nom nom nom pie

So, knitting group was fun. I was totally the only person wearing a Ridiculous Hat, but that's okay. I fully expect that the trend will take off like gangbusters in a matter of weeks.

Additionally, the sweet potato pie I made was a big hit. I am the Queen of Pie the past couple days...sheperds' pie, then apple pie, then sweet 'tato. Next thing I know, I'm gonna morph into Martha Stewart or some crap.

Okay, yeah, probably not so much. I haven't got the faintest idea about interior decorating.

Off to go watch another Desperate Housewives episode while I knit.

Thursday Is Ridiculous Hat Day.

Yes, it is official.

Thursdays are now the Platypus-Appointed Day For The Wearing Of Ridiculous Hats.

I will be doing my bit by wearing my top hat to Knitting Group tonight.

Hilarity will no doubt abound. I shall update you on this later tonight when I get home.

SHE LIVES.

Holy crapmonkeys, it's been a month since I posted anything? Guh. I so massively fail at life for my shameful neglect of you, O INTERNETZ THAT I ADORE SO MUCH.

Let's see, what amazingly entertaining shenanigans have been going on in the Life of the Platypus lately? Um...oh em gee, this totally calls for bullet points!

• I have been been on a knitting bender LIKE WHOA. I thought it would be a Super Cool Awesomely Brilliant idea to try to knit giftymas presents for the in-laws (because there's only four of them; there's eleventy-kazillion people in my family so knitting presents for all of them is right out), but I now realize that this is about as likely as me suddenly becoming President of the World and having a movie deal in the works where Mr. Platypus is played by Johnny Depp or Nathan Fillion and hel-LO, would that not be AWESOME? You need to get right on that, Hollywood! Oh, wait, where was I going with this? Uh...


• I had two interviews for a sooper-dooper new job at a Mad Crazy Fancy Spa. I did not get hired at said Mad Crazy Fancy Spa. Strangely, this bothers me not at all. I think I would implode from sheer boredom if I had to do nothing but relaxation-oriented massage all day. I like fixin' busted muscles, yo. It's my thing; it's what I do.


• I have gotten exactly nothing accomplished towards the whole Going Back To School endeavor. I did, however, begin considering whether I wanna just lose my mind and double-major in Biology and Human Health/Rehab for the bachelor's degree bit of it. Ponder, ponder, ponder.


• I now weigh the same as I did in high school! NONE OF MY PANTS FIT AND THIS IS AWESOME. No, for serious. I adore the fact that all of my pants are baggy as hell and I'm no longer Rocking The Sexy in them. Because honestly, I'm all slender and sexalicious with my bad self. Oh, Reverse Crunch Extensions. You and I are bee-eff-effs FOR LIFE. Okay, I'm done gloating. For now. No, come to think of it, I'm probably not done.
  


• I managed not to beat Crazy Mommy-Dearest-In-Law over the head with a pepper grinder during Thanksgiving dinner! Probably because we had dinner in a restaurant, and I didn't want to Cause A Scene, but yanno, whatevs. Point remains that I didn't maim her (despite ample provocation, let me tell you. That woman, she is the crazy.).

Other than that (and really, let's be truthful here and ignore my silly-ass list), a whole lotta nothing has been going on. I made an apple pie tonight! Whee!

For the record, you guys should totally go watch Mega-Shark vs. Giant Octopus. Debbie Gibson trying to pretend to be a marine biologist? HILARITY ENSUES.

I am way too fond of my caps lock key.

Hmm.

I suppose that I should not be so irritated about the dreadful tips yesterday...after all, we wound up fully booked, and I do get paid per massage I perform. Still, yesterday was pretty seriously sucktastic.

Y'see, the Big Boss in their infinite wisdom decided that they were going to send out an email coupon telling folks that they could get their 55-minute massage for some ridiculously low price (I believe it was fifty bucks) and their 80-minute massage for some other ridiculously low price (I think it was eighty bucks) on Oct 31. and Nov. 1 only. Naturally, the clients took advantage of this; who wouldn't? I therefore wound up with five 55-minute sessions yesterday.

Ordinarily, I would have been pretty darn thrilled about that. After all, staying busy makes time seem to pass faster, and I do like the chance to make several good tips. I was not very thrilled, though, when all but one client tipped fifteen percent based on the discounted price rather than the regular price. (One client tipped me five dollars. I felt insulted, because I'd really tried to deliver the best massage that I could. It felt like they were telling me that my time and skills are neither important nor valued. Sigh.)

I realize that I'm being a whiny little twerp right now. I realize that people don't necessarily think about tipping us therapists (despite the friendly little "for your convenience, here is a chart listing 15% of the massage price, 20% of the massage price, etc" signs in every massage room and at the front desk. Oh, and the discreet little tip envelopes.). I just feel like four out of my five clients yesterday were trying to tell me that they think that my skills and training are a joke.

One of the ten-dollar tippers is a regular client who comes in for a massage with their significant other about once a month, and always tips ten bucks. This is after their significant other spends the entire massage being a demanding, whiny pain in the posterior and snarking at me "is Client asleep? They better not be asleep. Are you doing Swedish massage? They like Swedish massage. Don't go too deep with the pressure." while simultaneously yammering at their therapist about how they are such a Special Snowflake who deserves Top-Drawer Treatment. Client, for some reason known only to them, never tells Significant Other to shush. It drives me absolutely bugpoop crazy, so much so that I was in tears last night after they left. Today, I shall talk to my boss about whether I would be permitted to "fire" this client from booking appointments with me. It's unprofessional of me, but my annoyance at Significant Other's shenanigans and Client's inability to understand that tipping is important has affected my ability to give Client a good massage. I don't want Client to pay for a massage that isn't excellent quality, because I'm sure they work hard for their money, and I'd hate to see them waste it.

Anyway. Yeah. Yesterday sucked. I have no clients booked today, and I'm working an eight hour shift. If nothing else, I will be able to study some algebra, do some crocheting, and ponder the mysteries of the universe. Whee!

we meet again.

So that you may all enjoy the Cheesecake of Ungodly Goodness, I give you this link:
your new raison d'etre

Follow the suggestions given in the first comment down, and your cheesecake will turn out eleventy-seven different kinds of awesome. (I vote for using 'nilla wafers for the crust, rather than graham crackers, but that's because I hate graham crackers.)

So anyway, I have a new obsession! I learned to crochet granny squares last night, and now I am making an afghan out of them. I literally spent like six hours crocheting. It was kind of hilarious. I get like this when I have a new project, though...it becomes almost all I can think about until the "new" wears off, and then it goes back to just being more interesting than the rest of my mental dreck instead of the SHINY NEW THING of the moment.

Wow, that was a long sentence.

Anyway, I have big plans for crocheting myself things like fingerless gloves to keep my hands warm whilst typing, several afghans, perhaps some baby blankets for the friends of mine who have crotchfruit, et cetera and so forth. Enormous amounts of fun will be had. By me. I don't know anyone who would find it all that entertaining to watch me crochet, so I'm thinking I'm most likely the only one who's going to be all that entertained.

You haven't missed any entrancing stories about clients lately, mostly because they've either not been inspired to weirdness or I just haven't noticed their weirdness. There's been a lot on my mind, what with this apparently being the Year for Enormous Drama in my family. Can't give you any details on the Enormous Drama, mostly because none of it is my story to tell.

Gasp. Platypus has some kind of ethics? Shocking!

Actually, I'm keeping my mouth shut because I don't want to cause any sort of yucky familial fallout WHY YES, I HAVE ETHICS, HOW KIND OF YOU TO ASK.

I had to take like eleventy-billion hours of ethics classes at school, after all. Can't have massage therapists running about without ethics. That'd be like running about without underpants! Except you can't exactly get pink flowered ethics, but you can get pink flowered underpants. There was a point to this comparison, but I forgot what it was.

And on an entirely unrelated note, you guys should totally go hiking in New Hamster. Because it is all pretty an' stuff.

Back to the tying-knots-in-yarn I go! Whee!

whurbleburbleflurblegurp

Events in PlatypusLand this past week have included:

• spending eight hours in the emergency room to find out that I had a mild UTI, a case of gastroenteritis, and a 2.5 cm cyst on my left ovary; their symptoms had combined to form something that felt like the Kidney Infection from Hell
• going to Nude Hamster (also known as New Hampshire) to hike and buy cheap booze
• going to the library (because I love the library)
• reading a book entitled After Silence: Rape and My Journey Back, by Nancy Venable Raines
• receiving three or four emails from the admissions department at B.U.; apparently they are desperate for me and my parents (because, y'know, I totally am bringing them along, fact that they live about a thousand miles away notwithstanding) to attend one of their open houses (which are all during my work times)
• and making Mr. Platypus's Favorite Cheesecake of Awesome Tasty Doom.
  

The time in the E.R. was not especially happy fun-ness. I spent most of it catnapping, since they gave me Dilaudid for the pain I was in. Whooboy, that stuff does not mess around!

The book has been a difficult read for me thus far...it's beautifully written, and I admire the author's courage in coming foward with her story. It's just that the subject matter is...challenging, shall we say. Reminds me of the hours I've yet to spend talking to a therapist. Have I mentioned that I hate talking about unpleasant things? Shocking, I know, considering how much I complain.

As far as the cheesecake goes...it is totally worth the 450 calories per slice. It's all almondy-amaretto-y-smooth-melty-goodness. If it were a man, I'd run away with it to a Caribbean island. Except that might make me a cannibal, because let's face it: if there's a man made of cheesecake out there somewhere, he probably deserves to be eaten. I mean, srsly. It's cheesecake. It's almost better than sex.

Come to think of it, perhaps I should post the recipe sometime. Y'all let me know if you're interested.

I don't really have much else to say right now...gonna go fight with my unruly hair because for some reason it is absolutely crucial to me that I have it in French-braided pigtails right now.

I mean, what's not to love?

Excitement and apprehension!

So, this is going to be my next big endeavor.

Assuming I can get my G.E.D.-earning, flunking-out-of-community-college, deranged-massage-therapist ass into Boston University after slamming through a few prereq courses at one of the community colleges.

I sent off for admissions info today, and I find it amusing that I'm already wibbling about "oh em gee, what if they laugh in my face, what will I DOOOOO?" Let's just say that I am very good at talking myself out of taking risks once I take steps towards actually taking them...did that sentence make sense? Yeah. Anyway.

All the woo and wackadoo behavior I keep seeing within the massage industry has me pretty much soured on staying in it for the long haul, which is kind of depressing when you consider that I only graduated from massage school last December. Don't get me wrong. I love my job. I love helping people feel more comfortable in their own bodies, both mentally and physically. I do not, however, love all the nonsense about reflexology, acupuncture, and whatnot that people seem so much more prone to buying into when they're involved with massage in some way. I do not love the ridiculous assertions that poking someone in a particular spot on their foot will cure their thyroid issues, or that jabbing a needle into a supposed "chi point" will "correct" the "imbalances" causing a person's health issues.

Really, I'm working in the wrong field, and I'm fully cognizant of that. I'm not going to try to paint myself as some kind of uber-skeptic or some such...I do my best to think rationally and carefully research new topics in healthcare, and I do my best to consider things from a fair and balanced standpoint. I'm only human, however; I know that there are things I buy into that are complete stuff-and-nonsense. On the other hand, when I'm in a field packed with people who think that all this alt-med bullshit is actually worthwhile, I start to feel like the lone thinker in a sea of crazy.

Bluh. I can't maintain a coherent train of thought right now.

days like this...

...I'm glad I work in a low-pressure field.

See, ol' Platypus has some kind of wonky thing going on with her brainmeats in which she is prone to random sudden mood swings and copious amounts of causeless anxiety. Panic attacks are fun!

Today is going to be another very rough day, mood-wise. I can feel "the crazy" lurking just under the surface of my mind, much like river water under black ice. I get this feeling like if I can just keep moving fast enough, I can stay ahead of the breaking "ice" just enough to keep from drowning.

It isn't much fun, and I really dislike it.

So, here I am whining about it, because that is clearly the most effective solution to the problem! Bluh. Time for me to slug back a teaspoon of concrete with my whine and harden the fuck up already.

Anyway, O Innarwebz Of Bliss, how fare you this lovely partly-cloudy day?

What the hell?

So, Gentle Reader whom I adore and worship (oh, but honey, please re-think the plaid pants; you look so much better in the khaki corduroys), I believe that I promised you the Wonderful Tale of Pervy Pervyson, did I not?

Never let it be said that the Platypus does not keep her promises.

Unless it involves promising not to drink everything in the liquor cabinet, because seriously? You should know me better than that. I see booze, I drink it. That's how it works.

Anyway, so onward to the interesting part (unless you're absolutely dying to know what my favorite drink is at the moment).

(The answer is yes.)

Way back not so far in the not so misty reaches of time, I had this client who was a Weird Guy. Yes, I know, I get a lot of Weird Guys (and Gals, because honestly, people are just weird). This guy was...how shall I put this? Special. Yeah.

He comes in for his massage, and I'm pleased to see that he's very polite...shows up on time, answers my questions with a minimum of fuss, so on and so forth. I'm thinkin', "whee, this'll be easy". You'd think I'd know better than to assume such things, but that is not the point. Anyway, so things progress pretty much as expected when I'm working on his arms, neck, and shoulders. He's pretty quiet and laid-back; I'm assuming that he's napping as I do my thing and proceed onward to his ankles.

Well, may the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch explode in my face if I lie, but the minute I touched his ankles, it was like he'd shoved a damn colony of gerbils into a tube sock and then stuffed it into his Jockey shorts. There was all KINDS of happy-peenor-twitching going on! Of course, this necessitated a raised eyebrow and a mental "what the fucking fucker fuck?" from me, but ol' Pervy Pervyson remained a gentleman...y'know, aside from the Dancing Penis of Weirdness. I continued doing the massage as per standard operating procedure, figuring that if he said or did anything even the least bit inappropriate, I would be outta there in a flash (after seriously considering punching him in the nadgers). Pervy kept his hands by his sides and said nary a word as I completed work on the fronts of his legs (with extra-deep tissue work on his quads and IT bands, since extra pressure in sensitive areas like that tends to take the mickey right out of an...unruly male client, most of the time). When he was face-down, there was no heavy breathing or other shenanigans. I figured it was a fluke and chalked it up to the vagaries of the human nervous system.

So, I finish the massage, run through my usual list of recommendations, and tell Pervy that I'll be out in the hall with a bottle of water for him when he's ready to head out the door. He took about ten minutes to get up off the table, get dressed, and show his face...I thought, "whatever, he's probably fallen asleep, no worries".

Yes, Gentle Reader, I can hear you face-palming from here.

Anyway, Pervy comes bouncing out of the massage room all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed (as well he might), hands me a $30 tip (which is about double the norm), and raves about how wonderful the massage was and how he's definitely going to re-book with me. I'm feeling all pleased with myself as I trundle into the linens room to grab a fresh set of sheets for the massage table. I took a few minutes to scribble down some notes on ol' Pervy, as I do with every client, then proceeded into the massage room to do a quick sheet change.

You know that smell, don't you, Gentle Reader? The post-coital smell that, if you've just gotten done with one of those rousing sack sessions where you swear that you had an out of body experience, is not really all that objectionable? (Assuming, that is, that said sack session was the sort involving a male of the species and that equal amounts of fun were had by all concerned.) It's pretty unmistakable.

Yeah. That smell was what slapped me in the face like a ton of dirty, diseased bricks when I opened the door.

So of course I had to run up to the desk and grab my usual partner in crime our hapless receptionist, Jane, and get her to confirm what I already knew. The joy just wouldn't be complete if I didn't share it, right?

"Oh. My. Gawd. He did not flog the dolphin in there, did he? Ew. Ew. What the hell? I'll go get the bleach. Ewwww. Who the hell whacks off after a massage? Ew ew ew ew EW."

Yeah, we had about the same reaction. Pervy had, shall we say, opted for some manual release of tension of his own. He at least had the decency to clean up after himself and chuck the used towels in the laundry bin, but still. Who the hell does such a thing? The doors to the massage rooms do not lock! It wouldn't have bothered me if he'd done that in the bathroom, but in the massage room, where I could have walked in on him at any time? Yuck.

Of course, I did make a note of this in his file on the computer at work. Because, y'know, it's important for the other therapists to be aware of his...predilections.

Sigh. All of our clients are special people. Some of them are more special than others. At least he tipped well!

Don't lie to me. Seriously.

So I had this one client today...new client, seemed like a decent individual, wanted a light-pressure massage geared towards relaxation. Easy peasy, right?

After the massage, she raved about how relaxed she felt and how wonderful it was, and made a big production over how she was going to leave my tip at the front desk. I smiled and thanked her, then went on about my business.

Worked on my next client (and had this sudden bizarre unexplained fit of rage at everything in the history of ever during said massage), went out to grab me some diet Pepsi (mmm, diet Pepsi), and then checked with the front desk about whether Client A had left a cash tip or had put it on her credit card.

Yeah. She left me nothing.

Not even so much as a "never pet a burning dog".

Hell, if you don't wanna tip, that's your prerogative...but don't effing lie to me about it!

weeda weeda woooo!

Okay, so it's been nearly a month since I posted, which maybe kinda makes me the worstest person ever? Yeah, probably not so much. I haven't had anything of interest to say (or at least nothing that I've considered interesting enough to post).

Also, I've been working my way through a lot of mental yuckiness, and that tends to be rather draining. Feelings suck. I'm not looking forward to talking to a shrink-type person once I get my health insurance situation sorted out, but it's either that or continue to go crazier. And I doubt that I'd be crazier in a fun way, so there goes that idea right out the window.

I kind of think that maybe, if I had some sort of theme or unifying subject to this blog, it would be easier to come up with regular posts. Of course, I then realize that I would thereby be depriving the Innarwebz of my pointless ramblings, which would just suck. Really, how is anyone going to survive without hearing my six-minute dissertation on why tube socks are stupid?

Since having a blog seems to be about telling stories, I shall dig through the ol' mental filing cabinet whilst at work and see what I can scare up to use as subject matter for a longer post. Perhaps I shall tell you about Pervy Pervyson, the guy who enjoyed his massage a little too much. I know how much y'all love stories about idiot massage clients...right?

And if you want to hear a different story, there are scads of other blogs out there deserving of a read or six.

Off to work!

holy froombonglies

I am going to start off by apologizing for my shameful neglect of you, Gentle Reader, over the last few weeks days. Rest assured that you haven't missed out on any especially entertaining shenanigans, unless you really want to hear about horrible cramps of abdomen-shattering death.

You don't? Good.

So, anyway, the Flubbulous Platypus is down to 143 pounds! Hooray and rejoicing! Okay, last night the scale said 146, this morning it said 143 again...what is up with that nonsense? Water weight? Was I exercising in my sleep? Have I stumbled upon a brilliant way to lose weight while snoozing my happy little head off?! (insert hopeful face here)

Somehow, I think Mr. Platypus is correct when he says it has to do with water weight. (Although I hadn't gone to the bathroom in between weigh-ins, so who knows.) Whatever the explanation, the nice low number on the scale this morning kind of mitigates the silly drama of the past two days.

See, I turn into (more of) a complete and utter psycho when Mother Nature brings the monthly horrendous torture gift (oh, how I HATE those commercials!). This usually entails moodiness, crying jags, et cetera and so forth. Apparently, this time around came with the bonus prize of panic attacks. Whoopee! I am so thrilled that I can hardly stand it! I got the joy of spending most of the past two evenings/nights crying my head off and feeling like I was about to implode and explode all at once. Such wonderful fun we are having here, I tell you!

Le sigh. This too shall pass.

Anyway, you need to go to your local library and pick up a copy of Robert Heinlein's The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress right this very minute. For serious. I'll wait.

Are you back now? Good! Because this book? This book is made of 100% professional-grade awesome. Admittedly, I am a) halfway through it, and b) a diehard Heinlein fan. Still and all, it's a good read. Mike, the self-aware computer, is simultaneously hilariously funny and enormously thought-provoking. (Also, he totally makes me wish that my computer could talk and be my friend, because then we would have awesome adventures together. Oh, and we could totally annoy Mr. Platypus by having contests to see who could sing the most annoying song. That would be epic.) (Except that my computer would probably be a crotchety old jerk. Hee hee, I said "crotch". Ahem.) I don't ordinarily go for political novels, but Heinlein showed a very deft hand for making a point without belaboring it.

At any rate, that's going to about do it for my useless yammering until I get back from work. I require another cup of coffee. Vaya con quesadillas!

wharrgarbl!

Wtf? It's September already?

Where has my year gone?

WANT

The adorable little wubbulous kyoot things in the picture above are momongas, or Japanese dwarf flying squirrels. I want the one on the far left to live at my house.

Doesn't he look like an adorable little fuzzy evil genius? I could totally dress him up in a little ninja costume and watch him use his mind-searing rays of cuteness to annihilate all who pissed me off. It would be truly epic.

Especially since there are so many people who piss. me. the. fcuk. off.

Example number 1 is Mr. Florplehead (not his real name, obviously) who comes in for an 80-minute massage all whinge-ing about his TMJ dysfunction and how ohmigawwwd, his neck is so hurttyyy and he's such an impoooorrrrrtant person and blah blah fucking blah. Okay, dude, I get it. You hurt. I am sorry that you are in pain. Will you shut up long enough for me to attempt to do something about it?

What's that? You don't think I'm capable of doing anything to treat chronic muscle tension?

Well, shit. Why'd you even bother coming in, then?

Anyway, long story short, I managed to simultaneously murder my thumbs and beat the crap out of successfully treat a lot of the triggerpoints in the dude's face, neck, and shoulders that were causing him so much pain. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I am not untalented at finding and dealing with triggerpoints. Mr. Florplehead raved about how he felt so much better and how he'd definitely be re-booking an appointment with me in a week and how thoroughly awesome I am, then proceeded on his merry way...

...after handing me a ten-dollar tip like it was the gorram key to the city or some crap.

Well, shit. Don't do me any favors or anything, man. I'd hate for you to strain yourself.

Example number 2: my beloved car ate its water pump. Since this means that Beloved Car will not run without overheating like a crazed wombat in a forest fire, Mr. Platypus (whom I love and adore) has been doing the research of the phoning-around-and-whatnot sort to get estimates on how much it will cost to fix Beloved Car.

I was happy as a clam until some dorktastic buttface place near where Beloved Car is currently languishing said that they could fix it a-okay...for almost nine hundred dollars.

I do not think so, you assbags. I may look like a complete and utter nutjob, but I am not stupid. It is not going to take you six hours to replace a water pump. You get none of my money.

NONE, I SAY.

Example number Q-37: why must there be so many calories in my beloved booze?

Bluh. I am going to go stare at the picture of the kyoot leetle fuzzy things.

day in the life of a ducky

Hello. My name is Xavier Xerxes Quonset XXXII. Since Platypus is so lazy, I was coerced into doing a guest post for her today. Something about a car malfunction and copious amounts of vomiting? I don't know, I wasn't really listening.

Anyway, our day began with me commanding Platypus to get off of her butt and do something productive, since she spends most of her non-working time in front of the computer. I keep telling her that she needs a hobby, to which she replies that she knits and that knitting is a hobby.

I don't think she's quite getting the point.

Also, where in the hell did she find that ugly, ugly plate? I wouldn't serve food off of that plate to someone I hated! I attempted to push it off of her desk while she was in the shower, but it unfortunately didn't break.

Note to self: push the plate out the window next time.

Anyway, the next part of the day involved Platypus's commute to work. I chose to tag along, since there was nothing of interest going on at home.

At least I got to pick the music for the commute...we weren't gonna be having any of that whiny depressing garbage she often listens to, and I certainly wasn't going to pollute my delicate ears with the yackety schmackety on the radio! I chose the Vengaboys "The Party Album!" for our listening pleasure...we were dancing around the car like looneys until the traffic got bad. Apparently, people in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts are too lacking in common sense to use their turn signals nearly as often as they ought to.

Also, the sight of not one but two dingbats careening down the breakdown lane was greeted with much entertaining expletive use from Platypus. It was kind of monotonous, in many senses...that girl really needs to learn some four-letter words other than the one that starts with "f" and rhymes with duck. I'd suggest "quack", but that's five letters.

Anyway, we at least had air conditioning to enjoy, which certainly made the trip more pleasant. I think I would probably have to go on some sort of deranged destructive rampage if I didn't have air conditioning when it gets really hot out.

Oh. Wait. The house isn't actually air conditioned. Crap.

We made it to Platypus's place of employment without anyone dying or even getting maimed, at any rate. I got to chit-chat with the receptionist in her office...the receptionist is a very nice lady. We watched the Food Network on her little tv while Platypus was back in the back doing whatever it is that she does all day.

The receptionist (we'll call her Jane, because I like the name Jane) even let me decide whether or not to have the sound on during commercials and whether or not we should change the channel, which I thought was most gracious of her. It would be nice if I could get the same kind of respect at home...*ahem*.

I must say that I'm glad I don't have to work in front of a laptop all day. I would probably get the most terrible cramps in my shoulders and neck. I suppose that explains why so many of Platypus's regular massage clients work in front of computers.


After Jane and I had hung out and shot the breeze for awhile, Platypus took me back into the back part of the office to let me check out the massage rooms. I'm quite fond of the massage tables, I must say...there's this spiffy electric-blanket-type dealy on the table under those sheets that keeps the table feeling nice and toasty warm. You'd think that having the table all warm when it's hot out would make you feel hotter, but it actually feels really nice during the massage. According to Platypus, the table warmer feels good because your body temperature drops slightly when you're getting a massage...something about increased circulation in the extremities and in the superficial layers of muscle. I was half asleep by that point, because the table was so comfortable. I wanted to just take a nice long nap on the table while Platypus went to do her charting, but she said that she didn't trust me not to do something nefarious.

I'm almost insulted. Almost. Really, I wondered whether the charting was the pen-and-paper kind, or whether there was a computer around that I could use for browsing Fark. I did rather fall behind on my Farking during this little field trip today, after all.


Charting turned out to be kind of dull, since there's only one computer and Platypus said that she didn't think it would be wise for me to be reading Fark when she had notes to finish. She wrote her notes while I kept an eye on her spelling and grammar...they use some very strange abbreviations in this industry, let me tell you. Apparently, sp cap stands for splenius capitis. I'd have thought it stood for spelling cap or something. Perhaps I should get out more.

I did find it rather amusing that the computer matched my glorious plumage.

Oh, and that purple thing on the counter to my right is apparently some kind of tool that Platypus uses for doing deep-tissue work. I just thought it was a weird-looking piece of plastic for fiddling around with when one is stressed out, kind of like a worry stone. Learn something new every day, I guess.



As you can imagine, I was feeling rather tired out by all this gallivanting. I thought that taking a brief nap in the tanning bed sounded like an excellent way to end the day.

Apparently, however, this is not actually a tanning bed. The UV light in there is intended to disinfect and sanitize the towels in the warmer.

Personally, I thought it was just the right size for me...Platypus was laughing so hard that I thought she was going to have a stroke.

I'm still not entirely sure what was so funny.

All in all, I think I can understand why she doesn't really complain much when the end of her weekend rolls around. Her office is a good spot for hanging out in.

my abject apologies

...for my shameful neglect of you, Gentle Reader, over the past couple of days. The 90+ degree temperatures combined with the lack of air conditioning in the Platypus Habitat as well as cramps of death have made me rather less than inclined to do anything other than lie on my bed and caterwaul my misery to Mr. Platypus.

Oh, and read. Because I am seldom, if ever, in too much pain to read. I heart books.

Incidentally, if you're thinking of picking up Dragonsblood, which Todd McCaffrey's take on the Pern series? DON'T. It's terrible. Plot holes you could throw a freaking horde of Volkswagens through, horrible lack of characterization, and no originality. He basically took plot elements from Dragonflight and from Moreta: Dragonlady of Pern and stuck them in a blender. It reads like an epically bad fanfic. Consider yourself warned, Gentle Reader; I would not want you to suffer through such an awful book.

However, I can very strongly recommend that you run out and get a copy of The Demon-Haunted World, by Carl Sagan. His baloney-detection kit is brilliant! Plus, it's an amusing and most thought-provoking read.

Anyway, I'm going to drag my grouchy self off to bed. Vaya con taquitos.

Mistaken Identity

So, today was overall an excellent day. Mr. Platypus and I went for a nice walk 'round a bit of town we hadn't much explored yet; we'd intended to go hiking in the wilderness area about a mile or so from our house, but realized after we got back into the woods that we had just put ourselves in danger of being carried off by mosquitoes the size of pterodactyls. You'd think that we would have realized that the mosquitoes would be bad due to all the rain we've had lately, but our brains were apparently off on Mars or something, doing who-knows-what. Anyway, we took our lunch with us (mmm, turkey wraps) and enjoyed a lovely picnic while roaming around.



Mr. Platypus not being much of an art museum person, I later went to the Museum of Fine Arts solo to take advantage of their free admission on Wednesday nights. I swear to you, Gentle Reader, I could probably spend six months wandering that museum every day and still not see everything. I especially enjoyed seeing Rodin's sculpture of Psyche...chickie's got some seriously long hair! I got to check out a broad array of ancient Egyptian and Greek artwork, as well as some artwork from medieval Europe. Getting to see two of my favorite Monet paintings in person was quite an experience as well. I wound up standing there in front of the painting of the facade of the Rouen Cathedral with a starstruck look on my face for a good ten minutes. Seeing Morning on the Seine, near Giverny was amazing as well...words rather fail me. I look forward to visiting the museum weekly for the foreseeable future, and will probably turn into quite the art history nerd in fairly short order. I think my History of Western Art professor would have been proud of me today!

Dinner turned out to be quite an adventure as well. I'd been planning to cook chicken stir fry, so we scurried off to the grocery store when I got home from the museum and stocked up on veggies. Mr. Platypus saw what we initially thought were habanero peppers, so we bought three with the intent to use them in taco seasoning at some point in the future. As I was chopping veggies for the stir fry, he cut a small piece off of one of the cute little red peppers and ate it. He then informed me that it wasn't hot at all, and that the receipt said that the peppers were greenhouse sweet red peppers. I shrugged and chopped the rest of the pepper up, then threw it into the stir fry.

Well, it was a habanero, after all.

The stir fry wound up so spicy that it gave me that nice tingly feeling down my esophagus when I swallowed, and it made my lips go numb. Mr. Platypus wound up actually breaking into a sweat as though he'd been running laps! We agreed that it was entirely delicious and that I will have to fix it again sometime. Said stir fry is now referred to in our house as Chicken Trogdor, after the Strongbad email involving burnination. If you are interested in the recipe, Gentle Reader, let me know and I shall post it so that you too may enjoy the lovely feeling of the mucous membranes in your mouth plotting your downfall.

Oh, and I got to have a slice of cheesecake for dessert. Today was made of serious win and awesome.

Bluh.

My apologies for the lack of meaningful post, but I am a very tired Platypus and am on my way to bed.

To make up for the lack of amusement, here is a picture of an adorable fluffy bunny rabbit.

You might get a kick out of the Disapproving Rabbits site from which the adorable fluffy bunny rabbit came. I certainly get a few chortles out of it when I look at it.

Pleasant dreams, and I'll see you at some point tomorrow. Perhaps I shall even have some pictures of the place we may be going hiking to share with you.

My heart asplodes with glee!

Also, there is much rejoicing.

Y'see, Gentle Reader, I braved the horrors of Wal-Mart tonight to pick up Super Glue and a scale. (Mr. Platypus needed the Super Glue for something involving a library book, if memory serves.) I managed to get in, get what I needed, and get out without being accosted by shrieking children, although my poor eyeballs were violated by many a tacky monstrosity of a too-tight outfit plastered onto an overly large wearer. That, however, is not what is causing me to do the Spastic Wiggledance of Happiness.

Remember how I said I weigh approximately 175 pounds? Well, I was off.

Way off.

Like, 20 pounds over in my estimation. Yes, o Beloved Gentle Reader, Platypus actually weighs about 153 lbs. This means I only need to lose about twenty to twenty-five pounds to get back in the general range of where I'd like to be.

I am also managing to be really good about staying below 1500 calories daily; most days, it's closer to 1300. I'm doing my crunches and other exercises just about every day, drinking lots of water, and chowing down on fruits and veggies like there's no tomorrow. If I can just keep this up, I should be all slender and sexy-licious...just in time for the holidays with all that tasty food just begging to be scarfed down.

Damn, my timing sucks. Oh well.

Let's see, other things that are making me happy today...

• Look to Windward by Iain M. Banks. It's fantastic (if you like science fiction, which I love).
• that damn Jewel Puzzle game on Facebook. I veg out in front of it like you would not believe.
• the fact that I don't have to be at work until three tomorrow
• the fact that diet Sunkist has no calories
• I get a tasty tasty turkey wrap for lunch tomorrow.
• My blog has apparently acquired a follower! The Mommy finds me amusing. I kid you not, Gentle Reader, that also caused a Spastic Wiggledance of Glee. (What, me? Attention whore? Never!)

Things are good today, in general.

(Please pardon any wonkiness with photos I try to post; I'm still getting the hang of the Blogger user interface.)

Today's lecture is about cheez whiz.

Okay, so it isn't really. I'm just inordinately amused by the phrase "cheez whiz" (in case you're curious, I also find the word "asphalt" to be hysterically funny). Today, the Platypus is going to wibble at you, Gentle Reader, about this diet-and-exercise thing she's trying out.

Y'see, your favorite Platypus is approximately forty pounds heavier than she'd like to be, probably due to all the cheese and foods involving cheese she's eaten over the past six years or so. I'm only an overachiever on some things, and gaining the dreaded Freshman Fifteen was one of them. 'Course, when you live in a college town where the only two pasttimes are a) drinking copious amounts of my beloved booze and b) watching football (I was not so into the football), it's kind of inevitable. Before moving to College Town, I had never had any issues with my weight...I was still in that phase of life wherein I could eat pretty much whatever I damn well pleased and not gain a pound. Ah, the good ol' days...

Anyway, so that was then and this is now and here I am at approximately 175 lbs. on an approximately 5'5" frame. (Yeah, I still haven't bought a scale, and I haven't actually gotten my height accurately measured in...um...awhile.) Having gotten tired of having a Jello Belly, I have finally decided to listen to Mr. Platypus's wise advice and start monitoring my caloric intake as well as increasing the amount of exercise I get.

Oh, and did I mention that I hate exercising? Yeah. Hate, hate, hate, HATE it. I hate it with the burning passion of a thousand firey suns, but I'm doing it anyway. Granted, I'm hardly doing any sort of really intensive workout, but I am doing at least two sets of crunches and leg lifts daily. So, yeah, go me.

Oddly enough, it's possible to eat tasty tasty things and still not be getting a kajillion calories. For example, I had baked squash with black beans and a little bit of cheese for dinner tonight...that was 478 calories for two big bowlsful of the stuff. My big cup of almond-flavored coffee this morning only had 114 calories, and it was super-tasty. The hummus, celery, yogurt, and low-fat string cheese I snacked on at work all day wound up being like 350 calories.

I'm shocked that I'm actually admitting this, but I'm not terribly bothered by the fact that I've basically been eating vegetarian for like a week now. I'm the one who once swore up and down that she would implode if she didn't get some kind of dead animal to nom on at least once a day. Thus far, implosion seems somewhat less than imminent.

I'd tell you an interesting story about my day, but today was not very interesting. I had exactly one client. I did trade massages with a co-worker, though, and that was very nice. I also went out into the parking lot behind the office and managed to jump rope without killing myself too badly (I made it up to the 86th jump before tripping, even!). Those were pretty much the highlights of my day.

So, Gentle Reader, any tasty and delicious low-calorie recipes you'd like to share with me?

And that was when the squirrel fell on his head.

Well, Gentle Reader, nothing much of any interest happened today. I was racking my brain, trying to figure out what to post, when it hit me: I can tell stories about stupid things done by me, my friends, or my family members to my heart's content in this blog, and nobody can threaten to take my drink away for monopolizing the conversation!

Let me tell you, Gentle Reader, that was a big moment. I did a little dance from sheer glee. Of course, I then remembered the necessity to change names and identifying details and whatnot so that the individuals who play key roles in my Tales of the Silly don't get all mad at me. That resulted in a bigger dance of glee, because this means I get to give them the most ridiculous names I can think of...and they can't even complain about it. So, yeah, how awesome is that?

Anyway, I thought I would tell you the Ketchup Guy Story, since it's a story that doesn't involve any nudity, expletives, or squirrels. Because squirrels are totally the devil.

See, I used to work in a 24-hour restaurant that's known all over the Southeastern United States for having a yellow sign and attracting weird people. We'll call it Waffle Louse for the purposes of our tale. I would occasionally work third shift, which was 9 pm to 7 am. I liked it, being that I'm nocturnal by inclination anyway. It was usually just me and the cook after about two-thirty, when the other waitresses who helped with the bar rush scurried out into the night swearing they'd never look at another waffle again.

One night, the cook and I were sitting around and chit-chatting (we'd run out of other things to do, and our general manager had told us that if he caught us juggling eggs one more time, he'd make us scrub the grease trap out with toothbrushes), when this random guy comes walking into the restaurant out of nowhere. This was unusual due to the fact that there was absolutely flat slam NOTHING within walking distance of the restaurant, other than a (closed) gas station. We peered out into the parking lot and saw no cars, motorcycles, trucks, bicycles, vans, unicycles, or other vehicles of any sort. Not even one of those little remote-control cars.

At any rate, Random Fellow says not a word as he trundles himself into the store; he merely maintained that sort of creepy unblinking eye contact with me and headed over for a table. I thought perhaps he just didn't feel like saying much, so I started to walk over with some silverware for him. He got to the table and picked up the bottle of ketchup on it, still maintaining eye contact with me, and then proceeded to squirt the ketchup out into a little puddle on the floor.

This, of course, elicited much hollering of "Dude, what the hell are you doing?!" from me and the cook. Random Fellow continued his silence while he lay down on the floor and rolled back and forth through his ketchup puddle, smearing it all over his face, clothing, and the floor. At this point, the cook and I started to wonder if we should maybe call the cops...after all, behavior such as this tends to mean that the individual in question is perhaps just a wee bit off in the brainpan.

Our dear friend Random Fellow still didn't make a peep as he stood up, resumed his Creepy Reptilian Stare of Weirdness at me, and wandered back out the door and into the night. The cook and I couldn't quite believe that it had actually happened; he took photos of the ketchup schmear with his phone to show our manager the next morning. I mopped up the mess (and let me tell you, that got me cussing quite a blue streak), and we continued our experiment in whether lemons or tomatoes were better for juggling.

We never saw Random Fellow again, and we never did figure out if it was just a practical joke or what.

Interrobang?!

"Interrobang" just may have earned a spot in my top ten favorite words. For those of you who aren't already familiar with the wonders of the interrobang, it is a question mark followed by an exclamation point. As an example: "who the hell brings an infant to a massage?!"

The word itself is amusing. Seriously, try saying it out loud. It just kind of rolls off the tongue...and it's even more amusing if you roll your "r"s while saying it.

Other things that amuse me right now include my new sneakers, the fact that diet Sunkist orange soda has no calories, and the fact that I have started a blog. Because, y'know, I'm just expecting sooo many people to read this that I shall acquire Instant Internet Fame.

Anyway, without further ado, I shall bring you the list of Things That Piss Off The Platypus in no particular order:

People who drive in the breakdown lane- Seriously, does this really get them to where they're going any faster? Does it make them feel like they're special, or like it makes up for the fact that they are raving morons who need to be beaten with sacks of angry weasles? (Not that I advocate cruelty to weasles, because I really don't. I was once owned by a pair of Very Amusing Ferrets. I shall regale you with Very Amusing Ferret stories at a later date.) Every time I see some jackass blippiting down the breakdown lane at sixty or seventy miles an hour, I entertain notions of going after them with a flamethrower. It's not that they're getting ahead of me in the line waiting for the exit that bothers me; it's the fact that the breakdown lane is there for people having car trouble, not for assholes who have no patience. Biiig difference. I hope that the Traffic Karma Wagon rolls over their stupid feet and breaks their toes.

Chatspeak- Is it really all that difficult to type out words like "you" or "someone" or what-have-you? Does anyone else find that sentences like "wut r u ^ 2" make them want to scream and smash things? The world is being dumbed-down at an alarming rate, I tell you. Soon we will all be illiterate and you, Gentle Reader, will be deprived of the awesomeness that is the Irascible Platypus and then where will we be? Miserably unhappy, that's where.

Cheapskates- I work in a massage studio where I receive about 21% of the fee the client pays for a massage; the remaining 79% goes to the Big Boss who does who-knows-what with it. The remaining portion of my pay is made up in tips. It's rather like a bizarre combination of waiting tables and rubbing people's feet, but I digress. Anyway, about half of my income comes from tips...and let me tell you, I count on those. As in, I use them to buy groceries and put gas in my car and other various sundry necessities of life. What drives me absolutely bugnuts is when a client will rave about how wonderful the massage was and how absolutely awesome I am and how they wish they could just adopt me and blah blah blah...and then leave me exactly zilch as a tip. Null. Niente. Nada. I mean, yes, I get it; tips aren't mandatory, and I should be thankful I even have a job in this economy. Y'know what, though? It still makes me mad. If you're gonna be all "Zomg, Platypus, you are the bestest evar and I want to worship your mad crazy massage skillz", why not just leave me ten bucks? Ten bucks will buy me a good-sized block of cheese, man.

Mmm, cheese.

Anyway, I think I shall blither at you further at a later date, Gentle Reader. Mr. Platypus and I are going to go for a walk soon, because I need to be exercising away this flubber around my middle.

Damn you, flubber.

POSTY POSTY POSTY!

Welcome, Gentle Reader, the wonderful world of the Irascible Platypus.

Got yourself a nice stiff drink handy? Sitting all nice and comfy in a cozy chair? Good. Booze will probably make my nonsensical maunderings a bit more palatable (or maybe just a bit less boring, but I'm not holding my breath on that one).

Today's nonsense involved someone bringing a wee tiny infant along with them for their massage. As in, had the poor kid strapped into the Ginormous Stroller Of Soccer Parent Doom and toted it right on into the massage room where they apparently intended for the wee tiny childthing to stay parked throughout the duration of their receiving a massage. I'm not entirely sure why it was apparently impossible for Mr/Ms My-Precious-Baybeee-Is-The-Center-Of-My-Existence to find a friend or family member with whom they could have left the kid for an hour. I suppose there could be some sort of medical reason why this individual absolutely could not be parted from their child for any length of time whatsoever. Damned if I know what it is, though.

Now, as you will no doubt figure out through further reading of my blithering idiocy (when I post more entries and whatnot), I do not care for children. I don't think I liked them even when I was a child. Something about their shrill little voices just makes me break out in hives, and then I fall down on the floor and froth at the mouth whilst flailing about. It isn't pretty, and it no doubt scares the kids (which may or may not be the entire point to the exercise). For some reason, though, I could not bring myself to tell The Parent that I did not feel comfortable doing the massage with The Baby in the room. Essentially, I gave the best massage I could while glancing over at The Baby and thinking, "Kid, if you start crying, I will buy you a pony. And a box of Legos." and seething with rage. Shockingly, I managed to neither flail nor froth (at least where the clients could see). I endured the hour, pasted a smile on my face, and wished The Parent a lovely afternoon as they trundled on out the door.

I'm still horked off about the whole thing. I'm horked off because my boss didn't so much as say a word to The Parent about the inappropriateness of the choice to bring a small infant to a massage studio; rather, Boss just came back to the breakroom and told me to "look surprised" when I saw the Enormous Stroller That Resembles An SUV. I feel like I was put on the spot, and it just burns my biscuits.

Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm being a whiny little poop and need to suck it up and deal. I dunno. I just...gaah. It angers me. Greatly.

And hey, if you don't like it, you can quite merrily navigate away from my blog and find more entertaining reading. I strongly suggest Mommy Wants Vodka, because Aunt Becky is made of hilarity.

Perhaps in a little while, I will wax poetic about my new sneakers (comfy like WHOA) or the wonders of celery dipped in roasted red pepper hummus (tasty, tasty, tasty). For now, I am going to go futz around with the settings and whatnot on here.