Sick Humor and Christmas Ornaments.

I was ever so close to revisiting an old post about My Favorite Ornament sometime this week anyway -- and then I saw The RHOK's McLinky Monday post and was blessed with a perfect excuse to write about my little ballerina again!



When I was a kid, I'm guessing sometime around pre-K age, My Mom took me to Dance Classes.

I had the ballet shoes and the tap shoes and the leotard; I don't remember ever owning a tutu, but the tap shoes were pretty darn cool, they were back patent Mary Janes with a black ribbon that tied the strap together, and they had low little stacked heels with the metal taps screwed into the heels and toes. Honestly, I don't remember getting a whole lot out of it other than being out of the house for a little while every time there was a class. I don't remember any recitals or performances of any kind until that play in first grade where I was a fortune teller with tons of jewelry and a crystal ball. The jewelry was every cheap unimportant thing my Mom and Grannie could round up out of their jewelry boxes, and the crystal ball was the glass globe off the light fixture in the hallway, carefully forced down over a piece of black velvet draped over a plywood box base.

I got a lot more out of that first grade play than I ever got out of dance lessons, tap or ballet either one, so we can tell that previous ballet experience is probably not where my love of my little ballerina ornament came from.

I got her during the 66% off after-Christmas sale in late December of 2007. The first time I wrote about her here, I refused to name the store, but since it's part of what makes me love her, I'll say it like a LOLCat, mah ballerina came from Hobbeh Lobbeh.

I know y'all have already heard how I Love Hobbeh Lobbeh, with their not-so-in-your-face-Christianity that's kind and Loving but not pushy, their muzak from a Hymnal, and their almost-weekly 40% coupon… I'm pretty sure they'd be offended by the nature of this post, because even though I love Jesus and I tend to sing along with the Muzak, I ended up with a sick sense of humor right alongside my love of deals like after-Christmas sales.

Right there in the marked-down ornament aisle with "Away In A Manger" being gently hammered out on a dulcimer, I looked up and saw this teeny ballerina, in the midst of this Christian artsy-craftsy store, there she was, a good girl with a wild streak.



She makes me giggle so hard every time I see her, sometimes I don't want to put her away for a whole year.

My favorite Christmas Ornament is a tiny ballerina with crotchless panties!

Actual Conversations.

Girl on phone: "I need doors with manual windows for a 96 Mazda MPV."

Me: "We don't have any Mazdas here, we handle Ford parts."

Girl on phone: "Oh, it wasn't a 95 Mazda, it was a 92 Buick Century."

--

Well shit. Next time, maybe I'll think quicker and see if I can sell 'em a dishwasher.

Actual Conversations.

It took me several years to give in to the phrase "flip-flops."

So, this afternoon, I'm standin' by the fireplace when My Mom walks up behind me and says "Do you wear thongs?"

I owned one pair of thong undies in college. I only wore 'em one day and they bugged me so bad I ditched 'em at lunchtime and went back to class with nothin' but jeans. The fact that I got rid of 'em by tossing them over a cable that ran between the floor joists in boyfriend-at-the-time's bedroom (which was in his mother's basement) is neither here nor there.

Mom asked if I wear thongs.

A quick flip of the mental rolodex shows a few places this question is likely to lead; the moral connotations of my underwear, the size of my ass, or something do do with my feet.

I know how these things usually go, and like any smart game show contestant, I picked the safest category. "I'll take footwear for a hundred, Alex!"



So I said "No, not unless I'm just steppin' into 'em to dash out to the car or something."

It was an honest answer. I've never been a fan of thongs or flip-flops, in the footwear or underwear departments. I keep a few pairs of the footwear variety around just in case I need to step into 'em real quick instead of putting real shoes on, but much like sweats or pajama pants, I pretty much refuse to wear 'em out in public. I'll wear 'em if I'm just dashing out to be out in the yard for a while, or if I'm going to the drive-thru and guaranteed to not have to get out of my car, but that's it. Of the footwear variety, I have three pairs; plain blue, orange with loofah-ish soles, and a pair with Tasmanian Devils on surfboards on 'em. It's not that I'm a Tasmanian Devil fan, I was just trying to find some that fit my odd feet -- but none of 'em do. Of the underwear variety, I have none, unless that pair from the basement is stuck in a box somewhere with all the stuff that he brought back after the break-up. I may have some chance of finding "flip flops" to fit my feet someday; but I seriously doubt I'll ever convince my ass to deal with "thongs."

Straight-faced, Mom's reply was "You'd run out to the car in your underwear?"

It's always about my ass.

More later... _\,,/

There was a time, and there is now.

There is a sameness, and there is a difference. As humans, we're all the same in some ways, and we're all different in some ways.

I have a few little secrets I keep; I have a few things I'm not afraid to talk about.

One thing I'm not afraid to talk about is that I know what $40K in credit card debt looks like, and I know what it feels like to mail off that last payment and feel free from it all. It was an amazing feeling, and when I opened the envelope the following month, I took a picture of the statement where it said "Due: $0.00."

Don't look at me like that, I also know without a doubt what it was like wading into that $40K, and I'll never do it again.

That know-it-all-guy just walked in here and asked me if I'd "already given up the monster truck."

I'll be honest, I was a teensy bit puzzled. When I think of "monster truck," I think of the big, serious, massive, six-foot-tires, jumpin' over cars Monster Trucks. Maybe something like that new commercial for washing machines where the guy drives one across the top of a row of machines. Maybe those shows they have alongside the car show every year. Maybe, possibly, something like that Suzuki Samurai with the big fat knobby tires. Maybe.

My first response was a no-brainer. "Do what?" I think "Do what?" may be the wordy replacement for "Huh?"

"Well, the white Lincoln's back out there, did ya already get rid of that silver truck?" Oh. The Excursion. Once I figured that out, I mentioned that the Mark 8 gets about twice the gas mileage so I've been switchin' off every once in a while.

His turn to make the puzzled face, he says "Oh, so you're going to have both?"

I just nodded and went back to the PC without saying anything else.

Yeah, actually, I'm gonna have all three; the SHO, the Mark 8, and the Big Silver Monster Truck, four or five if you count the Hearse and/or the ol' Outlaw Stock Camaro, and I don't really understand why people think that's so odd. It's always good to have a truck around, ain't it? Ask anybody who's ever had to try and borrow one from somebody else -- now, if I want to move something or haul something, I just pop that third-row seat out and cram whatever I want in there, whenever I want to. I don't have to wait for anybody else to make time for me, and I don't have to struggle with starting the ol' diesel Racin' Ambulance in the cold.

While I'm on that topic, that third-row seat is sooooooo much easier to deal with than the one in that Windstar that I had for a while. The third-row seat in the Excursion has wheels on it, so once it's un-latched and rocked forward, it just rolls right out -- get it to the ground and it'll roll right over into the corner of the garage. Handy. As. Can. Be.

The charge on my card for the Excursion would not even come close to a reasonable tip on that dollar amount that I mentioned earlier. It was such a cheap deal, seriously cheap, I'm talkin' cheaper than a new 17" MacBook Pro... I know my interest rates, I've planned my payments, everything'll be alright. Why'd I do it? Because I wanted to. Because I can. There was a time when I couldn't do that, but now, I can, so I did.

Don't get me wrong, it's still the first thing for sale, first for-profit offer can drive it home, I just wanna christen it with a road trip first. The SHO's been with me too long to let go, the $300 Mark 8 was a Birthday Present so selling it would be just tacky. For right now, yeah, I'm keepin' all three.

I'll talk cars with just about anybody, but that know-it-all-guy can just bite me.

Y'all wanna hear about that lady who tried to get me kicked outta the Monster Truck Rally??

;) More later... _\,,/

MySp@ce-ish, but oh well.

Since Robin finished it off the line about "if you're reading this," I figured I'd go for it. Ta-daaaaa!

What were you doing 10 years ago?


Ten Years Ago... 21 and comin' up on Valentine's Day... I was in the midst of an ugly break-up and had cried/begged/pleaded my way into one last date with him for Valentine's, even after he'd accused me of driving through the parking lot of his apartment complex. We saw "The Wedding Singer" and that night as I was taking him home, we met a car as I was about to pull into a space. Looking at the headlights in the dark, he said "Look, a car just like mine." Though I didn't know much about self esteem (ie, begging/pleading), I knew my cars and light patterns. That wasn't like his car, it was just like my car, and as we got right up beside it, it was green and everything, almost exactly like my car. "Uh, there's that Green SHO that's been drivin' through your parking lot." Now, he's married, we're pretty good friends, and I still know that you can't tell anything by driving through the parking lot of an apartment complex where a thousand people live, and I'm still pretty sure that if I'm gonna go checkin' up on somebody, it's best to just grab a lot car instead of using my own. Incognito, baby.

What were you doing 1 year ago?


A year ago, I was getting ready for my second Valentine's Day with Clayton. I was also getting ready for my eighth season of racing; painting the new body on the Orange Twenty, and painting over the grey outlines where we'd peeled the old signs off of the Ambulance to make way for the Funeral Home's "Second Responder" signs. Those were such a hit, instant recognition and the ultimate conversational ice-breaker.

Five snacks you enjoy:
1. Chips with dip; tortilla chips with salsa or queso or cream cheese & salsa, or potato chips with french onion or sour cream & onion or ranch or...
2. I've recently discovered the magic of Orange Creme Yogurt; it's amazing, like sherbet only without the brain-freeze.
3. Cheetos, Cheez-It's, or other crunchy-cheesy-not-so-healthy items.
4. Cheese, ordinary, American Cheese, the cellophane-wrapped grab-n-eat slices.
5. I could still just keep eatin' bacon 'til I'm sick and tired of standin' there fryin' it.

Five songs that you know all the lyrics to:
1. Willie Nelson's "Last Thing I Needed First Thing This Morning"
2. The Gourds' "Burn The Honeysuckle"
3. Robert Earl Keen's "The Road Goes On Forever"
4. Widespread Panic's "Can't Get High"
5. James McMurtry's "Choctaw Bingo"

Five things you would do if you were a millionaire:
1. See all fifty states and several landmarks (and also stop by to see Robin, who posted this before me).
2. Track down a red & black '72 Pantera. Make that a pair so My Dad can have one too.
3. Pre-order a New Dodge Challenger.
4. Build a one-of-a-kind house way out in the middle of a couple hundred acres.
5. Probably just go batshit... Heh.

Five bad habits:
1. Not eating healthy enough.
2. Procrastinating.
3. Wondering if I'm good enough/worthy enough, constantly doubting myself in several different ways.
4. Sometimes I say things I shouldn't, and other times I keep quiet when wish I had the guts to stand up.
5. The Pins, I scratch my ears with 'em, and I keep 'em stashed in dozens of places especially for that purpose.

Five things you like doing:
1. The Twenty.
2. Knitting.
3. Music-Music-Music, and occasionally AudioBooks.
4. Rockin' down the highway -- and hearin' the shock in Clay's voice when he hears it only took me sixteen minutes to get home from his house.
5. Runnin' around in a different car any time I get the chance.

Five things you would never wear again:
1. Spandex (as outerwear or anything other than a swimsuit).
2. "Lay-Down" Jeans (or jeans with "severe spill-over").
3. That "cowboy" shirt with the "Rocky Mountain" logos all over it.
4. Pants that involve any form of Vel-Cro.
5. A Levi Jacket over the top of a nice dress.

Five favorite toys:
1. MacBook
2. Just about anything creativity-related.
3. Dirt Racer (or any other form of rollin' stock).
4. I’m not telling you anything except that it takes batteries.
5. Ipod/Camera/The usual electronic gadgets.

If you’re reading this, consider yourself tagged.

Ravel's Tzigane at 5:22 AM...

If a red Chevrolet turns up outta nowhere and mows me down, please let somebody know I wrote about it here first.

Nah, I shouldn't say that... The concept isn't violent, just strange.

For two nights in a row, I have had dreams involving a red S-10 Blazer. I'm pretty sure it's a two-door, and it's the older bodystyle from back when they were all square with the seal-beam headlights, probably around a '91 or 92, I think.

Night before last, I dreamed I was walking back from the post office and my brother picked me up in it; I don't know why, but I ended up sitting backwards with my knees against the passenger seat and my ass against the dash, and I was trying my best to avoid getting sick.

Last night, I dreamed I was sitting in some kind of a class (listening to an instructor and eating an ice cream sandwich) when my phone rang; only it wasn't my ring, it was Anne calling my name, and when I answered, she was calling to tell me that I had a second chance at taking a Lab quiz. I miss her so much and I was so glad to hear from her that I wasn't even sure if I gave a damn about the quiz. I picked up my stuff and left the class I was in and headed out to the car as I was talking to Anne on the phone, and when I got to the car to drive away, that's what it was, a red S-10 Blazer -- and I started it up and drove away.

I drove it through some kind of automatic car wash type of thing, and that's when I woke up needin' to pee.

When I got back to bed, I just could not get back to sleep.

I usually don't look at the clock at all until my alarm goes off, but since there's been a time or two before that I couldn't go back to sleep until after the alarm, after a little tossin' & turnin', I figured I'd check the time just to see if that would help. It was 5:22 AM, a full two hours and thirteen minutes before my "third last chance" alarm. Even after I knew I had more than two hours, I still couldn't go back to sleep.

I guess the nice part is that I wasn't stressed or anxious about it, I just fished out my iPod, put on some Classical, and said a little prayer for my long-ago friend Anne. And her husband. And their little boy. Wow, how old would he be now??

I don't really remember how we got out of touch; I know I wasn't mad about anything and I don't think she was either -- we just both got busy and got away from each other. In PTA School, we were usually busy with the same stuff at the same time, and she was a real bright spot for me when school was headed South in the proverbial handbasket. After graduation, she went on to work and I went on to racing the Outlaw Stock and running the construction company and selling a few parts; all while trying valiantly to prove to my parents that I had not wasted my time in school and I was not a total failure.

I still don't think it was a case of "I'm not cut out for this," but more of a case of "I'm not cut out to fit into this particular mold." Even though I didn't make it outta there with my degree, I still learned a lot about people (professors and peers) and how some of 'em work. I learned about "Fitting In," mainly that even if I don't fit in with those people, there are people out there who will let me in, and I don't have to feel like I'm standing on the outer edge of it all, just out there alone. Looking back, there were several times when Anne was my "way in," and when I wasn't makin' it on my own, she'd just grab my arm and take me with her. I'll never forget turnin' twenty-two with her in Arkansas at the Tattoo shop, or hangin' out with her and her mom after my first night in the race car. When I got my "kick to the curb" from the program director, it was Anne who told me, "Well hell, go back to sellin' parts, at least you're good at it." The night before David's funeral, I still wasn't sleeping and I spent most of the night sittin' on the bathroom rug talkin' on the phone with Anne.

I'd love to run into her somewhere -- I bet she'd really dig Clayton...

And surely I'll end up finding her before I end up finding a damn red S-10 Blazer.

More later. _\,,/

For The Fireplace

Just when I'd managed to convince myself that thirty one wasn't old:

After Christmas 66% Off!

Even good girls like to show their wild side every now and then...

I dig the post-rush cheapskatefest that comes about after every Christmas -- it's a great chance to stock up on the stuff that'll keep for a year, like wrapping and ribbon and bows. I also have no complaints about half-price chocolate, and I see no shame in munching on those lovely four-boxes-for-a-buck cherry candy canes well into February or March.

This year, I put up my tree for the first time since 2001, and I thought it looked quite nice once I covered it with those two buckets of (pet-proof plastic, not glass) shiny ball ornaments that I bought during the after-Christmas sale in '01. I probably don't really need any more ornaments, but I ran onto two adorable kittens with presents, so there's no tellin' when somethin' cute will turn up.

In the course of a lovely afternoon of After-Christmas-Sale shopping, we went to one of the larger artsy-craftsy stores. I'm not going to mention the name, partly because of Go0gle, partly because I'm sure they'd be deeply offended by the admittedly sick humor of this post.

Since there wasn't a whole lot of wrapping paper left in this particular store, but there were five or six aisles full of ornaments, we were checkin' out the ones that weren't black. Seriously, who puts black ornaments on a Christmas Tree anyway??? Christmas Tree Ornaments have come a long way since the days of plain glass balls, and they fall on just about every point on the scale between "cute" and "tacky/gaudy." Every kind of cat or dog or other pet, any shape you can cover with glitter, golf bags, basketballs, a tiny sky-blue motorcoach, a "Soccer Mom" ornament with a very detailed red mini-van; you can hang anything on your tree.

The aisles were tall, and peg after peg of ornaments reached from the floor to the far edge of arm's reach. At 5'6", I've never really thought of myself as short, but I've never really thought of myself as tall either... Near the end of an aisle, I happened to look up, just above my head. I was shocked by what I saw, right there in the middle of that store that always plays their muzak out of a Hymnal, that store that closes on Sundays so that their employees "may worship or spend time with their families," right there with "Away In A Manger" playing on the overhead speakers, there it was.

Now, I'm secure in my heterosexuality, I'm not into lookin' at chicks unless I'm thinkin' "Mmm, where'd ya get those shoes?" I've heard that Scotsmen don't wear drawers under their kilts, but I'd never really put much thought into what any given ballerina wears under her tutu. I have no idea why the sight I saw jumped out at me like it did, but it did.

"Heyyyyyy, that teeny ballerina is wearin' crotchless panties!"



Who knows, maybe it's a manufacturing variation, or maybe there's somebody in the ornament factory who's got a little streak of sick humor... I checked out the other three ballerina ornaments just like this one, one had ordinary undies, and one appeared to have have a serious wedgie; which is quite likely to happen if you've got your leg up in the air a lot. I also saw a couple pink ballerinas who had scary gaping holes in that area, but we're not even goin' there 'cause I'm sure those were only a mold-point or something like that.



I wouldn't ordinarily buy a ballerina ornament, but hey, a ballerina showing her wild streak at 66% off of original price? Yeah-yeah-yeah!! She'll be on my tree next year, just to see if anybody notices!!!

Fel-Eez-Nah-Vee-Dahd!!!

And he doesn't even know he's Hilarious.

A couple weeks ago, we hauled in this Bronco that had made one too many passes down the dragstrip. I know, I know, a Bronco isn't exactly a first choice for drag racing, but, if ya knew this kid, you'd see what we're dealin' with.

For what it's worth, this kid's mom has, uhm, starred in a previous rant, if that tells ya anything...

So, once it was out on the yard and therefore "fair game," handfuls of "car junk" got carried in here out of it. Nothing out of the ordinary, just the usual crap that gets left in cars -- pens & pencils, a couple hair accessories (straight to the garbage can), and some other little stuff like that... There might've even been a couple bouncy balls in there that got played with; and y'all know how I giggle inside when I think about 'em pickin' up every germ off the floor and bouncing it right into each other's hands. Heh heh.

Amongst the fistful of pens & pencils that got tossed on the counter (let's face it, we can always use writin' sticks around here), there was one of these Almay Eyeliner Pencils, it's very, very Brown, and very, very touched by a stranger. I didn't have the heart to toss it straight in the trash can (because they're around eight bucks, aren't they?), but I also was not about to put it anywhere near my eyes.

I'll be honest, I screwed around with it just a little bit, my inner eight-year-old-boy got the best of me, but don't worry, I washed that little potted daisy off my hand within a couple minutes. I had to check it out, 'cause hey, I'm not gonna go hand over eight dollars for one if it's a POS that's not worth havin'.

The Almay Eyeliner Pencil is pretty nice, I was impressed, and I'd seriously buy one if I ever gave in to wearing eyeliner on a regular basis or if I ever had to patch a hole in my eyebrow again (don't laugh, it has happened).

So, after messin' with it a little bit, I kinda got busy and forgot about it. It got left on the counter amongst the other pens that get left on the counter. I should've been a more "responsible adult" and made sure it got in the garbage or at least "out of reach of children," but I didn't. Whups.

This morning I looked over to find HoMeSkOoL dAd staring at it and pulling the lid on and off a couple times. He made a couple marks on a piece of paper and looked puzzled, and totally serious, he says "What the hell kinda pencil is this?"

I still don't know how I managed a straight-faced answer of "Uhm, eye makeup." but I did.

The only thing funnier would be watchin' him shoot his mullet with Krylon and then ask "What the hell kinda hairspray is this?" or maybe oatmeal in a coffee pot.

It was a big smile almost as entertaining as an AOL CD in a car stereo.

I just wonder how long it'll be before the HoMeSkOoLeRz notice that I've been stabbing holes in all my empty plastic bottles just 'cause I'm sick of hearing them try to blow 'em open with the air compressor...

The Childfree Couple Goes To The Big Toy Store

Me and my Hotwhee1 problem... Sorry 'bout the "1" there, I just figured I'd better Go0gle-proof that. Anyway, me and my addiction, along with Clay, went to the big toy store last night. I'm also Go0gle-proofing that one, but I'm sure y'all know which one I'm talkin' about -- the "R" is backwards. I know, I know, the proper English version is "My addiction and I," but nobody ever says it like that, so there.

I have to go back soon because there were 2008's on the pegs, but they were picked pretty thin -- so there must be a shipment coming any day now.

Once I'd satisfied my tiny-car obsession, I wandered over toward the doll department just to see what I could see.

Have y'all seen that "Butterscotch" Pony? It's made by the same people who made the purrin' kittens and those life-like baby lambs that just melt my heart. They also make that parrot that would be so cute if it would just skip that damn song. The little horse is just as cute as it can be, and it responds to touch in a fairly realistic manner; it whinnies, it wags it's tail, it turns it's head. The one at this store must've been under constant covert watch with a security guard lurking in the nearby baby car seat aisle so that he'd be able to snatch up the little bastards we'd seen punching the pony at T@rget -- this one was still in complete working order, which is amazing considering that it was totally accessible sitting right down on floor-level.

The little girl pictured in the advertising photos is sitting on the pony's back, her outstretched legs don't touch the carpet, but she's leaned down with her arms around the pony's neck -- the smile on her face says it all, every little girl's dream, "I want a PONY!" She's sittin' on the pony, without a doubt, but the ad makes no mention of the pony's ability to actually carry a rider at all.

That's why THIS little pony caught my eye:



There it is, the "Tango Interactive Ride-On Horse." Yes, it sells itself as a Horse, not a Pony. Yes, there's garbage in the display, isn't that nice? I'd guess it came from the same quality of people who thought it was okay to let their kids punch the pony -- they'd be pretty likely to think it's okay to eat candy in a store and then pitch the wrapper in a toy display, wouldn't they? I should stop right there; I didn't start this post to bitch about scumbags, I'm here to write about a horse!

The Tango Interactive Ride-On Horse was all alone on an endcap display, sittin' up off the floor at about elbow level. He's kinda cute, but has a more stuffed-animal-ish look to him -- not quite as life-like as the Butterscotch Pony, but more horse-proportioned in a smaller size, and it even has a cute little cowboy-style saddle with stirrups hangin' down. When it comes to toys, I'm touchy-feely, I can't help it -- so I rubbed-petted-felt of it a little bit, and since they were within easy reach on an elbow-level display, I could not resist checkin' to see what the legs felt like. It's a big-dog-sized horse, for all sake, my inner child had to know. Much like the only chick in a dress at the Speedway's Awards Banquet, my inner child is almost always desperately torn between the girl world and the tomboy world -- she's drivin' the go-kart with a Barbie under her arm, she's ridin' the dirtbike to her friend's house with a Cabbage Patch Kid in her backpack; but alas, as a chunky little thing, she's always been told to stay away from the stuff that could break if a fat kid were to climb on it... Would the spindly little legs on either pony be tough enough to stand up to bein' sat on by a kid?

I was stunned to find something that felt a little like mechanical parts under the fur; which I felt right about the same time my eyes landed on the red "Try Me! Press Here!" circle stitched on his right hip -- so I pressed... The clip-clopping was so very cute, I just had to press the circle on his forehead too, and that was right about the time I saw the sign.



Look at that!! Hand Crafted, okay... Durable, we hope... Eighteen inch seat height, yeah... THREE HUNDRED POUND CAPACITY!!! Do ya believe it? Fat kids the world 'round will rejoice this Christmas!!! Three Hundred Pounds! Seriously, that means a couple fairly thin adults could hop on this horsey together and go for a ride. Three hundred pounds is five or six healthy-sturdy-husky first or second graders; or a couple fairly curvy junior-high girls, or a senior-year star Defensive Lineman.

I'm stunned! I'm fascinated! It's cute and cuddly and every bit as cool as the shiny red P0wer-Wheels Mustang Convertible!

I'm thirty-one, I have a Kawasaki ATV that I can play with in the backyard, but seriously, if they made that furry robotic pony a little closer to horse-size, I'd damn sure buy one and ride it into town!!!

Snippet?

Last night's odd snippet of memorable dream involved attempting to stick something into my eye that was very certainly not a contact lens. The oddest part was knowing that what I had on my finger was some grubby piece of fabric that was bigger than my entire eye, but still, soaking it with soloution, leaning up to the mirror, and trying (not so successfully) to stick it to my right eye. As if that's not creepy enough, it ended up giving me chunks of some sort of mysterious/infection-ish peanut-buttery substance that I had to pick out of my eye with Q-tips.

But hey, at least I got this idea to try for a cool Macro shot of my actual right lens this morning...

And yes, that's an RGP, the hard kind -- Apparently, I'm "Old School."

Apparently.

More later... _\,,/