I Have No Opinion About Me

WordPress wrote me a little thank you letter for sticking with either blogging or WordPress for three years, which would be hilarious if Blogger hadn’t tossed me the hell out. Siobhan and I spent two months in a glamorous panic, trying to put down our adult beverages long enough to move Poor Impulse Control. Thing is: we actually have poor impulse control. So WordPress? Don’t take this the wrong way because you’re nice and only go through our wallet for loose bills now and then, but we’re only with you because our ex was a real bastard. Happy anniversary. Let’s order a pizza or something. You pay.

In other news: tomorrow is Pete’s and my fourth wedding anniversary, which is sure to surprise everyone who’s ever met me. Certainly, Mr. DBK will be surprised by all these pronouns. Pete and I will celebrate this by – we don’t know. We had to look at the marriage certificate to figure out the actual date. Romance is in the air – or pollen! Either can make you sneeze.

In even more news: Wednesday, Pete and I have appointments with the same doctor. I have reached three months post-surgery and hope to be allowed to bicycle and use the rowing machine. This is important because I am decadently fat and must change that immediately. Pete is seeing the surgeon to determine if and when he should have a torn ACL repaired. Naturally, all this involves celebratory borscht. Things may be looking up, if the trees overhead aren’t filled with poop-squirting birdies.

Everything I Have In My Hand

Waiting…waiting…trying to cut down…

On 1 May, Blogger’s cutting me off. Poor Impulse Control, such as it is, will become a static museum of swearing, stylish footwear, bad behavior and do-goodery almost exactly six years after Paulie Gonzalez pushed me at the laptop and pointed the way. Sure, it’s traumatic for me, but what fresh start isn’t?

Siobhan’s been working on the technical aspects of the move, which have proven ridiculous. Yesterday, I couldn’t even be rational about a URL. If Siobhan doesn’t toss me into a borrowed wood chipper – she wound never be stupid enough to leave a receipt trail – by next week, we should be on our way. Where? No idea, but – dagnabbit! – we’re going.

We Can Dance If We Want To

Fucking Blogger, which has often sucked like a giant thing that sucks giantly, has decided to cut me off because this blog uses FTP. Here, enjoy this bedtime story:

FTP publishing will no longer be available after May 1, 2010
You currently have blogs that are published using FTP. You must migrate your blogs to a new custom domain URL or a blogspot URL.

Yay! The bum’s rush it is! Clean cup! Clean cup! YAHTZEE!

I hate Typepad. Siobhan recommends WordPress. If you’re not using Blogger, what are you using? Do you like it?

Use Talking At All

If you have recently arrived at Poor Impulse Control, welcome. The first thing to know is my relationship with Blogger is tenuous at best and hostile on a normal day; the second thing is that I have all the patience of a charging rhino. Last night, Blogger whacked me a few times and I lost interest in fighting. Coincidentally, Pete arrived at home and I developed a great interest in asking how his day went. Yesterday’s post is draft writing, a sketch. I’m going to leave it up as a warning to the other posts: See what happens when Blogger fucks with me? Underdeveloped comedy! Now bring me something stationary and herbaceous.

Speaking of cleaning, I am. My bathroom is now relatively, temporarily pawprint-free and I’ve lectured the cats on their filthy habits. Sheets and towels tumble n the dryer. The vacuum beckons, but between tasks, I notice that people on television are speaking someone’s language, but it might not be mine. Here’s an example:

What the hell’s that about? What did that finger action mean? Am I stupefied by bleach fumes?

But You Don’t Wear No Perfume

Blogger has been giving me trouble again. I’ll figure it out. In the meantime, what is it about this painting of Johnny’s that I find utterly arresting? Got me! I can’t stop looking at it.

This morning, I wish I could post the scent on the breeze coming off the river and through the trees. Wait, hold your nose up really close to the monitor. No, closer! Closer! Smell it?