Shafted

I had posted yesterday about my August marathon. I though I'd start getting comments rolling in about how hilarious I am, and about how much I was missed this summer.

(Enter humble bow here)

I didn't.

Not a one.

I was pretty bummed, to say the least. But then I actually logged on to my blog (which I rarely do, I just rely on emails), and saw that I had 3 comments! Instantly I was jazzed. There may have even been jazz hands involved. It was sort of like an episode of Glee, but less gay, and more lame.

I guess what happened was this. About, oh, two and a half years ago, I posted on my now non-existent blog, that I was moving to Chicago. For some reason for the last couple of weeks, I've been getting tons of random spam comments on that particular post. And let me tell you, they are way spammy. Things like "gay hook ups now available in your area", and "free viagra for your womans pleasure", and lots and lots in some strange code-y language with numbers and characters and such. I mean at first I was interested, because who doesn't want a great gay hook up in their area? By raise of hands? But then I was freaked out.

So I finally just marked those comments as spam, and suddenly every comment that comes to my blog is sent to my spam folder. So not only do I feel like I'm getting the shaft, but it's kind of the shaft to my commenters as well, because their witty banter is getting flushed down the email toilet.

I apologize for any shaftiness that may have been implied by my lack of response. And I take back all the bad things I was thinking about my readers when I thought no one was commenting at all. So sorry.

Ugh

Oy vey, people. I cannot make it through another night like last night. Or the night before, for that matter. Pacing around the house, trying everything to keep my legs busy so they won't drive me crazy!

I have restless legs syndrome.

Go ahead, laugh. I do. What a stupid name for a miserable problem! It sounds so stupid, like having blinking eyes syndrome, or beating heart syndrome.

But it sucks. And my poor bod can't take it much longer! I have tried everything. Cutting back on my caffeine, hot baths before bed, light covers, distractions, stretching, pacing, kicking, screaming and eventually crying.

Normally I only deal with this problemo when I'm pregnant, and NO! I'm not pregnant, so don't even go there. We're done, remember? But at least with pregnancy I know I only have to deal with it for a few weeks, maybe a month, but this is relentless.

So maybe I'll try a good long walk today, since it will be 70 here, and perhaps a nice muscle relaxer, courtesy of my Shrink.

If I come back in a pissed off mood tomorrow, you'll understand, right? I knew you would.

Tickle, Tickle

I love my back tickled. So, so much. So much, in fact, that I've been known to beg Sugar Daddy to tickle me through an entire movie. Luckily he likes to tickle my back. Okay, I know he doesn't like it, per se, but he does it, so whatever.

I blame Stevie for my love of tickling. When I was a kid, we used to go boating all the time. Sounds like fun, huh? Well, me being the anxiety ridden child that I was, I was scared to death of the boat. And the wind. And the clouds. And I could go on and on. But alas, Stevie was there to comfort me. She would let me ride in their boat, sit on her lap, and she would tickle my back while we cruised along the shores of Lake Powell. So obviously I've related this act to being safe and relaxed. Which makes perfect sense when paired with a spouse, right? Right. Enter Happy's Body Trip back "massager". Totally not a massager. More like the best tickling machine ever! Seriously, this thing is like 100 fingernails all at once! I was in heaven through all of Michael Clayton. And considering it was a good "thinker" of a movie, it was definitely worth it's weight in copper.


And of course, since they were positioned right together on the end cap, we had to endulge in the Head Trip, too. Very nice. Very niiiice.