seen from space.


*this is the second time i've used this poem. i like it. also, whenever i hear "i am the walrus" i think of this poem, and how being the walrus essentially means (to me) that you are a person who eats his friends. and then cries about it.

**i'm using numeros because i am bi-lingual. it's cinco de mayo. that means five of mayo. which i am allergic to.

200 just doesn't go as far as it used to

this is my 200th post. impressive, isn't it? i rather like the dull ache it's causing. it's like cutting, but on the internet. scarless self injury, courtesy of miss kendra's shit blog. all the teens are so into me.

i'm very not funny as of late. i think the new job is draining me. imagine the worst boy or girlfriend you've ever had. now make that person your boss.

delusions of grandeur? check.
narcissistic? check.
blame deflector? check.
cheaper than a three cent whore? check.
physical presence makes me feel unclean? check.

what's a girl to do?

in other news, my boyfriend went skinny-dipping last weekend and lost his wallet somewhere in the pacific ocean area. if you find it, please let me know.

i know i have been largely missing lately, and now that i'm here i'm sucking pretty hard, but thanks to everyone for sticking around. jiggs casey sent me a picture of worldwide pickles that pleased me greatly, and wombat sent me this:



i printed and laminated it so i can draw on him with dry-erase markers.

like this, but without all the effort of mspaint. just me, my markers, and poor poor wombat, just trying to cheer the crazy girl up, now having pictures of himself in clown makeup, earrings, and spraying fire poop posted all over the internet.





dammit! he's using me. it was his plan all along.