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.