tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79634324189893821272024-02-20T19:52:54.600-05:00Gifts from a BroadThe Lady Who Doesn't Lunch:http://www.blogger.com/profile/16435708079953998705noreply@blogger.comBlogger382125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963432418989382127.post-10361087528391243132019-12-12T13:31:00.001-05:002019-12-12T13:31:13.693-05:00For context to this post, my mom died a couple of weeks ago<span data-offset-key="4ulrt-0-0">Bless him, my dad is still hanging onto his sobriety. Alone. He's not in any kind of program or treatment. But he's very much into Entenmann's chocolate loaf cake, Lay's, and diet Coke.
<br /><br />I had to tell him this morning that the funeral director is coming by his house on Saturday with my mom's ashes in an urn. <br /><br />He's been waiting for this, but hearing it's actually going to happen on a real calendar date was upsetting. Me saying the word to tell him was upsetting. Upsetting him is upsetting.<br /><br />He says he's going to put her urn on the wine bar (a huge, monstrous marble and wrought iron cabinet that looks like the Godfather movies threw up in the hallway) so he can talk to her every day when he walks by. He's been planning this since she was alive, but the reality of it actually happening in a couple of days was too much for him and he cried into the phone with me.
<br />One of my mom's friends offered to come by and take my mom's clothes out of the house for him and he didn't realize that he was allowed to tell her no, and say he wasn't ready. I told him that it's completely natural for him to want to wait, and that her friend would 100% understand and respect this.
<br />He cancelled his doctor appointment, and hasn't really been out of the house because the thought of talking to anyone who might ask about my mom is too much for him to bear to have to explain. I told him that's totally fine too.
He said that he's only sleeping a couple of hours a night and that his eyes and face hurt from crying. <br />I had to explain grief to him as if he were a child. He's 84. I said, "a horrible thing has happened to you and it's OK to cry and be upset as long as you want to". <br />You are normal, you old weirdo. <br />I told him that grief is natural and no one expects you to carry on like nothing happened. Well, I screamed all of this into the phone because the man has significant hearing loss, and I had to scream it all twice because he also has dementia.<br /><br />Today I decided is the day that I'm going to make all of the calls I have to make, like telling their bank and the cable company that she is dead. I'm going to have to call the oxygen company and ask them to come and pick up all of the hoses, tanks and equipment that are tucked around all over their house. Stuff like that. I have a headache thinking about it, and looking at the UPS envelope I got in the mail the other day from the funeral home that has all of the copies of her death certificate that I ordered.<br />Anyhoo... I'm sad to have to do all of these things and the idea of having to be in charge of so much of my dad's life is terrifying, especially long distance.</span>The Lady Who Doesn't Lunch:http://www.blogger.com/profile/16435708079953998705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963432418989382127.post-67060891292772751992018-04-11T19:34:00.000-04:002018-04-11T19:34:20.220-04:00The News Round Up - This Is (Not) Important So Gather Round<div>
MDH and I got a new bed. I may have mentioned in an earlier post that we were planning to buy one, but I'm too lazy to go back and check for sure, which is interesting because normally nothing pleases me more than rereading my own posts over and over again like a crazy narcassistic gasbag, what was I talking about? Oh yes... MDH and I finally got a new bed. It's fucking amazing. Life changing. Trans formative. I'm a new woman. </div>
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Our old bed sucked. It was old. And small. And had begun to sag in the middle when we were both in it. Folded up like a taco. It was also noisy and not in a sexy let's get it on er-ah, er-ah squeaky way, but in a bouncy, jostling each other awake every time you make the slightest movement kind of way. It's was annoying. If you dropped a bowling ball on that bed I'm quite sure it would have knocked over a glass of red wine in the other room.The Lady Who Doesn't Lunch:http://www.blogger.com/profile/16435708079953998705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963432418989382127.post-39560379553958157032018-04-11T19:33:00.000-04:002018-04-11T19:33:07.241-04:00Dye Hard<div>
I was only able to watch the first 5 minutes of the Oprah show that I had recorded on my DVR because that's all I was able to stand of Oprah's bad dancing and John Travolta's horrible dye job. First of all, Oprah stop moving. Don't dance girl. Just stop.</div>
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More importantly, John Travolta, you are an old man, it's time to be gray. You are fooling no one.</div>
The Lady Who Doesn't Lunch:http://www.blogger.com/profile/16435708079953998705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963432418989382127.post-71098593420593016522018-04-11T19:31:00.000-04:002018-04-11T19:31:16.044-04:00The Visitors<br />
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So in a couple of weeks my crazy aunt Liz, my sister* and my niece** are all coming to visit us at our new Texas digs. I'm excited and nervous at the same time. They have never come to visit us. Ever.<br />
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I think the whole thing started when I told my sister about my surgery, after my recovery was nearly complete mind you. I think that she and Liz thought that they were going to come here and somehow take care of me. Well thank god I foiled that plan by waiting until after I was better before I told anybody about it. Now when they come we can just have fun. Although I can't help but wonder how they thought I'd still need taking care of when they didn't book their flights until 6 weeks after I was officially recovered. Nice try. Let's just party.<br />
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I got in big trouble, by the way, for not telling anyone in my family (besides my parents) about my being sick and having surgery until after the fact. I didn't want to make a million phone calls telling the world about my rather personal, crotch related ordeal, so when I was ready for people to know there was only one phone call necessary. My sister***. <em>I</em> knew once <em>she</em> knew then everyone in my family, whether they were interested or not, would know.<br />
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And damned if the fucking phone didn't start ringing less then 30 minutes after my initial call with her ended. This is exactly what I had tried to avoid - talking about my uterus and having multiple conversations involving the words "cervix" and "ovaries" to a million different people who, although technically family, are not necessarily the people I'd like to discuss this shit with.<br />
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Thankfully, I was mostly healed and recovered and better able to handle such discussions than I was prior to the surgery when I was quite irritable (to put it mildly) and ill.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSRHWTib7fcMZFLVJyZZ5jc0PYP3SyeVCes_WLnnLkqUdZHo2aHsnSI3I41a-5EVMRQ3g_2eL_T_-jpgVJ1aAUXkgpzLOax0eItYYlSELLQL-d7mk5FTUB_p59RK6SlKc72r_N86AUJORY/s1600/awkward+family+bathrobes.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5644129372225374450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSRHWTib7fcMZFLVJyZZ5jc0PYP3SyeVCes_WLnnLkqUdZHo2aHsnSI3I41a-5EVMRQ3g_2eL_T_-jpgVJ1aAUXkgpzLOax0eItYYlSELLQL-d7mk5FTUB_p59RK6SlKc72r_N86AUJORY/s320/awkward+family+bathrobes.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 213px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 320px;" /></a></div>
Crazy aunt Liz is my dad's sister and the one that came down to the hotel restaurant for breakfast in her housecoat and slippers at the last family reunion MDH and I attended. She didn't have her teeth in either. Other members of my family also came down to breakfast in the hotel restaurant unwashed and uncombed wearing sweats, pajama pants and t-shirts and flip-flops. Somehow though that doesn't seem quite as shocking as a housecoat and slippers because you often (sadly) see people**** in public wearing sweats and pajama pants with t-shirts and flip-flops. A housecoat and slippers seems a bit intimate of attire for public airings.<br />
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Anyhoo... my family all think I'm a huge prig because I give a shit about such things as whether or not I shower and appear fully dressed in public and that's totally OK with me.<br />
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I know that many people in my family also think that I'm a prig because I read a lot, I sometimes use big fancy words and make an effort to use correct grammar when I speak (or write***** (I fail sometimes, but they probably wouldn't know that)). I don't watch Dog the Bounty Hunter, follow NASCAR, go to church or listen to country music. I know they all love me, as I love them, but I'm not one of them.<br />
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As a result of this most of my adult life, with a few exceptions here and there, I have chosen to keep my family at arms length, so it'll be weird to have so many of them here all at once.<br />
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*<span style="font-size: xx-small;">She's actually my cousin, but when we were children I lived with her family for about a year or so, until my dad could get his shit together after my mom left us. Even after I went to live with my dad again I continued to spend a great deal of time at her family's house throughout my life. I went on family vacations with them and spent several weekend with them throughout the year. and we have always <em>felt</em> like sisters. We made a pact when we were teenagers and decided that because we were really sisters in our hearts we would always refer to each other thusly. At this stage in our lives it's weird to keep doing it, but we continue to do it because we have always done it. It's awkward however when I talk about her to other people who don't know her and I have recently taken to referring to her as my cousin rather than feeling like a liar and having to explain about how she's my sister, but not really my sister. I assume she's doing the same, but it has never come up. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">**Her kids have always called me "Aunt Lady".</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">***Fifteen years ago she would have been one of the first to know, before the fact even, but we aren't as close as we once. I really don't like her husband very much and the feeling is mutual I think. I used to hang around and do stuff with them anyway and just put up with his bullshit, but as the kids got older and busier and I got older and busier I had less time and patience. Also, it was always a one way street in that I always had to go to their house (about an hour away) and they rarely seemed able to make the effort to come to me, and that shit gets old after awhile, especially if her husband was going to act like a total asshat the whole time I was there. I wish I liked him. I've tried to like him. But there it is.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">****People who are not me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">*****It's all I can do not to have an embolism when I read some of my family members posts on Facebook. </span></div>
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The Lady Who Doesn't Lunch:http://www.blogger.com/profile/16435708079953998705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963432418989382127.post-69210902338075500922015-07-30T12:46:00.000-04:002015-07-30T12:50:21.571-04:00A Tale of Two Cities - Part 1<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;">I</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">t's been an interesting coupla years in Ladyland. We live about an hour from the Gulf of Mexico now, which has been an adjustment, to say the least. In Dallas we lived in a dry, moisture sucking, pizza oven, where we live now has moisture, vegetation, and steady tropical rains that are more akin to a sousvide water oven (look it up, kids). </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In other words, my skin looks amazing and hydrated, but my hair is a bit on the unruly side, and I'm in a constant battle with swamp ass. These days most of my outfits could easily be mistaken for swim suit cover ups, and I do not for the life of me, honest to John, remember the last time I wore socks.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This past year has dealt our family serious blows in the form of the deaths of two of my brothers in law. The good* ones too, Las Vegas and Syracuse. So I'm left with the two scarier ones, Miami and Knucklehead. Obviously this has been extremely stressful for MDH, who in the case of Las Vegas was left responsible for cleaning up after his god damned mess.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Last October, when my DH was in Austin with friends getting together and preparing to attend a music festival he got a call from someone from the Las Vegas police, to tell him that his oldest (and most seemingly normal) brother had taken an upscale suite with comped points from one of the swankier hotel casinos, where he stayed for 2 weeks before carefully laying out plastic lawn and garden bags on the sumptuous, king sized bed and blowing his brains out with a pistol.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Apparently his body laid there for 5 full days before the cleaning staff alerted hotel management. Apparently his head was, for lack of a better way to describe it, gone.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">MDH upon getting the call immediately alerted Miami and Syracuse and it was decided that Miami would get on the next flight to Las Vegas to be with MDH and do things like identify the body, and sort out whatever needed to be sorted out, which turned out to be a fucking lot, and Syracuse would drive immediately to Boston so that the news of Las Vegas' death could be given to my MIL in person by someone she trusts.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So that happened.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjf1KWMnn1SuG6ZKjTQ-Unpa8XJvJthrYd3BHSiOgjFxRFNjKD7BrKkBCCY-GnW8D-Gs4aBrTANT9cFZGx9AqKeJFOmxSU7KjPD3UGDEEqMiwVz9IOQNXBN32nuIh5rD5AtW76xsuQ5Am3/s1600/boston+snow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjf1KWMnn1SuG6ZKjTQ-Unpa8XJvJthrYd3BHSiOgjFxRFNjKD7BrKkBCCY-GnW8D-Gs4aBrTANT9cFZGx9AqKeJFOmxSU7KjPD3UGDEEqMiwVz9IOQNXBN32nuIh5rD5AtW76xsuQ5Am3/s320/boston+snow.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Fast forward to November. Thanksgiving weekend to be exact, when I never wanted to run away and join the circus more in my life because Miami demanded that the absolute best time ever to have a memorial service for Las Vegas would be THE FRIDAY AFTER THANKSGIVING. Of course the absolute worst time of year for traveling. Of course the absolute worst time for someone who lives in the tropics and doesn't even own a coat anymore to travel to FUCKING BOSTON, where it's freezing fucking cold. Not to mention that frankly I really didn't feel like memorializing Las Vegas. I went because it was important to MDH, and that was the end of it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Syracuse had pneumonia and couldn't make it, which made me jealous, (why can't<i> I</i> get pneumonia and skip this stupid thing?) and infuriated Miami so deeply that he declared it unforgivable and that Syracuse was "dead to me", and refused to take his calls anymore.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Anyhoo... somehow I survived that ordeal, and it WAS an ordeal, because anything involving MDH's family is never without dramas, death threats, ridiculous unnecessary complications and drunken brawls. Somehow we also always end up footing the bill for all of this shit, which only makes me more angry. If anything, I was glad to get to spend some time with my MIL, and hug her, and cry together, and reassure her that she didn't have to ever do anything that she didn't want to do, like go to this insane memorial service.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Fast forward to late December, when we learn that Syracuse does not only not have pneumonia, he as been diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer and has about 6 months to live. He died** the 2nd week in March.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In between the 2 deaths, MIL came down and spent almost 8 weeks with us in Texas. She had been home for just slightly more than a week when Syracuse died. MDH was with Syracuse when he died, and had been there for about a week and a half prior. He had flown home with his mother from Texas, because she can no longer fly by herself, and then rented a car and drove to Syracuse to be with his brother in his final days.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then he drove back to Boston. Knucklehead had been given the responsibility this time of telling my MIL about the death of her son, but when he arrived at her apartment he found her barely conscious on the floor next to the couch. Apparently she'd had a stroke the previous day, but just chose to lay there, her cell phone in her robe pocket, because she, "didn't want to bother anybody". </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This is the part where I scream.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And I've pretty much been screaming ever since. Starting with finding out that she had out right LIED to me while she was visiting about what medications she was supposed to be taking. Medications which included pills to lower her cholesterol, which she told her doctor in the hospital after the <b>stroke</b> that SHE <i><b>decided she didn't need anymore</b></i>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It's now almost August, and she's still in a rehab facility in Boston. We're not sure what is going to happen next.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In Part 2 of this story, which I will try and write tomorrow, I will explain to you the evil, conniving nature of Knucklehead, and the various ways that he has been nothing but a piece of shit since all of this has gone down.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">*Tolerable and mostly polite to me, but still misogynistic and unpleasant to be around for longer than a few hours.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">*People die. They are dead. They don't pass, pass away, cease to exist, or whatever other sugar coated phrases people like to use. They die and they are fucking dead.</span>The Lady Who Doesn't Lunch:http://www.blogger.com/profile/16435708079953998705noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963432418989382127.post-46566400584051984432015-04-15T11:59:00.001-04:002015-04-15T12:03:02.824-04:00It's Time to Unfurl the Blog Again<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">L</span>ife has handed me enough lately, and it's time to get real. I need to express my true self, which is something that simply cannot be done on Facebook (without consequences, like my elderly aunts trying to pipe in and help, or people expressing genuine and loving feelings of condolence, and/or sympathy, or my aunt Pauline responding uncomprehendingly in all caps to my sarcastic post a year and a half later and thereby opening the floodgates of unwanted responses all over again.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then I remembered this blog, like a beacon of hope. THIS IS WHY I CREATED IT IN THE FIRST PLACE!! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And now it fills me with joy and a slight bit of disgust to tell you this:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Apparently I post too many things about cats on the Book of Face because someone that I know, or used to know a long time ago, but am a barely acquainted with now online, posted what you see below on my timeline.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2xkJ1RMC-WU513vNc6LY1kB0c7ZDUmkmcsgUPcCQXs52mTCkniRIEmOpzPXZQ5Mr5gwrtZjuoaLL3H5mw4FBtNBGRIQ1A_qZ3m7GLiyYciEj3LW10Lv3ENQqrm3Onp_78DR98V69CdLrH/s1600/ugly+cat+bag.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2xkJ1RMC-WU513vNc6LY1kB0c7ZDUmkmcsgUPcCQXs52mTCkniRIEmOpzPXZQ5Mr5gwrtZjuoaLL3H5mw4FBtNBGRIQ1A_qZ3m7GLiyYciEj3LW10Lv3ENQqrm3Onp_78DR98V69CdLrH/s1600/ugly+cat+bag.JPG" height="301" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">What the living fuck is this piece of shit? She kinda sorta thought I might like it. Jesus fucking christ what have I become?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm hoping to recover from this blow to my self image, and apparently my public image in which I have become seriously uncool. I have become a crazy cat lady. I have become the kind of person who would kinda might like that bag. I refuse to believe this, and yet I also vowed when I saw it to stop posting anything about cats for a very long time, or perhaps never again.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm also hoping to start posting here more. I'm thinking I need it. I'm thinking that it would be a really good thing for me to start converting the ugly poisoned thoughts in my head into something sort of funny, and thus turning negatives into positives, or at the very least neutralizing the situation.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Oh my god. That fucking bag. What the shit, dudes?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>The Lady Who Doesn't Lunch:http://www.blogger.com/profile/16435708079953998705noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963432418989382127.post-4180358813627031852013-12-17T17:27:00.000-05:002013-12-18T15:33:00.430-05:00Stop Making Sense<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1WX9liLGogFkshHAiS-gj9V2TkuX_krRBL1bPJvcnxXhFOcv_jwKacSKmnJtxitGU9TCmKihIVlvARnUZKBX0bi3cc3gecWsYtP0HNVAs-WfUrABtIGJ17NsCnjkQQFzKL8uZL904pil-/s1600/plastic+covers.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1WX9liLGogFkshHAiS-gj9V2TkuX_krRBL1bPJvcnxXhFOcv_jwKacSKmnJtxitGU9TCmKihIVlvARnUZKBX0bi3cc3gecWsYtP0HNVAs-WfUrABtIGJ17NsCnjkQQFzKL8uZL904pil-/s320/plastic+covers.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">T</span>he same person* who takes great pride in eating directly out of cans (because it saves him having to wash dishes), and boastfully uses the same coffee mug, for a multitude of beverages from morning until bedtime, coffee (obviously), orange juice, soda, milk, beer (what have you), without ever rinsing it, is somehow also the same person who sparked out yesterday with an emotional decree:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"You shouldn't open the blinds during the day!!! Eventually the carpet will fade."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Um, <em>what</em>? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Hey, fuck you Heloise. I'm opening the blinds.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">What am I Howard Hughes? If you suggest that I start wearing slippers made from tissue boxes because it helps prevent scuffs on hardwood flooring I am just as likely to tell you to go piss up a rope. On second thought, don't do that. There's a distinct line between fading and piss, let's not cross it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">To be fair there have been a lot of emotional decrees lately. I get it, it's a new house, and we are filling it almost daily with new furnishings and bits and bobs. We want it to stay nice.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">1.</span> <strong>There will be no eating or drinking of beverages, other than ice or water, or any combination of the two, while in the living room or while sitting upon or near any of the new furniture.</strong> (<em>This is my rule, but I often find myself watching the new giant TV while standing just on the other side of the back of the sofa, feet firmly planted on the tile in the breakfast nook**, munching on a snack and thinking about how fucking stupid my new rule is and, if MDH isn't home, eventually breaking this rule by planting my snacky ass right on the new sofa and munching away.)</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">2.</span> <strong>The bed will be made <u>daily</u> by the person who remains in it the longest.</strong> (<em>Or in other words, last one up is a rotten egg. This is also my rule. What the hell is wrong with me?)</em></span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: x-small;"></span></em><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">3.</span> <strong>The kitchen counter and bar will no longer be a repository for mail and crap from the bottom of a purse or pockets or any combination of these items.</strong> <em>(Yep. Also my rule. The rest of the rule should say: All mail and crap, etc., is to be shoveled haphazardly into the black hole next to the sink hereby referred to as "the menu drawer" before MDH arrives home from work.)</em></span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: x-small;"></span></em><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I suppose the theme of this post, if there has to be one is that I project my crazy shit onto MDH, make my own rules, promptly break them, and then hide it. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Seriously though, not opening the blinds to keep the <em>carpet</em> from fading? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcMHtM-hHJ1LGeYXcz3ukHmhbewJs8J6zExP_Hah-3bLxQ3GR_gUhKUq1QmpGsj4j-PhyphenhyphennfeEW53YKNXoIXhdEQ8LqGibsim8js_p6TpZEXFxiRamANWUSHbnfhz-OaR3FAsmfAw5rKQzL/s1600/ghost+relaxing.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcMHtM-hHJ1LGeYXcz3ukHmhbewJs8J6zExP_Hah-3bLxQ3GR_gUhKUq1QmpGsj4j-PhyphenhyphennfeEW53YKNXoIXhdEQ8LqGibsim8js_p6TpZEXFxiRamANWUSHbnfhz-OaR3FAsmfAw5rKQzL/s200/ghost+relaxing.JPG" width="131" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Since I'm no longer allowed to enjoy sunshine in my own home, why don't we just never walk on it either. In fact, let's just kill ourselves (neatly, over plastic in the garage, don't get nutty, concrete absorbs stains) so that we can hover over the new furniture and finishes, enjoying the glory of it all as ghostly spirits, so that it can all remain perfect and pristine forever and ever.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Maybe we can compromise and just wear sheets around the house in order to minimize the dust particles we shed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">No. Fuck the carpet. I want to live. Preferably in my new home which, by the way, gets excellent light all day, which, by the way,<em> <u>is one of the reasons we moved here</u>.</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Right. Now, please shut up, turn the sofa cushion over and pass me the popcorn. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">It's fine.</span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: x-small;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: x-small;">*In hindsight I'm not sure that I made it perfectly clear that it's MDH I'm referring to as the person who eats directly out of cans and uses the same mug all day without rinsing it.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: x-small;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: x-small;">**We don't have a table in there yet, so I will probably feel less stupid when I don't have to stand up while I'm snacking. Probably.</span></em>The Lady Who Doesn't Lunch:http://www.blogger.com/profile/16435708079953998705noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963432418989382127.post-39449771781404157852013-11-09T12:25:00.000-05:002013-11-09T12:29:32.246-05:00How Now Brown Couch?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggHN9o7cXWo4m-Bsho31Spq4PAQw5zbg9xFgqsmH2uUrH_iUJTa0xTsAeS-JQ8Nk4IT5cKgLt_m5GlDfif2-Gu1KEb5-NZ5PsTEVZBIL2MZb_Ktuhf4-MC_Rvj0FLJtpwYWlcDqmCmKhVL/s1600/THE+sofa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggHN9o7cXWo4m-Bsho31Spq4PAQw5zbg9xFgqsmH2uUrH_iUJTa0xTsAeS-JQ8Nk4IT5cKgLt_m5GlDfif2-Gu1KEb5-NZ5PsTEVZBIL2MZb_Ktuhf4-MC_Rvj0FLJtpwYWlcDqmCmKhVL/s320/THE+sofa.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">W</span>hat goes hand in hand with my obsession with the new house better than my obsession with decorating and furnishing it?</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Nothing. Not a damn thing.</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I have been trying to be ultra low key about it in my real life, with family, friends and the people I interact with daily, because I'm sure if I <em>really</em> talked about furniture shopping, out loud, with real people, half as much as I'm tempted to, that sooner rather than later, some one would come along and bash my obnoxious head in. </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But you know what? I can say it here, on my trusty old blog. Ahem:</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It's possible that I've never been more excited about anything in my entire life. </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Maybe getting married, but I feel like I <em>have</em> to say <em>that</em>. Polite society dictates that I should pretend to be more excited about love and family than I am about shopping for a new sofa, like a grown ass woman, for the first time in my entire life. </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I want to shout it from the rooftops - I'M GETTING A BRAND NEW SOFA!!!!</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I will love it, and pet it, and call it George. But not too much. I can't risk pilling or stains.</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Cue the confetti* and operatic arias from high on the mountain tops. This shit is important.</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #666666;">In real life though, nobody wants to hear the ridiculous level of earnestness in my voice as I iron out the decision making process regarding a splurge on the suede toss pillows versus the more affordable twill. They will probably want to smother me equally with either fabric selection.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #666666;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #666666;">Nobody wants to listen to me yammer on, bright-eyed and nearly combustible, about a rolled arm versus a track arm. </span><span style="color: #666666;">Who besides me would possibly give a shit? Maybe MDH, but frankly I'm asking for his input as little as possible, lest he should voice a real opinion and cause me to not get my way.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In fact, in order to keep him quiet and continue shopping as if I lived alone, I have placated him with the promise of something very special indeed. A reclining armchair**. A <em>leather</em> one. And if a leather reclining armchair is not enough to keep MDH out of my grill, this one is <strong>electronic</strong>. Oohhh... magical. Yes. There are such things as electronic reclining armchairs designed to appeal to the laziest humans among us. If you are <em>so lazy</em> that you can't even be bothered to maneuver a lever with your hand in order to lay down in your bedlike chair - this is the chair for YOU. Bang. Push a button and the chair will recline and come back up automatically.</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">*What are you kidding me? Don't throw that confetti - who's going to clean that shit up?</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">**Style of said armchair was subject to my final approval. I'm not having some ugly ass chair in my beautiful new house.</span>The Lady Who Doesn't Lunch:http://www.blogger.com/profile/16435708079953998705noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963432418989382127.post-71593704038746167162013-11-08T13:08:00.001-05:002013-11-08T13:16:45.346-05:00Have I mentioned that we bought a house?<div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicYlSbNJg30g4g6a3buQ37jp1zRRDYgpEHxrIzwuLN1b6ZwI3h2Rv3596khCyBOc7D5N6CYvN_Mq_swzGMD30FQhoaw-xPcb1t2kQdvj1esxS_VO7MVaxDibaaPC9rsQzGirTqoPaEbE2B/s1600/cookie-cutter-house2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicYlSbNJg30g4g6a3buQ37jp1zRRDYgpEHxrIzwuLN1b6ZwI3h2Rv3596khCyBOc7D5N6CYvN_Mq_swzGMD30FQhoaw-xPcb1t2kQdvj1esxS_VO7MVaxDibaaPC9rsQzGirTqoPaEbE2B/s200/cookie-cutter-house2.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">w</span>hat's up chicken butts? </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">This shit is harder than I remember and I think that's pretty obvious based on what I resorted to for an opening sentence for my first post since March. My apologies. I haven't written much more than work related emails and drippy Facebook posts for several months.</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I'll cut to the chase and dive right into a numbered list of things that are up <em>my</em> chicken butt:</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">1</span>. We bought a house. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">It's your standard Texas-style stone and brick, brown suburban house. Some might call it cookie-cutter, and I might tell them to go fuck themselves because I've been living out of goddamn boxes for the past 3 years and that's a tiring way to live after awhile.</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The house is entirely bigger than anything we'd ever need. We feel a bit silly since it's just the two of us and a cat, but we chose this particular model with my mother in law in mind, because there are 2 master suites on the first floor, so she could come stay with us for extended visits and never have to climb any stairs. I love my mother in law.</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">2</span>. The woman who sold us this house is a leathery piece of shit and I hope that I never have to communicate with her again after we close or as long as I live, whichever comes first.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpYbHdAeY6bbm68AlaOHTPo4-M-jBhMVTNMbm9f7dw3ILDLJZZh46-0cWMwrz_XLs_DXTCx18cVTGGEP-iNR6AOcN6UYnuSwAocz7s7ztzduVS5cbHyfGFUUzSbmLoqVF68jeQOgadOORr/s1600/cotton+candy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpYbHdAeY6bbm68AlaOHTPo4-M-jBhMVTNMbm9f7dw3ILDLJZZh46-0cWMwrz_XLs_DXTCx18cVTGGEP-iNR6AOcN6UYnuSwAocz7s7ztzduVS5cbHyfGFUUzSbmLoqVF68jeQOgadOORr/s200/cotton+candy.jpg" width="172" /></span></a><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">She looks about 800 years old, smokes electric cigarettes in the model home where her office is, and seems to think nobody will notice the smell. She has a tall, teased out Ladybird Johnson style hairdo and wears neon colored suits and turquoise jewelry. These things are all fine. In fact when I first met her I thought she was a hoot. Get a load of this old broad!</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">You go 800 year old lady! Go ahead and smoke your electric cigs in public. Go ahead, <em>b</em><em>e</em> leathery and have cotton candy on your head and call it hair. What do I care? </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Good for <em>you</em> for somehow figuring out how to embalm yourself while still alive by using a combination of Aquanet, nicotine and Hawaiian Tropic spf 8. Way to go Leatherybird Johnson.</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">But don't lie to me through your dentures and get my hopes all up about what the builder can and can't do for us, you sack of shit. And that is all I have to say about that.</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">3</span>. I'm still working from home and haven't lost my fucking mind completely. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Not completely, although it is quite maddening from time to time. </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The longer I do it the more clear it has become that although the policies at my company are very open to work from home situations and remote employees like myself, the policies and technology used by the IT department (which is also my department btw) to support us... is ummm not designed to support us at all. </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">My laptop died recently and it took 1 full week for them to figure out what to do about it. I had to ship it to them. Bullshit. Then I had to wait another full week after I shipped it for them to ship it back to me. Also bullshit. They wouldn't ship it directly to my home, because the policy says it has to be shipped a corporate recognized branch office. Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit.</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">So I ended up going half the month not being able to accomplish much of anything. I could work remotely using (a remote system of logging in that rhymes with) Bitfrix from my home computer, but the connections are so slow and sketchy that the best outcome of this story is that I didn't slit my wrists when it took me an over hour and half to send out an email with an attachment. </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I didn't kill myself, but I cried a lot. Like, a LOT. As in, it's been several weeks and my face is still a bit blotchy.</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">It's also a bummer as a remote employee to constantly get sent group invitations to lunch meetings, potlucks and having to respond to meeting invitations by asking for a call-in number.</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">4</span>. Did I mention that we bought a house? We finally bought a fucking house!!! Motherfuckin' A, man!! I don't have to feel terrible for hating my upstairs neighbors and their goddamn barking dogs and anvil footed children who seemingly do nothing but run back and forth across my ceiling all night and wake up screaming bloody murder every morning and carry on all day running around and screaming and tossing toys and shit off the balcony. Oh dear Llyod in heaven how I loathe them.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">5</span>. I'm stressed out because we bought a house. We're moving again for the 6th time in 11 years. We still have that horrid house in Michigan that is still under water. We had a tenant, but had to evict him because he was regularly 4 months behind on the rent. Now the property management company has told us that no one will lease it out because the kitchen needs remodeled. So we're in the process of remodeling a kitchen long distance. IT'S ALL TOO MUCH TO TAKE!!!!!</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">6</span>. I'm a bit consumed with the new house.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Anyhoo... that's it. This is all I can manage for now.</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I'm out of practice wrapping up blog posts into tidy packages with bows and ribbons like I used to do. Besides, where the fuck is my scotch tape? I can't find anything around here so I sure as hell can't find any ribbon. Get out out of here. This post is over.</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">(I love you.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />The Lady Who Doesn't Lunch:http://www.blogger.com/profile/16435708079953998705noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963432418989382127.post-19193326163033804092013-03-08T17:39:00.000-05:002013-03-08T17:39:20.704-05:00Ah-ha! That's Who It Is<span style="font-size: x-large;">M</span>DH and I watched that movie Ted recently. If I'm being polite I'll say it wasn't my cup of tea. If I'm not being polite I'll say it suh-hucked. <br />
<br />
Sue me. I don't think Seth McFarlane is all that funny. <em>And</em> I noticed that they used up quite a lot of dialog mentioning over and over again that Mark Wahlberg's character in the movie is 35. In fact they never shut up about it. Perhaps because he has the crows feet and furrowed forehead of a 65 year old meth addict and his acting is... <em>well</em>.. I guess we needed convincing.<br />
<br />
Anyhoo... I've been bugged for days, not about the stupid movie, but because that damn talking teddy bear reminds me of someone. Who the hell could it be? That voice sounds exactly just like.... and that crass, dismissive manner of speaking about women and Jews and saying fuck in front of everyone ... if I could only.... it's right there....<br />
<br />
then the phone rang. Eureka!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwoiWBNlZyaWW7C4JiJSfNMMg5fSKwraInVCknhxFfiIkmM4fGaF2OQnxcbzGN0MWykiRXogPz6CO3-CmD_Q3YvETgbiXtM3XvgUMho-1kJ7xRGVMhVoo-mdTNmRJSMsrLPMaQToxAQhO6/s1600/Ted+=+Miami.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwoiWBNlZyaWW7C4JiJSfNMMg5fSKwraInVCknhxFfiIkmM4fGaF2OQnxcbzGN0MWykiRXogPz6CO3-CmD_Q3YvETgbiXtM3XvgUMho-1kJ7xRGVMhVoo-mdTNmRJSMsrLPMaQToxAQhO6/s320/Ted+=+Miami.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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My brother in law Syracuse!! (AKA Captain Caveman)</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlQnVC1W-XRfHvYxYsgtm1p5-K60zYGonSUirXvnO7GP4cicDpu6vSsMpvLXniwdbLFNCRZLmzn40UyDtEygVzUUY6Atno6RoBzFohreW6nS1AwT9esOS4iIGkn5HE2hjZg8n8v8t6HZXl/s1600/geico-caveman-relaxing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlQnVC1W-XRfHvYxYsgtm1p5-K60zYGonSUirXvnO7GP4cicDpu6vSsMpvLXniwdbLFNCRZLmzn40UyDtEygVzUUY6Atno6RoBzFohreW6nS1AwT9esOS4iIGkn5HE2hjZg8n8v8t6HZXl/s320/geico-caveman-relaxing.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Yes ladies, he's STILL single.</div>
The Lady Who Doesn't Lunch:http://www.blogger.com/profile/16435708079953998705noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963432418989382127.post-77236704471431054602013-02-22T16:23:00.000-05:002013-02-22T16:23:09.919-05:00Nobody In Their Right Mind Would Need This - Special "Get Away from Me With That" EditionMy bout of writer's block has lasted long enough that I'm ready to throw in the towel and refer to the salad days of my blogging as a fluke. Seriously, sometimes I look back at some of my old posts and wonder just who the hell wrote them.<br />
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In an attempt to recapture some of that blogging magic I have decided to return to my roots. Yes. I decided to revisit the original source of inspiration when I started this blog - the largest compository of stupid unnessary consumer products - the Harriet Carter catalog. I also decided to check in on my other old favorite - Skymall.<br />
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Let's see what's new in the world of wasting your MeeMaw and PeePaws money shall we?<br />
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<strong>Protein Ketchup</strong><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzgBRbDrTZKJCJqfW-EhDABmpZTy0Sf3fQvbx9hRTwhL7T1WUo_ojeZe5FlZJ8knKj1a26hjEk3Zaw7fHWfQ0ddCoLJiy9ai_dYtM3dhVwLGfcgHmYKsByi8iRxeobJGguKTrpkhy5JpIL/s1600/Protein+Ketchup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzgBRbDrTZKJCJqfW-EhDABmpZTy0Sf3fQvbx9hRTwhL7T1WUo_ojeZe5FlZJ8knKj1a26hjEk3Zaw7fHWfQ0ddCoLJiy9ai_dYtM3dhVwLGfcgHmYKsByi8iRxeobJGguKTrpkhy5JpIL/s200/Protein+Ketchup.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em><span style="font-size: x-small;"><strong>"</strong></span><span style="font-size: small;">Protein Ketchup is the first protein-fortified condiment. </span>With 15 grams of protein, zero fat, and two servings of tomatoes in every "dipper-style" one-ounce cup, Protein Ketchup delivers the taste and mouthfeel you expect, with the nutrition you want."</em></td></tr>
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First of all, shut up and stop saying "mouthfeel" you pervert. And B, why not just eat something besides french fries and onion rings, eh Fattie? I shudder to think of what kind of terrifying DNA alteration would happen if you slather this shit on a genetically modified beef patty. I can say nothing nice about this except, at least it's not mayonnaise.<br />
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<strong>Hot Dog Slice 'n' Serve</strong><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI8Ncv40hAhp-bRVNogE9yEVXJobfzPwebjY7XpjuMBDJedW6r9eiENrf8JQ1q3RiayT04chDXZJsqq4iu2nvhpKm0LMUE8ZdH7ZRMW4CG_DFvE5WWzIlL8MHX-W4ANc7QK-MLPu0ZiMuQ/s1600/hot+dog+slicer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI8Ncv40hAhp-bRVNogE9yEVXJobfzPwebjY7XpjuMBDJedW6r9eiENrf8JQ1q3RiayT04chDXZJsqq4iu2nvhpKm0LMUE8ZdH7ZRMW4CG_DFvE5WWzIlL8MHX-W4ANc7QK-MLPu0ZiMuQ/s1600/hot+dog+slicer.jpg" /></a></div>
I had to include this. I mean, what an important invention for the 21st century and beyond. Oh sure, laugh now, but we are going to need this when the robots take over and ban the use of all butter knives.<br />
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<strong>Pulse Massager and Pads</strong><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8b_CnGk2qsOr6cmMX4kbStO0kzs1AUwRrWugW2O4XvejC7GiElABsgL0orFzsLb14rFDK2isSRoSFjN8xSVGRaUC2pmIFngmEPihlRqbJ0ZF50NQx2ZcToMZqbjbnBZiPCWMxDN6QWyES/s1600/pulse+massage+pads.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8b_CnGk2qsOr6cmMX4kbStO0kzs1AUwRrWugW2O4XvejC7GiElABsgL0orFzsLb14rFDK2isSRoSFjN8xSVGRaUC2pmIFngmEPihlRqbJ0ZF50NQx2ZcToMZqbjbnBZiPCWMxDN6QWyES/s1600/pulse+massage+pads.jpg" /></a></div>
Apparently not for people who live alone. I mean how are you going to stick all that stuff on your back all by yourself. What a useless piece of shit. What else are you going to do with four little vibrating suction... cups... if you're at home by yourself... wait. Nevermind. Genius.<br />
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<strong>Hot Feet Microwave Slippers</strong><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo8njS5uZPgSh8D-WVOjfKh5gQdU__1hyphenhyphenDE2PBf5Xc7s0wpm0Tg3mJIR-s2YMPP33zxHb3pyk8Fn2h4WnqK0LW6atrsJmKXWOokdH9PMemnchIZUCMxL_jQdcMFgukWyvDPu2ToOKWN1vZ/s1600/hot+feet+slippers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo8njS5uZPgSh8D-WVOjfKh5gQdU__1hyphenhyphenDE2PBf5Xc7s0wpm0Tg3mJIR-s2YMPP33zxHb3pyk8Fn2h4WnqK0LW6atrsJmKXWOokdH9PMemnchIZUCMxL_jQdcMFgukWyvDPu2ToOKWN1vZ/s1600/hot+feet+slippers.jpg" /></a></div>
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Because your house doesn't stink enough already? I don't know about you, but my slippers smell like rotten chili-cheese fritos and are probably the last thing I'd want to put anywhere near a location where food is prepared.<br />
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The Lady Who Doesn't Lunch:http://www.blogger.com/profile/16435708079953998705noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963432418989382127.post-44251148727308051872013-01-31T13:39:00.000-05:002013-01-31T13:40:12.769-05:00Greetings from the Suburban Bayou<span style="font-size: large;">M</span>DH likes to take what he calls a "radio nap" on Saturday mornings sometimes. Basically, he sleeps in and snoozes with NPR going on the clock radio next to his side of the bed. If you're an NPR fan, then you are familiar with the typical line up. Car Talk, Only a Game, Weekend Edition, etc..<br />
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When we woke up on our first Saturday in our new apartment in Houston, he turned on the radio, but having just unpacked the clock radio and plugging it into the wall, the station that was NPR in Dallas, corresponded with a much different type of station in Houston. Rather than a soothing stream of sedate and intellectual banter came a boisterous, knee clapping hootenanny. Yes... NPR station in Dallas = Zydeco station in Houston.<br />
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Instead of this:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPOCp6eISjfsRA-kEJJqOjvU1UXVYsn7bXW_Zo70ufOPYVcEmCVgqItsD2uHvu6fh8pO8onVEvIzLIpKVeLJKgBqjixmo4DxK-pIfbtfdMoZfGCSMC3gPvMpPQIvCN79EvZMXcss14ennh/s1600/delicious-dish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPOCp6eISjfsRA-kEJJqOjvU1UXVYsn7bXW_Zo70ufOPYVcEmCVgqItsD2uHvu6fh8pO8onVEvIzLIpKVeLJKgBqjixmo4DxK-pIfbtfdMoZfGCSMC3gPvMpPQIvCN79EvZMXcss14ennh/s320/delicious-dish.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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We got this:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg714oH2tblCJ6GR2sptBWOqmO4vFKZOC0BRVQnobIh_APCXzSJ5KrY2ETLuYETwgqjVmyX0N2vsk9apq56KnILjNa8PM-X2IxQMaCidX1N0LKLhT7sdHDiiECeUqz8uYRUfLBUVponSooj/s1600/zydeco.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg714oH2tblCJ6GR2sptBWOqmO4vFKZOC0BRVQnobIh_APCXzSJ5KrY2ETLuYETwgqjVmyX0N2vsk9apq56KnILjNa8PM-X2IxQMaCidX1N0LKLhT7sdHDiiECeUqz8uYRUfLBUVponSooj/s320/zydeco.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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and it was rather awesome.</div>
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It was our first indication of how different our life might be here, as compared to Dallas, and any other place either one of us has ever lived. Prior to the Zydeco dance party radio station, we really didn't think that culturally there would be that much difference between Dallas and Houston. Naive Yankees that we are.</div>
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So far my least favorite thing about living in Houston is Houston. It's just damn hard to get around. The highways don't connect and nothing is marked until you get right up on it, hoping like hell you are in the correct lane to make a snap decision. It's as if the entire road system was designed by some asshat whose motto was one of these three:</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">1.</span> Inspirational: <br />
What doesn't kill the motorists will only make them stronger.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">2.</span> Cruel: <br />
Get lost losers!</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">3.</span> Apathetic: <br />
Fuck it all, I'm going to lunch.</div>
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If you have the misfortune to be in the wrong lane when your turn is coming you are fucked forever. There is bumper to bumper traffic moving at 80 miles per hour so forget it. You should just relax, change your plans and go somewhere else. Call yourself impulsive and keep moving.</div>
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The longer we live here though, the more we are able to carve a little niche for ourselves and figure out that there are some pretty great things too, as long as we continue to be brave or stupid enough to keep getting back in the car.</div>
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Here are some great things about living in Houston:</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">1.</span> Leaving Houston. This city is located within easy driving distance to New Orleans, Austin, San Antionio and our beloved Dallas.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">2.</span> Food. We are not going hungry here. We live about 15 minutes from an enormous Chinatown area, albeit weird because it's not the kind you normally expect where there's a brightly colored gate with dragons and pagoda lamps. The Chinatown in Houston takes up a several mile stretch of beige strip malls, but don't let the blandness of it all fool you. There are treasures here. Endless noodle shops, dumpling houses, all day Dim-Sum and of course we are not restricted to just Chinese influence here. It really ought to be called Asiatown.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiPjTH2MThQiyxreeKFw5KGj-uoHxgnqMSAQMdtnI1LqE4fhdB9lcCC1s2cde_XMSTQK8z8bSt6DM2uTS60mUQ_QA2p2utvOr71xR2J3mi0JdUQRYJiWjcHtv7tShZNIeVckY0HS8y6r58/s1600/hkmall_small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiPjTH2MThQiyxreeKFw5KGj-uoHxgnqMSAQMdtnI1LqE4fhdB9lcCC1s2cde_XMSTQK8z8bSt6DM2uTS60mUQ_QA2p2utvOr71xR2J3mi0JdUQRYJiWjcHtv7tShZNIeVckY0HS8y6r58/s320/hkmall_small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">3.</span> Trees and water. Although Dallas is certainly rich with hot and sunny weather, this lady was missing trees and moisture, which Houston has in abundance, in addition to hot and sunny weather.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">4.</span> MDH is gainfully employed and comes home happy and fullfilled every night. This man has been miserable as long as I've known him, professionally that is. The man has found his calling, his dream job and he's down right adorable when he's not grumpy. I'm not sure how long this will last, but I'm going to enjoy it while it's happening.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">5.</span> That's it for now. We've only been here a few months.</div>
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The Lady Who Doesn't Lunch:http://www.blogger.com/profile/16435708079953998705noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963432418989382127.post-62855042342252387892012-12-06T11:21:00.000-05:002012-12-06T11:23:52.664-05:00I Grace the Internet With My Presence Once Again<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfacTkaImXf8dlRm-jOgUEQoasBGfp7VabSDBP7Giiw9pgmK3lM55WrW9_TApvJKo5RqlGOG_A0ow9pxE1v9T_oghnSSxKXFCt13VEpNjPyCHv_ayP6Dw_zqp9YQ_hCRwZuZCGEosYqXp3/s1600/messy-office-03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfacTkaImXf8dlRm-jOgUEQoasBGfp7VabSDBP7Giiw9pgmK3lM55WrW9_TApvJKo5RqlGOG_A0ow9pxE1v9T_oghnSSxKXFCt13VEpNjPyCHv_ayP6Dw_zqp9YQ_hCRwZuZCGEosYqXp3/s320/messy-office-03.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">H</span>oly cats. It's been nearly a year since my last post. A year! Nearly an entire year has gone by where I've been either too busy or too uninspired to write anything. </div>
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I have a few notes scattered randomly around on post-its and wadded up napkins in the various boxes of what remains of my home office in Dallas. What I thought were clever turns of phrase, random thoughts and meaningful insights that I've been collecting over time and jotting down, I have recently discovered are actually wadded up bits of paper and napkin with smeary words scrawled on them that no longer have any meaning.<br />
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You'll just have to take my word for it - some shit went down in the last year. Things happened regardless of whether or not they were documented on my poor old blog. Some things were shitty and some things were great, but mostly MDH and I just plodded along the same as we always do.<br />
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I'm going to throw out some bulleted highlights of major events that passed to hopefully catch you up with life in Ladyland:<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">1.</span> Let's begin with this: I got a job. Yes. Someone was wise enough to hire me for realsies. A full time, permanent job with Large Corporation. Fin-a-fucking-ly. My contract was up in a week and my boss had been trying to create a position for me and get it ironed out and approved by the powers that be and it didn't pan out. Fortunately <em>his</em> boss decided it would be silly to lose me so she gave me a list of open positions and said apply for one of these. I did and then I was promptly interviewed, vetted and hired by the end of the week. Full time. Permanent. Awesome.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">2.</span> Unfortunately the day before I was offered the job, my poor darling was "let go" from his job. The job we moved halfway across the country for. The job that he had been reaching for throughout his career. Basically he was fired without cause. They gave him a six month severance and relieved him of his 2 year contract and subsequently the responsibility of having to pay back* a penny of the (enormous amount of) cash they gave us to move to Texas only a mere year earlier.<br />
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Frankly, to me it was the best thing that could've happened. He'd worked hard his whole life and soared to the eagle's nest on high only to discover it was filled with bird shit and decaying carcasses. MDH got what he thought was his dream job, but his boss was the biggest, smarmiest asshole imaginable. His boss, Satan, was the nightmare we all have of intense corporate greed combined with an arrogant ego gone mad. My proud and brilliant husband was subjected to daily humiliations, and constant blame for the stupid and costly decisions his boss was making. <br />
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I've never seen MDH laid so low. Eventually the truth will out, as they say, and MDH's habit of saying exactly what is on his mind, combined with his bullshit intolerant nature began creating a stir in his company and causing Satan some discomfort. Basically, MDH exposed the naked emperor.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">3.</span> He was out of work for 6 months. Six long, miserable months of doubting himself and thinking of desperate schemes for severe and ill-advised (ie. ridiculous) career changes. Most of the time MDH is a cynical pessimist, but there is a hopeful spark in him that flared considerably during this time. A pesky spark I was constantly having to tamp out because it kept coming up with cockamamie ideas like abandoning the experience and value of a 25 year career for opening hot dog carts, buying a bar, selling long term disability insurance or becoming a realtor. These careers are totally fine and many people are quite successful in them, but MDH is a mega-star in his chosen field. Also he loves what he does. He was impatient and thinking like a desperate man. I had to keep reminding that we were not desperate. Hold on Babe, just wait, the right thing will come along and of course it did. More than just the right thing, it was an amazing thing. Dream job. Dream company.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyA2SbaAjGcQzK44SbiI7t9PnGcpgllp5FIAyvPt2SpBd-VUwZDikKoTYq2ytzZyq9T4HLyfH1JqqsygmuNda7yRSXepTQCqxIv5gnFLqrAguHRsw-wsXcSDx6oooD8zIbpVu_L5PB7Lvk/s1600/moving-house.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyA2SbaAjGcQzK44SbiI7t9PnGcpgllp5FIAyvPt2SpBd-VUwZDikKoTYq2ytzZyq9T4HLyfH1JqqsygmuNda7yRSXepTQCqxIv5gnFLqrAguHRsw-wsXcSDx6oooD8zIbpVu_L5PB7Lvk/s200/moving-house.jpg" width="163" /></a><span style="font-size: x-large;">4.</span> Unfortunately the dream job with the dream company is located in Houston. So we moved. Again. We live in Houston now, for what has been exactly one month as of today, and that's all I have to say about that at this time. <br />
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*The relocation policy was pretty standard. The company pays a butt load of money to move you, so they typically make you sign a contract that says if you leave the company before a certain amount of time has passed you have to pay them back all of the moving expenses they gave you. It's usually 2 or 3 years.The Lady Who Doesn't Lunch:http://www.blogger.com/profile/16435708079953998705noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963432418989382127.post-42310436049473264232011-12-26T16:14:00.000-05:002011-12-26T16:14:11.764-05:00Exertion or effort directed to produce or accomplish something...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4LM3rQPaVaADcPym99VO4k79tXCjmrBcM4FiU3rZrDuk5mTiQ3gHHB0siuJed91kUpMwRLh3xMB8kCFPXlS0-M3s8gO22ygMu7n4zid41Milx7f9-ZC98s5h5uTjjjgWnAtm5n1-xWCu4/s1600/pretended-very-hard-project-workplace-ecard-someecards.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4LM3rQPaVaADcPym99VO4k79tXCjmrBcM4FiU3rZrDuk5mTiQ3gHHB0siuJed91kUpMwRLh3xMB8kCFPXlS0-M3s8gO22ygMu7n4zid41Milx7f9-ZC98s5h5uTjjjgWnAtm5n1-xWCu4/s320/pretended-very-hard-project-workplace-ecard-someecards.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">I<span style="font-size: small;">n</span> </span>case you were wondering, I'm now employed, at yet another Large Corporation. Almost gainfully. I started about a week after my last post. </div>
<br />
I'm still considered a contractor, but now I'm in a situation that's called "contract <em>to hire</em>". How exciting. What exactly does that mean, you may ask? I have no bloody idea, I may answer, but I'm keeping my nose clean, my mind open, and my fingers crossed, hoping that I may leverage my, charm and good looks, along with my kick-ass project management skills, into a full time, permanent gig. We shall see.<br />
<br />
Actually, at this point I have finished the planning portion of the project I have been given to manage and am now in full swing project-doing. The project-doing phase has required me to move down from the shiny, cushy, corporate HQ office tower to a satellite call center, located close enough to my apartment that I can walk to work. Although my commute is much improved, I'm having trouble adjusting from the professional, corporate culture to which I have become accustomed, to the elementary school level environment of the call center. <br />
<br />
I've been handed a crack team of ladies, or maybe a team of crack ladies, who are actually doing the work-work. They have all been plucked from the mundane obscurity of the giant call center just for my project, and are considered the cream of the call center crop. My role involves assigning tasks, doing the analysis as the project moves along, and to my surprise, a large degree of coaching, babysitting and mentoring. <br />
<br />
Basically it's 12 young women, all under the age of 25, and me, stuffed into a room together. It's noisy, and frequently unprofessional and ridiculous in ways that I never considered possible before last month. Every day I feel like I'm running a daycare. I shouldn't have to ask you not to read the newspaper while you're at work, but on the other hand I don't need you to tell me every time you go to the ladies room to pee either. <br />
<br />
I'd like to strike some kind of balance where people use their own common sense to decide what is the right way to behave in a professional setting, but I'm beginning to come unravelled as I discover what has become the new norm among this next generation of working adults. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht2uXoo1wv-lP9r2h2orx5QMuMHHVqigV9d5pkDvyUBQqA3UH-iqglTlK4uiyn0d_Y98geOsfKch_DTKz5xtw32plb6pyMw1yJSkoktmTyQ7PP2pqtYDILysQaOM_vzQNuwDfPvAkrzL18/s1600/snuggie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht2uXoo1wv-lP9r2h2orx5QMuMHHVqigV9d5pkDvyUBQqA3UH-iqglTlK4uiyn0d_Y98geOsfKch_DTKz5xtw32plb6pyMw1yJSkoktmTyQ7PP2pqtYDILysQaOM_vzQNuwDfPvAkrzL18/s320/snuggie.jpg" width="320" /></a>There is a young woman (not the newspaper reader) who arrives every morning swaddled in a fleece blanket with Elvis on it. It might be a snuggie. Do they make snuggies with Elvis on them? Whatever you want to call it, she wears it all day, every day. Why? Why? All I can think of is that old adage "dress for the job you want, not the job you have". What kind of career path does a fleece blankie prepare you for? <br />
<br />
Anyhoo... after a month of working with these young women I have discovered that I'm not only an old farty-fart who is out of touch with popular culture, I'm also a workaholic crank with a sour disposition and little patience for trifflin' bullshit. Yeah. It's a revelation.<br />
<br />
You see... when I'm at work, call me cuckoo, but I WORK. As in to work. I agreed when I took the job that Large Corporation will pay a certain amount of money in exchange for me coming in every day and performing a particular service, so that's pretty much what I do. I don't paint my nails or read magazines or call my stupid boyfriend or text my 10 best friends or balance my checkbook or shop online for boots. It's not called lazy-ass-entitled-spoiled-motherfuckering, it's called WORK.<br />
<br />
In an effort to bring some kind of order to the madness I've laid down some simple ground rules, in addition to the company policies they are required to follow.<br />
<br />
1. Shut up.<br />
<br />
2. Keep it down.<br />
<br />
3. Quiet please.<br />
<br />
4. Please shut the fuck up.<br />
<br />
5. Do your work. There is work that needs to be done and a strict timeline in which to do it, so DO IT and button your damn lips. Unless you have a question, in which case you should ask the question. Then do your work while shutting up.<br />
<br />
Now that I've said all that (this is the part where I get all high and mighty), let me also say to Large Corporations everywhere: When it comes to labor, you get what you pay for. <br />
<br />
When you treat people like shit, they will act shitty. The young women who were chosen to work with me on this project are bright and capable and I have to remind them of this every goddamn day because they don't seem to ever get any other positive messages from the management of the company. In addition to the real work that I have to do, I have to take time out of every day to perform like a flippin' cheerleader in order to get them all motivated and acting like they give even the slightest crap about themselves and the work they are doing.<br />
<br />
If you give people incentives and spend the money on proper training programs and make them feel important and valuable, then your employees might actually become important and valuable to your organization.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />The Lady Who Doesn't Lunch:http://www.blogger.com/profile/16435708079953998705noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963432418989382127.post-11747769439108840142011-10-06T14:50:00.002-04:002011-10-06T14:51:46.219-04:00Bonus Fact<span style="font-size: large;">Fact:</span> I would rather rake out my own left eye with a pickle fork than see the new Footloose movie.The Lady Who Doesn't Lunch:http://www.blogger.com/profile/16435708079953998705noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963432418989382127.post-26170051137613673392011-10-06T11:16:00.002-04:002011-10-06T12:32:26.100-04:00Miami Facts<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT8W1xoQm6BDxA8QKpcasK3_CM7w2-QI_KbejoaDxP_uc5K1DxA5g5MeBS6XGLOa_0JNDbWxRpBfgfv39tk3Jt0KrcPygizmH_DeJahAkTYbKi0s-Qnvj7TJjChwTGqj72lhK-9pBs4uoE/s1600/Dos-Equis-Sharks-have-a-week-dedicated-to-him.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT8W1xoQm6BDxA8QKpcasK3_CM7w2-QI_KbejoaDxP_uc5K1DxA5g5MeBS6XGLOa_0JNDbWxRpBfgfv39tk3Jt0KrcPygizmH_DeJahAkTYbKi0s-Qnvj7TJjChwTGqj72lhK-9pBs4uoE/s1600/Dos-Equis-Sharks-have-a-week-dedicated-to-him.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT8W1xoQm6BDxA8QKpcasK3_CM7w2-QI_KbejoaDxP_uc5K1DxA5g5MeBS6XGLOa_0JNDbWxRpBfgfv39tk3Jt0KrcPygizmH_DeJahAkTYbKi0s-Qnvj7TJjChwTGqj72lhK-9pBs4uoE/s200/Dos-Equis-Sharks-have-a-week-dedicated-to-him.jpg" width="159" /></a><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">M</span>iami does have a certain mystique about him, I'll give him that. But that's it. I'm not going to give him anything else. He's been here as a house guest for eleven days as of this morning and I feel as though I have nothing left to give. And yet... he's got that certain something...</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">He's not quite like that guy from the Dos Equis ads, <em>The Most Interesting Man In the World,</em> about whom Miami said, with not just a little disdain in his tone, and I quote, "Didja know dat guy is in actualities a <em>Jew</em>?", even though MDH and I tried several times to explain to him that <em>The Most Interesting Man In the World</em> is fact not a real person, and that perhaps the actor portraying him in the ads may in fact be of Jewish persuasion, but regardless of the actors religion or ethnic origins it is not important because IT'S A FUCKING BEER CAMPAIGN!!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">Anyhoo... in order to turn this shit sack of a situation into a bowl of rose petals, I've decided to once again post my observations about my most intriguing brother in law here on my blog (i.e.. free therapy) in the hopes that my pain will become humor. As some of you may already know, all four of my brothers in law are crass and comically misogynistic in their own ways, but Miami wears the crown... or takes off his shirt. So below are some things randomly observed and experienced during Miami's <strike>still happening</strike> recent <strike>home invasion</strike> visit</span>.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Fact:</span> About 5 minutes after arriving in our home, 11 long, long days ago, he made a cell phone call and it went down something like this:</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #274e13;">Miami: Yeh. I made it. I'm here. I'm calling you to tell you. You happy now?</span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;">Muffled Girly Female Voice: (Gushing from Miami's Phone) AWWEEE Mwhah Mwah Goo Mwah</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;">Miami: So dats it. I'm here. I'm gonna hang up now and visit with my family. I'll maybe call you later. (Non committal).</span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;">Muffled Girly Female Voice: (Pouty) AWWright. AWWlove you!</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;">Miami: Yeh. Gotta go. Bye.</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;">Miami: (To MDH and me) Bagh! Married chicks, so needy.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Fact:</span> Miami remembers everyone's birthday and anniversary that he knows and will call them promptly at 6:30am on the big day. Tuesday was the birthday of my brother in law Las Vegas's ex-wife Geena.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #274e13;">Miami: Bagh!* I called Geena dis mornin' to wish hers a happy birthday, but she mustnawta been home.</span><br />
<span style="color: magenta;">Me: At 6:30?</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;">Miami: Yeh, dats when I call everyone.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Fact: </span>Miami is one of the reasons we don't have a home phone anymore.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Fact:</span> I went into the guest room, which is also MDH's office and closet, to retrieve a copy of a bill the day after Miami's arrival, while MDH and Miami were out a nearby bar watching the Patriots game, and discovered snapshots of two very different slutty looking women boldly scotch taped to the wall over the desk. My first reaction was to assume that one of them was Muffled Girly Female Voice, but with Miami one does not assume anything.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Fact:</span> I have never to this moment asked who these women are, but did ask MDH to please explain to Miami why we don't scotch tape, or otherwise semi-permanently affix anything, including snap shots of strange, slutty women to the walls of other people's homes, no matter how long one intends to stay.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Fact:</span> One afternoon last week Miami doused himself in baby oil and went down to the pool for about 2 and a half hours using a moth eaten, weather beaten, pilly old blanket instead of one of the plush and generously portioned beach towels I laid out for him to use for the pool.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Fact:</span> I was not offended that he didn't use our beach towels, but did find his preference odd.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Fact:</span> Yesterday morning as Miami was passing through the living room he stopped, chugged two Coors Tall Boys within the span of 10 minutes as told me all about the new Ken Burns series on PBS called "Prohibition" and wondered if I'd had a chance to catch any of it while I was visiting my parents in Florida over the weekend. Apparently it's a great series.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Fact:</span> It was 8:30 am.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Fact:</span> Also yesterday morning Miami called me out to the balcony and introduced me to a fifty-ish looking neighborlady that I have sometimes seen walking her adorable little toy <span style="background-color: white;">terrier</span> around the apartment complex. Jackie has an expensive looking haircut, nails that look professionally done and even though she is usually wearing a velour warm up suit (designer label) or some outfit of a similar nature, she is always fully made up, bedecked in sparkly jewelry and pink flip-flops with a little kitten heel. Miami had somehow struck up a conversation with her from our 2nd floor balcony during a smoke break and discovered that she's an IT recruiter for a large healthcare company who works from her home and discussed with her in graphic detail, well... me... and the fact that I'm "a real smart cookie" and am looking for a job in healthcare IT.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Fact:</span> She took her dog back to her apartment and came by again a few minutes later and gave me her card and asked me to email her a copy of my resume.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Fact:</span> I'd no sooner walked upstairs after she gave me her card and Miami came over and took it from me, mumbling something about how he was going to email her his resume too. He's an out of work construction foreman and in no way looking for a job in healthcare IT.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Fact:</span> He'd apparently emailed back and forth with Jackie all day and when I came downstairs at around 3pm I noticed he was gone and he didn't come back until MDH came home from work, well after 5pm. When he came home MDH asked him where he'd been and he said hanging out over at Jackie's place with a couple of the other neighbors trying to network to find a job.</span> <br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;">MDH: Wearing that?</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;">Miami: Yeh. It was casual.</span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;">MDH: Were other people wearing shirts?</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;">Miami: I dunno. I do not pay attention to such trivial details.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Fact:</span> I scoured the guest room bathroom including the bathtub and shower the day prior to Miami's arrival. It was spotless. And white. Very white. I haven't cleaned it since because MDH won't let me, and it's driving me crazy because for some reason the bottom of the tub is black. Serious Black. Rimmed with gray streaks. How does this happen when the only person currently bathing in it lays around my guest room all day?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Fact:</span> I realize that that last sentence is in fact a question and not a fact.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Fact:</span> Six months ago Miami called MDH and asked him to loan him $8000 because he found a 3 bedroom, 2 bath condo in Coral Gables being advertised in the paper for $8000. It never occurred to him that it was a misprint or a rip off. We didn't loan him the money.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Fact:</span> Two years ago when Miami was also out of work he called MDH and asked him to buy him a plane ticket to Costa Rica because he had found construction work there. The company would pay for his room and board while he worked, but he had to pay to fly himself there. MDH bought him the ticket.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Fact:</span> The day after Miami was supposed to arrive in Costa Rica he called MDH and asked him to wire him some money because he hadn't counted on the airline charging him to bring all his stuff with him (4 Rubbermaid totes filled with all of Miami's worldly possessions, such as coffee brewer, toaster, blankets, pillows, etc..). He'd missed his original flight over the totes, so MDH rebooked it for him, with a fee and loaned him the money to pay for all of the totes.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Fact:</span> Miami called MDH 2 days after arriving in Costa Rica upon realizing the whole thing was a scam** and begged MDH to buy him a ticket home. And all of his totes.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Fact:</span> Miami seems to really have taken a shine to our cat Turtle. He clicks and tuts at him and Turtle piles onto his lap without waiting to be invited and proudly allows Miami to pet him behind the ears. The other night Miami asked MDH if he could brush the cat. MDH told him no, but could not explain why.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Fact:</span> I would have let Miami brush the cat, but stayed out of it and didn't press the issue.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Fact:</span> The day I left for Florida Miami wasted no time making himself more at home in my absence by helping himself to our collection of red wines (only the Italian ones) and whipping up 2 pounds of baked ziti in my kitchen.</span><br />
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Fact: </span> Two pounds is a buttload of pasta so I fully expected some leftover baked ziti when I returned home, but the only traces of it were a missing ball of prova, a significant dent in my chunk of 18 month aged parm and the cemented bips of carbon and char that won't seem to budge from my good lasagna pan. Oh yes let's not forget the rust spots on my good knives that were run through the dishwasher.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">New Fact:</span> MDH paid Miami a few hundred bucks to leave today and he is now gone. He left during the course of my writing this post. I heard them early this morning in the guest room quietly mumbling out a negotiation so that I wouldn't hear, and then mere seconds after the mumbling stopped Miami came out of the room with a stack of beat up cardboard boxes and blankets (which I can only assume were his belongings) and began trekking them out to his car.</span><br />
<br />
*"Bagh!" Is the noise that Miami and also MDH's brother Knucklehead often make when starting a conversation or reacting to new information.<br />
<br />
**Miami told a tale of being placed into a room with 4 other men who explained to him that they were slave labor and had never been paid because the company charged them exorbitant rent and took it out of their paychecks so none of them had been able to feed themselves <em>and</em> be able to afford a ticket home. It was like something stolen from a Charles Dickens nightmare. So basically Miami sold himself into slavery, but is lucky enough to have a brother who is able to bail him out of this constant, ridiculous bullshit. My hand to God this shit is true, or at least it's true that this is the story that Miami told us. With Miami you never can be sure. It's that mystique.The Lady Who Doesn't Lunch:http://www.blogger.com/profile/16435708079953998705noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963432418989382127.post-38237984615574624632011-09-29T17:05:00.000-04:002011-09-29T17:07:18.641-04:00There Will Be Rum<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYiFzL5VdmVr7vyhSeUtPrQGTzDRw9tGjVxp4QHAI7bOkRdiEqBo97qnPYjNQwpQtd22RsJdUnuivzMBsNo4HK4EMlqPJnlITjW6OUu7y8i5iA1orofMVVYDAXP1AE-6Xba3cBPXpLTQZE/s1600/vole+in+burrow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYiFzL5VdmVr7vyhSeUtPrQGTzDRw9tGjVxp4QHAI7bOkRdiEqBo97qnPYjNQwpQtd22RsJdUnuivzMBsNo4HK4EMlqPJnlITjW6OUu7y8i5iA1orofMVVYDAXP1AE-6Xba3cBPXpLTQZE/s1600/vole+in+burrow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="131" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYiFzL5VdmVr7vyhSeUtPrQGTzDRw9tGjVxp4QHAI7bOkRdiEqBo97qnPYjNQwpQtd22RsJdUnuivzMBsNo4HK4EMlqPJnlITjW6OUu7y8i5iA1orofMVVYDAXP1AE-6Xba3cBPXpLTQZE/s200/vole+in+burrow.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">I</span>'m leaving very early tomorrow morning to visit my parents in Florida. Alone. MDH will be busy here with work and keeping Miami out of trouble, which as you will read below shouldn't be too difficult as the man doesn't appear to be up to much.<br />
<br />
So yes, Miami is still here. The real mystery is will he be here when I get home next week. <br />
<br />
Although I don't have much to complain about*, it has been a little weird being home all day while he's here all day also. Except it's like he's not really here, except that he is. He mostly has been staying in the guest room and I've mostly been doing what I normally do. I ask him if he wants to join me when I go out to run errands and he usually says no. I ask him if he wants something to eat when I eat and he says no. I keep trying to engage him to join us in whatever it is we are doing, but he always says no.<br />
<br />
When he first arrived I noticed that he didn't eat anything for breakfast or lunch, but he would have dinner with us if I cooked something, and not only eat everything I put in front of him, but also rave about how great it tasted. Then he stopped having dinner with us too - so I wondered, is he eating anything?? Then Tuesday afternoon I opened up the microwave to defrost some meat for dinner and, much to my surprise, there was a 12" meatball sub in there. I have no idea where it came from, when Miami might have left the apartment to go out and get it, or how long it had been lurking in my microwave. I defrosted the meat and put the sub back where I found it.<br />
<br />
So... yeah... there's a tiny, furtive, half naked brown man who has taken over a section of our apartment like a little chainsmoking vole**. He comes out of his room (Wait. See what I did there? I called it <em>his</em> room. It's not <em>his</em> room. It's <em><strong>my</strong></em> guest room... anyhoo) and goes immediately to the balcony to smoke, occasionally he'll mumble something that I don't understand, but then he's gone so quickly that I don't have time to ask him to repeat what he said and frankly I don't really give a shit.<br />
<br />
*Now instead of washing the paper plates he's apparently just putting the ones he uses back on the stack of unused paper plates. The other day I grabbed a paper plate off the top of the stack and it was dotted with olive oil and bread crumbs from what appeared to be yet another submarine sandwich.<br />
<br />
**MDH apparently told Miami to "stay outta her way", referring to me, while he was here with me and MDH was at work all day. Miami was apparently also told that he was not allowed to consume any alcoholic beverages while MDH is not at home.***<br />
<br />
***Ugh. It explains a lot and makes me feel queasy and all the more happy to be skee-daddling off to my folks house in Florida for a few days.The Lady Who Doesn't Lunch:http://www.blogger.com/profile/16435708079953998705noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963432418989382127.post-4359772092626545522011-09-25T06:36:00.003-04:002011-09-25T06:36:52.442-04:00Miami Vice Day 3<span style="font-size: large;">S</span>o far so good. My brother in law Miami arrived Friday afternoon with very little drama or fanfare. He has a designated smoking spot on the covered and smaller of our two balconies and an entire guest suite to himself and he seems to be pretty content. Ten days has been announced as the length of the visit, after which time I'm not sure what is happening. He will either move on to stay with MDH's other brother Las Vegas or visit his son Phoenix, currently doing time in Arizona.<br />
<br />
Over the years I've never really spent more than a few hours with Miami and I talk to him on the phone occasionally, so I honestly don't know the man. Here is what I am learning:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb2TDY3XcugohAa85TKxtk7gGtPhgmRJIgaInjPcsSuxjvKXq30X21G6GB8X6YiIoDJSrAyE9uGG8BY-LmDIh4cCyRjW-KDp7Q-4Zce2DH_pGckRRyOunatsFDfyxaoPEyK0utW0QTGB-w/s1600/big+mug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb2TDY3XcugohAa85TKxtk7gGtPhgmRJIgaInjPcsSuxjvKXq30X21G6GB8X6YiIoDJSrAyE9uGG8BY-LmDIh4cCyRjW-KDp7Q-4Zce2DH_pGckRRyOunatsFDfyxaoPEyK0utW0QTGB-w/s1600/big+mug.jpg" /></a>Miami is very self contained. He brought his own ashtray, an enormous coffee mug that he fills up with slightly more than half of the 12 cup pots of coffee I have been brewing, and a 32" flat screen HD TV, which he wasted no time in hooking up to the cable outlet in our guest room. All of this is fine with me, much to my surprise. It's MDH that is running around apoplectic and constantly apologizing to me for what he perceives to be Miami behaving inappropriately. Yes, that's a lot of coffee, but we can make more. It's fine.<br />
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Yes, the covered balcony and parts nearby, are currently reeking powerfully of cigarette smoke and ashtray. Also, the guest room has a strong essence of old-man-who-smokes-a-lot emanating from Miami's clothes, luggage and assorted belongings. It totally stinks, but the smell will dissipate eventually and all of the linens will be washed. In bleach. That's how I roll anyway. Not a biggie.<br />
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Yes, Miami has a propensity for walking around shirtless while wearing tiny shorts and rinsing off paper plates and putting them in the dish drainer, which is weird right? I probably should have separated that last sentence into two sentences, but I didn't so I'll just clarify that his wearing tiny shorts is unrelated to the washing paper plates thing. I mean, he doesn't specifically strip down to tiny shorts in order to perform the washing of paper plates. Anyhoo... we all have strange habits and quirks. He apparently thinks it's weird that I use paper plates.*<br />
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Miami often talks like a character from a 1950's gangster film, which I find quite charming. He said that Phoenix "wood-na got picked up if some stoolie had-na dropped a dime on 'im". He called me "dollface" the other day and I nearly swooned.<br />
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So it's day three and I'm here to report that there is nothing to report.<br />
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*The paper plates are a new thing. The kitchen in this apartment is so tiny that I only unpacked the bare minimum of dinnerware when we moved in, so we only have 4 place settings. It's weird to me too, but I sure as hell am not going to wash and reuse paper plates. Miami washes them and sticks them in the drainer and as soon as he walks away I put them into the recycle bin.**<br />
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**OK. That's a lie. I put them in the trash. We don't have recycling here and I haven't figured out yet where to take the recycling. Or for that matter where the fuck to put it while it's accumulating. This place is tiny and I barely have enough room for the things I want to keep, let alone the shit I want to throw away. Sue me.***<br />
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***I have become an environmental terrorist and feel really weird and guilty about not recycling. I used to love recycling in the Tundra. It made me feel good, <em>but</em> the Tundra made it <em>easy</em> to recycle as it was just part of the city trash collection. Also we had lots of space for the recycling bins. Here they collect the trash twice a week, but no recycling. I'll figure it out eventually, but until then I have recycling shame.The Lady Who Doesn't Lunch:http://www.blogger.com/profile/16435708079953998705noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963432418989382127.post-50745341894213232652011-09-21T22:45:00.001-04:002011-09-21T23:03:43.411-04:00You Complete(ly Annoy) Me<br />
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I don't know why I insist on watching any romantic comedies made after whatever year <em>When Harry Met Sally</em> came out*. Don't they all mostly suck? They meet cute, one or both parties carry out some ridiculous lie or humiliating bet and most of the story and supposed-to-be-hilarious stunts are all based on support and cover up of the ridiculous lie or humiliating bet. There's usually some kind of lip synced into a hair brush dance number performed in pajamas or underpants and a convoluted "hey I was only lying to you all this time and making both of us look like idiots because I <em>really, really</em> love you and isn't that the most important message in this movie?" <br />
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The pivotal moment of the modern American romantic comedy says, "Hey, I'm not a jackass, <em>you're the jackass</em> if you can't forgive me for loving you so much. Aren't we both douchbags who deserve each other?" <br />
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As often as not there's a separation period where they show the guy disheveled and living amongst pizza boxes and beer can pyramids, and the girl is doing her best to carry on with her life amongst vignettes of her in pajama pants (again with the pajama pant shame), shoveling ice cream into her sad mouth, or of her wistfully eyeing the PDA's of other couples while moping around Central Park.<br />
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I know the drill and yet whenever MDH is out of town damn if I'm not getting my fill of horrible romantic comedies on cable. It's like a disease. They always make me mad and yet here I am again bitching this time about the drivel I just watched called "Something Borrowed". Maybe I should just avoid any movie with Kate Hudson in it (except she was so freaking awesome in <em>Nine</em>!).<br />
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I indulged in a desperately needed cleanse of my psyche afterwards by watching a fine documentary film called <a href="http://www.zeitgeistfilms.com/billcunninghamnewyork/">Bill Cunningham New York</a>. You should watch it if you get the chance.<br />
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In other news:<br /><br />
<ul>
<li>Apartment life kind of rocks. If something breaks I make a call and someone comes to fix it. Like, that same day! Not even that - if a light bulb goes out someone will come and change it. To take it one step further I called maintenance to have them remove the dark freckly pool of dead bugs at the bottom of one our ceiling light fixtures - <em>and they actually came and took care of it!!</em> Schweet.</li>
<li>As cool as it is to have an entire fleet of maintenance workers and grounds keepers at my beck and call there <em>is</em> a downside to apartment living in the form of annoying neighbors. In particular some douchbag with the noisiest truck I've ever heard that he seemingly rumbles around the apartment complex in wide circles (puffed with pride at the sound of his loud, loud big man machine, no doubt massaging his very tiny cock the whole while ) stopping periodically under our dining room window (because it's near the security gate) and then revving the engine several times before peeling out to terrorize the larger world with his horrible tranportation choice. We literally have to pause the TV and stop all conversation and then peel the cat off the ceiling after the inevitable engine rev. We know his schedule as if we lived next to a train station. I loathe this person.</li>
<li>A week or so ago some of my family came to visit in form of my crazy aunt Libby, her daughter (who is my cousin, but I refer to her as "my sister" quite a bit on this blog) and <em>her </em>daughter (who is my second cousin but I refer to always as my niece and she has always called me Aunt Lady). Aunt Libby is the one that came down to the hotel restaurant for breakfast in her housecoat (she called it a "dressing gown". I don't care what you call it, housecoat, dressing gown... inappropriate.) and no dentures in. Anyhoo... we had a lovely visit. We worked out when would be the best time for their visit and planned fun things to do while they were here. It was glorious and I couldn't have asked for a better visit.</li>
<li><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkZv_SIS9SMLzHttnr97LiWBc5sScmVuAbD6ZyQGya3K8pEudnA98XRMgUe3tnjS9W1fUNd2IaZdRM_yB5epPWarDcWxq06gs1iGen_l7UuKbvc5ZjwZBxM9sWqiTOfxwV8uGwBu559E0g/s1600/goodfellas-10659.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkZv_SIS9SMLzHttnr97LiWBc5sScmVuAbD6ZyQGya3K8pEudnA98XRMgUe3tnjS9W1fUNd2IaZdRM_yB5epPWarDcWxq06gs1iGen_l7UuKbvc5ZjwZBxM9sWqiTOfxwV8uGwBu559E0g/s200/goodfellas-10659.jpg" width="132" /></a>In two days my brother in law Miami is coming to stay with us "for awhile". I don't know much more than that. It's all news to me because I just found out a few days ago that he's coming. I don't know exactly when he will arrive and he has not been forthcoming with the exact date of his departure. "For awhile" is all I've been told. I'm frightened. MDH is frightened. Miami is a goodfella type who will ruin my life for the duration of his stay. He got angry when MDH told him he had to smoke outside and I consider this a bad start. Best case scenario - he'll dominate the TV and I'll miss the last few episodes of Project Runway. Worst case scenario - he will be here for weeks and weeks and bring well dressed criminals and prostitutes into my home and they will smoke cigarettes together in my guest room and I will have to burn my 600 thread count Egyptian cotton bedsheets. Worst-worst case scenario - someone will get stabbed and I will have to burn my fancy guest towels and somehow I will end up in prison because nothing, <em>nothing</em> is ever Miami's fault.</li>
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Please note that this post does not contain the word "fuck" or many other of my most favorite swear words and swear word combinations. It was not intentional, which makes the absence of these words all the more intriguing, no?<br />
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*There are some that I really like, like for instance <em>Fever Pitch</em> with Jimmy Fallon and Drew Barrymore. I don't know that it's technically a good movie necessarily, but that doesn't stop me from watching it every time it's on. I also loved <em>500 Days of Summer</em>.<br />
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The Lady Who Doesn't Lunch:http://www.blogger.com/profile/16435708079953998705noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963432418989382127.post-73065936116878536952011-08-24T22:44:00.029-04:002011-08-25T11:44:51.333-04:00Blobby, Misshapened Freak Puffs<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5sWWEJZ_clcpL8LrwsiyZtynvSJZMc4DkW2NOcGYNqd3aCO0Wsy-mj9WpBxFuGchynO1Dn6cgkCp8UE3x4gprn3M4V9OHLt_Btnt8RX0PLA-eCAeCoUlzd7NNIsbYqr9uByLYW0CqRVN7/s1600/pillowfight.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 289px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5644643113151729122" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5sWWEJZ_clcpL8LrwsiyZtynvSJZMc4DkW2NOcGYNqd3aCO0Wsy-mj9WpBxFuGchynO1Dn6cgkCp8UE3x4gprn3M4V9OHLt_Btnt8RX0PLA-eCAeCoUlzd7NNIsbYqr9uByLYW0CqRVN7/s400/pillowfight.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">I </span>really hate it when MDH goes to bed before me.
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<br />Oh I realize that MDH is a grown ass man, who can make decisions for himself and frankly do pretty much whatever the fuck he wants, up to and including going to bed at whatever time he damn well pleases... but still, it bugs the shit out of me when he goes to bed before I'm ready. I like us to go to bed at the <u>same</u> <u>time</u>. That's how we usually do it.
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<br />Actually I like to get up there just a scant few minutes before he does. I turn on the over head light and then turn on our individual bedside lamps and then go back and turn off the overhead light. If it's a day that I haven't made the bed then I'll take a moment to straighten out the sheets, fluff up the pillows and even up the blanket distribution. Nobody asks me to do this, it's just nice, so I do it.
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<br />On nights when MDH goes to bed before me he just plops his ass right into the bed. Plop.
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<br />There is no preparation.
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<br />There is no consideration.
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<br />He doesn't turn the light on for me or fluff up or straighten anything. This is leading me to think that perhaps I should stop going up there before him and preparing things for us, because obviously he doesn't appreciate it. Perhaps maybe he's never even noticed that I do all that nice stuff at all. And if he doesn't notice or appreciate it then why should I continue to do it?
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<br />Here is why I will continue to do it... because it's much easier than the alternative, which I will now describe:
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<br />When I'm ready to go to bed I arrive upstairs to a very, very dark bedroom. You see, we now live on the surface of the sun* and have installed both blinds <em>and</em> blackout curtains over the windows in order to keep our bedroom from becoming a pizza oven and that we not burn to death.
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<br />We're talking dangerous dark, like smash your face into a door frame and stub your toe and scream in blood curdling pain kind of dark, so I like to flip on the overhead light before I walk over to my side of the bed to turn on my bedside lamp. The flipping on of the overhead light causes MDH wake up slightly and moan in agony at the bright light in his face.
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<br />He does this even without the overhead light, after I have groped my way slowly across the room. The instant I snap on my bedside lamp the moaning and whining begins.
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<br />It is at this point, when the light comes on that I notice the complete fucked-up-ed-ness of the pillows and covers. Basically, he is spread eagled in the middle of the bed, somehow clutching every corner of the blanket and now untucked sheets and desperately clinging to <em>my pillows**</em> like a drowning man to a life raft.
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<br />You sleeping motherfucker.
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<br />Now is the time that I must attempt to shove him back over to his side of the bed (an enormous king-sized bed, mind you) whilst simultaneously prying him loose from <em>my</em> <em>pillows</em> and unclenching the blankets*** and sheets from his grasp. He is a large, large man, who all the while is whining and groaning like a large, large infant and I want to bash his head in.
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<br />My research concludes that the length of time that has passed between when he chose to go to bed and when I chose to join him there is directly proportionate to the degree to which the bed is fucked up and decibel of sleepy whining and moaning that occurs.
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<br /><span style="color:#000066;">UPDATE: As Veg so rightly pointed out in the comments, having a made bed beforehand actually prevents this particular rage of mine from occcuring. Yesterday I did not make the bed. So I am most definitely, at least partly to blame.
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<br /></span><span style="color:#000066;">I'd also like to just make sure we all understand that the going to bed at different times and MDH whining and hogging all of the bedding is actually a pretty rare thing around here. The bed is usually made and we usually go to bed at the same time. Yesterday was a rare non-made bed day and an even more rare unbalanced bedtimes. Rare as it is, apparently it still makes me fly into a fit.</span>
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<br />*<span style="font-size:78%;">Texas
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<br /></span>**<span style="font-size:78%;">I am a diva and I have 4 pillows and I use them all. Furthermore, they are not just <em>any</em> pillows, they cost ... well never mind how much they cost... they are fancy pants, extra firm goose down pillows. They are glorious and they are <em><strong>mine(!)</strong></em>. The reason I have 4 is because I originally bought 2 for me and 2 for MDH, but he balked at the price and insisted he didn't like them. </span><span style="font-size:78%;">I told him fine, go pick out your own damn pillows. So he went to K-Mart and picked out his own from the $5 bin, and was rather smug about it. </span><span style="font-size:78%;">I now use all 4 of the fancy pants pillows. I make myself a little nest and it's wonderful. I sleep like an angel. </span><span style="font-size:78%;">Anyhoo... MDH prefers to use the $5 foam poly pillows that are so stiff they could stand up by themselves if they weren't so misshapen due to their being made from a horrible space age polymer by 3 year old Sri-Lankans. They're like... old beat up sofa cushions jammed into 600 thread count pillowcases. It's weird, and yet MDH refuses to acknowledge the clear and marked difference between the obvious quality of my lush and pliable goose down dream givers and his blobby, misshapen freak puffs. He even talks smack about my pillows and yet I have busted him multiple times hogging them when I have failed to separate them on the bed properly.
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<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;">***</span><span style="font-size:78%;">You are correct, we don't have need of a lot of blankets on the surface of the sun. This summer we are only using one light weight quilt, but it is still of the utmost importance that it remain evenly distributed on the bed and not be hogged.</span>
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<br />The Lady Who Doesn't Lunch:http://www.blogger.com/profile/16435708079953998705noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963432418989382127.post-6516484077188818502011-08-20T19:50:00.018-04:002011-08-20T21:46:09.719-04:00Wears a Diaper/Eats Dryer Sheets<span style="font-size:130%;">T</span>he title of this post is actually the description in our cable TV listing of one episode of a series I have never watched, and likely never will, called My Crazy Addiction or some such, but for some reason, when I came across the phrase it struck a chord.
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<br />Oh, don't you worry about me! Although I am still jobless, bored and lonely, and now have the added benefit of being in a strange city where I don't know anyone but my husband and my OBGYN (my new BFF), I'm not currently wearing a diaper or eating dryer sheets for jollies, but sometimes I feel I might snap and these are areas of madness I fear I might wander into. Probably not. I can't even watch a show about it, so I feel I'm pretty safe.
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<br />Anyhoo... I have some questions about this particular episode of the program. Mind you, I don't feel strongly enough about my questions to actually <em>watch</em> the program, so I decided to type it all out and throw it out into the ether and see how she flies.
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<br />First of all I have to make many assumptions by choosing to not actually watch the show, like for instance I assume that I'm deriving for more joy from the program by merely <em>wondering</em> what the fuck is up with these people than I would by actually watching the show and finding out for <em>sure</em> what the fuck is up with these people.
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<br />Conveniently, that point brings me to the next assumption, because when I say "these people", I am assuming the program is about two separate people, one a diaper wearer and one a dryer sheet eater. Also, grammatically speaking, the slash helps along that theory. Although I've been known to simultaneously abuse and neglect my comma privileges in my own writing I will <em>assume</em> if the show is about one person who has the duel misfortune of being both addicted to wearing diapers <u>and</u> snacking on Bounce there would be a <em>comma</em> and not a slash. I hope to high heaven it's not the same person.
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<br />I also assume, as mentioned above, that these people are getting some kind of jollies from respectively, hopefully separately, wearing diapers and eating dryer sheets. I mean, there wouldn't be much of show if the person wearing diapers had to wear them due to some physical problem involving incontinence, or being a toddler. That would just be cruel, so I assume they are choosing this... um... diaper wearing lifestyle.
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<br />Unlike wearing a diaper, in my mind it's a no brainer to assume that the person eating dryer sheets is doing so of their own free will, since unlike wearing a diaper there is not a physical, bodily <em>reason</em> a person would need to cram a dryer sheet into their pie hole (typically meant for PIE!) and chow down.
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<br />The next assumption is a little more serious. I'm going to assume that there is some portion of the population who does not appear on this program, who are suffering in silence with their own weird addiction. They are watching this show and thinking, "I am am not alone!", and subsequently finding some comfort in that, and maybe even as a direct result of this epiphany deciding to seek help.
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<br />My last assumption is tied pretty tightly to the previous assumption. Because I need to continue to believe in the greater good in humanity, I'm going to assume that at some point during the course of this program there is some kind of intervention involving psychiatric evaluations and therapy and that these poor people are setting on a course to getting some real help.
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<br />So those are my assumptions. Here are my questions:
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<br /><span style="font-size:180%;">1.</span> Are the diapers disposable or cloth? I am a terrible person because I find myself secretly hoping they are disposable because although cloth diapers are environmentally friendly and all, disposable diapers make a little crunch-crunch noise and I find that hilarious.
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<br /><span style="font-size:180%;">2.</span> Is the diaper wearer actually shitting him or her self? That sounds damn uncomfortable.
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<br />(Oopsie! I before I type the next question I have to add in the assumption that the diaper wearer is single! What better way to keep an intimate relationship at bay, right?)
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<br /><span style="font-size:180%;">2.a.</span> If the diaper wearer <em>is</em> shitting him or her self, does that person have a roommate? If so, I would be far more interested in a show about the diaper wearers roommate*.
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<br /><span style="font-size:180%;">3.</span> Are the dryer sheets scented or unscented? Unlike the diaper question I have no leanings for the answer one way or the other, but I do feel that chewing on an unscented dryer sheet would be my personal preference, as I perceive the scented ones probably just taste like soap.
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<br /><span style="font-size:180%;">4.</span> Who is watching this show and do they come away from their viewing experience enlightened or ashamed?
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<br />*<span style="font-size:85%;">Even if the diaper wearer isn't <em>shitting</em> in the diaper it would still be interesting to get the roommates take on whether or not they know they live with a diaper wearer. Like my roommate is so weird, why does he/she always make a crunch-crunch noise when he/she walks or sits down? I assume if the diaper wearer is actually shitting in the diaper then the roommate most likely knows about the diapers. </span>
<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Now, if the diaper wear is only <em>pissing</em> in the diaper, then that's a whole 'nother blog post for me and I'm done with this topic, so it'll be have to be left for the sages to ponder.</span>
<br />The Lady Who Doesn't Lunch:http://www.blogger.com/profile/16435708079953998705noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963432418989382127.post-33586101784773795892011-07-15T10:20:00.020-04:002011-07-15T12:20:46.604-04:00Hello Walls<div><span style="font-size:130%;">M</span>y post surgical confinement is at it's end (insert Hallelujah Chorus here). Yes. I still have 3 more weeks of official recovery and take 'er easy time, but my doctor has given me the thumbs up to start driving again today. Sadly though, in a cruel twist of fate, I'm unable to sprint out the door, scramble into my beloved VW and get the fuck out of Dodge, as MDH has decided to drive my car to work today (insert trombone wah-wha-wah here), a fact I didn't discover until he had already gone.<br /><br />When I called him he said, "<em>my</em> car is there, take <em>my</em> car if you want to go out". But that is clearly a trap. And if it isn't a trap, then it was certainly insincere. He doesn't <em>really</em> want me to drive his car.<br /><br />You see, last month MDH traded in his 12 year old rusty shitbox for a brand new fancy pants car with all the bells and whistles. I haven't driven it yet.<br /><br />I'm not sure I ever want to drive it.<br /><br />It's too shiny and fancy, and he's <em>waaaay</em> too much in love with it, and I'm far too likely to leave a smudge or fingerprint and soil it's pristine perfection. Seriously, the first week he had it I crossed my legs in the passenger seat and barely grazed the tip of my sandal on the glove box and he got this sour puss on his face and wiped the "soiled" area with a hanky. Or, the area that he perceived to be soiled, as my sandal left no mark.<br /><br />Freak.<br /><br />Worse yet, the new car is parked ever so delicately in our teeny-weeny, narrow apartment garage, and it's not like you can just back straight out, oh no-no. There's a security gate right next to it and the neighbors car behind it and flower beds and a fire hydrant. No. It's an <em>art</em> to get that thing out of the garage so it's not the smartest choice for my first outing after not driving for over 3 weeks.<br /><br />I can wait.<br /><br />Meanwhile I have plenty to keep me busy indoors (the TV won't watch itself now will it?).<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0_lQb8dwnU2ZQCbIjajrqQvHMd8r4a_Py2iDTmx9yrZLWyqWG5bUSHj3U3cT3aIa0bXnbOXE43G61RsJOzsCymWsSVrElXWKCejUkwq5pnJ9ZNmuuZ_dbg5SYN7Eqyb_Mk1o5xEtRBxF9/s1600/sparrow_bigger.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 73px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 73px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629609256234504226" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0_lQb8dwnU2ZQCbIjajrqQvHMd8r4a_Py2iDTmx9yrZLWyqWG5bUSHj3U3cT3aIa0bXnbOXE43G61RsJOzsCymWsSVrElXWKCejUkwq5pnJ9ZNmuuZ_dbg5SYN7Eqyb_Mk1o5xEtRBxF9/s320/sparrow_bigger.jpg" /></a>In other news, while I was busy indoors recovering from my surgery, a horrible, noisy little bird family has made themselves at home in the upper corner of one of our terraces. The <em>good</em> terrace. It's small, but it's the one that is fully covered and gets the most shade. It's the one that I like to sit on in the morning while I have coffee. Or <em>used</em> to.<br /><br />These little squatters know their shit because this is a prime real estate location. <em>I'd</em> like to use that space myself, except now it's a bloody mess of twigs, leaves, branches and general nest construction material (i.e. small bits of garbage) scattered all over the floor and two hysterical, squawking birds dive bomb my face anytime I try to sit down and enjoy my coffee out there.<br /><br />And, oh yes, let's not forget the bird shit that's now super glued to all my patio furniture. It's infuriating. <a href="http://ladywhodoesntlunch.blogspot.com/2008/08/brace-yourself-i-hate-birds.html">I really hate birds.</a> </div>The Lady Who Doesn't Lunch:http://www.blogger.com/profile/16435708079953998705noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963432418989382127.post-37398585418369717622011-07-06T10:45:00.037-04:002011-07-09T16:27:41.029-04:00Uterus Schmooterus - Boy Readers Beware - this post is about lady business<span style="font-size:130%;">W</span>hat better way to dive right into living in a new city and state, where you don't know another living soul besides your husband, than to test out the waters of the local health care community and have open abdominal surgery requiring a six week recovery? Am I right or am I right? In other words ... my uterus was riddled with giant fibroids which were making me quite sick and uncomfortable so I had the fucking thing yanked. Don't mess with me, I'll have you physically removed.<br /><br />So yeah, that's my way of telling you that as of Friday morning before last I have no uterus.<br /><br />I am entirely sans womb.<br /><br />How weird is that shit?<br /><br />So yeah, I had a hysterectomy. It's not so hard to type this information out loud here in my blog to semi and total strangers, but for some reason I have been unable to tell to many other people about this, including anyone in my family, except my parents.<br /><br />Perhaps because it remotely involves my pu-say and intimately involves my baby making organs that are frankly no body's business but my own and MDH's. It also might require me to discuss the problems that led up to the hysterectomy that involve intimate details about my horrific menstrual cycles that I'm not keen to spill out to just anyone (in person).<br /><br />Adding to the complication of the explanation is the look I see in people's eyes when I know they are taking a sharp, but silent intake of breath as they realize that hysterectomy = <em>forever barren</em>, and then having to explain that MDH and I are fine with that and decided not to make babies long before my uterus decided to fill itself to capacity with demonic fibroids.<br /><br />I gotta say though, I was amazed, ah-mazed, during my hospital stay, at the number of hospital workers, nurses, phlebotomists, the lady that brought me my lunch, the man who took my blood sample at 2am, who would either ask me if I <em>have kids</em>, or how many kids <em>do I have</em>, which I would imagine is probably not the best question to ask a woman who has just had a fucking hysterectomy.<br /><br />Anyhoo... here are the facts... some of them may be gross and may be extra gross for some of my more testosterone laden readers, in other words boys, there will be blood:<br /><br /><br /><ul><br /><br /><li>I've been having increasingly miserable periods for almost 2 years and it began to peak right around the time that we started planning our move in late March. </li><br /><br /><li>By the middle of May I was pretty much having the worst day of my period every day, including headaches, horrifying cramps that no amount of Extra Strength Tylenol would cure, and lost so much blood that I became anemic and so weak that I could barely move without getting dizzy. </li><br /><br /><li>I scheduled the hysterectomy the day my new doctor in Texas saw me the first week of June. </li><br /><br /><li>He said my uterus was swollen to the size of someone 16 weeks pregnant. (Which explains my inability to fit into many of my clothes no matter how much I dieted)</li><br /><br /><li>The surgery normally takes 1 hour, but mine took 3 because the fibroids apparently staged a coup and fought back or something.</li><br /><br /><li>After my surgery he told me my uterus weighed 496 grams. A normal one weighs about 70 grams.</li><br /><br /><li>I decided to keep my ovaries and cervix as these items are all healthy and in working order, even though my doctor wanted to remove them "as a precaution against future complications". Whatever dude, keep your mitts off my egg basket, it still has some good years left in it.</li><br /><br /><li>I spent 3 nights in the hospital and was so miserable in so many ways that I voluntarily gave up every shred of my dignity to the nurses and hospital staff in exchange for ice chips and hot tea.</li><br /><br /><li>Oddly, the things that caused me the most discomfort had nothing to do with my surgery or incision. Who knew that having a breathing tube jammed down your throat for 3 hours would cause me to have the most torturous case of cotton mouth for 2 days? And that having a catheter poking into my bladder, rather than giving the one feeling of relief from urination, actually gives one the painful sensation of having to piss out an entire nights keg party the next morning.</li><br /><br /><li>Speaking of discomfort unrelated to my actual surgery - I now have permanent (semi-permanent) burn marks in the shape of two tubes going all the way down my abdomen from some stuff they dripped into me. It looks like two bright red antennae are coming out of my pubes, which is just delightful. They also burned and itched for several days until I was conscious enough remove some bandaging, realize what was going on and apply some Benedryl cream to them. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgzU76fBSXzj-5XFawZgil8FGb8BqheeeND7BQqcVxpknmj-J7PFRmvFRIGmmhqGVJaePmot-GKgZCFj3b4QKRpl35aafhfzEEzs-v4aSofBOHugSD8z_J7YTk7SDfq0VveqRWPMLS6ywq/s1600/my+antennae.bmp"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 176px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 234px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626267816100601362" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgzU76fBSXzj-5XFawZgil8FGb8BqheeeND7BQqcVxpknmj-J7PFRmvFRIGmmhqGVJaePmot-GKgZCFj3b4QKRpl35aafhfzEEzs-v4aSofBOHugSD8z_J7YTk7SDfq0VveqRWPMLS6ywq/s320/my+antennae.bmp" /></a>I have to assume these tubes contained some kind of latex product - because that it what it looks like when my skin comes into contact with latex - it burns whatever shape onto my skin - so like if I were to put on a latex glove - it would burn the shape of a glove onto my hand because I'M ALLERGIC TO LATEX!! It was all over my chart, they gave me a special safety orange wristband thingy that spelled out "LATEX ALLERGY" in large bold lettering <em>and</em> I told every single person I came into contact with throughout the entire process, whether they asked me or not, "I'm allergic to Latex".</li></ul><br /><br /><p>Here is the good news - I feel better already. Better enough to walk up to the 3rd floor of our apartment to my office this morning and sit upright and type for a few hours. I'm not ready for a Zoomba class, shit I'm not even allowed to drive a car yet, but there are no more cramps, no more bleeding, no more worries about OD-ing on Tylenol.<br /><br />Also, bonus, as of today I have officially lost 12 pounds since I was last weighed the morning of my surgery. Granted, a clear liquid diet for 5 days followed by being too nauseous and weak to eat much of anything is probably not the best diet plan, but that <em>is </em>what happened and I plan to not let my suffering go to waste and remain on this weight loss trajectory, only maybe at a slightly more realistic pace.<br /><br />Recovering from a large abdominal incision right above my no-no area aside, I would go so far as to say I feel great. It's a very similar recovery process to having a C-Section, no heavy lifting, no repetitive bending and I have to wear this glamorous stretchy binder with a Velcro fastener across my midsection for the next 6 weeks. The binder is kind of like wearing noisy Spanx, but also kind of like wearing a bulky mini-skirt made from diapers, and the best part is that MDH gets to help me put it on after I bathe. What a treat for him, I'm sure.</p><br /><br /><p></p>The Lady Who Doesn't Lunch:http://www.blogger.com/profile/16435708079953998705noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963432418989382127.post-29341272355473437132011-05-26T09:52:00.030-04:002011-05-26T11:28:59.679-04:00Much Ado About Litter<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihr96hshSi-EJd6BR2G4jYmLlmCUJm1e0CNB27Z9SMNEiBDmEXEYBoSgUqRk4CASxSzfYfli8WxnPgJlb0zkEeW7SeCVeE4L5cMPQvUgRwilTO0Krt834ZOrGCdkl9MGlqbcCFck1PEgXa/s1600/cowpoke+at+old+navy.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5611025301678986706" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihr96hshSi-EJd6BR2G4jYmLlmCUJm1e0CNB27Z9SMNEiBDmEXEYBoSgUqRk4CASxSzfYfli8WxnPgJlb0zkEeW7SeCVeE4L5cMPQvUgRwilTO0Krt834ZOrGCdkl9MGlqbcCFck1PEgXa/s320/cowpoke+at+old+navy.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">I</span>t's a done deal. We live in Texas now and I find Texas to be way more Texas-y than I imagined it would be. I mean, I see people who wear ten gallon hats to social events and even though I live in a suburb of Dallas, about 3 blocks from here is a large herd of Longhorn steer. Go 3 blocks in the other direction and you will find large bronze statuary of cowboys riding wild-maned broncos and roping* calves. Please notice in this particular photo, the cowpoke is watching intently** as his horse grazes gently in the parking lot of a mall.<br /><br />It's weird right?<br /><br />Mostly though, what has been weird is the fact that MDH and I have been living in a hotel for the past two weeks. With our cat of course, who spent the first week hiding under the bed most of the day after his first encounter with the hotel maid and her very noisy sweeper. He's finally settled in now and is almost back to normal... just in time for us to move again this weekend into our new apartment.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdQEOxgKJ85Af-bEzzdwmTjtbzm9ICC74QMFXdOwiQqJfY2Ym8aUoa8QojmPHufI9HCHDL6WrG90U-F8-cwZoRbCobKSgasX4TQ5t-_AKMohxHOZ3d8QVMJpWBRyGe2j35PgRUo5qQ2JvX/s1600/toilet+trained+cat.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 170px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5611031822662735602" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdQEOxgKJ85Af-bEzzdwmTjtbzm9ICC74QMFXdOwiQqJfY2Ym8aUoa8QojmPHufI9HCHDL6WrG90U-F8-cwZoRbCobKSgasX4TQ5t-_AKMohxHOZ3d8QVMJpWBRyGe2j35PgRUo5qQ2JvX/s200/toilet+trained+cat.jpg" /></a>Speaking of the cat - I would just like to take a moment to mention how much fun it <em>isn't</em> to have a litterbox in your living room, which is 3 feet from your bed when you live in a 400 sqft extended stay hotel. Having a litterbox in the living room of a 400 sqft extended stay hotel room goes a long way to making 400 sqft seem as small as a phone booth. A very smelly phone booth.<br /><br />The litterbox used to be in the basement of our old house and I guess I took for granted that I would never be woken up in the middle of the night by the horrifying stench created when our cat takes a giant shit 3 feet from our bed. It's not Turtle's fault. He's a complete gentleman and does exactly as he is supposed to do, exactly where he is supposed to do it and is quite tidy, but the proximity of his shit box has caused me to decide that our next cat will be toilet trained. I've seen it on YouTube, so I know it's possible.<br /><br />Anyhoo... other than the whole litterbox thing, living in the hotel hasn't been nearly as bad as I'd imagined. We have a little kitchen (which, not to beat this close proximity to cat shit thing into the ground, but is also 3 feet from the litterbox) where I have been able to prepare simple, elegant meals of microwaved burritos and toast. Delightful!<br /><br />Needless to say... we're ready to move into our new apartment which, prior to living in the hotel, we worried would be too small, but now seems like a 1200 sqft mansion.<br /><br />We had a little scare earlier this week with the apartment management company. I missed their call, as I was at that very moment registering my car for Texas plates, to the address and apartment number that we signed a lease for several weeks ago, telling me that the asshole who currently lives in the apartment that we signed the lease for several weeks ago... um... well... he didn't ever actually move out of the apartment. The apartment complex has given us another apartment of the same floorplan to move into, but I was and still am a little bit livid. I set up electrical service, ordered new checks and registered my vehicle, which now has to all be redone.<br /><br />It makes me wonder though - is this guy a dick or just an idiot? Either way I plan to make his life miserable by requesting home visits to that address from Mormons and Jehovah's Witnesses.*** Do you think Dominos would deliver a pizza with ex-lax on it?<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">*People - I originally typed "raping" by accident and laughed so hard I had to run and change my underpants.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;">**Probably watching to make sure that his nice horsey doesn't choke on a plastic shopping bag or disposable diaper.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;">*** I wouldn't really ever do that. Not because it's mean, but mainly because he has apologized and agreed to bring me whatever mail of ours that gets sent to that address, and I really need him to do that. I changed the mail forwarding again of course, but there are sure to be some stragglers. So instead of sending him Mormons or leaving flaming bags of my poo on his porch****, I will smile sweetly and thank him for bringing me our mail, while secretly I quietly curse him until such time as I'm able to get over it or all the mail is correctly forwarded, whichever comes first.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;">****I don't have a dog.</span>The Lady Who Doesn't Lunch:http://www.blogger.com/profile/16435708079953998705noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963432418989382127.post-7383722494329639192011-03-23T19:46:00.023-04:002011-03-23T23:42:15.570-04:00Does this fat make my fat look fat?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMoebE2n5VJsnex9MRGK6_aVlmD7hOFBCwtssg6obgpu4tZH465tC7DNoZ32qpRSdY7LHWeWzF3HHsegsWM80ZaGXgWJApnpjUoi8icfKFsuqFQB0bm2FWNIwSlxwtwkUJzccV7wr3dagW/s1600/cowgirl01.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 239px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587450956120838658" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMoebE2n5VJsnex9MRGK6_aVlmD7hOFBCwtssg6obgpu4tZH465tC7DNoZ32qpRSdY7LHWeWzF3HHsegsWM80ZaGXgWJApnpjUoi8icfKFsuqFQB0bm2FWNIwSlxwtwkUJzccV7wr3dagW/s320/cowgirl01.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">H</span>as it come to this, really? I'm afraid so. One post per month or less is all I'm able to squeeze of my brain these days. Never mind that in addition to feeling bad about never posting on my own blog, I also feel like a huge shithead for not reading your blogs as regularly as I once was able, and I never seem to find the time to comment on any of them either, which, when you think about is all we really want as we sit here typing, isn't it? Comments. That was at one time how I measured my success as a blogger - the number of comments and weekly visitors. Now I think it's pretty damn miraculous when I'm able to remember my password to log on.<br /><br /><div><div><div></div><div>Anyhoo... I was thinking today about possible blog post topics and have decided that a good old reliable numbered list is the way to go. I've been really busy lately and will share with you lessons learned during some of my various adventures, in no particular order:</div><br /><div></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">1</span>. I have very little in common with women who describe experiences having to do with their uteruses (uter-i? - is there a plural for uterus? anyone?), childbirth, menopause, or a particularly rough menstrual cycle as their "journey". </div><br /><div>No. </div><div></div><br /><div>Stop it. A four Pamprin cramp day does not qualify as a "journey". Also, I don't care how long you were in labor or how much you sweat in your sleep - stop saying "journey".</div><br /><div></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">2.</span> Speaking of "Journey" - I do not care for 80's Night. A few weeks ago MDH and I went out on a Saturday night with our friend Rachel and her new-ish husband Dave to something here in town referred to as "Mega-Eighties!" Which is the name of the band that plays 80's covers regularly at the giant nightclub we paid $10 per person to enter. The expansive nightclub features rock hard, concrete floors and bathrooms with no stall doors. Already not my cup of tea. (I'm a snob with sore feet who likes to pee out my cocktails behind closed doors, get over it.)</div><br /><div></div><div>I'll admit there were some amusing things going on, such as grown women wearing "mall bangs", leg warmers and t-shirts with the neck cut out in an exaggerated "bateau" style, a la Jennifer Beales in Flashdance and men sporting mullet wigs and folded bandanna headbands, a la Loverboy. Cute. I get it. The hairstyles and fashion of the 80's were silly. </div><br /><div></div><div>Before the band came on there was a DJ playing top 40 hits from the 80's and soon MDH and I collectively remembered that we despised this shitty music back then so why the fuck would we want to experience it again now? Frankly, the thick cloud of pot smoke and the acid induced haze I used to live under didn't really dissipate until well into 1993, so I didn't recognize most of the music anyway. </div><br /><div></div><div>At this point the tone shifted for MDH and me. We went from being mildly confident, middle aged people to the wildly freakish outsiders we had once been. I, a pale and lonely Smiths worshiping, goth chick and he a pogo-ing, crowd surfing, skate punk. Standing still in the background while watching everyone around us having fun and dancing maniacally to Like a Prayer and Uptown Girl reminded us that we never belonged in this scene, and never wanted to. </div><br /><div></div><div>We stuck around a little longer when the band finally came on, and also out of respect for Rachel and Dave, 'cause we love them, but I drew the line when the band started belting out a Poison medley and we bugged the fuck out immediately for home where we cleansed our ear holes with Siouxie and the Banshees, the Clash and a little Buzzcocks. </div><br /><div></div><div>80's Night = Big not again</div><br /><div></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">3.</span> I had something seriously cute and funny planned for #3, but can no longer remember what it was as MDH has just called me from San Francisco, where he is in the middle of a corporate team building thingy, to inform me that he has finally been promoted and that we are moving to Texas. Like now. As in he starts work on Monday. What the fuck? Finally we leave the Tundra. We were only supposed to be here for 2 years and we have been here for 6 years. I suppose now I will have to switch seasons and start bitching about how hot the summers are. Hurray!!!! (I think).</div><div></div><div></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">4.</span> Restaurant Impossible is exactly like Kitchen Nightmares, but with less screaming and cursing.</div><div></div><div></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">5.</span> 3D is overrated.</div><div></div><div></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">6.</span> I have finally learned, after all this time, how to use the shuttle service to get around Large Corporation. I used it all winter to whisk me straight to the door of my building like a 15 passenger magic carpet. I cannot express how great it has been to avoid trudging through the snow on my (literally) 10 minute trek through the Tundra from parking space to desk. You call and they come pick you up. It's awesome.</div><div></div><div></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">7.</span> I have turned into a lazy, fat piece of fudge since learning how to use the shuttle service at Large Corporation. At first I vowed only to use it on wet, snowy days when the temperature dipped below 30. Or on days when my ankle was bugging me. Now all it takes is a hangnail and a bit of fog and I'm totally riding that motherfucker with all the other old ladies and fatties.</div><div></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">8.</span> Oh shit - we have to sell this house, pack and move.</div><div> </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div></div></div>The Lady Who Doesn't Lunch:http://www.blogger.com/profile/16435708079953998705noreply@blogger.com17