Humidity & Me


Humidity: the state or quality of being humid. A quantity representing the amount of water vapor in the atmosphere or a gas.

NOTE: Every * is a substitute for a curse word. THE curse word. The mother of curse words. I can paint a tapestry with * but I chose to shield you from a total obliteration of your faculties because it would make Jesus happy.

Let’s talk about humidity. I *ing hate humidity. Heat I can handle, but *ing humidity, literally makes me angry.

To give you some idea of my acclimation, I work in an office where the a/c is set at 72’ *ing degrees all the time. I spend a good 8 hours absorbing moisture-free, cold air, and generally exhibit “chicken skin” from being cold. This is what my body is adjusted to for the majority of my day.

My main environment leads me to believe I live in a humid-free world, and I happily buy into that. Some days, my acclimation back to reality are better than others. The worst *ing day this summer thus far was last week. I opened the door at 5 pm to walk to my SUV, and my glasses fog up. “What the *?! Seriously?! My glasses are fogging up!”

I drive to Albertsons. I open my car door and begin walking to the automatic doors. Glasses. Fog. You get the idea. “*****!”

I curse inside my head from the automatic doors to my SUV. The Dollar Tree is next. Lord knows Dollar Tree doesn’t even have what can be in any way defined as “air conditioning” in their stores. Standing in line behind a woman with 56 *ing items for a baby shower, the *ing sweat begins at my bra strap and slowing slides down into my *ing jeans. I HAVE THREE *ING ITEMS AND I AM ABOUT TO SHANK A BITCH!”

From Dollar Tree to my SUV. SUV to my front door.

I swear, I was ready to commit a *ing homicide by that time. This is the part of the story where you think I am able to go inside my apartment and chill. You would be wrong. Sophie has to pee. Back outside I go and today she decides to screw the * around. My hair is literally growing to what seems to be *ing epic proportions. I can feel it absorbing the moisture and expanding. I wore it down. It’s not even pulled back off of my face.

It is *ing ludicrous that I live in this atmosphere. My hair is completely *ed up constantly and “humid homeless” isn’t as *ing attractive as one might think.

We won’t even touch on the fact that I have oily skin… not getting wrinkles as I grow old isn’t really the “bonus” it would seem to be in *ing humid conditions.

A. heard this rant this past weekend. She thought it might be therapeutic to write it down. Based on the use of asterisks, I curse much LESS when I write than I do when I am verbalizing.

My retirement needs to be spent in a dry *ing climate. My hair has done fabulous things in Flagstaff, AZ. North CA makes for great hair as well. My hair was very full in Shanghai, China.  And in Chicago in the winter. Jamee suggested Colorado. A. didn’t give her input on a state or country. Florida is out of the question for obvious reasons.

I see where that paragraph could go for days.

To sum it up, I *ing hate humidity. I honestly try to keep the bitching inside and just curse in my head. Sometimes it comes out, but the majority of the time, unless I am with my girlfriends, it remains inside eating away at my soul. You are welcome. I might need psychiatric help in a few years.

Damn it. Sophie needs to go to pee. It’s humid outside. **************************!!!


My Shower Escapade or Sophie Sucks as a Service Dog

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I was showering tonight and I decided that tonight was the night I was going to clean the shower curtain liner. A. is coming to visit on the 20th, and she is spending the night. I like to present my sleepover guests with clean surroundings here in “Sanctuary de Simon”.  Also, never ask an OCD person why, just nod and go with whatever ridiculous thing they are talking about.

So, picture me naked in my shower. No, skip that. I don’t need to give you a reason to go running for the brain bleach, or committing the sin of lusting in your mind. *insert laughter*

I am in the shower, and I have washed to an amazing level of squeaky clean. I notice as I am screwing around with my hand-held shower head, that my shower liner had soap build up on the bottom portion of it. What does an OCD person do? Clean it right then and there of course!

The shower head comes in handy for a multitude of sins, *cough*, I mean, things, and cleaning is one of them. I am bending over, spraying water and making quite a soapy mess on the tub floor. Vigorously I rub to get the built up soap off. So vigorous in fact, that I lose my balance, and go crashing under the curtain and ½ out of the bathtub. My head and breasts are on the mat outside the tub, while my legs are askew in the air above the tub.

I laid there for a few minutes, listening for the sounds of my faithful companion coming to check on me. Minutes passed and I dare say, there never was the jingle jangle of Sophie’s collar at all. Now, Sophie is a black Labrador, and there is no doubt that she feels oppressed here in her apartment all day while I work to keep her happy. Is she punishing me for her oppression? Was this the time that I was going to have the question answered I have asked many times before, “Would Sophie start eating me if I died and nobody knew?”

It didn’t help that I, we, had watched “Whatever Happened to Baby Jane” less than an hour before. I felt like Blanche and Sophie was all too well playing the part of Baby Jane Hudson.

Not content to just go on and get my ass up, I milked it a little longer to see if Sophie would investigate. As I lay there, I loudly proclaimed, “White Lives Matter.” Nothing. She didn’t budge. I am over this situation, so I get up, get back in the shower to wash off, and finished up my nightly rituals.

I headed into the bedroom and there lay sleeping beauty, hogging up the entire right side of the queen bed. I swear she smirked a little as she opened one eye to watch me walk towards her.

I learned a few things tonight-

  1. Sophie would suck ass as a service dog.
  2. The bathtub mat should be in use during cleaning shower sessions of any kind.
  3. Laying on a hard floor boobs down is not very comfortable.
  4. It’s amazing how much water a rouge hand-held shower head can spray onto a bathroom floor.
  5. Black Labs Matter and should be spoiled rotten regardless if the question of, “Will Sophie eat me if I die?” goes unanswered.

I am off to take 2 Tylenol and perform our nightly “one minute-one act play”. It stars Sophie and myself. I crawl into bed, and extend my legs under the cover, into my usual area. (Sophie is laying atop the comforter directly on top of my designated area.) She pretends to be greatly put off by this, and with great aplomb, rolls over to her space, and lets out a loud, overly dramatic sigh. I then secure my sleeping position and the curtain drops.

Nightly. We perform this every night. Do I ever get tired of it? No, and just between you and me, I wouldn’t have it any other way.


Farewell Areola

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“The Woman Who Loved Sophie Too Much”, AKA, “Areola”, has moved out of the apartment next to me. I am sure Sophie is more upset than I am. Not only did her breasts almost flop out onto Sophie’s head every time she would pet her, but she always had dog treats she passed out like they were free. (she worked at PetCo, so maybe she knew something I didn’t…)

I just intimated that Sophie was happy to have boobage almost plopping on her head…. I don’t know that Sophie likes that at all. We don’t role play that when we are home alone. I am speaking more from my perspective as the dog owner who was fearful this was about to happen on a regular basis.

Sidenote: I almost told her to just flop one of them out on the day she told Sophie goodbye. Just because. I grinned the entire time she was bent over thinking about saying it.

I always thought that perhaps she didn’t have all the synapses connecting because she missed a lot of “normal” social cues. For example, it’s 5:30 pm on a weekday. I arrive home carrying a Jucy’s Taco bag and a large drink. What would you do in this situation if you walked out of your door and saw me?

1. Walk to my door and stand there telling me how glad Sophie must be to have me home since she is barking her head off. “She must be so happy because she hadn’t barked all day long. I heard her barking and came outside to check and see if you were home. Sure enough, it’s you. She is so excited for you to be home.” Etc., etc.

2. Smile, perhaps even wave, and go back inside your own apartment so I can get inside mine and eat while my food is hot.

Typically, one would choose option 2 because that is what considerate people do, or people of have a strong grasp of social etiquette.

Another strange thing was that she was in the process of getting her driver’s license. She was 25 and had failed the driving test twice. Her husband, who is 63, and her old college professor, bought her a brand new SUV as incentive. She did all her driving with her husband as her co-pilot, as required by Texas law. Her husband took a job in Houston, thus the relocation, and he let her navigate her SUV back and forth to Houston in the months ahead of the move. One day I was forced into small talk and mentioned that she was going to be driving in Houston. Her response was, “Oh, I love driving in Houston! I just go get in this one lane, and zoom, I am passing everybody!”.

1. One does not simply ever love driving in Houston. Ever.

2. I don’t think she realizes that she can’t use the HOV lane once she gets her DL and is driving solo

It’s been a full week since they moved. I haven’t waxed melancholy yet. My gut instinct is that I won’t. My son walked to my apartment for lunch today and texted me while I was at work, “If you play your cards right, your new neighbors might just give you a beer out of their cooler which they have set up right outside the door.” Ah, new neighbors. I have mediocre hopes that they are cool & fabulous. Like me.