More Shit That’s Pretty Cool!

I feel like lately my posts sound like a first grader coming home from school hyperventilating to their parent about everything that happened that day.

“And then this happened and this happened and then THIS happened!”

But a lot has happened already this year and I’m still trying to organize and process it, and I’m bringing you all along on the ride because who likes to go on road trips alone right? I mean, it’s a lot easier to siphon gas from people’s cars when you have a lookout.

That said, I’ve mentioned in passing that I have some heart issues.

Over the past twenty years I’ve been to half a dozen cardiologists, tried a number of medications and had surgery twice. It seemed like the last surgery I had in 2010 had done the trick until about June of last year when I started to really feel like shit again. I didn’t want to have another surgery I had to go down the medication experimentation route–and let me tell you how much fun this was because I’m one of those people where if there’s a 1% chance of a bizarre side effect I will be that 1%.

Over the year I ended up trying so many different meds that I was seriously losing track of which one I currently taking. In April the doctor decided to think outside the box and prescribed me two new meds. The first thing that I noticed when I picked up the meds from the pharmacy was that the one bottle was a lot larger than usual. I unscrewed the cap and made a face at the contents.

“Holy shit these things are huge! Are you sure they’re meant for humans and not for horses?” I asked him.

“That’s them,” he replied without looking up.

“Well there should a Linda Lovelace instructional video that comes with them because I have no idea how I’m supposed to get these down my gullet.”

The eighty-year-old pharmacist finally gave me his attention and gave me a dirty look. That was good enough for me so I grabbed my bag of horse pills and left.

I took the pills as soon as I got home–which was not the best idea since I was going to fall asleep soon but I’m impatient like that.

And this is going to sound cliched but when I woke up the next morning I already felt like a different person.

Seriously it was like this:
awwww yeeaaa riding on a t-rex

Over the next three months I continued to feel better but it wasn’t until I happened to see a recent picture of me next to a picture from a few months ago in a Facebook album that it I realized just how shitty I had felt and how shitty I looked this past year.

I’m not completely fixed–I still get tired and I still have the occasional arrhythmia–but I’m feeling so much better and most importantly I’m writing a lot more efficiently since I’m not fighting to stay awake all the time. That right there is worth choking down some horse pills every morning.

That Awkward Moment When You Want To Maim Someone and Buy a Hat Instead

Remember that time you were invited to a Derby themed bridal shower and you went to print out the gift card from their online registry and found that your hamburger-humper of a brother had used all of the ink in your printer and you didn’t have any choice but to break your vow about never going in a store that ended in “Mart” unless it was to burn it down to buy ink and then have your patience severely tested by a total fucking asshole?

Oh wait, no that was me.

My mother and I had a bridal shower to attend yesterday morning and in true Kat fashion I waited until the last minute to get our gift. In my defense I’m busy as a motherfuck and it also should have been very simple since the couple had only registered for gifts for their honeymoon so it was only supposed to be placing an order online and printing the gift receipt to put in a card.

(Don’t try to fathom this kind of registry–it belongs in a world where bridal showers have themes and the hors d’heurves are lobster tails and I feel like friggin’ E.T. whenever I visit.)

But of course nothing is ever that easy and so I discovered at 8am on a Sunday morning when no stores are open that I was out of ink. The shower was at 11am so I had to go to the one place that was open: K-Mart. My only hope was that most of the morons of the world would still be asleep.

HA!

After nearly being hit in the parking lot by a jackass driving across the parking space to beat me to a parking spot, I made it into the store. I grabbed my ink and was making my way to the check-out when I passed the accessories section. We had been informed on the shower invitation to wear “our fanciest Derby hats” and even though I was originally going to be a brat and wear my Wonder Woman baseball hat, I decided to play nice and grabbed a hat for my mother and me.

There was only one register opened and already three people waiting when I reached the check-out but luckily the first two people moved quickly. And then came the third person. I knew he was going to be an asshole when he dumped a pocketful of change on the counter as the cashier scanned his item.

“6.40 please,” she told him.fucking angry

The fuckface gestured at the pile of change. “Count it out,” he grunted.

The poor girl sorted the pile and informed him that he needed another two dollars so he pulled out a crumpled dollar bill and another pile of change that she was forced to count.

“You still need fifteen cents,” she said meekly. She sounded so sorry that I wanted to slam the guy’s head on the counter for making the girl feel so uncomfortable besides wasting my time.

The guy rummaged around in his shorts for a few moments and then shrugged. “I gotta run back to my crib and get some more,” he finally told her.

My first thought was that there are approximately twenty-two and a half feet of intestine in a human being so if I yanked his out through his nostril I would have more than enough to strangle him with it, but then I thought of the girl at the register and how she would have to void his sale and then have to go through this again when the asshole came back.

“Here!” I finally snapped digging in my bag and producing a quarter.

The girl gave me a grateful look while the motherfucking douchebag asswipe who I had just helped walked away with his bag and didn’t even look at me much less say thank you.

“You’re a really nice person,” the girl told me smiling as she rang up my two hats.

“No I’m not,” I snarled. “I’m a bitch and I’m going to run him over when I see him in the parking lot.”

The girl laughed.

And I sighed.

It’s impossible to be terrifying when you’re buying two frilly Derby hats.

***

Three quick things:
I sound like a broken record but I’m still crazy busy, in fact I’m covering at my “part time” job and working doubles. The good news though is that kickassness is happening, but I’m waiting because it warrants a post of its own. Stay tuned for awesomeness that will probably include putting a Wonder Woman crown on my dog.

wonder woman, eskimo dog, wonder eskimo

 

The Ballad of Seamus O’Horny

So…
Having a boy dog has been quite a learning experience.

As I mentioned in my last entry, I adopted a boy Eskie and I wasn’t aware of how much I had apparently forgotten about boy dogs in the twenty years since I had one.

My first episode of male dog ignorance happened only a few days after I adopted Seamus when I came home from work and he greeted me by rolling over for a belly rub. As I was rubbing his belly I noticed two lumps on either side of his peen. Being the calm, rational person that I am I immediately assumed that he either had undescended testicals or lymphoma. Luckily I checked Vet MD and it turns out that Seamus was just rather happy to see me. Apparently this swelling can happen even if your dog is neutered, however I was soon to discover that Seamus is not. How I discovered this charming fact is because our family dog, Lily, was in the middle of her heat when I brought Seamus home.

Fuck my life and fuck it hard.

american eskimo dog, west highland terrier

I just about pee myself laughing every time I look at this pic. Lily is pissed!

Lily being in heat wasn’t an issue at first because Seamus was too nervous about his new surroundings to pay attention to Lily’s state. This was despite the fact that Lily was walking by Seamus and wiggling her ass at him like she was in a Ludacris video. As Seamus became more comfortable though he began to notice Lily’s booty dance and the next thing I knew Seamus was trying to get jiggy with it. Once he became interested then it became a fucking circus to keep the two of them apart. Lily would fluctuate between jumping at Seamus and shaking her ass to growling at him to get away from her. Seamus, on the other hand, was acting like a sailor on shore leave and would not stop sniffing, pawing and above all whining incessantly at Lily to get it on with him. This is what he would do while she was laying down, but he would kick it up a notch when she got up to walk somewhere by adding some pretty impressive acrobatics to his wooing. To my surprise I discovered that dogs can bounce–I’m talking all four paws leaving the ground at the same time in a vertical propulsion. Those Pepe Le Pew cartoons? Not an exaggeration.

Luckily Lily’s heat cycle is pretty much finished and Seamus has chilled out however we are keeping Lily’s little knickers on her just to be safe because she’s still having bouts of trying to seduce Seamus. (And before anyone considers getting sassy with me about Lily not being spayed I’ll add that yes she should have been spayed but she wasn’t and she’s going to be thirteen years old next week so it’s not happening; I’ll likely have Seamus neutered but my brain is still too fried from Kira’s vet adventure in March to think about it right now.)

Other than my horny dog, I’ve been writing away and my next post is actually going to be about that and not my dogs.

Probably.

And Then I Ripped Out a Kitchen Faucet With My Bare Hands

Aside it being super-duper crunch time with my manuscript, another reason that posts have been sparse is because I have been so busy with super-duper crunch time that I haven’t been engaging in the world outside of my computer enough to experience the usual what-the-fuckery that inspires a good deal of my posts. Well if Mohammad won’t come to the mountain then the mountain will apparently come to Mohammad because there I was minding my own business in my own home on Saturday night when bullshit struck.

After putting in a nine hour day at my part-time job as an optometry tech, I sat down at my desk in the dining room to get some writing done. (There’s nothing like nine hours of dealing with whacko patients to inspire me to get work harder at my writing.) My mother was at her computer in the same room flipping out at Farmville.

“Did you start writing yet?” my mother asked.

“Not yet, I was still catching up on responding to tweets from Wednesday about my hair cut,” I responded.

“Oh good. Can you hit my Farmville request before you start?”

I opened another window on my computer and responded to another tweet as I waited for the game to load.

“I should have assured people that I wasn’t chopping off my hair when I mentioned getting it cut,” I told my mother. My brother had turned on the faucet in the kitchen and raised my voice a bit to be heard over the water running at full blast. “I got several messages telling me to keep it long.”

“What?” my mother asked over the sound of the water from the other room.

“My hair,” I said louder. “I should have made it clear that I never cut my above my shoulders because I like to keep it long enough that it covers my boobs if I ever forget to wear a shirt.”

“What the hell?” my mother asked.

“I know, that’s absurd,” I snickered. “With my amount of boobage I could never grow enough hair to cover them.”

“No not that,” my mother answered looking toward the kitchen. “What’s your brother doing in the sink?”

“I don’t know. It sounds like he’s rising it out.”

“Mike, what are you doing with the sink?” Mumma yelled.

“Nothing,” he shouted from the den.

My mother and I looked at each other and then bolted for the kitchen. We ran in to discover a small waterfall pouring out of cabinet under the sink and a massive pool spreading in front of it. I ripped open the cabinet door and stepped back just in time to avoid being burned by the scalding hot water that was spraying all over under the sink. I glanced inside and saw that the hot water supply line had burst. The water was now pouring out of the open cabinet only that it was too hot for me to turn off the water supply under the sink.

“Turn off the main water supply!” I shrieked.

Mumma ran into the laundry room but by the time she got the valve closed the burst water line had turned the kitchen into something out of a Kevin Costner movie. And much like a Kevin Costner movie I wanted to close my eyes and pretend I had never seen the disaster in front of me.

“I don’t feel like dealing with this,” I groaned.

“Mike you fix it!”

“I can’t. I’m drunk,” my ever-helpful brother replied. I happened to glance at the kitchen table and saw the remains of a Long Island Iced Tea sitting there.

“No you’re not,” I sneered.

“Well I’m buzzed,” he insisted.

I’ll fix it,” my mother interrupted.

angry jaguar

“I WILL EAT YOUR FACE, SINK!”

“You are not getting under a sink with scalding hot copper pipes!” I bellowed. And that was how it was decided that I was going to be spending Saturday night fixing a kitchen sink.

My mother emptied the cabinet and then I wedged myself into the cramped and soaking cabinet to survey the damaged. It was fairly easily to disconnect the supply hose from the water pipe but I could not reach the other end of the hose attached to the faucet.

A slight footnote here: the kitchen faucet had been most shittily installed only a couple of years ago and had been leaking. I had fixed it somewhat (with a broken hand at the time ’cause I am a rockstar like that) but it was never exactly perfect. My mother had bought a new faucet in preparation of a friend promising to instal it however that douche canoe kept blowing her off until she gave up.

“That’s it! We are getting rid of this piece of trash right now and I’m putting in that new faucet!” I yelled.

“Just leave it for now, Kat. We can do it in the morning,” Mumma said calmly.

“Like hell! Give me that wrench!” I again wedged myself into the damp wood of the cabinet and began banging, unscrewing bolts and cursing loudly.

“Are you sure that you’re going to be able to get it out?” my mother asked.

I wriggled out from the cabinet–which, between the garbage disposal and my aforementioned ridiculous chest, took the skill of a Circus Soleil performer–grabbed the faucet and ripped the fucker out of the counter top. “Yes,” I replied dropping the faucet into the garbage bag on the floor.

I’d like to say that all went smoothly from there, but though I am a fast learner, I know next to nothing about plumbing so that when I ran out to Lowe’s to get the needed supply line THAT DIDN’T COME WITH THE NEW FACET I bought the wrong one.

“What the fuck does FIP, MIP, OD stand for?” I snarled at Google.

Once I had figured out with a degree of confidence I realized that Lowe’s had closed. Again my mother urged me to leave the sink until the morning but there was a Home Depot not too far away and they were still open so I took off again.

“I’m 99% sure that I have the right line,” I announced when I got home thirty minutes later holding two braided silvery pipes. “And they better be,” I said shoving myself once again under the sink, “because the next time I crawl out of this cabinet I’m not going back in. So I might be sleeping in here.”

Fortunately it didn’t come to that and while it was a pleasure describing the tools I needed Mumma to hand me which I had not brought under the sink with me, I managed to install the new faucet before midnight.

new sink

The new faucet. (Also my GoT glasses kick ass.)

So that was my weekend.

(Try not to be jealous of my glamorous rockstar lifestyle.)

Dating Over Thirty And a Follow Up To The Wrongest Story Ever

I have a friend who really wants to get married. She happily informed me on Sunday that she found out that the average age for a woman to get married is 29, so “she’s not too far behind the 8 ball”. I then had one of those moments where a thought pops into my head and it tumbles out of my mouth without permission because I pointed out to her that the number is probably so high because it’s based on the age of all brides and, since half of all marriages fail, that would include a lot of second marriages.

She didn’t speak to me for the rest of the luncheon.

As some of you may know, I was married once. And for those of you who just found out now, I’ll wait while you pick yourself up off of the floor since I agree that is shocking to consider me in such a role. Anyway, it was quite literally a lifetime ago, and unlike a lot of women I don’t care if I’m ever in a relationship again. That’s not to say that I’m actively opposed to the idea, but rather indifferent. I have however been told that I’m subconsciously avoiding a “real” relationship based on the fact that the guys that I’ve dated since my liberation have been younger than I am. Say what? Yup, apparently dating younger men is an avoidance tactic.

Alrighty then.

Actually I can tell you exactly why it just so happens that all of my suitors have been younger than I am, and that’s because most guys my age or older are already incarcerated married.  And the ones who are not, well, there is usually a reason why they are not already married… like that they live with their parents and/or don’t have their shit together*.

And all of that aside, what the hell is wrong with a woman dating someone younger than herself anyway?

But I digress because I have recently found out the true reason why I cannot see myself ever having a relationship, and this is thanks to my recent re-pimping of past posts.

When I first posted Probably (One of) The Wrongest Stories I Will Ever Tell You the general consensus was that it was indeed a very wrong story.  I have, however, been receiving a few messages and emails from women asking how this story is wrong. At first I thought that they were being facetious, but image my surprise when I discovered that a handful (HAHA!) of these women were serious. One woman told me, “I think that everyone has done this and they just won’t admit it.”

I replied with, “I have not.  But then I don’t date much.”

Her response was, “Seriously. You might want to think about it. When you find the right guy you’ll want to give it a try.”

And there you have it, peeps. This is why I will never be in a relationship. It’s because I can honestly say that I will never ever find someone with whom I am be so enamored that I will want to try holding his tally-whacker while he pees.

Consider No. 22 on my List of Shameless Shit, “Set a Boundary” done because I’ve just decided that the doorway to the bathroom is a sacred boundary that will not be crossed.

true love funny

If You Have Ever Had a Guy or Girl Treat You Like Shit Then This One’s For You

busted, you know what you didSTORY TIEMZ!!

And FYI, a writer’s brain is never their own.  It’s owned by whatever tale has hijacked them.  I wasn’t planning on writing this story, but since it keeps cropping up as I’m trying to get other shit done, then I guess I’m birthing the rude little fuck.

***

As much of a badass bitch as I am, there is some part of me that still wants to believe the best of people. I really want to believe that people don’t set out to hurt each other on purpose, and that even if they do that they are still capable of true remorse. It’s because of this belief that I didn’t tell Phil to go fuck himself when he approached me as I was reading on the eliptical machine.

“Could I talk to you for a minute?” he asked nervously.

Phil and I had a “relationship” based on the understanding that we weren’t going to be introducing each other to our families or picking out china together any time soon.  He had broken up with a longtime girlfriend a week before we had met, and I was still dealing with an overzealous admirer stalker, so neither of us were in a place to start anything serious.  Still, our pseudo-relationship ended when he would break dates ten minutes before we were supposed to get together, when he would say that he was going to call and wouldn’t, but most of all, when he would treat me like he didn’t know who I was when we ran into each other at the gym where we both worked out. The kicker was that he would act like an inconsiderate asshole at the gym and then call me to get together as if everything was peachy. The last time that he had called, I did get together with him but it was only to make sure that he knew that I’d had enough.

“Sure.” I closed my book but didn’t break my stride on my machine.

He paused for a moment and then got on the machine next to me. “Okay, I guess I’ll try to keep up with you,” he said grinning.

I mentally rolled my eyes thinking that I wasn’t rising to that bait to begin a flirtaion.

“So how have you been?” Phil asked as he started on the machine without bothering to actually select a workout.

“Brilliant,” I replied.

When I didn’t elaborate, he cleared his throat to fill the silence.
“I just…well, I think I owe you an apology,” he said. “I know I was an asshole, and I’m sorry.  I…at the time I wasn’t right.  Up in here.” He tapped his temple.

Something about his apology actually sounded sincere, so I shook my head slightly. “Don’t worry about it. I just let it go. I’m not a psycho chick like that.”

“I know you’re not, and that’s why I’m sorry.”

The elliptical beeped that my workout had ended so I finally stopped and gave him my full attention. “Well, thank you for the apology.  I really do appreciate it,” I told him. And because of that side of me that tries to be nice, I asked him how he was doing and we made chit-chat for a few minutes before I took off.

Over the next few months, Phil and I would talk here and there when we saw each other at the gym, and while I wouldn’t call us friends, I’d say that we were at least friendly. It even turned out that his mother was one of my patients at the optometry office where I worked. She was a very nice woman who showed me pictures of the wedding that the entire family had attended the previous week. There were several pictures of Phil dancing it up and snuggling a very tan, very blonde woman. Phil’s mother went on to say how much she adored Phil’s girlfriend and how it looked like they would be the next couple to be married, and I can honestly say that I was happy for all parties involved.

About a week later, I was leaving the gym when I saw Phil pulling into a parking spot. I gave a wave and continued walking down the sidewalk toward my house. Phil gave a shout as he got out of his car and trotted after me. He smiled as he approached and looked me up and down.
Alarms immediately started going off in my head.

“Hey,” he said leaning close to me.
I stepped back. “Hey. I met your mother last week.”
“Really?  Where at?”
“At my office.  She’s really nice.”
“Yeah, she is.” He looked me up and down again which would have annoyed me if I didn’t find it a bit amusing that he was eyeing up someone who look like as much of a sweaty mess as I did.
“Uh huh. Well, take it easy.” I turned to leave, but he grabbed my arm.
He must have felt my muscles stiffen because he let go and laughed.
“Preparing to spar me again?”
“No, but you know that I don’t like to be grabbed.”
“Maybe you should remind me.” He stroked my cheek and leaned in.
I snapped my hand up against his chest to keep him from coming closer. My eyes narrowed in the bright sun and I knew that they were fading from brown to hazel green as they did whenever I was angry.
“I thought that you said that you were sorry,” I hissed.
He cocked his head. “What do you mean?”
“You had apologized for being an asshole before, so why are you doing it again?”
“I’m not. I just thought that you might want to hang out again.” He smiled. “We had a lot of fun, didn’t we?”
“Go have fun with your girlfriend,” I told him.
The briefest flicker of surprise registered in his blue eyes, and then it was replaced by indignant confusion.
“What girlfriend?”

I’d had enough. There was something that I had always suspected when we were seeing each other and it was time to find out. I snatched his keys from his hand and skipped back a step.

“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m going to ask you two questions. If you lie to me then I’m taking your keys and you can walk home. Savy, boyo?”
He rolled his eyes, “Um, no.  How about you give me my keys and just walk away?”
“Um no,” I mimicked his bored drawl. “The truth is the least that you own me, and I’ll have either that or your keys.
His face twisted in fury. “What the fuck? Give me me keys!”
He stepped toward me, and I immediately dropped into a fight stance with my left leg forward.
“Stay the fuck away from me, Phil, or I’ll make that last trouncing that I gave you when we sparred look like your birthday spanks.”
That halted him, for which I was very grateful for since I’d been injured since we had last spared and I wasn’t as fully confident that I could take him as I had been before.
“Now take three steps back and I promise to throw your keys back after you tell me what I want to know,” I told him.
He obliged and then crossed his arms and glared at me.
“You have a girlfriend, don’t you?” I asked him.
Phil glared even harder at me. “Fine,” he finally admitted, “Yeah, I do.”
“Very good. See how easy this is? And you had a girlfriend last year when we were fooling around, didn’t you?”
The shock on his face was evident, but he still began to protest. “We had broke up!”
I turned and began walking. “I guess I just got myself a new set of keys.”
“Fine, fine! Yes, I had a girlfriend back then, too!”
I stopped and turned back. “Is it the same one?”
“Does it matter?” Phil sneered.
“Not really. Whether you cheated on one woman or two you’re still an asshole.”
“What-the-fuck-ever,” he snorted. “Now give me my fucking keys.”
“Of course.”

Phil still stood back where I had told him to move: exactly in front of the storm drain. I threw the keys toward him in an underhanded arc that flew just below his outstretched hand. They clattered against the bars of the drain and then dropped with a resounding splash into the water below.
“What the fuck!” Phil screamed. “What the fucking fuck!”
“Gee, Phil I guess I owe you an apology.” I shook my head, “I’m a terrible throw.”
“Fuck you! You did that on purpose!” he snarled.
I shrugged, “Maybe I did.  But then I’m not feeling right-” I tapped my temple, “-up here.”

The Time I Got a Brazilian Bikini Wax at a Jewish Community Center

I’ve wondered if my life is such a fucking dramedy because I’m a writer, or if I’m a writer because my life is such a fucking dramedy.  Granted some of it is a result of my own inanity, but then there are episodes where I am a complete innocent bystander.  I am seriously not joking when I’ve said that I’m a magnet for what-the-fuckery.  I can’t make this shit up.

For example, I was pretty stoked when I was given a gift certificate for a Brazilian bikini wax at a local spa for Christmas.  (You might be already thinking that this is a bit of what-the-fuck since who gets stoked over being given a gift where a complete stranger yanks all of the hair from your nethers by hot wax, but I’m really lazy and was thrilled to let someone else do this for me.)  I’d never heard of the spa where I was to undergo this aesthetic torture, but was assured that it was the best.  With summer finally here, I decided that it was time to use my certificate.  The first thing that I did was look to see if the spa had a website.  It did, but there wasn’t much to it except an overview of services and the address.  I happened to notice there was a “JCC”, but ditzy me thought that this was a business suffix like an “LLC”.  It wasn’t until I typed in the actual numerical address into Google maps that I realized that “JCC” was short for “Jewish Community Center”.

wtf, what the fuck, cat

I wasn’t even sure what a Jewish Community Center entailed but I was pretty sure that it didn’t typically include poon grooming.  Since I’m well-versed in the perverse, I just rolled with it and called to make my appointment.  When I spoke to the owner of the spa, she verified that she was indeed located inside the JCC, but assured me that I didn’t have to be Jewish to enter the building.  Good thing since I planned on praying the entire time that my pubes were being violently removed.

The first thing that I have to say about this JCC is that it’s bloody huge.  Not only is it three buildings, but each of the buildings is massive.  I didn’t know which one held my destination, so I chose the biggest building and it turned out that I was correct.  After signing in as a guest, I was pointed in the general direction of where I would find the spa.  After wandering the halls for ten minutes I finally stumbled in a panic through a doorway that I hoped was where I would just be waxed and not circumcised.  There was an elderly gentleman receptionist who assured me that I had found the correct place.  (Yeah it was a little weird to be asking an eldery Jewish man if I was in the right place to have my nonny-hoo-hoo primped, but again, I just rolled with it.)

As shocking as it might be, the waxing itself wasn’t traumatic.  Aside from being aware that there were small children just a room away in the daycare center as I was having my poon waxed, it went off without a hitch, in fact, you can read about the actual waxing experience and what to expect if you want to have one done in my article “Making Your Brazilian Wax a Smooth Experience” at The Indie Chicks.

In other news, I’ve started edits on my book.  I pretty much rewrote chapter one the other day (long story as to why) and I have to say that it’s something that I’m proud of–like to the point where even if it’s turned down my every literary agent in the world, I’ll still love it and be willing to show it off.  My posts are going to remain a little sparser for a bit longer, but as you can, a lot of the awesome that I’ve been mentioning in the past few months has been building momentum and I’m still adapting on keeping up with it.  It’s a lot of work–I pretty much live on my computer–but I love it.