Gifts from a Broad

Exertion or effort directed to produce or accomplish something...

2011-12-26T16:14:00.000-05:00

In case you were wondering, I'm now employed, at yet another Large Corporation. Almost gainfully. I started about a week after my last post.

I'm still considered a contractor, but now I'm in a situation that's called "contract to hire". 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

1. Shut up.

2. Keep it down.

3. Quiet please.

4. Please shut the fuck up.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Bonus Fact

2011-10-06T14:50:00.002-04:00

Fact: I would rather rake out my own left eye with a pickle fork than see the new Footloose movie.

Miami Facts

2011-10-06T11:16:00.002-04:00

Miami 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...
He's not quite like that guy from the Dos Equis ads, The Most Interesting Man In the World, about whom Miami said, with not just a little disdain in his tone, and I quote, "Didja know dat guy is in actualities a Jew?", even though MDH and I tried several times to explain to him that The Most Interesting Man In the World 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!!

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 ~~still happening~~ recent ~~home invasion~~ visit.

Fact: 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:

Miami: Yeh. I made it. I'm here. I'm calling you to tell you. You happy now?
Muffled Girly Female Voice: (Gushing from Miami's Phone) AWWEEE Mwhah Mwah Goo Mwah
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).
Muffled Girly Female Voice: (Pouty) AWWright. AWWlove you!
Miami: Yeh. Gotta go. Bye.
Miami: (To MDH and me) Bagh! Married chicks, so needy.

Fact: 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.

Miami: Bagh!* I called Geena dis mornin' to wish hers a happy birthday, but she mustnawta been home.
Me: At 6:30?
Miami: Yeh, dats when I call everyone.

Fact: Miami is one of the reasons we don't have a home phone anymore.

Fact: 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.

Fact: 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.

Fact: 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.

Fact: I was not offended that he didn't use our beach towels, but did find his preference odd.

Fact: 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.

Fact: It was 8:30 am.

Fact: 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 terrier 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.

Fact: 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.

Fact: 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.

Fact: 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.
MDH: Wearing that?
Miami: Yeh. It was casual.
MDH: Were other people wearing shirts?
Miami: I dunno. I do not pay attention to such trivial details.

Fact: 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?

Fact: I realize that that last sentence is in fact a question and not a fact.

Fact: 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.

Fact: 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.

Fact: 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.

Fact: 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.

Fact: 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.

Fact: I would have let Miami brush the cat, but stayed out of it and didn't press the issue.

Fact: 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.

Fact: 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.

New Fact: 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.

*"Bagh!" Is the noise that Miami and also MDH's brother Knucklehead often make when starting a conversation or reacting to new information.

**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 and 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.

There Will Be Rum

2011-09-29T17:05:00.000-04:00

I'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.

So yes, Miami is still here. The real mystery is will he be here when I get home next week.

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.

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.

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 his room. It's not his room. It's my 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.

*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.

**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.***

***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.

Miami Vice Day 3

2011-09-25T06:36:00.003-04:00

So 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.

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:

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.

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.

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.*

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.

So it's day three and I'm here to report that there is nothing to report.

*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.**

**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.***

***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, but the Tundra made it easy 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.

You Complete(ly Annoy) Me

2011-09-21T22:45:00.001-04:00

I don't know why I insist on watching any romantic comedies made after whatever year When Harry Met Sally 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 really, really love you and isn't that the most important message in this movie?"

The pivotal moment of the modern American romantic comedy says, "Hey, I'm not a jackass, you're the jackass if you can't forgive me for loving you so much. Aren't we both douchbags who deserve each other?"

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.

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 Nine!).

I indulged in a desperately needed cleanse of my psyche afterwards by watching a fine documentary film called Bill Cunningham New York. You should watch it if you get the chance.

In other news:

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 - and they actually came and took care of it!! Schweet.
As cool as it is to have an entire fleet of maintenance workers and grounds keepers at my beck and call there is 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.
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 her 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.
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, nothing is ever Miami's fault.

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?

*There are some that I really like, like for instance Fever Pitch 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 500 Days of Summer.

Blobby, Misshapened Freak Puffs

2011-08-24T22:44:00.029-04:00

I really hate it when MDH goes to bed before me.

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 same time. That's how we usually do it.

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.

On nights when MDH goes to bed before me he just plops his ass right into the bed. Plop.

There is no preparation.

There is no consideration.

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?

Here is why I will continue to do it... because it's much easier than the alternative, which I will now describe:

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 and blackout curtains over the windows in order to keep our bedroom from becoming a pizza oven and that we not burn to death.

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.

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.

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 my pillows** like a drowning man to a life raft.

You sleeping motherfucker.

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 my pillows 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.

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.

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.

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.

*Texas

**I am a diva and I have 4 pillows and I use them all. Furthermore, they are not just any 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 mine(!). 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. 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. 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. 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.

***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.

Wears a Diaper/Eats Dryer Sheets

2011-08-20T19:50:00.018-04:00

The 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.

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.

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 watch the program, so I decided to type it all out and throw it out into the ether and see how she flies.

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 wondering what the fuck is up with these people than I would by actually watching the show and finding out for sure what the fuck is up with these people.

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 assume if the show is about one person who has the duel misfortune of being both addicted to wearing diapers and snacking on Bounce there would be a comma and not a slash. I hope to high heaven it's not the same person.

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.

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 reason a person would need to cram a dryer sheet into their pie hole (typically meant for PIE!) and chow down.

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.

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.

So those are my assumptions. Here are my questions:

1. 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.

2. Is the diaper wearer actually shitting him or her self? That sounds damn uncomfortable.

(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?)

2.a. If the diaper wearer is 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*.

3. 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.

4. Who is watching this show and do they come away from their viewing experience enlightened or ashamed?

*Even if the diaper wearer isn't shitting 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.
Now, if the diaper wear is only pissing 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.

Hello Walls

2011-07-15T10:20:00.020-04:00

My 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.

When I called him he said, "my car is there, take my 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 really want me to drive his car.

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.

I'm not sure I ever want to drive it.

It's too shiny and fancy, and he's waaaay 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.

Freak.

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 art 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.

I can wait.

Meanwhile I have plenty to keep me busy indoors (the TV won't watch itself now will it?).

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 good 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 used to.

These little squatters know their shit because this is a prime real estate location. I'd 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.

And, oh yes, let's not forget the bird shit that's now super glued to all my patio furniture. It's infuriating. I really hate birds.

Uterus Schmooterus - Boy Readers Beware - this post is about lady business

2011-07-06T10:45:00.037-04:00

What 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.

So yeah, that's my way of telling you that as of Friday morning before last I have no uterus.

I am entirely sans womb.

How weird is that shit?

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.

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).

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 = forever barren, 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.

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 have kids, or how many kids do I have, which I would imagine is probably not the best question to ask a woman who has just had a fucking hysterectomy.

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:

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.

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.

I scheduled the hysterectomy the day my new doctor in Texas saw me the first week of June.

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)

The surgery normally takes 1 hour, but mine took 3 because the fibroids apparently staged a coup and fought back or something.

After my surgery he told me my uterus weighed 496 grams. A normal one weighs about 70 grams.

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.

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.

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.

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. 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 and 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".

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.

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 is 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.

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.

Much Ado About Litter

2011-05-26T09:52:00.030-04:00

It'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.

It's weird right?

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.

Speaking of the cat - I would just like to take a moment to mention how much fun it isn't 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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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?

*People - I originally typed "raping" by accident and laughed so hard I had to run and change my underpants.

**Probably watching to make sure that his nice horsey doesn't choke on a plastic shopping bag or disposable diaper.

*** 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.

****I don't have a dog.

Does this fat make my fat look fat?

2011-03-23T19:46:00.023-04:00

Has 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.

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:

1. 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".

No.

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".

2. 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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

80's Night = Big not again

3. 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).

4. Restaurant Impossible is exactly like Kitchen Nightmares, but with less screaming and cursing.

5. 3D is overrated.

6. 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.

7. 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.

8. Oh shit - we have to sell this house, pack and move.

How to Tell If A Movie Will Suck

2011-02-15T18:26:00.007-05:00

Yes, I'm really going to totally ignore the fact that I haven't posted on this blog for 4 months and hop right in to what I hope will be a riveting entry for all 8 of you out there who still keep popping in from time to time. Surprise for you, eh? You've been checking in faithfully and disappointed for so long and lo and behold today is your day. A new fucking post. Just for you. Seriously. It's just for you, you're the only one left still visiting.

It being awards season and the Oscar's fast upon us, I have been thinking about movies a lot lately and then this post was inspired when I saw a horrible and rather sad commericial for the new movie with Adam Sandler and Jennifer Aniston in it. Here goes:

Here’s how I decide based television commercials, whether or not I think I movie is going to suck donkey balls.

1. The movie stars, Adam Sandler*, Tim Alan**, John Travolta***, Robin Williams**** or Tom Cruise*****. Or any combination of those five people. My advice? Don’t waste your money to see this first run in a theater. Wait until 5 or 6 years from now and see it on a night when you happen to be hammered, high, unable to sleep or any combination of those 3 things, and it happens to be on TBS during a time when it happens that you cannot find the remote and are unable to change the channel, so technically it is the only thing on TV. Or… you could get your lazy ass up off the sofa, walk across the room and turn off the goddamn TV using a combination of your index finger and the power button, since the only thing on is this shitty movie with badly dubbed out curse words on TBS, who seem to have a knack for cutting to commercial in the middle of a goddamn sentence or constantly throwing animated graphics advertising some shitty Tyler Perry produced sit-com that take up the entire fucking screen and have just covered up the fucking subtitles I was trying to read. Motherfucking TBS. Motherfucking subtitles. Motherfucking Tyler Perry. What was I talking about?

2. The commercial starts off with the words “Critics are raving!” and then the screen is peppered with ambiguous, one word quotes in tiny lettering that could be construed in many ways (“Unbelievable!”, “Powerful!”, “Hypnotic!”) jump quickly on and off the screen like tiny fleas, by movie critics no one has ever heard of from publications that can’t possibly be real. Yeah – this one is probably sucking pretty hard.

3. The commercial shows as many quick edited crotch hits, cleavage shots and plot irrelevant shenanigans as possible (fart noises, yowling cats, growling dogs, close ups of crying baby faces, references to vaginas, penises or poop). The absence of any information hinting at any kind of critical review is palpable and only made more so by the tagline at the end that says “Now Playing Everywhere!” which is either the only positive sounding thing that can be said for the film or perhaps it’s actually a cryptic warning or cry for help. It’s playing. Everywhere. Be careful.

*I like Adam Sandler and think his movies often have pretty funny things going on in them, but that doesn’t mean that his movies don’t suck. I often put his movies in the category of “sucks but will probably see it anyway on DVD”.

**Tim Allen gets a gimme for being the voice of Buzz Lightyear, but otherwise I can’t think of one thing I have ever seen him in that was funny to me at all. I think he’s a hack – sue me.

***I know, I know, everyone loves John Fucking Travolta, and he also gets a gimme for Pulp Fiction, but what have you done for us lately John Travolta? I’m sure he’s a lovely human soul, but he irritates me with his stupid giant plane and his poor movie role choices. Outside of Pulp Fiction (and Get Shorty) his movies smack of desperation to me and I always envision him in that stupid get up he wore in the L.Ron Hubbard movie. If that’s not enough for me to find his movies lame I have two words for you – Old Dogs.

****I almost feel bad about this one, cause I really do love Robin Williams, nanoo, nanoo and all that, but his roles in the past 10 years have been so hit or miss that I choose miss most of the time, unless I hear otherwise good reviews. And do I have to say it again? Old Dogs.

*****If it stars Tom Cruise I refuse to see it at all (almost ever). Below is an alphabetical listing (it’s short) of the people for which I have longstanding boycotts of their bodies of work:

1. Tom Arnold – I think he might be mildly retarded and only sometimes funny by accident. More often I think he’s an untalented, pompous boob. But whatever. He’s so seldom in anything I’m remotely interested in that my hatred of his stupid face is really a non issue.

2. Tom Cruise – I’m not sure he’s fully human. I think he’s an overblown, pompous asshole. Even though he’s managed to weasel himself into cameos in a couple of movies I have seen in the last 10 years or so, and therefore subjected me to accidentally having to see him once or twice, I still cannot honestly say that the last movie I saw him in was A Few Good Men. However, I CAN say that I have not chosen to see him intentionally in anything since The Firm, except A Few Good Men and that was only because my friend Dan had free tickets for a sneak preview, which, by the way, we both thought sucked donkey balls, even though the commercials claimed that real critics, that people had actually heard of, were raving. We were appalled when it was nominated for an Oscar for best film and relieved when it didn’t win. Anyhoo… these days he really only ever does about one film a year – so my hatred of him is no biggie and my purposeful avoidance of seeing him is easily maintained.

Stay Away From Children

2010-10-01T17:21:00.031-04:00

A few months have gone by and I'm settling into my new position at Large Corporation quite nicely. My new job isn't as data oriented as my last job, but you know what? It's far more fun to do and suits my skill set much better.

When I say my job is fun to do, that actually might be taking things a bit far, but certain aspects of my job are slightly amusing sometimes. Mainly because one of the many things my new job requires me to do is oversee translations for... hmm... you know I don't even know how many languages... too many to count, so let's just say all of them. I don't speak or read most of these these languages, or to be more precise, none of them. I don't speak or read any of these languages and yet it is my job to ensure that the translations make sense, follow regional legal requirements and standards and fit in the space provided. Whee!! See what I mean? Fun.

Mostly I make sure all this stuff is right by communicating with the people in the other countries and hoping like hell that they know what they are doing. Along the way I have learned some fascinating new stuff with which to pollute my brain tissue, for instance:

The Swedish word for humidity is fuktighet. Say it with me, fuck tight.
It can take up to 2 years to register new consumable products in either Indonesia or Malaysia, I can't remember which one, but that's a long fucking time. Jesus.

Fuck them.

Spanish and Portuguese are practically identical. I can hardly tell them apart. I like to call it Spanaguese.

Sometimes I cheat a little and use Google Translate to spot check and once typed in what was supposed to be Romanian for "keep out of children's reach" and it translated to, "stay away from children". Good idea.

In other news, I have nicknamed one of my new co-workers Hipster McKnowItAll, for what I think may be obvious reasons, so I won't bother to explain it to you in graphic detail as if you were a nitwit, because I'm learning recently, first hand, how very annoying that can be. I will tell you this: she's an obnoxious 23 year old, who never runs out of ways to insert how she has lived in France* into unrelated conversations. She doesn't seem to realize that anyone else on earth or in America, aside from her has ever been to France and almost every day there is some point at which, I want to stab her in the face. Shut up kid.

While I'm speaking of my little hipster, know-it-all friend, I would also like to make the observation that isn't it odd how people who one might consider to be a hipster often themselves express annoyance of hipsters? No one ever owns their hipster-ness.

Let's see what else...oh yes, next month my whole department is moving to a different building in the complex. Our big boss manager lady just informed us the other day that the new cube configurations are going to have only 3 foot walls. This news seemed to bum everyone out, but frankly I don't give a shit as long as my new cublicle isn't right next to the kitchen like where I sit now. It stinks. Sometimes it smells nice, like the when the nice person makes cinnamon toast every day at 9:05 (you know who you are and I lurve you), but mostly it's burnt popcorn and god only knows what. People heat up some weird shit. I swear the other day someone microwaved a giant fart. I had to leave the area for awhile. Perhaps it was brussels sprouts, who can say? Either way I'd like my cube as far away from the fucking kitchen as humanly possible please.

Anyhoo... that's it for now. It's Friday, MDH just put some burgers on the grill (which smell fantastic BTW and not at all like brussels sprouts**) and I'm going to enjoy a nice cold beer before it starts snowing. I realize that it's only October 1st, but hey, it's Michigan, it could happen.

Bon week-end!

*for 6 months as part of a student exchange program - get over it!

**I happen to love brussels sprouts, but they reek, as do all other people's left overs. That's just the law of nature - only your own left overs smell good - they reek to everyone else.

If You're Happy & You Know It WTF?

2010-09-04T09:23:00.068-04:00

How's your summer been? Mine has been smashing. I can't think of any one thing that stands out that should cause me to make such a positive statement to describe my life in general, especially over such a long expanse of time since my last post, butcha know what? I'm happy. And I know it. Kiss my ass.

MDH and I have had a summer filled with friends, travel and just the right amount of family (except for Knucklehead) and house guests.

Probably the biggest news is that I have a new job. I know, I know, but calm yourself, it sounds more important than it is... It's a new job, but it's still at Large Corporation and I'm still a contractor. I sit at my same desk, have my same parking space, and earn the same wage.

The good points are:

It's a job I applied for a couple of years ago and wasn't even considered for an interview.

It's a more prestigious position - when I tell people what I do now they say things like "Ohhh...good for you!" As in I had no idea you were such a smarty.

Somebody up there likes me, saw potential in me, and specifically asked to have me on the team.

It gives me an edge to eventually getting full time work with Large Corporation as it's a job with much more exposure and potential to showcase my talents to people who have sway.

I love my new team and more importantly I LOVE the new work (as I knew I would when I originally applied for the job).

The bad points are..., well, "bad" is rather harsh so let's rephrase that.

The bleh points are:

Although technically it's a huge promotion, I'm getting paid exactly the same. Boo!
There is still no reason to assume that it might turn into a permanent gig. Boo!

Here are some other bullet points to catch you up with recent doings and goings on in Ladyland:

Went to Boston to visit my mother in law for her 80th birthday. Highlights included:

1. Stayed at a hotel within walking distance to the North End and during the course of the week we ate enough tasty Italian treats to last us the rest of the year. I tried some new things that were surprising and delightful (beef carpaccio - I tend to avoid raw meat, but this was so finely sliced it melted on the tongue like cotton candy) and some things that were surprising and revolting (Campari and Soda - I thought it looked refreshing and chic, but it tasted like what I imagine drinking a urine sample over ice in an elegant glass with a twist of lime might be like).

2. Visited Peacefield in Quincy Mass., homestead of 4 generations of the John & Abigail Adams family, including John Quincy Adams, which brings my list of presidential homes visited up to a whopping 10 (how ya like me now CDP?). Peacefield is a short T ride away from the city. No car needed for this adventure. It is awesome. You should go.

3. Spent a gorgeous afternoon wandering leisurely around Harvard Square, popping in and out of shops, laughing and generally enjoying quality, wholesome family time with MDH and my mother in law.
(Insert record scratch sound bite here.)
At least that was the original plan. Oh, we spent the day wandering around Harvard Square all right, but it was hardly leisurely, wholesome or enjoyable because for some reason my brother in law Knucklehead wanted to tag along and turn it into a shit sack.

These days Knucklehead, fresh from his last tour in the can, is whacked out of his mind on prescription pain medications (which provide only a slight improvement to his behaviour since the days when his drug of choice was crack). So we spent a gorgeous afternoon wandering around Harvard Square with Knucklehead, who stopped every five minutes to smoke, hollered at traffic, loudly made rude comments about me, my mother-in-law, MDH and random strangers that he considered to be "fuckin' freaks and freeloaders" (he was able to recognize his own kind apparently), and generally embarrassed the crap out of us for about 4 hours. It was exhausting.

4. Oh, and now Knucklehead walks with a cane that he occasionally shakes in the air at people and cars and goes, "Baaagh!"

5. He's only 47.

6. Spent some great nights hanging out with my brother-in-law Las Vegas, also in town for the 80th birthday festivities, and his 3 grown boys and their various girlfriends. We're so proud of the next generation of little rakes, not a crack head in the bunch. Although my one niece, Knuckleheads daughter, poor kid, kind of reminds me of (I hesitate to say it) Snookie (only taller and pretty). MDH and I are keeping an eye peeled for her.

Went Up North With Friends:

1. Our friends R&R and their two kids visited us here from Washington DC and we were thrilled. They actually spent their summer vacation in Michigan. People do that. They spent two nights here at our house and then headed up north to Glen Arbor, where MDH and I joined them a few days later for the weekend.

2. I went tubing, which in Ohio means that you get dragged along, bouncing uncontrollably behind a speeding pontoon, piloted by my lunatic hillbilly cousin-in-law Bubby, in a murky brown lake which typically goes something like this:
But in Michigan tubing is something entirely different and I loved it hard. We floated gently, and safely if I might add, down a clear, clean river. I opted for a tube with a bottom so that I could sit indian style. I also snagged a paddle so that I could more easily steer myself away from any potential dirty muck or imagined crocodiles and river sharks. I will do this again.

Went to see Doug Benson last Friday night:

1. He's known for his pot humor, so it might be odd for me to love him so much, since I don't smoke it, but I love his podcast and am very excited for his new show coming to Comedy Central this fall, The Benson Interruption. I think he's one of those people who is just naturally funny and I love him, there it is.

2. Had the beginnings of what I thought was a bad cold, so hesitated to say hello after the show, as I didn't want to make him sick. I know a thing or two about what it's like to travel for a living and be sick when you're on the road, but MDH encouraged me to go up. I am not a gusher, but I assume that when you are an entertainer by trade that you appreciate hearing nice things about your work so I mentally prepared a little mini-speech. Something quick and simple, like, I love your podcast, I think you're so funny and can't wait for the new show and then I move along.

3. I got up there and he tried to shake my hand and I declined, so he gave me a little arm around half hug. Ok. Time for my nice words... here we go...

4. All I was able to say was "love your podcast" and the next thing I knew I was somehow cockblocked by MDH. Yes. You read that correctly. Well, maybe not. I mean I wasn't trying to hook up, just say hi, be nice and move on. And last time I checked I don't have a cock, but still, whatever you want to call it, my own darling husband, my love and partner on my path of life, who had encouraged me to go up and say hi in the first place... People it was freakish. The moment words of my prepared mini-speech started coming out of my mouth, MDH nearly pushed me out of the way to buy a CD, get it signed and started making pothead smalltalk with Monsiuer Benson as if I wasn't even there. If you didn't know we were married you might have thought we were strangers. It was bi-zarre.

5. The ride home from the comedy club was a bit chilly. I'm sure you can imagine.

6. Turns out I had a rotten case of the flu. I am just now recovering. I hope I didn't give Doug Benson the flu. I've been checking periodically on Twitter to make sure he is OK. Very out of character for me to give enough of a shit about anyone to check their tweets (I shudder to even type that out), but I feel a strong sense of personal responsability about this. So far I think he's OK.

Anyhoo... I hope you've been having a great summer too! Tell me about it in the comments please.

BTW: Here are a couple of other podcasts I've been enjoying while I perform my new job this summer (available for free on iTunes):

The Nerdist
Matts Radio

Hammer Time

2010-06-17T19:09:00.013-04:00

MDH and I returned from Florida less than 24 hours ago, and it's been so long since I last posted on my blog that I'd be quite shocked if anyone out there missed me.

Some (one or two) of you may be wondering, as I was, just what the fuck were you doing in Florida in the middle of June crazyface?

Central Florida is hotter than Hades in mid-June and judging (and I am indeed, very judgemental) from the snippets of overheard conversations between my fellow airline passengers, only mouth breathing degenerates and their screaming heathen progeny fly to Central Florida in mid-June.

Or people who already live in oven hot climates.

And us.

Seriously, the mental capacity of some my fellow travelers seemed pretty limited. Case in point: The young man and his "gran-maw", sitting behind us, who I'm pretty sure were both making their debuts outside the holler, had never seen a magazine and spent most of the runway taxi time and flight to 10,000 feet, (at which point the flight attendant said we could use portable electronic devices and I praised god's glory in heaven and giddily jammed my earbuds into my listening holes and was able to block these morons out), pointing in amazement at the "pitchurs" in a glossy men's magazine that I can only assume someone had left behind in the gate area, and reciting aloud the prices of each and every item of clothing in the fashion spreads and wondering who would spend $225 for a pair of jeans and the like.

When reading fashion magazines I often wonder the same thing. In the privacy of my own head. But then I quickly get over it. This guy hammered it all out in a twangy monotone. Item by detestable item.

Lookit this Gran-maw - it sez here this guys jacket costed 23 hunnert dollers. Can you believe that shit? Damn! That's a whole years wortha child support!

I've got nothing against rednecks. I've got no room to talk as I myself come from a long line of the finest Kentucky redneck stock, but when your conversational skills are that loud, that limited and I am forced to listen to your stupid ass bullshit it endangers my health. My eyes were rolling up and all around in my head, it's lucky I didn't sprain them.

Well I guess that's what you get for booking at the last minute on Squalor Airlines.

Anyhoo... back to my original question that I imagined you gave enough of a shit to care about or ask me - we went to Florida in the middle of June because we had to reschedule our original, more reasonably timed December visit to my parental units due to my mother's broken pelvis. Understandably, she wanted no visitors during her extremely painful and lengthy recovery. No problem-o. Then I had the brilliant idea to come down in June for her birthday.

It seems extreme, but I'm finding it increasingly necessary to pad visits with my parents with buffer periods both before and after our time with them. This year our 4.5 day visit with my folks was preceded with 3 days at the beach and concluded with 2 days at Disneyworld.

Let me give you some facts about how things go down at my parents house these days:

1. They keep the air conditioning set at 80 degrees.

2. 80 Fucking Degrees.

3. That is hotter than shit.

4. It is not possible to sleep when the air conditioning is set to 80.

5. My mother makes the weakest coffee known to man.

6. My mother is even more passive aggressive than I am.

7. One morning I volunteered to make the coffee and snuck in a couple of extra scoops.

8. She said it was a tad strong for her taste, but cheerfully decided that she could temper hers by adding a little water.

9. When she added the water to her cup she said that it made it too cool and she has this thing where she refuses to heat up coffee in the microwave - so she decided, rather loudly, that she just wouldn't drink coffee that day. "It's just one day. When I was in the hospital recovering from MY BROKEN PELVIS I went for almost a whole week without coffee. Can you imagine that?"

10. It was so over the top she could've won a Tony.

11. It took every ounce of strength left in my sweaty, exhausted, coffee depleted body to restrain myself from suggesting that she leave her cup in the guest room for a minute or two to heat it up.

12. On a brighter note the house rum is 92 proof, flows freely after 11am (new summer hours apparently as previously noon was considered appropriate) and is conveniently located next to the fridge (with built in ice maker) between the cocktail napkins and a bowl of limes.

A Thing of Beauty Is A Joy for Three or Four Years... Maybe Five Tops

2010-05-16T15:05:00.015-04:00

Time sure does fly when you're too busy to lay around with unwashed hair in pajama pants all day, watching TV and eating everything but the wallpaper for several weeks. Or as I like to call it - having a full time job. I hope you don't mind, but I've been living life for a change.

Oh, I'm still the same old me. Still throwing internal tantrums at the supermarket checkout and spending too much money on shoes and personal hygiene products, but I'm somewhat new and improved. Since returning back to work my skin has cleared up (probably from all that daily washing I'm doing now), I have lost 9 lbs and I could swear that my step contains a trace of a swagger, although that could be because of all the cute new shoes I bought to "smarten up my work wardrobe".

Anyhoo... I missed you. As in you my blog and you my blogger friends in blogger world. According to my Google Reader I have 375 unread blog posts. I'll try my best to get caught up on all the important things that have been going on in your lives, but holy jesus you people are wordy so probably not, but I'll try.

Meanwhile I hope all of you are enjoying Spring as much as MDH and I have been.

Now here's some pictures of some new shit I bought to replace some old shit that I was either bored with and/or was falling apart and now that I'm back to work can afford to replace without running it by MDH first. I always have trouble justifying these kinds of purchases with MDH who believes that you should never buy anything new until the old thing breaks or is no longer usable and that's just crazy talk. Also I feel I should mention that somehow this rule doesn't seem to apply to electronics such as DVD players and stereo equipment.

It doesn't really matter because I don't ever listen to him or care what he thinks and simply buy whatever the hell I want anyway. If we lived by his standard our house would look like the set of Sanford and Son.

Ah, nothing says Spring quite like a new shower curtain. Am I right or am I right?

Our old kitchen floor runner had pretty much disappeared under a 22"x84" rectangle of matted cat fur, pine needles and cookie crumbs...

Last week we got new cable, which required a new cable box. The new cable box doesn't have a clock on it and you never realize how much you come to rely on that fucking cable box clock until it's gone. So I bought this pretty yellow clock to hang on the wall above the TV but MDH said the ticking was too loud and now it's been relegated to the basement.

It seems slightly ridiculous to replace the flatware organizer tray, but the old one was too small and slid all around the place. Besides it was another one of those holdover things from MDH's previous marriage. This flatware organizer try is mine - all mine. It fits perfectly in the drawer and now there's a proper spot for my cow head and ass corn holders and my monkey jazz band canape knives.

The battery has been dying on my old iPod and I couldn't stand the thought of waiting until it fully died so I bought myself a new iPod Touch. The 32GB one. Oh yes I did. I love it and pet it and call it George. You can look at it, but don't touch it.

Is This Thing On?

2010-04-08T20:06:00.055-04:00

Is anyone still out there? Jesus. It's been a long time since my last post and you know what? I still don't have anything relevant to say. Not that I'm going to let that stand in my way. I never have, why should I stop now?

Anyhoo... I'm back in my old post at Large Corporation making the world safe for data management and things are things. My cubicle this time around, although equipped with a delightful ass caressing, lumbar supporting, real deal, gen-u-wine Aeron chair, is tiny. Miniscule. The cube is teeny-tiny. Insulting. More insulting - they have taken internet access away from all of the contractors in the department. More humiliating than insulting I suppose, but what can you do? Certainly not check gmail, live-stream NPR, read blogs or get a weather forecast. It's a drag, a huge donkey cock suck if ever there was one although I do enjoy endlessly bitching about it to anyone who will listen, so there's that.

It's great to be working again, and trust me I don't forget it. I keep reminding myself of it every day.

Since Bag O'Mice and Hey Mr. DJ both retired guess who got assigned both of their workloads? It's me! Hooray! Actually, so far it hasn't been all that bad and I'm not nearly as swamped as you might think. Come to think of it, now that I'm fully aware of the scope of the projects they were working on I'm not sure at all what those two old coots were up to all day before they left.

At least in the case of Bag O'Mice it seems he must have spent around three quarters of his day puttering back and forth between his desk and the copier as I have discovered that the heaving, giant dossiers, nearly bursting at the seams that I inherited from him are mostly full of printed email correspondence. Yes. Apparently Bag O'Mice printed all of his emails. Jackass.

What else? People I actually got offered a job one week after I started working for Large Corporation again. Not a great job. In fact kind of a shitty job working for the state and I turned it down. It was the right thing to do. It boiled down to pay (although surprisingly it wasn't that much less), but also the work was not exactly what I would call stimulating. Filing. Data entry. Been there. Done that.

I would have felt totally differently about it if I hadn't taken the call from the state's HR lady while luxuriating in the awesomeness of my fabulous new designer office chair and sipping a gratis vente Starbucks in front of my two 20 inch flat screen monitors, which were at the moment displaying the very latest in database software technology.

During the interview, which by the way took place the week before at an office located in a run down strip mall in a questionable part of town, when I had asked them(because I come prepared for that shit so when they say "do you have any questions for us? I immediately whip out a printed list and go to town) what was their most challenging obstacle to accomplishing the long term goals of the department (eh? eh? a good one I think) they replied that it was that a lot of people balk at using a computer, not using the new software we just got, but the fact that they have to use a computer, like at all. This is not the place for me.

The whole interview experience was like that Sesame Street song, One of These Things Is Not Like the Others. I mean if you could have seen the other people who were interviewing - I got to see the competition because they corralled us all together in this big giant room while we waited our turns to meet with the HR people. It was like a casting call for creepy losers and pressed, dry cleaned, prissy me. A couple of the creepy losers were already doing the same job in a different city and were merely interviewing to be transferred, a formality I guess, and spent their time commiserating between themselves at top volume about what a shitty job it was.

So between listening to that, the disconcerting interview-ee holding pen concept and the fact that I had gone through the trouble of hot rollering my hair and wiggling into pantyhose and was sitting next to a rumpled man wearing scuffed white (white!) cowboy boots, enough pomade to wax a Buick who smelled like he hadn't washed his suit since the civil war, when I realized that we were all interviewing for the same position I almost bailed.

I don't normally like to think that I'm better than anyone else, maybe that I'm better off, but not better. But in this case, better, better off, either way I knew that I didn't belong there. I stayed for the interview, but the whole thing felt wrong, wrong, wrong and I knew that it would be a huge step down. Clearly some of those other folks needed that job worse than me and if that's a snobby thing to say - well I just don't care.

Did I mention that the job was shitty? Have I harped enough on that or do you need to hear about that some more? Oh and it wasn't even a permanent job. Yeah. Up to 2 years. Not even a guarantee of two years. Only possibly two years. To me I might as well stay at Large Corp where I have so many friends and a new comfy spaceship chair, challenging work that I enjoy and a small modicum of hope.

It's funny though the feedback I got from different people that I talked to about it. Some people were like oooh a job with the state, like that in itself was a boondoggle. Even when I explained that it was a temporary, low paying, shitty job, some still insisted that it was a good opportunity and a "foot in the door". Perhaps I might feel it was a good opportunity if Large Corporation hadn't asked me to come back, or I was 21 and freshly out of college or didn't have a bachelor's degree and over 15 years of professional experience. To me it felt like a huge step in the wrong direction.

Anyhoo... (you get a bonus anyhoo because it's been so long since my last post) going back to Large Corporation has been like going to a family reunion only the people there are happy to see me and nice to me. It's been like putting on a pair of old slippers only not really because it smells better than my old slippers, which frankly still kind of smell like Cool Ranch Doritos even after I run them thru the wash.

The News Round Up - Soup, Cake, Drugs, Financing

2010-03-16T10:42:00.022-04:00

1. Late Saturday afternoon my friend Rachel called just as I was in the throes of preparing the last big pot of soup (Portuguese Kale Soup) of the year, as it is now if not actually Spring, it is at least Spring-like and getting warmer and who needs big bubbling pots of hearty soup when it's warm out? Anyhoo... I heard the phone ring and hollered out to MDH from the kitchen that if it's for me tell whoever it is that I'm elbow deep in kale and that I will call them later... but then he hollered back that it was Rachel so I hollered back - tell her to bring Dave (her boyfriend) and come over and have soup with us - and so she did.

Then I called Ladette to see if she wanted to come by too and damned if she didn't just happen to be hanging out with her husband at a pub only a few blocks away. They came too.

Hence an impromptu dinner party - my dream come true.

Seriously, I dream of this but the stars are so rarely aligned in such a way as to accommodate impromptu dinner parties. House is clean? Check. Even the bathrooms? Mostly, check. Am I clean? Check. Got snacks? Check. Beer's cold? Check. Plenty of food? Check. Holy shit - c'mon over!

As if the evening wasn't already great enough Rachel caused me to squeal and carry on like a contestant on the Price Is Right, when she walked through the door with a Chantilly Torte cake from Arnie's for dessert. It's only my favorite cake EVER! Thanks Rach.

2. I start my new old job next Monday. When they told me that I'd have to take a drug test sometime this week my initial reaction was a quiet moment of slight panic until I remembered that I have nothing to fear. I have a guilty conscious but haven't been stoned in well over 10 years - unless you count Pamprin and I don't. If anything having to take the drug test is inconvenient because it causes me to leave the house and drive across town.

It's been awhile since I've had to take a drug test so I was very pleased to learn that they just take a hair sample now, which is so much more civilized than sitting in a room full of strangers avoiding eye contact with each other because we all know that each one of us is there waiting our turn to go piss in a cup. Eye contact avoidance aside, I will admit to looking around and trying to figure out who among us in the waiting room had the most to be worried about and it was never me.

3. MDH and I got a new bed a few weeks ago and it has been a glorious, transformative, life changing thing. It's a gigantic, king-sized, leather and teak* monstrosity of a bed. It's hard as a goddamn rock (extra firm) and so enormously huge that I have no idea what the hell MDH is getting up to waaaay over there on his side of it and I don't give a shit because I'm too busy sleeping like an angel through the night and waking up with no aches and pains.

His bowling ball doesn't knock over my wine glass anymore.

We love the new bed so much, and our bedroom has transformed into such a beautiful haven that we have agreed that whoever wakes up last makes the bed - and we have made the bed every day since. Not only that, but the room has remained clean and pristine. I actually dust in there now and put away all my clothes and shit where it belongs. Previously we were neither one of us bedmakers and we** had crap strewn everywhere to the point where not only was the room not a haven, I didn't even like walking by it. It was like a messy dorm room. We*** feel like grown ups now.

Each night before we turn out the lights we gaze lovingly at each other from across the vast expanse of it, sweep a leg around until our big toes are touching and declare aloud our love for each other and the new bed. I think it might be the best money we've ever spent.

*I don't actually know what kind of wood it is, but it is dark and teak-like.

**Me

***We

Large Corporation

2010-03-10T16:45:00.004-05:00

(This photo is meant to represent eagerness)

Six months have gone by since Large Corporation gave me the old heave-ho because of their ridiculous policy that only allows contractors to stay for 18 months at a time. Six months is the amount of time that has to pass between my leaving and being eligible to work there as a contractor again.

They called me today and wanted to know if I wanted to come back and do my old job, and if so when could I start? I said let me just brush my teeth and I'll be down in about 20 minutes.

This time though it's going to be different:

I'm not going to kid myself that they will ever hire me permanently.
No matter what anyone there leads me to believe I will not get my hopes up that they will ever hire me permanently.
Even though I found out that my good friend Hey Mr. DJ and that stupid old fart Bag O'Mice are retiring next month I will not get my hopes up that they will ever hire me permanently.
I will passionately continue to seek full time permanent employment elsewhere because I know in my heart that they will never hire me permanently.
I mean it.
Fuck them.
Now, where's my parking pass?

Don't Ask, Don't Tell

2010-03-01T09:50:00.001-05:00

My mom worked in accounting at the main office of a chain of appliance stores for over 30 years. She took a short break after my sister was born but was right back at it as soon as my sister was old enough to start going to school. Thirty years is a long time to work at the same place. I just can't imagine it.

Over the years the company changed and grew and my mother's job along with it. She had started working there part time when she was still in college and they only had one or two stores in Central Ohio. Back then her office consisted of herself and two other women and the owners of the company. By the time she retired the company had stores all over Ohio and the Midwest, she had a staff of over 20 people and she was a company wide legend. Everybody knew her and she knew everybody.

When you work somewhere for that long people really get to know you and in my mother's case it seemed that she shared every intimate detail of her life with these people. Whenever my sister and I tagged along at any company or accounting department sponsored party or event her coworkers seemed to know everything about us. Good and bad. Mostly bad it seemed. They all knew to congratulate me for making the honor roll or to chastise me because I had gotten caught making long distance prank phone calls. They knew about how I had stolen the "key" to the cable box and watched pornos. They knew that I had spiked the kool-aid at a slumber party with my dad's moonshine. They knew everything. I figure my mom must have walked in the door of that place each morning and immediately begun to blab about me to her coworkers and anyone who would listen all goddamn day.

Not that I didn't constantly give her the need to vent frustration.

Still I assumed that some things between my mother and I were sacred.

I was wrong.

Eventually I discovered the degree of my mothers blabbitude, much to my horror and disgust when three or four of her co-workers actually fluttered about me like buzzing middle aged mosquitoes at a 4th of July picnic (or some potluck or such) somewhere around the year of our lord 1978 and had the collective balls to talk to me in loud whispers all about how I'd recently started having my period. As if they thought we were all chummy characters in a Judy Blume novel having a lark and not a shy and stunned 11 year old girl being psychologically tortured by cackling grown-ass women who were, although very good friends to my mother, strangers to me.

I thought I would die.

I had a hard enough time talking about period related stuff with my mother (I had even begged her not to tell my dad) so it was the last thing that I wanted to discuss with my mother's co-workers. I soon discovered though that it was only the beginning of a long, one sided and yet very intimate relationship I was to continue to have with 15 to 20 women that I only ever saw or spoke to about 3 or 4 times a year. Women with whom I could barely match faces to names, but would know it seemed every single detail about my life.

After the Great Period Fiasco 1978 I confronted my mother regarding her breach of respect, trust and privacy and she merely laughed at me like I was an adorable little chit.

"When a bunch of women get together they talk", she shrugged.

"Yes, I get that, but did you have to talk about that?"

"Yes." She said. "I did. I can't help it. You're my kid and you hit a milestone and I told all my friends about it. I'm proud of you and if it makes you feel any better they all tell me all about their kids too."

It didn't make me feel any better, but over the years I got used to it I suppose and began to automatically assume that everyone at the appliance store knew my bra size, the diameter of my nipples, my preference of tampons over pads, and all about my every cramp and gas bubble. Frankly the Great Period Fiasco of 1978 was the beginning of the end of me sharing any personal information of any importance with my mom.

At this point you might think that I'm telling you all this psychotic episode inducing shit about my mom so that I may continue to use my blog as a form of cheap therapy. Well there is that. But it's also so that I can tell you about how our friend Pecan Sandie is sending her teenage son Miles to come and stay with us this week.

Long time single mom Pecan Sandie called us a few weeks ago crying and babbling about how Miles had gotten himself into a spot trouble of a sexual nature with a girl. Nobody is pregnant or diseased or anything like that. Actually it's all pretty innocent and normal stuff (by my standards) and my only beef with any of it is the fact that I FUCKING KNOW ABOUT IT AT ALL.

Suddenly all that stuff about my own mother discussing the intimate details of my life with her friends was brought screaming and unwelcome back to the forefront of my cranial lobe. I thought I had put it all behind me.

Sandie had told me over the phone all about what Miles had been up to with the girl in very graphic detail. I'll just say this - it was pretty juicy stuff - but waaaay too much information and while I wanted to be a good friend and good listener at the same time I wanted to throw the phone across the room, put my hands over my ears, shout LALALALALA and stamp around in circles until all of the damaging visual images Sandie had put in my brain went buh-bye. I was able to steer the conversation to a place with fewer details but wondered how in the hell she had come upon all of this very personal information about her son. Apparently he'd told her all about it. I shuddered.

Anyhoo... Miles is coming to stay with us because Sandie thinks that MDH is a good role model for how a young man should conduct himself with the ladies, which just makes me want to snicker, and she's hoping that Miles will be able to talk to MDH about things of a sexual nature in such a way that she as his mother is unable.

Meanwhile I'm looking forward to having Miles come and visit for many reasons. He's a great kid and it's always nice to have a house guest. Besides, MDH and I could use some more youthful influence around here. We have lots of plans to take Miles to do cool stuff while he's here, but I will leave all discussions of sex up to MDH and plan to pretend that I myself have been given no knowledge of Miles and his recent previous shenanigans.

Finally, what I realized after all this time is that talking about your life and your children with your friends is only natural. I myself, although I don't have any children, can think of oh so many embarassing personal details about the people that I love, including my husband, that I have spilled not only to my friends, but right here for public airing on this blog. So I'm guilty too, but what I have also realized is that it wasn't the fact that my mother shared stories about me with her friends that upset me so much as it was that her stupid fucking friends, who I barely knew, felt like they could openly discuss these intimate details about my own life with me.

So I'm never even going to hint to Miles that his mom said a word to me about his sex life. If anything I might talk to him about the many benefits of keeping secrets from your parents and if I have that discussion with him I won't tell his mom about it.

LALALALALALA.

Just So There's No Further Confusion

2010-02-22T20:37:00.018-05:00

If I am married to you and you hear me holler to you from another room, "Honey, will you come help me?", you can go ahead and assume there is a silent "now"* at the end of that sentence. In bold with an underline. In fact for future reference if you don't hear the phrase "when you get a chance" in front of that sentence please imagine the worst.

In other words, put down the bong and pause the the History Channel special on Hitler's Secret Pants that you have already seen eleventy billion times (it's why we have a DVR, pause is a great feature). Get your ass off the sofa and come help me this very instant.

Assume that I am bleeding to death or that the cat is on fire and get your ass over here. Pronto.

I know you heard me. So don't try to pretend like you didn't.

Anyhoo... I can only hope that you are not disappointed when you arrive to find that I am not actually bleeding to death or that the cat's not on fire and will do me a solid by helping me with whatever thing it is I needed helping with and not ask me too many questions. I will say thank you, probably give you a little kiss if you don't give me any sass and I am way more likely to reward you in another more delightful manner, at some future time to be determined at my discretion, if you were to ask me if I perhaps needed your help with anything else before you take off back to the den. I promise, at some future time to be determined at my discretion, there will be extra credit for a good attitude and can-do spirit.

If you have failed to respond quickly enough to the hollered sentence "Honey will you come help me?" and it is followed 30 to 45 seconds later by a much louder HONEY?? in the all caps oral equivalent of shouting, then you may assume to exchange the word HONEY?? with HEY ASSHOLE!

For further clarification if I ask you do to something prefaced with the phrase "When you have the chance" you may translate that to "Sometime within the next 30 minutes" and "Sometime this week" means "Tomorrow".

*I cannot explain, but for whatever reason avoiding use of the word "now" makes me feel like less of a harpie. I'm not saying it's rational.

I Love the 70's

2010-02-19T14:32:00.005-05:00

Lately I've been enjoying a blog called Plaid Stallions and have decided not to keep it to myself any longer. Perhaps some of you have already visited.

If you grew up in the 70's and lived your life around the seasonal arrival of the JC Penny catalog you will probably love this blog as much as I do. I'm more of a lurker over there but I read every post. Mostly it's all about the toys, games and action figures, but frequently it's all about the stylin' 70's clothes and the posts about the clothes are my favorites. The commentary about the clothing ads almost always make me laugh out loud.

Here's a link to the blog itself:

http://plaidstallions.blogspot.com/

Here's a link to the posts tagged "fashion mockery":

http://plaidstallions.blogspot.com/search/label/fashion%20mockery

Dear Fashion, Nobody Needs This

2010-02-18T11:13:00.012-05:00

Dear MaxMara,
I'm writing to let you know, just in case you drank too many Papaya-tinis or swallowed too much Extasy at the photo shoot and weren't aware, that the model in your advertisement is wearing her leotard underpinning backwards. Also I feel it's important you understand that high waisted, tight fitting pants in a large cammo-floral-ish pattern look hideous on, oh I don't know, just about everyone. The other components of this outfit seem all right, except for maybe the leather bolo thing. Fuck it. Other than the sweater it all sucks donkey balls and if all you've got to offer us is a brown cardigan you should probably know that we can get one of those at Kohl's.
Sincerely,
Women Everywhere

Dear Topshop,
Finally! Now I know exactly where to go to buy the over sized faded t-shirts and cut off Daisy Duke jean shorts that pooch out in the crotch and make me look like I have a big giant cock. I mean where else on earth could I find that? I mean besides Goodwill... Anyhoo... now I know exactly what to wear when I give $5 blow jobs on the subway platform. Please, please tell me that they are also hand sewn and caked with the dried blood of Sri-Lankan pre-schoolers. I just love cheap hooker clothes that are made with child labor.
Crackwhorishly Yours,
Lady

Dear Calvin Klein,
Send help quickly! The model in your ad has fallen into some kind of nightmarish tree nest and her arms are too skinny for her to pull herself out on her own power. Please help her, she's trapped! Send her a cigarette and a turkey sandwich, stat. Hurry! She's starting to look really depressed.
Kindest Regards,
The Lady Who Actually Eats Lunch

The News Roundup: Much Ado About Pillows

2010-02-12T15:40:00.026-05:00

Today I give you yet another set of numbered points filled with verbal wanderings and highlighted with photos of food and some new stuff I recently purchased, oh, and this cartoon:
1. I found the cartoon at Married To the Sea and it's almost eerily fitting for what I'm about to tell you, which is this: I finally heard back from the recruiter that has been helping me try to get a job with the company that was hedging on whether or not I was going to get a second interview (remember that? it was a couple of posts ago) and it made me angry. It made me very angry. It was not good.

Apparently the reason why they are not sure that I am the right candidate is because I mentioned during the interview that MDH and I love to travel. Apparently whatever I said about our love for travel gave them the impression that I would be off gallivanting all over planet earth so frequently that I wouldn't be able to put in enough hours working for them. Um...what? THEY ARE OUT OF THEIR GODDAMN MINDS.

Frankly I don't even really remember talking about traveling much at all, except to say that I like it, when asked the question that people in interviews so often ask, "what do you like to do in your spare time?" I pretty much always answer by saying that I like to read, cook and travel in lieu of the smarty pants answers that I'm tempted to give like, beat up nuns, masturbate and cry while watching QVC and making crafts from discarded dryer lint. I certainly do not remember acting like some kind of jet-setting prima donna, as though I would demand more vacation time than what would be offered with the position.

So in addition to being angry about the whole thing, I'm terribly confused. The recruiter was angry and confused and thought they were out of their goddamn minds as well. What-evs. As far as I'm concerned these people can suck my cock. I say good day. Next issue.

2. Wednesday night my lovely friend Ladette came by for another cooking lesson. This time I showed her how to make baked mac & cheese with bacon, pan seared pork chops rubbed with brown sugar and smoked paprika (and some other spices), and then we blanched and sauteed some fresh green beans. I made her do most of the work and she did a great job...

Speaking of masturbating and crying while watching QVC, after dinner I forced her to stay and watch TV with me. She sat through Millionaire Matchmaker and 2 episodes of The Mighty Boosh before I allowed her to leave. She even pretended to laugh a little which means she's not only a good student, she's a good sport.

3. Around September it dawned on me that the already shabby and stained toss pillows in the den were beginning to disintegrate and smell a little ripe. Those pillows get a great deal of abuse from us because we use them not only for decoration and back support, but since the den often performs double duty as a dining room, we also end up using the pillows as TV trays and placemats. Even if I didn't mention the drool, spilt beer and various other cat and human related fluids they have accidentally soaked up over the years you should be getting the picture - these pillows were exhausted.

After all this time I couldn't bring myself to spend the money on new toss pillows because I'm not working right now and the expense seemed rather decadent. Yet I couldn't stop obsessing about replacing them. It was a silent obsession because it's certainly not the sort of purchase that I can plan out and discuss in great detail with MDH. He has made it clear, typically via rolled eyes and grunting, that he is not interested whenever I attempt to bring up all things decorative. Especially when money is tight. If it were up to him we would not have new toss pillows (or anything nice) and in fact I might even venture to guess that I could have replaced the toss pillows with old horse blankets stuffed with dirty kleenex and cream cheese and he probably wouldn't notice the difference.

Anyhoo... I shopped and shopped but stopped short of actually buying anything because good toss pillows, or at least the ones I'm always drawn to, tend to be ridiculously expensive. I could never justify spending the money and I could not find a way to compromise my toss pillow ideals, namely: There must be 4 in total, they must be of a certain size (large enough to use as a TV tray or placemat), they must somehow be washable, and they must all be in a matching color or pattern that have (to me) a certain je ne sais quoi.

I knew that I'd know it when I saw it and late last month I saw "it" at CB2, or more specifically the CB2 catalog (because do you think there is a store like CB2 anywhere near the Tundra? No.). They arrived a few weeks ago and they are nice. I mean all cotton with a down pillow insert and removable washable cover nice. For $14.95 each.
My nook...

The loveseat...

I want to decorate the rest of the house in this color scheme. I don't think that MDH will notice. (Please pardon our hideous paneling).

4. This afternoon I really wanted to get out of the house so I racked my brain and rifled through the utility closet and pantry trying to think of something we needed to buy so I'd have an excuse to go shopping. All I could come up with was paper towels so I went to Target to get some. On the way home I decided to troll around in TJ Maxx for awhile where I found these big sterling hoop earrings:

You try holding your hair back, turning your head sideways and taking a picture of yourself without looking like a total weirdo. Not so easy is it? Anyway... blogworld, meet my mole.

5. How could I forget? My poor little kitten (read 16 pound behemoth grown cat) has been sick. He is sneezing, has a runny nose, inflamed tonsils and a general malaise that is very out of character. The vet gave us some anti-biotic and some goo to help him digest hairballs and he seems to be feeling better, but a rather comical side effect of this illness is that he also seems to have laryngitis, so when he's not busy sneezing and going gack, gack, gack all over the place he does this weird thing that MDH have started calling the silent meow. It's really pathetic.

Thanks for putting us at the table closest to the bar

2010-02-08T23:48:00.012-05:00

Jogger's wedding reception on Saturday night was a big old hoot and featured a photo booth... with some props. Oh, and Raspberry Stoli... which I drank in abundance with soda and a cherry and kept 'em coming. Here is the highlight reel:

The lovely Ladette and me... In retrospect I can't believe she put those sunglasses in her mouth dude. Hindsight is always more disgusting.

MDH sporting a teeny-tiny purple pimp hat and busting out what I can only assume are Portuguese gang symbols.

I hope you all had as good of a weekend as we did, although I'm kinda still recovering.

Drinking Game

2010-02-06T10:52:00.008-05:00

Last night after dinner MDH and I created a new drinking game while watching back episodes of House Hunters that have been piling up on our DVR. The game is called Man Cave. The rules, as with any drinking game, are simple:

Watch any given episode of House Hunters* and chug a shot every time a guy uses the phrase "Man Cave".

Chug two shots if a female says it because for some reason it sounds twice as stupid to hear the phrase come from the mouth of a woman.

Players will draw for different finishes and features, ie., "granite counter tops", "stainless steel appliances", "crown molding", "tray ceiling", etc., and must drink each time their own special finish or feature is mentioned.

We didn't actually play the game because between the two of us we have too much common sense and probably not enough liquor in the house anyway.

(I'm looking forward to spring and summer when it's not unusual for MDH and I to spend the entire evening without turning on the TV.)

*Or for that matter any given half hour time slot on HGTV's prime time line up. Property Virgins, Bang for Your Buck, etc.,.

WARNING: Playing this game with the DIY show that is actually called "Man Caves" could lead to alcohol poisoning and possibly death. Play at your own risk.

Same Time Last Year

2010-02-04T16:21:00.012-05:00

This afternoon as I was pulling on an extra sweater I realized that exactly one year ago today MDH and I were sitting on Poipu Beach in Kauai, sucking down fruity cocktails and looking out at the Pacific Ocean trying to spot humpback whales, or hump spotback whales, I don't know, we were pretty tanked. Since I'm having such a hard time writing lately, here are some pictures.

The view from my lounge chair.

MDH busted (from our balcony with the handy zoom lens) taking a break from grilling our dinner.

A monk seal stopped by for a nap as well. (Don't worry she's not dead, just sleeping.)

Above the taro fields - we'll go back someday...
Damn, it's cold here today.

My heart won't let my feet do things they should do...

2010-02-03T12:10:00.036-05:00

Wouldn't it have been great to start off my first blog post after three weeks of zip-o with a grand and exuberant announcement that I have finally after quite a few months (I'm not ready to use the word "several" just yet) landed myself gainful, full-time, permanent employment?

Wouldn't that have been great?

It would have been great, but I'm sad to inform you that I'm still bumming around the house trying not to eat everything in sight while I watch too much reality TV.

Some days are better than others, like the days when a new episode of Project Runway is on, the days when there are actually job postings that I'm interested in and qualified for, or that time that Lady Gaga made a guest appearance on Launch My Line. Good times.

Today's a very good day because not only did I find the first disk of season 3 of The Mighty Boosh from Netflix and this week's New York magazine in the mailbox, I also found the big box of tangerines that my mom and dad shipped to me from the orchards down the road from their house in Florida sitting out there too.

Anyhoo... my job searching hasn't been all terrible. I hit a hot streak a few weeks ago and had two interviews with two very different companies in the same week. Both were for decent jobs that I'm actually qualified to do. I got a little nutty that week fantasizing about how I could wow them both and start a bidding war for my amazingness but the first company gave me a rejection email within a couple of days.

I gotta say that at the same time I was a wee bit sad that I didn't get the job I was also kind of happy that they let me know so quickly. I was almost compelled to write and thank them for getting that shit over with. I think waiting around is the worst part and they ripped off the band-aid so fast, ka-pow!, and made my life much more bearable.

The other company I interviewed with later that same week - not so much. Still waiting. And it's not like I didn't hear anything from them in the mean time. I got glowing feedback after the first interview, glowing, and I interviewed with 4 different people mind you. Then the following week they had me fill out all different kinds of forms and personality assessments and then after that they contacted my recruiter to ask if I was available to set up a second interview. That was almost 2 flippin' weeks ago and at this point I'm near my boiling point. I can only assume that the kind of people who play these cruel waiting games have never themselves been unemployed or they wouldn't fucking do it.

It's not like I mind if the process takes a long time. I get it. I absolutely understand that these kinds of important hiring decisions should not be made in haste, but for the sweet love of Ray J at least let a bitch know when she can expect to hear back.

In the meantime I have Project Runway, Let's Talk About Pep, and the new season of Millionaire Matchmaker to keep me busy and I just signed up to teach English as a second language at my local literacy center, although it'll take awhile before I get to do actually do anything because they have to do interviews and background checks and I have to go through some training courses that don't happen until late April. Stupid interviews. I thought it was odd that they have the volunteer tutors go through such hoops but when an over protective husband who attended orientation with this wife asked if the tu-tees were background checked the literacy center lady hemmed and hawed and finally said she didn't know. Interesting.

Also interesting, while describing the types of people who come to the literacy center for help, she also quickly, and I almost want to say under her breath, mumbled some things that sounded remarkably like "work release" and "parole".

The over protective husband also asked whether or not his wife's time spent volunteering would be tax deductable and whether or not she would be reimbursed for mileage. What a jackass, although I'm glad MDH didn't come with me because those are exactly the kinds of jackass questions he asked me when I told him I wanted to do this. My answer to those questions: I don't give a shit - I'm doing it anyway.

In other news, after 3 failed attempts I finally found a pair of boots that work for me (insert chorus of angels singing Ode to Joy here). The only sort of flaw is that they are not real leather, but leather was merely a nice to have, otherwise they meet all my fucked up leg criteria:

1. Must have a full side zip as I cannot bend my right ankle to accommodate a pull-on style of boot.

2. Must have pointed toe. I can't abide a round or square toe. With my giant frame? It makes my foot look like a hoof.

3. Must have an extra wide shaft. Yeah baby, you heard me right, I said extra wide shaft. (Seriously, all sexual innuendo aside, I've got big calves.)

4. Must be flat or have extremely low heel. Fused ankle. What can I do? My foot is stuck in that position. Any higher than an inch and I can't walk.

So I found a pair that work. Halle-friggin-lujah. Attention People Who Know Me - be prepared to be sick of seeing them.

Something weird just happened. My fingers went all nutty while I was typing and now the font of this post looks janky. I can't figure out how to fix it either. Dang.

So where was I? Boots. Yep. I got boots. What else? Oh hell yes - MDH and I are getting an enormous income tax return this year and are going to buy a new bed. King size.

Our first big purchase as a couple 10 years ago was our queen size bed that we currently use. I use the word "we" loosely as most nights I start off in in that bed, but typically I end up running away to the guest room after having been driven off by some combination of MDH's ungodly snoring and my chronic back pain (because the bed now folds up like a taco when are both in it). I think it goes without saying that it's time for a new bed.

That's it for now except that I'd like to say a hearty congrats and sad farewell to my young friend Jogger who is getting married this Saturday and then moving away to Texas. Good luck kid. Stay in touch or I will hunt you down.

Here's the song I've been singing around the house today, hence the title of my post ...

Ridin' the Flavor Train to Tastytown

2010-01-10T12:07:00.023-05:00

My favorite winter sport is eating. Not in a competitive way, just generally. Now that the holidays are over I've put the brakes on the crazy rich foods (the cookies, oh god, the cookies) and have been making more sensible yums (the banana waffles I made for brunch yesterday don't exactly count as sensible - but hey, I used whole grain flour and there were bananas involved so shut up - I should have snapped a photo of them because they were gorgeous.). This weekend I've been particularly productive in the kitchen and thought I would share with you some photos of the tasty treats I've concocted:

The hummus (MDH and I dipped into it a smidge before I snapped the photo):

The cucumber chips:

What remains of my whole grain pasta with spicy Thai peanut sauce with onions and sweet red peppers (chopped raw scallions on top for garnish and a little kick). I wish there were more left over cause it's one of those dishes I like better cold:

A little something I like to call "Grape Salad", but is really just green and red (or black) seedless grapes removed from the vine and stem and rinsed like mad. If you get the right mix of grapes they should be sweet and tart. They look so pretty don't they? Another one of my alternative snacking ideas as they are good to reach for instead of popcorn or chips:

What the hell else am I going to write about on a lazy Sunday, eh? I'm having so much fun sharing the food pictures, I'm going to throw in some other photos I've taken recently:

Look! My amaryllis finally bloomed. It's freaking huge too, like more than 3 feet tall. Now that it's actually flowered it's no longer creepy. In the background of this photo you can see the shopping bags filled with Christmas tree ornaments because I was in the process of taking down our tree:

Traditionally I shop for Christmas decorations the week after Christmas when everything is 75% off. It's pretty dumb to pay full price for this crap. I leave the new ornaments wrapped up and forget all about them until the next year and then it's like having a bunch of little surprises when I'm decorating the tree. Next year I'm sure I'll be delighted when I unwrap this goofy toadstool ornament. (That's my friend Jogger's wedding invitation on the table in the background - February 2nd is the big day!):

Below is what might be one of the worst Christmas presents I've ever gotten. It's safety orange nylon. NY-LON. It's even more revolting in person. No gift receipt either. To make matters worse I felt bad because I knew my mother was unable to go out Christmas shopping this year (she broke her pelvis this past fall and is still recovering) and bought everything on QVC, so I told her it was cute. I am a big fat liar-head.

On a bright note, this is one of my oldest and most favorite and most miraculous Christmas ornaments. It's a hand blown (I assume) glass snowman and it's very delicate. It feels like a feather. The thing that is miraculous about it is - look at it's nose - that it's nose is still intact. All these years (about 8) and I haven't managed to smash it or break the tip of that snowman's nose. See you next year little snowman...

Happy Sunday.

Because I'm Better Than You, That's Why

2010-01-07T22:03:00.028-05:00

Sometimes, sometimes I don't wash my hands in public restrooms. Now you know. Don't hate me though. Keep reading. I have my reasons and alternative solutions. I feel a little bit funny about it when I don't, but then I think it's probably OK because typically I don't have to touch my lady junk directly, so to speak, and I don't pee on my hands when I'm using a public toilet (or anywhere else for that matter, at least not on purpose - I felt I must clarify for those of you smarty pant-ses out there) and since it's not physically (it's really a mental block) possible* for me to poop in a public restroom the difficulties that might sometimes arise in cleaning up after that simply don't come up.

Now that I've gotten that important announcement out of the way I'd like to say that what I worry about more than sometimes leaving the ladies room without washing my hands is that sometimes other public women's room patrons (see bullet points of previous post below mentioning my friend Dan's extensive, habitual use of women's restrooms - we don't want to be politically incorrect and assume that all women's room patrons are necessarily women now do we?) seem to notice that I haven't washed my hands and when they do they give me the hairy eyeball, or at least I perceive that they do and this post is my way of giving an explanation. You see most times I do wash my hands in public restrooms provided that the circumstances are such that:

A. There is an option for warm water to be dispensed from the tap. When you live in colder climes having the water blast from the tap at minus ice balls degrees is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing when you'd like a nice cold glass of water to drink and a curse when you would like to wash your hands after using a public toilet and discover the water is not only coming out of the tap freezing cold enough to stop your fucking heart, but also that there is really no option to warm that shit up. Oh sure the tap has an "H" on it indicating that hot water might be available if only you wait long enough, but some middle management penny pinching asshole has turned the hot water off and you are only kidding yourself that it will ever warm up. Not to make a pun, but hell will freeze over first before that water heats up. The hot water is a ruse. I'm not washing my hands here.

B. There is a paper towel option for drying my hands. Those air dryers are for suckers. It takes a year and a day to make any progress and I've got places to go and people to do. The air dryer fritters away my life and I haven't got time for that shit. Half the time when I do consent to using the air dryer the air blowing out is just as freezing cold as the tap water and/or I end up frustrated and drying my hands on my pants or desperately going back into a stall and dabbing at my hands with toilet tissue to dry them. Either way it ends in tears.

C. Please don't even get me started on the cloth diaper towel dispenser type of hand dryer that just spins and spins in filthy, germy circles. I have never in all my travels encountered one of those contraptions that wasn't brownish-yellow and dripping wet with ladies room cooties. No thank you. Even if I had whizzed all over myself why would I wash up and then dry off with that gross spinny diaper towel.

D. The absence of miscellaneous other minor gross outs and inconveniences including but not necessarily limited to:

No soap. No towels. Broken hand dryer. Bathroom filthy in general. Sink clogged with tissues or paper towels. Puddles of water (I hope it's water) on the counter and no place to lean without touching it. Not enough sinks and/or towel dispensers thus causing me to have to wait in line to wash my hands or stand dripping waiting to dry them afterwards. Unable to make the appropriate Ninja moves or otherwise psychically connect with the automatic laser tap/laser soap/laser towel in such a way that causes the laser dispenser to hook me up with the necessary hand washing supplies to make it happen (I'm performing freaking Tai-Chi in a mirror front of ten strangers who are waiting to use the facilities after me and nothing is happening).

So in closing the main reason I don't wash my hands in public restrooms is because I'm a germophobe. Would you like another helping of crazy?

If it makes you feel any better or at least less inclined to hit me with the stink eye, rest assured I usually carry disinfectant wipes in my purse that I employ just in case of such emergencies as not being fully satisfied with the cleanliness of the facilities at hand. I'm not going to pee, leave the rest room without washing my hands and then run off and make you or anyone else a sandwich. It's cool, don't worry about it.

*For those of you that may have been reading my blog for a long time you might remember** that I have previously mentioned being able to poop anywhere. That used to be true but is not anymore. At one point when I was living my life on the road (anyone seen the movie Up In the Air yet?) I adapted my body so that I could poop or sleep anywhere*** and under any conditions.

**It's kinda creepy that you remembered that Dude.

***Anywhere indoors. I have always and probably will always**** be unable to sleep or poop out of doors.

****OK. Like maybe if end of days came and everything was destroyed and I was left here with no running water (how will I make my tea?) and only pine needles for a bed, because I can guaran-fucking-tee you that I will not be called up to Jesus when the rapture comes. When that happens, that's when I'll poop outside.

Life's candy and the sun's a ball of butter

2010-01-04T22:23:00.023-05:00

There isn't much to report but today I'm compelled to write a blog post anyway so what you're probably going to get is a rambler. I'm just going to keep typing and see what shakes out. I'm pretty sure that bullet points and blurting out whatever comes to your stupid mind are how Byron and Tennyson and did it.

Let's see... it's kind of late for all the happy new year well wishing stuff (consider yourselves well wished) and I wouldn't share with you my list of resolutions because I don't make new year's resolutions. I'm patently opposed to them, although for some reason I seem to come up with all of my brightest ideas to incorporate big changes and/or improvements to my life in early January. I keep these to myself until mid-February or so... just so they are not mistaken for new year's resolutions.

One of my bright ideas for life style improvements that I will not be implementing officially until mid-February, and is most certainly not a new years resolution, is the need to incorporate more exercise into my daily routine. I have recently been toying with the idea of rejoining my old gym and I just can't bring myself to do it. Not in January. What is more pathetic than a middle aged fat chick joining a gym in January? I guess maybe a fat chick never joining a gym at all, but still. Or now that I think of it, more pathetic than that is the fat chick who joins the gym in January and then stops going in early February and yet continues to pay for that shit well into the next year. Especially more pathetic when said fat chick already owns enough gym equipment to train the US Olympic.... um what? I was going to say women's basketball team or something like that just to be silly, but after taking a quick mental inventory I've realized that I probably realistically could train the curling team right here in my very own home. Have you seen those guys? What could they possibly need that I don't have in my basement this very minute. I'm pretty sure I have all the necessary equipment, which is to say a treadmill, two stationary bikes, a set of 3 pound weights (pink ones) and an industrial size push broom. Something to think about...

But enough about my semi-real plans to coach Olympic curling...

What else is new? Did I ever tell you about my best friend Amy's stalker? It's her ex-boyfriend from forever ago, blah, blah, blah. It's kind of old news. He's deranged and he lives in Los Angeles and for some reason is still upset about the fact that she broke up with him well over 15 years ago. Now that's a grudge. Anyhoo... he's just your average psycho ex-boyfriend stalker sending threatening emails and such. Amy has a restraining order and followed all the proper channels. Yawns all round. But what is very interesting and exciting news is that Amy's stalker must have gotten bored of her ignoring him and has recently been stalking and making prank phone calls and sending threatening emails to her ex-husband Assface. Saying all kinds of lovely, obscene things about Amy to him. It's delicious and not just because it makes Assface so very angry, but also because Assface doesn't have the same amount of common sense that God gave to hamsters and refuses to hang up the phone or put the stalker on his block-senders list. He listens and reads and sets himself up for a right huge hissy fit every time. Funny.

I think there is no better way to end a shitty rambling post like this one than with bullet points detailing the highlights of our trip to Columbus to celebrate New Year's Eve:

Dinner at the swanky restaurant was a bust. It was a four course prix-fixe menu which at $45 per person seems very reasonable, but the food kind of sucked. We would have been better off to rent a room at Claddaugh and doused ourselves in beer and corned beef.
Alas before Frenchie had the chance to get drunk enough to pass out while sitting up she and Nature Boy got a call from the sitter that their son young Jimmy Neutron was sick and they had to leave the festivities early. Bummer.
The rest of us were able to rally until midnight and watch the ball drop with what remains of Dick Clark. Guilty laughter filled the room as Amy dared to say what we were all thinking - he looks a bit like Cha-ka from Land of the Lost. I'm not saying that he should be hidden away. Why should he? You go Dick! I admire his bravery and fuck it - he owns the goddamn show and he can host if he wants. More power to him. But how about some fucking subtitles? Nobody could understand a goddamn thing he was saying. I take that back. Seacrest and Clark were like psychic friends, simpatico, slurred speech and drowned out by a crowd of thousands cheering in the background, Seacrest seemed to understand every word:

Clark: Aahhh mahh gah heeba Ryah!
Seacrest: That's right Dick.
I might be a terrible person.
Fuck it. Dick Clark had a stroke and his face looks funny and it's hard to understand him. Big deal. Host the show my old friend, but maybe have someone smarter than Ryan Seacrest translate for us.
I spent New Year's Day with 2 of my very best friends in the world, Amy and Dan. We went to see Avatar, but not in 3D for fear that I would get motion sickness and throw up as I have been known to do when I get caught up too tightly in the action.

In the middle of the movie I had a full on, nearly peed my pants, silent laughing jag when Dan came back from his second trip to the bathroom during the film and whispered to me, "I've been to the bathroom twice during this film and just now realized that both times I was in the women's bathroom."

Apparently he just thought it was one of those really nice, all stall men's restrooms. Sure.
My new favorite breakfast food in the whole wide world is pho and my favorite place to get it is here. We stopped by on our way out of town where I quickly slurped it down and then grabbed a bahn-mi to go for my lunch later on. Who knew that the girl who never even tried canned tuna fish until she was 20 would love Vietnamese?

That's all I've got. You still there? Thanks for sticking with me.

Auld Lang Sausage

2009-12-30T16:31:00.015-05:00

Howdy! I don't have much time to spend on a post today as I'm busy packing and running errands, getting ready for our annual trip to Columbus to spend New Year's Eve with the usual suspects.

This year we're doing it in high style and half of us are staying in a swanky-ish hotel downtown where all of us are meeting for cocktails and having a nice dinner together followed by yet more cocktails consumed into the wee hours of the morning. Or if previous New Year's Eve history dictates we will probably all eat too much, get incredibly drunk and then crash and burn before 10:30pm at which point:

Frenchie will already have passed out cold, but somehow still be sitting up.

Steph will have exhausted the hotels entire inventory of stemware because apparently she needs a fresh glass each time a new kind of wine is poured.
MDH will have snuck out for an after dinner Italian sausage and pepper sandwich snack from the street vendor outside the restaurant.

He will hide the sandwich in his pocket and save for later consumption.*

That's how we roll.

Have a safe and happy weekend. Oh and HAPPY NEW YEAR!

*The sausage thing happened on one of our first New Year's Eves together, long, long ago. MDH bought the sandwich when we were all leaving a night club and nobody saw him. With the exception of Nature Boy, our designated driver, we were all totally polluted, stumbling, drunk. Hours later, after we had been safely deposited back home, MDH and I were drunkenly making out, still fully clothed and when we came up for air I looked over and noticed that all of a sudden he was wailing on this sausage and pepper. Even if I hadn't been so drunk I couldn't have imagined where in the hell it had come from so I asked, incredulous, and not just a little jealous because sausage and pepper sandwiches from dudes with street carts are pretty damn good drunk food, "Where did you get that?" to which he replied, matter of factly, "Eh whass in mah pah-ket."

It's Day Old & Bold Baby

2009-12-25T08:54:00.011-05:00

Merry Whateveritisyoucelebrate!

Today MDH and I are celebrating not having to drive 2 and a half hours to spend Christmas day at my uncle Dan's house. We are celebrating having the banana pudding I made yesterday to take to my uncle's all to ourselves. We are celebrating the biscuits and gravy I'm going to make us for brunch, and the icy roads that made it all possible.

There is nothing like the glory of wiggling out of visiting elderly relatives with an excuse that is not lame.

The Pudding
The Solid Sheet of Ice That Is Our Driveway and Street

Best Wishes and Happy Holidays to You and Avoiding Yours!

The Happy Meme

2009-12-19T14:50:00.042-05:00

The Vegetable Assassin tagged everyone for a meme and I normally might wiggle out and try ignore such directives, with the excuse that I didn't think they meant me, but lately I could use a meme listing 10 things that make me happy and being non-specifically tagged by my friend Veg is just the push I needed to get started.

I decided to do a photo meme of 10 things that make me happy. I took most of these pictures today.

1. My big green bamboo bowl filled with tangerines. This makes me happy every time I look at it for several reasons, not the least of which is that I happen to have a thing for big giant bowls and green ones in particular. I also love my big green bamboo bowl filled with tangerines because it was a very thoughtful gift from my mom. We were shopping in a store together and she must have noticed me eye-balling and dry humping this bowl. I didn't buy it, but I also didn't say anything to anyone about it either and thought I was being all low-key, so I was thrilled silly when she sent it to me for my birthday a few months later. I should dry hump things in stores more often.

Tangerines also make me happy. I love them and the ones in the bowl are also a present from my mom. She has them shipped to me each year from a citrus grove down the road from where she and my dad live in Florida. These tangerines are amazing, yummy and juicy, but they aren't very user friendly. They're very pithy and overloaded with seeds - so I slice them into quarters and eat them while leaning over the kitchen sink. The rinds make the garbage disposal smell good too.

2. A nice cuppa. I love tea. Hot or iced. It is difficult for me to remain in a bad mood if there is a cup of fragrant, lovely tea sitting before me. I always have tea in the house (loose leaf) and in the summer there is always a fresh pitcher of iced tea in the fridge. I make it every day. It's delicious and loaded with anti-oxidants and how often does that happen? That something you love is actually good for you?? Above in the photo is today's tea selection served in my $20 hardware store teapot. The tea is Scottish Breakfast and is dark black, malty in flavor and tastes great with a little cream (fat-free half and half) and sugar (Splenda). I find that the ritual of making the tea is very calming and you can't rush through making a decent cup of tea. If I'm in a hurry I grab a cup of coffee or have nothing at all. (I hope the chemicals in the Splenda don't cancel out the health benefits of the anti-oxidants)

3. Watching my $9 potted amaryllis from Target grow. It started off grotesque, appearing to be bald baby skull half buried in the soil of the shiny silver pot and has slowly begun to morph into a fully erect and proud phallic staff of weirdness. It's fascinating and it changes every day. I'm given to understand that eventually a big red flower will bloom. In the meantime I'm enjoying it from a distance, although I do sprinkle a little water on it from time to time and occasionally poke it with a stick.

4. Eating in restaurants and trying new foods. When I was growing up we didn't have a lot of money so we didn't eat out very often and when we did it was always the same places over and over again. My parents weren't and still aren't very adventurous eaters and there were tons of foods I never tried or had even heard of until later in my life. I never had Mexican or Chinese food until I was well into my 20's and the first time I had Indian food was about 6 years ago, well into my 30's. I don't care if a restaurant is fancy or expensive necessarily, but I love to experiment and try new things. For the most part I like everything and I'll eat just about anything except organs, eyeballs, ball-balls, etc.. A lady has to drawn the line somewhere. At least this lady does.

5. Wandering around grand old neighborhoods looking at grand old houses. My dream house is giant rambling Queen Anne on a teeny-weeny lot that has more bricks than grass. And big old trees. The house in the picture is one I took in a Louisville neighborhood that I wandered around in with MDH a few years ago.

6. Traveling anywhere on earth with MDH. Sometimes he gets nutty and plans things without me, and sometimes he let's me take care of everything, but mostly we plan all the big trips together. It's so much fun, the anticipation and build up, deciding where to stay and eat and what to do and then when it finally arrives and it's happening... well there's simply nothing else like it. Every time we fly together, we hold hands just as the plane starts taking off and when the plane leaves the ground we say to each other "Here we are!", as in we did all this planning and here we are, off on our adventure. It's what I had engraved on the inside of his wedding band. I waited all my life to meet someone like MDH who wanted to travel and experience the world and do it NOW rather than waiting. Traveling with MDH also entails some other things that make me happy like staying in nice hotels, eating in restaurants and wandering around grand old neighborhoods.

7. When things are surprisingly uncomplicated. It doesn't take much to set me off and make me furious, but it also doesn't take much to make me happy either. I had trouble finding a picture for this one - so here is picture I took when we were on Kauai last January.

Being the first person in line at a check out.
Getting an appointment for a haircut within the same week that I call.
Going into a store and finding exactly what I was looking for and getting out quickly.
In Michigan you don't have to physically go to the BMV to renew your driver's license - they send you a new one with the same old picture, get this, in the mail. It's awesome. Not having to go to the BMV makes me happy.

8. Sparkling Shiraz. It's my new favorite wine. I tried some a few months ago and now I'm totally hooked. It goes with everything.

9. My cat Turtle. I love his funny little furface. There are moments when I'd like to drop kick his hairy ass through our plate glass window, like when I bust him chewing electrical wires or drinking the water from the Christmas tree pan, but otherwise, he's pretty groovy. He doesn't jump up on the counters or pee anywhere other than where he's supposed to. Mostly he does all the things you'd want a pet cat to do - he plays with toys and looks all ferocious and cute at the same time and lays on my lap to be petted.

10. Clean sheets and towels. There is nothing quite like burying your face into a warm and fluffy freshly washed bath towel straight from the dryer or flopping onto a bed newly made up with warm soft sheets that still smell of fabric softener. It's also great to step out of the shower and onto a warm and freshly washed bath mat.

I expect I shouldn't really have to tag anyone for this meme since Veg was crystal clear that we were all to do it. In fact you've had plenty of time to complete this assignment and should be done with yours by now. Let's see it.

Angel Face

2009-12-18T11:03:00.003-05:00

My kid sister loved the shit out of Christmas. You think you know people who love the holidays and get all nutty excited? Well you don't. They are probably half asleep and drooling compared to my sister and I miss her this time of year more than any other.

Because of having Down syndrome my sister never matured intellectually beyond the age of 3 or 4. So it was like living with a very little kid for 15 years. Most children grow up and stop believing in Santa Claus. They become sullen, sour and insolent teenagers and then move on to become bitter, jaded, cynical adults (or was that just me?) about everything but especially so around the holidays. But my sister didn't. She stayed a little kid on the inside and she believed in all of it.

*As a side note, in very tiny font that I'm putting at the top of this post rather than the bottom, before I dig into my sappy sister holiday post I would just like to say that although I have written posts about my little sister before I always skirted around terminology and today I really struggled up there trying to find the right words to use. My family and everyone we knew in the special needs community used to just say "mentally retarded", but I've been out of it for awhile and now am given to understand that it's not always considered politically correct, although I used to belong to an organization called ARC which stands for "Aid Retarded Citizens" - it's still called that - so I'm confused now. Anyhoo... I would just like to let anyone reading this know how much I despise the word "retard". It's never funny to me. I Hate it with a capital HATE. Even when you change the emphasis like in the movie The Hangover (which I enjoyed very much by the way ) and say "re-tard" it still sets my teeth on edge. I think that anyone that uses the term "retard" should be forced to spend the afternoon volunteering at a group home for mentally challenged adults (which you can do through an organization like ARC) with varying degrees of special needs. Get to know some of these fearless, joy-filled and loving people and use the word "retard" after that. I dare you. Frankly I think the world would be a better place altogether if everyone spent some time with people who are mentally challenged or have special needs - we all have a lot to learn from each other. Using the word "retard", no matter what the context, degrades people who are mentally retarded or whatever term you care to use. Thanks for listening. Carry on...

My sister believed in Peter Pan, Tinkerbell and pixie dust, the Easter Bunny, Batman, Superman, Isis and Wonderwoman. She believed in Mork from Ork, Scooby Doo and the Fonz. But she lived year round talking about and anticipating Christmas and Santa Claus. She believed that a bunch of reindeer flew all the way to our house and landed on our roof without ever pooping (when you grow up around animals you think about these things and you never hear about anyone getting pelted with dung falling from the sky and our dad never had to hose off the roof on Christmas morning) and that a jolly fat man in a red suit let himself in with a key left under the mat on the front porch (we didn't' have a fireplace until later). She believed it all. And not just in a quiet wishful way, but in a jumping up and down, shouting out loud to anyone who would listen kind of way.

It wasn't the kind of enthusiasm you see every day is what I'm saying.

Right before Thanksgiving one year there was a guy wearing a Santa suit and ringing a bell in front of a bucket outside of the K-Mart in our town, he wasn't even wearing a beard or anything, not even trying to look like Santa (other than the suit I guess) and my sister ran towards him, arms open and squealing with delight, looking almost like those teenage girls you see in old news footage grabbing their faces and screaming like lunatics over the Beatles. It was a little embarrassing but once we peeled her off of him he said it was the best thing that had happened to him all week and I don't think he meant it in a perverted way at all because the man had tears in his eyes and seemed pretty overwhelmed.

Nobody in my family ever made any effort to tamp down her excitement either. No, quite the contrary, we would build it all up. My mom let my sister mark off the calendar every day, counting down till Christmas starting on my birthday in July, so that by the time her birthday arrived on December 20th, she was nearly apoplectic and bursting into flames from all the hype. Not to say that it also wasn't an ongoing lesson to help her learn about counting and dates and seasons and such, but a mostly the lessons ended with, "and that means it's only this many days till Christmas!"

You might be able to tell by looking at the picture at the top of this post that my mom also let my sister be in charge of most of the tree trimming. That's our old mashed up fake tree that I mentioned in my previous post and I love how all of the ornaments are right in the middle. I would also like to point out the vomit-y blue and green shag carpeting that my mother actually had installed - on purpose - when we moved into that house.

We would get her so worked up that by the time Christmas Eve finally rolled around my sister was bloody freaking exhausted and getting her to go to sleep was never the problem you might have thought it would be.

After we went to bed my dad would eat all of the cookies she'd left out for Santa except for one that he would leave behind with just one bite taken out. My mom would make sure that some of her toys were left unwrapped and set up to look as if someone had been playing with them already, like a dollhouse all set up or one time a new record player was left turned on with a record spinning on it all night (needle off of course), so that it looked like Santa had just left before he got caught in the act of playing with her stuff.

Maybe lots of families do these kinds of things. I hope you'll feel free to tell me about some of the goofy stuff your family did or does in the comments. My parents used to do it for me too when I was little enough to still believe, but they got to continue to do it for a very long time afterwards and I think that must be pretty special. Eventually I got involved in it too. I was all quiet and cool at school (I believe I mentioned something earlier about sullen and sour), but at home I would do anything to get my sister started. Not that it took much more than asking her how many days till Santa comes? or singing carols at the top of my lungs to get her to start squealing.

Have I ever mentioned that we were not Christians? I'm not sure how relevant that is to my story here, but we weren't anything. Maybe you could say agnostic, but my mom never wanted to put a label on it. We ended up celebrating Christmas in a non-Christ kind of way. We never talked about Jesus, but we had a tree and presents appeared under it on Christmas morning. She put up mistletoe, served eggnog and baked cookies.

I think my mom really liked Christmas and after she left her church continued to celebrate it in ways that incorporated her own favorite things about the holiday without having to think about or explain the religious portion of it to me and maybe also to herself, since she stopped putting out the gorgeous hand painted porcelain nativity set that she had inherited from her grandmother when I got old enough to start trying to apply logic to the story and began asking the tough questions about Christmas. If Joseph isn't Jesus real daddy then was Mary married to someone else before Joseph and got a divorce like the Shapiros?

All of our holiday fervor was fueled by our love for my sister and for me it still is. I love Christmas. There I said it. Even though she's gone now and Christmas will never be the same without her, and surly as I've become, I've managed to hang onto a bit of that joy that was always in the air around her and hope that you and the people you love, whether you believe in Jesus, Santa or Mork from Ork, can feel it too.

Merry Christmas.

If you're interested, here are links to some of my other posts featuring my little sister (they aren't quite as sappy as this one):

Cat-like Gag Reflexes

I'm Sure Your Family Is Weird Too

Deep Thoughts

Scare Tactics for Teens

6th Annual Maybe It Doesn't Suck That Bad Award 2009

2009-12-13T23:27:00.042-05:00

Since winter has creeped in, it seems that MDH and I spend most of our down time lazing around like a couple of exhausted walruses, he watching football and me playing video games, both of us overeating (it's so nice to do things as a couple). OK, it's pretty much like that year round except for him the sports change up seasonally.

But this weekend was different and our house was abuzz with activity like cleaning and stuff.

A few weeks ago I decided that I wanted a Christmas tree this year which involves some amount of movement and effort on my part with the preparation, cleaning and tree trimming and whatnot. It also involves movement and effort from MDH because he is the one who insists on a having a real tree so I force him to go with me to get it. Well, it started out against his will several years ago, but now I think he kinda likes it, although he may never fess up to the experience being anything other than a sharp shooting pain in his ass.

I think it's because he grew up with a bummer of a family and a white plastic kind of tree. Their tree was the kind that was a comically exaggerated pointy pine tree shape and permanently decorated with neon colored balls and flashing lights. The kind of tree that doesn't even pretend to be real and with each flash it shrieks, "I'm fake! I'm fake!" His brothers would drag the box down from the attic, pull it out of the box and simply plug it in. Boo-yah! It's Christmas!

I also prefer a real tree. They smell nice and we mostly had fake trees when I was growing up too but my mom bought the kind that attempted to look real. After a couple of years of use, and being repeatedly and hastily jammed back into the box after the holidays, fake trees start to look like they have hat head and no amount of "fluffing" can fix it. Also after awhile a branch or two seemed to have gone missing so you'd have to bunch it all up so that it looked more filled in or just arrange it so that the empty spot was facing the wall.

And by the way where the fuck could that branch possibly have gone? It made no sense. Obviously it didn't go wherever the ornament hooks ran off to because those wicked little things always seemed to turn up eventually although it was usually in the bottom of my bare foot the following July (the joys of 70's shag carpeting). As a grown up woman (with scars all over the bottom of her feet) I made an executive decision to never use ornament hooks and I tie all my ornaments with ribbon. And I always wear shoes in the house just in case.

Do they even sell ornament hooks anymore? Or did people come to their senses and send them to go live with the lawn darts and the electric space heaters in dangerous gadget land?

Anyhoo... MDH dreamed his whole life of a more traditional and rustic Burl Ives kind of Christmas and the cartoony jazz club tree just didn't represent. (You might have expected that I would say Currier & Ives, but in our generation Burl was the snowman narrator guy in that Rudolf Christmas special and you can't get more Christmas-y than that.)

When MDH is passionate about something he never goes halfway. Like I said, he is the one who insists on a real tree and then he insists that if we are going to have a real tree that we should have only the freshest tree possible so that it takes longer to dry out and is less likely to catch our house on fire and kill us all in our sleep. So we drive out to a tree farm and ride a tractor out to the middle of a field and MDH cuts down our tree with his own bare hands and a hacksaw he keeps in the trunk of his car for the off chance that once a year I may or may not decide that it's a Christmas tree year.

At least I hope that's what the hacksaw is for.

Whatevs... it seems to make him feel manly and puffed up to cut down our tree and we found a gorgeous one and it was only $35 so I splurged and got a wreath too and the whole event was so pleasant and easy it made me think of another reason that living here in the fucking tundra may not totally suck and that's kind of a big deal because so far I've only been able to come up with about one reason living here doesn't totally suck per year and we've lived here 6 years.

Drumroll (people dressed like marshmallows in down coats, micro fleece, and cargo pants are cheering, the crowd goes wild) ... The 2009 thing about living in western Michigan that doesn't totally suck is:

This place is lousy with Christmas tree farms so we never have to drive very far like when we lived in a city.

Previous years winners include, in no particular order:

New shoes! Well, snow boots anyway.

The air smells really fresh and clean.

There is hardly any need for air conditioning in the summer.

The squirrels are way prettier than back home.

You can buy full strength booze anywhere.

By the way this is only our 2nd tree since we've had our cat Turtle and I forgot how much he loves to lounge around under there and drink the water from the tree stand. That's him up there with the devil eyes at the top of my post. It's so annoying because he makes this slurpy wet noise, he messes the tree skirt all up and his face and paws get all wet. Little weirdo. I suppose it could be worse as I seem to remember the cat we had when I was a little kid climbed and pissed all over our tree which is why my mom started buying the plastic ones. Christmas is so complicated.

I hope there aren't too many spelling and grammar errors because it's late and I'm justing going to hit publish and get my ass in bed.

It Makes An Ass of You and Me... Mainly Me

2009-12-09T10:38:00.020-05:00

Why do they call it the wrong side of the bed? When I wake up in a foul mood it usually has more to do with lack of sleep and other people or creatures banging around (my husband), barking (the neighbors dog) or jumping on my head (our cat) and less to do with my exact location, so the phrase wrong side of the bed makes no sense at all. Now, that being said I bet you can tell how foul I woke up today because even the phrase wrong side of the bed makes my blood boil.

Cleaning up a full cup of coffee that the cat knocked all over the floor in the den didn't help to cheer me nor did going to the kitchen to make some lovely toast and finding that MDH had used the last of the margarine and put the empty container back in the fridge. Dry toast. Thanks buddy.

Not to say that they don't exist, but I personally have never known any women that do this. Put back empty food containers into the cupboard or refrigerator I mean. Now that I think about I have also never known any women who spit in public either. My father used to do it and now my husband does it - with the food containers I mean, keep up with me here. Why fellas? Why? There is a trash can right there.

Adding insult and injury to the person who primarily does most of the food shopping is the fact that I usually don't discover the empty container until moments after I have just gotten back from the supermarket where, had I only known we were out of Cheerios I would have gladly gotten a new box, but since the empty Cheerios box was sitting in the cupboard, silly me I mistook it for a Cheerios box that actually had some Cheerios in it and assumed that we didn't need any more.

I suppose instead of saying that I woke up on the wrong side of the bed you could say that someone pissed in my Cheerios, except that we don't have any. Nobody pissed in my strawberry jam, milk, orange juice, peanut butter or margarine either. They might as well have because we don't have any of those items either, but the empty containers are all somehow still in the fridge.

As a side note I'd like to add that if laziness is the key reason for this phenomena of not throwing out empty containers then why roll up the empty cereal bag inside the box as if to keep the invisible cereal fresh and furthermore, why bother to seal the box closed again? Freak.

I'd almost prefer that he simply make a loud grunting noise and then drop the empty containers onto the floor where right in the spot where he's standing so I could at least hear him make some kind of acknowledgement that the food is gone and then would see the container out in the open and make a note to buy some more of whatever it was.

My post has turned into a marriage/partner pet peeve rant and I thank you for listening. I'm sure somewhere out there my husband has his own secret blog where he writes mostly about politics but occasionally splits off with rants wondering why his wife leaves bras dangling from every doorknob in the house and somehow as if by magic she always has a backache when snow needs shoveling.

Balls

2009-12-07T09:14:00.046-05:00

Late this summer my lovely husband MDH, who aside from leaving the occasional empty beer can seemingly to mock me unrinsed, reeking and sitting on the kitchen counter directly beside the recycle bin, normally shows the utmost respect and concern for my feelings and best interests, signed us up for a commitment to attend a corporate event.

Without. Asking. Me.

And not just any corporate event but a swanky, black tie optional charity event that took place in Detroit this past Saturday.

At the time that he informed me of the event and his deciding all on his own without asking me first if I (even fucking) wanted to attend it already seemed like a giant pain in the ass but since he never subjects me to such affairs and it was one of the few events in which spouses are invited I agreed to go without (much) fussing.

The event was months away but I began the process of finding the right dress and seeing to various other details such as reassessing my Spanx situation (had to go another size up), and finding the right shoes and jewelry. Once the dress was purchased and altered and undergarment machinery in order I put them all away in the closet and proceeded to forget all about it until the reality of the event seemed to spring up from out of nowhere and smack me in the face last week.

In my normal every day life I have a wardrobe comfort zone like everyone else. I have a standard uniform in which I feel fairly confident about my looks. For public viewing I always (always) fix my hair and wear make up along with supportive, figure flattering bras. I am conscienious of VPL and hyper aware of camel-toe and make sure to avoid them at all costs. I get quite a lot of my clothes tailored to ensure a good fit. Even jeans. I do all of these things just with my every day stuff and I feel pretty good most of the time, but put me in a fancy dress at a formal event and all that confidence goes directly down the shitter.

I hate being dressed up for formal events with the white fiery passion of a million suns. It makes me feel like I'm in drag. Something is always off, like either my hair is frizzy or my mascara smudged. Most likely it's some kind of stain or mark on my outfit, but I guarantee whatever it is, I won't notice it until after I have already arrived at the event and it's too late to do anything about it. The best example: On my wedding day I shut my dress in the door of my dad's truck and proceeded to drive for twenty minutes with the bottom part of my dress blowing all around on the freeway, arriving for the ceremony with a big rip and nasty grey highway dirt all over my gown.

These kinds of moments are survivable, of course. Certainly there are greater concerns in the world than whether or not I have too much upper arm flap, sat on a cream cheese and salmon crudite or the top of panty hose has started rolling down toward my crotch. But still, in the throes of those moments I want to run crying back to my sweat pants with a pan of brownies and the promise of never being seen in public again.

I'm sure you can imagine that after a few depressing , unemployment collecting, sweatpant-sy, barely combing my hair months had gone by the degree to which I sure as shit would have preferred to have MDH drive over both of my legs in the street out in front of our house and leave me there to rot, rather than attend this stupid fucking semi-formal white man's overbite dancing, rubber chicken dinner event had escalated to blubbering hysteric hyperventilating and juvenile crying jag proportions.

Suffice it to say - I did not want to go.

I pulled the already altered, too late to return dress out of the closet and shrieked, Sleeveless!!! What the hell was I thinking??! I then proceeded to mentally tear it all apart: too short, too bright, too low cut, too fat, too much gray, too pale, too wrinkly... you name it, I found cause to fly into a hissy fit over it. We're talking epic freak out.

Shockingly the calming moment I longed for came not when I glared witheringly at MDH while standing directly in front of the TV, modeling my completed outfit and he, having been forced to look away from football for split second, grunted that everything looked "fine".

No.

The calming moments came a few days later when he informed me of the proportion of the event, well over 700 people in attendance and I realized that in a crowd that size there were bound to be several women more hideous than me and when he showed me photos online from the previous year's event I began to feel downright sexy. Looking at the crowd of old drunken fools I knew it was all going to be OK.

By the time Saturday night rolled around and MDH and I strolled arm in arm out the door of our hotel room, heading to the ball room downstairs I actually did feel sexy. Hot rollered, face impeccable (not a blemish in sight), lipstick exactly the right color, jewelry in perfect proportion to neckline. Everything fell magically into place and MDH who for the past few months has been the poor soul mainly subjected to my dreary existence of sweatpants depression and withering glares lit up like a horny Christmas tree when I emerged from the bathroom, purring and aglow, all dolled up. He made all the proper advances.

We registered and had just lined up at the bar for the VIP cocktail hour moments after having our photo taken with a local celebrity (a baseball player?) when I noticed the hole about the size of a baby grand piano and subsequent runner in my stocking. When the fuck did that happen?

Free martinis went far to help me pretend like the hole and runner didn't exist until eventually I made my way to the ladies room where I ripped the stockings from my body and stuffed them into my tiny clutch purse (rather than throw them into the trash like any reasonably intelligent person would do - all the better I suppose to have yet another embarassing moment later in the evening in which I open my elegant clutch at the table to get a mint and the wadded up stockings burst out and onto the floor).

The free martinis didn't hurt either with helping me to mingle, socialize with total strangers and dance in the presence of a video camera. Yes, I said dance and video camera in the same sentence. People, I was drunkity drunk drunk.

Being the giver that I am, I can't but think of the forlorn, bedraggled woman whose husband signs her up for this crappy event (although the drinks were good and free) next year against her will (I guarantee you it fucking won't be me) and feels a surge of confidence when she sees my picture on the charity website - look at that drunken old fool.

As always, I'm here to help.

Here's What

2009-12-03T21:25:00.010-05:00

I've done something that I have only done one other time (pretty sure) and have taken down my previous post. It feels wrong to take it down, but probably not as wrong as it might have felt to leave it up.

The last thing I want is for anyone to come to my blog and ever, ever, ever feel bad or weird. Not even close. You're supposed to come here and help me make fun of myself and other people that are usually strangers and hopefully leave with a smirk on your face.

To help put the smirk back on your face here is a very old picture of me all bundled up for winter and looking forlorn, much as I did this afternoon when I stepped outside to drive to an appointment and realized it was snowing. I wasn't as prepared today because my mommy lives in Florida and isn't around to make sure I get all bundled up. Maybe my being so cute will help us all move forward:

(I think mom put my boots on the wrong feet...)

Oh, and that hair dryer box is for one of those old fashioned kind that has like a shower cap thingy that you put over the rollers on your head and then when you turned it on it poofed up really big and you'd look kind of like a genie or like you had a big, lacy, pink afro.

I'm going to hit the Publish button now...

Congratulations! Your identity is now available to be stolen and abused.

2009-12-02T10:51:00.027-05:00

I had a phone interview this morning. Don't get too excited. I'm not. In fact I hesitate to write about these things on my blog anymore, which is why I haven't been blogging much lately because applying for work and having phone interviews is all that seems to be happening lately and you all are always so nice to me and wish me good luck and I feel the love, I really do ... and then nothing happens and I just hate to put myself and you guys through it over and over again. So I just simply haven't felt like letting you in on my current struggle.

But today... Today it went well. It really did. I was pleased, the phone screener seemed pleased and informed me that she will be moving my resume forward and will recommend an in-person interview. Great. Goody for me. I really was thrilled. Then she sent me a follow up email with a link and request to complete an online application within 48 hours.

It was all sunshine and kisses, unicorns and sex-dreams until I realized that I would actually need the entire 48 hours to fill out the application.

It should not take a reasonably intelligent, fully caffeinated, fully eager and fully alert grown up human lady over an hour to fill out an online job application. But that is exactly the ordeal I have just been through. People, I needed to get up and walk around to loosen up my joints and get some blood circulating afterwards. What the hell man?

It should not be this hard.

Especially considering the fact I had already filled out an online application for this job that I thought was pretty thorough, like I mentioned, and sent in a resume and a cover letter. How fucking much do these people need to know about me before I can even have an interview set up?

Apparently a lot. Jesus Christ on a pony.

And if I were not so goddamn desperate to find gainful employment I probably would have given up about 20 minutes into the spectacle when I filled out a form requiring my date of birth. My date of birth? Including the year. Why the hell do they need this information when I haven't even had a goddamn interview yet?

I am tempted (angry enough) to show some initiative and go that extra mile and take a big shit, snap a photo and email it to them. How ya like me now? Now here's some serious personal information about me.

The other weird thing besides filling out a 300 page application and taking pictures of my own poo is that it's just a regular job. The same kind of IT job I have been applying for all along and I assure you this not an organization providing security for the Pope, pelvic exams for Queen Elizabeth or even clerical work for the city, state or US government. It's a fucking insurance company.

I'm just trying to get a job, not adopt a Chinese baby boy.

Ordinarily I might have told these people to get bent as I wouldn't normally provide this kind of information until after I have accepted or even been offered a position. But I need a job and this one seems like a goody, so I kept going. I not only gave these people permission to crawl straight up my ass, I also provided them with a map and flashlight. I gave them every scrap of information about me and then I gave them permission to get even more information - driving record, criminal background check, credit check and promised that if they hire me I would submit to drug tests, aptitude tests and I'm pretty sure a pap smear.

When I was finally finished I convinced myself that it wasn't so bad. I went to the kitchen refilled my coffee and had a slice of pie for a reward. Then about half an hour ago I checked my email and discovered yet another email from this company. This time an auto response to my online application that said "Congratulations!" in the subject line. As if to acknowledge their asinine method is purposefully ridiculous. I wanted to laugh, but it came out more as a hysterical and high pitched Ngah! Mainly because I had a mouth full of pie.

Anyhoo... maybe they set it up like that to weed out the riff-raff, but they do not know who they are dealing with - I'm like a fucking cockroach - you can't get rid of me that easily. You will interview me, I will be fabulous and you will be crazy not to hire me motherfuckers. Ridiculously complicated and confusing online applications? Bring it.

I'm still Somebody

2009-11-12T09:24:00.041-05:00

The neighborhood where my family lived until I was in the 7th grade was brimming with children the same age as me. It was a great way to grow up because I always had other kids to play with.

We had moved there when I was three and from day one my mom pretty much tossed me out the front door every day by the seat of my pants and didn't let me back in the house until dinner time so I was forced to run loose like a little savage and ended up making friends with all of the other children who lived near us. They were all boys and by the time I started first grade it was well established that I was one of them.

I could build a fort and leg wrestle with the best of them. I was a smudge faced, scab covered, toughskins wearing, treehouse building little dare devil. I could spit farther, punch harder, and pop the biggest wheelies. I was a superstar.

But my badge of honor soon become tarnished once I started first grade and had the chance to be around other little girls. Prior to that I really didn't know any other girls but once I started going to school all day long, rather than the half day you have in kindergarten, it soon become clear that I was a freak and I had absolutely nothing in common with any of them.

Suddenly my long distance spitting skills and dirty fingernails were not winning me any friends. Only after being called "tomboy" and "bruiser" and getting in trouble at school for chasing Shannon O'brien* around the play yard with an earthworm until she cried did anyone (my mother and I) realize that this needed to change. Thus began my lifetime struggle to be more girly.

I begged my mom to buy me some dresses and white ankle socks with lace around the edges and black patent leather Mary-Janes. That year my winter coat was red velvet with white rabbit fur trim and I had a matching muff.

Yes, I said muff.

I loved that muff. I was going to search for a photo to post here but I was afraid to Google "fur muff".

Anyhoo... I thought these girly clothes would transform me instantly from Pigpen into Shirley Temple and Darla from the Little Rascals all rolled into one. The new clothes certainly accomplished the mission of my becoming more girly, but alas the year was 1973 not 1933, so I was in addition to being super girly a big giant goober.

In a further attempt to help me get in touch with my feminine side my mother enrolled me in ballet lessons. I was thrilled at the opportunity to squeeze myself into some pink tights and a tutu, swish around in soft pink satin shoes and bingo - no more tomboy. I couldn't think of anything more girly and feminine than ballet.

As it turns out these ballet lessons changed my life and I learned far more from them than simply the joy of the dance. I learned that I lack a certain self awareness. Whether or not the long term effect of this has been good or bad I still can't decide, humility is a double edged sword and something I think kids these days** could use a little more of, but I can tell you that the 6 year old me was devastated. I can also tell you that the 6 year old me got over it and decided that perhaps dance wasn't going to be her bag, but instead moved on to music and singing lessons which turned out quite nicely.

While the actual bad experience with ballet lessons that turned out to be a defining moment of my life was not directly caused by my usual favorite target of blame for all things psyche scarring, my mother, she did however sign me up for ballet lessons without taking into consideration 2 very key elements of the situation:

1. Although she signed me up for the right age group, the 5 and 6 year olds, what she didn't realize was that all the other 6 year old girls in my class had already been taking ballet lessons since they were old enough to stand. So everyone in the class had way more experience than me.

2. I have all the natural grace and agility of a water buffalo.

Combine elements one and two and suffice it to say that I was not successful at ballet. Now add to that my ballet teachers lack of compassion, her inability to be direct and my talent at being unaware of the actions of my own body.

To describe the situation I must assume that you have occasionally had one of those moments where things are going along smoothly but suddenly there is an irritating disruption and you're not sure where it's coming from? A cell phone ringing in the library, a car alarm blasting away in the middle of the night, or some horrible smell on the bus? It could be any number of things and you say to yourself who in the name of Christ could be causing this terrible noise, disruption or odor?

Well that's what happened in ballet class one evening. We had finished all of our little warm up exercises and had just started putting some of our moves together to form an actual dance. As we stood at the bar (or whatever you call that thing) the teacher was counting out slowly and naming the moves. She was not satisfied with our performance and kept shouting STOP! AGAIN!

Then she would start the counting and calling out the dance steps all over again. It's vague because I was only 6, but she must have done this like 4 or 5 times. Each time her shouting, counting and step calling getting louder and more shrill. Finally she had had enough of whatever was bothering her and yelled, "Somebody is completely out of step and ruining it for the rest of you!"

Oh, A-ha! I eyed my fellow tiny dancers suspiciously thinking, yes one of you is really screwing up and annoying our lovely teacher, who would do such a thing?

Our teacher was really, really pretty and had been a runner up in the Miss Ohio pageant (or some such equally impressive contest to my 6 year old mind, but as I mentioned my memory of such detail is a bit fuzzy) the year before. In hindsight I'm sure she was nothing more than an economy sized bitch who had no business working with or around small children, but at the time I wanted nothing more in life than to please the pretty, pretty lady.

By today's standards I'm sure she would have been prosecuted, tarred and feathered and run out of town on a rail, but like I said, it was the 70's and back then verbal abuse and psychic scarring, and hell why not, physical beatings were not only considered good solid parenting practices but encouraged and bragged about by most adults and educational professionals.

The ballet teacher then gave some more specific instructions to the culprit, "Somebody needs to keep her neck straight. Somebody needs to stop looking at her feet! Somebody needs to pay attention!!"

Yes, I thought, Somebody really needs to do that!

If you haven't figured it out based on the title of my post I am Somebody. It was a defining moment in my life because I have spent the rest of my existence on this planet trying to avoid experiencing that moment again. That moment that makes all the blood drain from your face when you discover that you are the last person in the room to recognize that you are being a tool. It's my cell phone ringing. It's my car alarm going off in the middle of the night and the horrible smell on the bus is the dog shit on the bottom of my shoe.

Discovering your own oblivion is rather circular and the philosophizing required to ponder it further is beyond me, but I have noticed this:

The decibel at which you complain out loud, the number of people who hear you complaining and the amount of obscene language used directly corresponds to the degree of likelihood that you yourself are the cause of the disturbance or strange smell.

*Not really her name of course. Actually I can't remember the kid's name, but she was Irish.

** Using the phrase "kids these days" automatically qualifies me for old fart status, a senior discount and membership to AARP. I'm going out to get fitted for dentures and big giant wrap around sunglasses this instant.

GPS = Going Postal Shortly

2009-11-09T09:38:00.034-05:00

Saturday morning I stumbled out of bed, waddled to the kitchen and pressed the button to start the coffee (I always make it the night before so that I don't have to count out scoops and pour water because I'm not the most graceful of creatures when I wake up - I think I mentioned some stumbling) and looked out my kitchen window to see a glorious display of sparkling sunshine. I did a double take and threw my glasses on to make sure the thermometer outside the window really said 60 degrees. It really did.

Suddenly I was wide awake. I knew that the sun shining on the thermometer was probably giving it a few extra degrees, but still, not quite 10am on a shiny Saturday morning and it's almost 60? C'mon, we gotta get out of here.

So I burst back into our bedroom and leaped on top of MDH, who was still snoozing, and started jumping up and down and jostling him all over. Wake up man (bounce). It might be our last day of sunshine and warmth before we're snowed in for the next 5 months (bounce-bounce). Get up, let's go, daylight is a wastin'!

Props to my sleepy head darling. He always seems to come through with no fussing on such occasions as an exuberant, overly perky wife bouncing on his head on a Saturday morning, demanding that he wake the hell up, throw on some clothes and a ball cap and get the hell out of the house.

Originally we were just going to go for a little walk around our neighborhood, several blocks down to the farmer's market and then on to our favorite little brunch spot (my personal favorite is the Hash Benedict found on menu page 4 (with potatoes, of course)), but I decided instead to go for something a bit more outdoorsy. I know. It's out of character for me. We ended up driving a few towns over to a big park with paved walking and bike paths that meander through beautiful woods and over trickling streams and such. We had never been there before, but it didn't look that big on the map I printed from the park website. Even considering my fucked up ankle it seemed do-able.

So we walked and walked, and walked, and walked. It was great. Up to a point. The point at which it stopped being great was when I realized that we had been walking for almost an hour and everything had started to look the same and we had not encountered another living soul for quite awhile. Not even a squirrel.

More significantly, at the same moment I also realized that I was starving and I had to pee - now. I stopped abruptly and declared victory on our outdoorsy walk in the woods assuming that we would of course be turning around and walking back out the way we came in.

Alas it was not going to shake out like that. No.

MDH has never been a man who likes to take the same route twice and consulted the GPS on his Blackberry for a route that would not require turning around. He announced that we were almost out of the woods anyway and that we had only to keep going a little further and would "soon" encounter a cemetery and after that a "neighborhood" which would provide a "flat", "paved" route for us to walk back to our car.

Yes the quotes are there to denote exactly the words that MDH used and also to emphasize the fact that our route back to the car was none of these things.

It was not soon.

Once we found the cemetery what we encountered next was certainly not a neighborhood and definitely not flat.

Although the road was indeed paved it was so busy with speeding traffic that I was forced much of the way to walk in the gravel berm (over several different lumps of roadkill of various species and states of decay).

All the while MDH, who recognized his blunder, kept flapping his lips and saying things like "almost there" and using words like "adventure" and "excitement". Again - it was none of those things.

Our exciting, almost there adventure caused me to become two things I truly hate to be - sweaty and dirty - at the same time. Plus after stepping in what I'm pretty sure used to be a baby rabbit I wanted to burn my shoes, hurl them into the woods and incinerate the whole goddamn place. I didn't do that of course, but if I had had my purse with me I would have used it to beat MDH senseless.

Eventually we made it back to the car and the outhouse style smelly hole in the ground toilet with no tissue that I had considered using before we started walking but had decided to wait because it looked like a smelly hole in the ground that probably didn't have any toilet tissue. So after all that time I had hold it in just that much longer so that I could trek back to the car to grab some of the surplus fast food napkins that thank baby jesus I always store in the glove box in case of such emergencies.

Anyhoo... I lived to tell the tale. I'm feeling as inspirational as that blind guy that climbed Mt. Everest. I might even write a book and there will be a Lifetime Original movie about how I managed to survive the elements, skipped breakfast and used Wendy's napkins for toilet paper.

Background Check - I was a nerdy little girl

2009-11-04T09:26:00.050-05:00

Yesterday my blogger friend The Vegetable Assassin posted about how one of her blogger friends had hand written a post then the Veg hand wrote a post. It was intriguing to me because handwriting is very personal and you can tell a lot about an individual by her or his handwriting style.

Actually I can tell a lot about a person by looking at handwriting because the summer I turned 10 I was (a big doofus? still playing with Barbies? dreaming I'd grow up to look like Olivia Newton John only with bigger boobs?) obsessed with graphology - otherwise known as handwriting analysis.

At the time I fancied myself quite the little amateur hand writing expert. The Nancy Drew (with bigger boobs) of graphology if you will. I read everything I could possibly find about handwriting analysis at our local public library and even asked for and received a graphology book for my birthday.

Then I bugged all my friends and everyone in my family for handwriting samples and proceeded to analyze them and give them each individual and detailed personality assessments based on my vast expert knowledge. I'm sure it wasn't annoying at all.

My little sideline kept me out of trouble and I think my friends and family should just have thanked their lucky stars that I wasn't into phrenology or black tar heroin.

The graphology book I once treasured is long since gone, and I have come to realize that many real experts think that handwriting analysis is a bunch of hooey, but here are some generalizations of the craft that I vaguely remember and if anybody out there thinks the items in the bullet points below are incorrect, I was too lazy to verify most of this stuff, so you are probably right. It's all from memory and I smoked a lot of pot and ate a few toadstools in the late 80's:

Large writing = obnoxious bastard

Small writing = a shut in

Writing tends to slant downward = the person is generally a bummer

Writing tends to slant upward = Pollyanna

Legible writing = nun

Illegible writing = whackjob

Writing that is extremely neat and tidy = serial killer

Words spaced far apart = jackass - the person thinks what they have to say is very important

All I've got of recent handwriting samples of my own are shopping and to-do lists and those are in print not script. I'm not sure I even remember how to write in script. It looks weird when I try.
Here's what I think you can tell about me from my handwriting samples above (all but the post it note, which was wadded up into a little ball and hiding on the floor behind the waste can in our office, were found folded up in the pockets of my various jackets):

I have a cat
My lower case R's look like V's

I cook a lot

I eat fairly healthy

I like Mexican food

Sometimes I buy cake

The Wicked Witch

2009-11-02T12:28:00.032-05:00

Ever since MDH and I moved to the suburbs I have looked forward to passing out candy to all the adorable little trick or treating tots at Halloween each year. I usually carve a jack o'lantern and choose just the right candies and run excitedly when the doorbell rings to fuss and squeal over all the adorable costumes of the little rosy cheeked munchkins who look up at me with such wonder and appreciation as I happily toss mini bags of Sour Skittles and Reece's Cups into their plastic pumpkin heads. I look forward to it, but it never seems to turn out like how I envision it.

Oh sure we get a couple of rosy cheeked yada yada, but mostly it seems like I'm giving away treats to half assed lame-o's who barely blurt out "Trick or treat" and never seem to say "Thank you." It kind of sucks.

Well it's over. We're done with trick or treaters due to the sparse number of participants, lame costume ensembles and over all weak character of the slack jawed miscreants that visited our home this year. I informed MDH that next year we are shutting it down. Lights off. We're going to the movies instead. Fuck it.

What tipped me over the edge? The two teenage boys who not only had the balls to show up on my welcome mat wearing no costumes but also bearing 13 gallon kitchen garbage bags drooping with the weight of god only knows how much candy. I assumed that in order to have collected such a large haul that they were either driving around from neighborhood to neighborhood or tazing the smaller children and stealing their candy. You should think that no costumes and giant sized goodie bags would be irritating enough, but no.

When I opened the door to these asshats one of them was actually chatting away on his cell phone, having what appeared to be a pretty in depth conversation. And not only that. He gave me the one finger up gesture. Yes he did. The one finger up gesture as in, hold your horses nice lady who is trying to give me free Skittles and peanut butter cups, I'm very busy on the telephone right now and will be with you shortly.

I was stunned.

As the boy continued to talk on the phone I put the bowl of candy back on the sideboard next to the front door and did that smile that I have where my mouth is closed and my lips disappear. Turning back to the door I crossed my arms over my chest in a sarcastic oh take as much time as you need kind of posture. After another moment had passed and the boy was still on the phone I gave him my most withering stare and burst a blood vessel in my left eyeball as I restrained myself from saying, "That's a very realistic douchebag costume you've got on there kiddo."

Not much better, what I actually said was, Are you kidding me? In my head the tirade continued You're that busy and important that you can't be bothered to wear a costume or get off the fucking phone while you trick or treat? Really?

Actually I blasted out most of my passive aggressive wrath on the cell phone boys poor little friend, probably because he was not on the phone and therefore available to stand there and take my abuse. I asked him if he too wouldn't like to take the opportunity to use my front porch to catch up on his correspondence and maybe do some texting or update his facebook page.

Then I actually gave those two idiots some candy just to get them the hell out of my sight, at which point my head exploded and little green and red flame shitting demons flew out of my eyes and I ran away screaming into the streets and MDH had to answer the door and finish passing out the candy for the rest of the evening.

I fully expect very soon I will find myself stamping out a flaming bag of dogshit on my front porch and/or scrubbing graffiti that says "Psycho Bitch" from my garage door.

Yep. Next year we're going to the movies. I think it's better for all parties involved. Although if someone kicks my seat I can't say I won't make trouble.

You're Killing Me

2009-10-30T18:55:00.031-04:00

Dear Tree Trimmer Guy Who I Paid With a Personal Check Over 2 Weeks Ago,

Hey man, what gives? Please end my suffering and deposit the fucking check already. Maybe I should thank you for reminding my why I so seldom write checks anymore and that reason would be that it feels like a crap shoot every time. Especially when compared to the immediate gratification and sense of closure I get from paying for things online, with cash or using my debit card.

I cannot imagine why you have allowed so much time to go by and still not yet deposited my check.

Are you trying to prove something?

Are you in a contest with yourself to see how long you can go without needing my money?

Are you trying to drive me insane?

Dude, are you dead? What the hell happened?

Did you lose the check? Hey, that's cool. Not a problem. Nothing to be ashamed of or embarrassed about. It happens to the best of us. Please call me and I will gladly cancel the check. In it's place I will pay you in lovely cash that I will happily withdraw from the ATM so that I can have the satisfaction of seeing the $200 drained from my checking account within a matter of seconds instead of obsessively, compulsively checking my fucking balance several times every day like a god damned lunatic to see if you have deposited my check yet.

Banks are located pretty much everywhere around town and every corner of planet earth. I will draw you a map if you need me to. Also I am led to understand that you don't even have to go to a bank. It's true! You can make deposits with ATM machines 24 hours a day and don't even have to get out of your car! It's crazy, but I promise, it's true!

Please don't make me call and ask you about it because by that time I will no longer be able to disguise my hysteria.

You have until Monday. Afternoon. Or maybe Tuesday morning. No later than Wednesday.

I'm serious.

Kindest Regards,
Lady

Employment History Part 2 - Talents and Trade Secrets Revealed

2009-10-28T22:24:00.056-04:00

In my last post I wrote about my first job out of high school working in the cash office at Gold Circle. I really liked that job and totally lucked out because it didn't require me to sell anything, deal with the public or talk to anyone at all really unless I felt like it. I could pretty much go in, get my shit done and go home. It was part time and I was done by noon most days and that totally rocked.

On the other hand though the job had 2 major drawbacks:

1. It cramped my party lifestyle. I had to be there 6 days a week at 7am and getting up, dressed and forcing myself to be alert enough to concentrate on doing my job that early in the morning at age 18 when most nights I was out partying, drinking and doing god only knows what until scant hours before my shift started was extremely difficult. There were many days when I suffered through that job (or perhaps the job suffered through me) hung over or still drunk.

2. I already mentioned other major drawback to this job in my previous post, my cash office mate Missy, who found a way to suck every atom of joy from the air of the very tiny room we were forced to live in together for 5 hours each day but Sunday. Then again upon further reflection and after re-reading the last sentence of #1 listed above a couple of times over it has occurred to me that perhaps being trapped in a small airless, windowless room with a hung over or possibly still drunk teenage baboon like me may not have been exactly pleasant for her.

3. I know I said there were only going to be 2 drawbacks but upon even further reflection I am now wondering about the validity of #1 in total. I mean if I was going work hung over or possibly still drunk from the previous nights partying or god knows what then that probably negates the job cramping my style doesn't it? Sounds more like neither one had any effect whatsoever on the other. The job didn't seem to stop me from partying and the partying never seemed to prevent me from showing up and doing my job.

4. Fuck it then. The only drawback to my job at Gold Circle was Missy and frankly she may have had a point being nasty to me and giving me a hard time because I was a hung over, smelly drunk so who could blame her really? I mean, that room was pretty small.

I suddenly realize that I have abused my numbered bullet point privileges and at this point I'm rambling so it's time for an anyhoo...

Anyhoo... what I really wanted to tell you about was the job that I had after the cash office which I referred to as "the greatest job in the world". Are you still reading this?

I quit the cash office gig because I was going to start attending college and I needed a job with more flexible hours. I applied at several different retail shops, but the job I had my heart set on and didn't think I had a chance in hell to get because it was ranked pretty high on the coolness scale and I lived in a college town so there was always lots of competition for crappy paying jobs in cool stores was at a smaller but national chain that rhymes with Beer Ton Pimports*. Do you know of it?

It's a much different kind of store now. Back then it was only just morphing into the brand image it has now and many people (like my cousin J and his stoner buddies) thought it was a fancy head shop and sometimes when I told people (like my cousin J and his stoner buddies) that I worked there (oh, yes - in case you hadn't figured it out on your own - I got the coveted job) they would make bong and rolling paper jokes.

Beer Ton Pimports didn't sell bongs or rolling papers or any other smoking accessory except for Italian marble ashtrays and sandalwood incense. No. They sold the most beautiful and wondrous things. They sold rattan furniture made in Thailand, Japanese paper lanterns and jasmine scented potpourri. They sold cut glass Romanian stemware, bamboo fans from China and carved boxes made of teak wood from Brazilian rain forests. They sold English tea pots, Scottish shortbread cookies and itchy cable knit wool "fisherman" sweaters from Ireland.

For a young woman who yearned for travel, and didn't really see much chance of it happening anytime soon, it was a wonderland.

I started off as a cashier, but within a year was promoted to Assistant Store Manager. I love, love, loved that job. I got to be around all that cool stuff and between the shipments of new merchandise that needed to be unloaded from the delivery trucks, displays that needed to be built and the various trials and tribulations associated with working with the public, every day was new and different.

It's the only job I've ever had where I actually left smelling better than when I came in.

It was at this job that I discovered my uncanny ability to solidly and successfully assemble cheap furniture armed with only Taiwanese instructions, an allen wrench and wood glue without ever once bursting into tears. I would often return from having taken a few days off to find heaps of furniture left for me to make sense of by my frustrated and distraught co-workers who had tried in vain to assemble them in my absence. I was (and still am by the way) a furniture assembly goddess.

It was also at this job where I learned that working with the public is not for me. I continued to do it for quite awhile but eventually lost the ability to control my facial expressions enough to hide the disgust I was feeling behind a big shiny grin when confronted with:

The woman screaming at me at full volume because I would not allow her to return a dress with filthy yellowed armpit stains and no receipt. She threw a ball point pen at my head.
The children allowed to run loose all over the store and smash bath oil beads onto the floor I had just finished mopping while their parents argued over the fabric quality of $12 toss pillows.
The wild-eyed man who banged on the door after closing time and tearfully demanded to be let inside. He shouted, "I can see you in there! I just need to buy a papasan!". Allrighty nut bag. Key indicator of nuttiness not so much the wild-eyes, door banging or tears but the word "need" used with "papasan" in the same sentence. Who in the hell has an urgent need for a papasan chair? He was out of his fucking mind and I called the cops.**

Mostly though it was a great job. I worked there for almost 3 years and made a lot of great friends. Here are some of my more fond memories:

The morning my co-worker Jay broke all the jars in a spice rack and we used the jar labels instead of our name tags. I immediately snagged Rosemary and Jay grabbed Basil. As the day wore on some of our other co-workers including the store manager got into the act and we had Sage, Paprika, Nutmeg and Thyme all working at the cash wrap stand. I'm not sure why this was so funny. But trust me, it was. Epecially when you'd get one of those eye contact customers that make a point of reading your name tag and using your name when they pay. Thank you Nutmeg!
After I moved out of my parents house I didn't need to buy groceries because I was able to live off of the free fortune cookies we gave away at the cash wrap.
The time that I had excruciating pains in my abdomen and thought I was having appendicitis. My co-worker had just picked up the phone and started to dial 911 at the point in which I realized it was just some push pins that I had forgotten in my apron pocket stabbing me in the gut every time I leaned into the counter.
Being in charge of the clearance book which gave me an inside edge into knowing all the items that were on 75% clearance. You see depending on the sales of an item we didn't always mark everything down as low as we could have. But using that book I was able to legally mark it down as low as possible for store employees. Handy.
Our secret employee stash of full price merchandise that we all kept hidden wrapped in a tarp in the rafters over the stockroom. If we fell in love with something but couldn't afford it (and it was small, lightweight and pliable enough to be wrapped in a tarp and stored over hour heads) we would hide it in the stash and hang onto it up there until it hit 75% clearance. Brilliant.

*Perhaps some of you (who have made it this far and are for some reason still reading this post) may be wondering why I felt the need to hide the name of Beer Ton Pimports, but not Gold Circle and that would be because Gold Circle no longer exists as a corporation, but if balance is important to you may refer to Gold Circle as Cold Gircle as you continue to read this post.

**It's possibly the most useless piece of furniture known to humankind (it's a actually a tie between the papasan chair and the wicker bookshelf but for the sake of my post today papasan wins). It doesn't store anything, is flimsy as all hell, it slides all around when you even think about sitting on it and if you do finally find a way to get comfortable sitting in one for any longer than 90 seconds will give you curvature of the spine or at the very least a stiff neck.

Employment History Part 1 - The Cash Office

2009-10-27T11:08:00.032-04:00

My young blogger friend Player wrote a post the other day about how much he likes his part time job working the fitting rooms at a big name clothing store. It was an excellent post that started my mind ticking back to some of the jobs that I had as a young person, most of which were also in retail.

I never had a job officially until the summer I graduated from high school. Before then I was kept pretty busy at home taking care of my younger sister, who was only 3 years younger than me, but mentally and physically challenged with Downs Syndrome. When my parents were at work and even when they weren't it was my job to bathe her, feed her, make sure she took all of her medications and generally keep her entertained and out of trouble. They paid me a small allowance for doing this and some other household chores which included cooking dinner every weeknight (my mother cooked on weekends), cleaning both bathrooms and vacuuming all the carpets at least once a week.

I got $20 per week for my labors, half of which I was supposed to use to buy my lunch at school. Is it really necessary for me to tell you that I didn't eat lunch for 4 years? Of course not. I pocketed that cash so that I could use it for whatever a teenage girl could buy with 20 bucks in the early 80's. Turns out quite a lot: records, make-up, movie tickets. Back before I started drinking, smoking and doing drugs life was pretty cheap.

Sometimes I was jealous of my friends that had "normal" teenage types of jobs working in fast food restaurants or bagging groceries at the local supermarket. They made more money and seemed to have a lot more freedom, but I didn't push the job thing with my parents because I realized that my friends with legit jobs also had to put up with such indignities as coming home smelling like a fry-o-lator or schlepping groceries across slushy winter parking lots for 25 cent tips. I had it pretty good.

What felt like mere minutes after high school graduation everything changed however. Suddenly it was expected that I would go out into the world and get a job. My parents started taking my sister to a daycare, hired a housekeeper and stopped paying my allowance.*

It was kind of horrifying.

At 18 I had no idea where to even begin to find a job. I had no idea what exactly I was qualified to do other than cook, clean and take care of my sister. The only thing I knew for certain, after listening to the complaints of my friends was that I didn't want to work in a fast food restaurant or a supermarket. So I spent most of June of 1985 trying to find a job worthy of my superior presence, a glamorous and exciting job that was also conveniently located on the bus line or within walking distance of our house because I didn't have a car. (I ended up getting a car later that summer.)

I wanted a job that didn't require me to lift anything, be seen by anyone, sell anything, get dirty or sweaty, move or speak to other people.

At this point you might think that I'm going to tell you that I was fooling myself and that such a job was not to be found for an 18 year old girl with no previous experience, who wore all black, an eye covering punk hairstyle, pale goth make-up and buried herself in books. My parents were certainly convinced that between my style and picky, priggish attitude that I was sure to fail. Perhaps I was being picky and priggish, that doesn't mean such a job didn't exist (Ha-ha!). Turns out there was such a job available (Ho-ho!) in the cash office of a local chain of department stores called Gold Circle (imagine Kohl's and K-Mart got married).

My new part time job in the cash office paid a whopping $3.75 per hour, which was a whole 20 cents above minimum wage at the time. As a bonus I got a 20% store discount. Ha-ha!

Every morning, Monday thru Saturday, at 7am I was locked into a tiny room containing an enormous walk-in safe, two adding machines, all of the store's cash register tills and another cash office worker. We spent the next 5 hours adding up and balancing all the previous days cash and receipts, refilled the tills with cash for the current business day and then prepared the bank deposits that were picked up promptly at noon by one of those armored car companies.

Every day literally tens or hundreds (during holiday season) of thousands of dollars in cash passed through my hands. It was a lot of responsibility and I like to think that my experience being responsible for taking care of my sister was what sold my manager on hiring me. Also I have an honest face. I do! Besides if there were any doubts about my integrity and ability to be trusted with buttloads of cash I had to go through some extra screening procedures and tests.

Anyhoo... that was my first real job and the only thing I didn't like about it was my cash office partner that I was locked into the room with each day. She was a girl named "Missy" with whom I had absolutely nothing in common. We got along, barely.

Missy, although only a year older than me, had dropped out of high school and was already married and had a one year old son. To be clear, it wasn't so much those facts that made me dislike her, but the fact that she was all superior about it. She was from a very small town where according to her being married and having a baby was the end all, be all of life's existence. She could die happy at 19 because she was married and had a baby. I was all like, big deal you've got a uterus.

I think perhaps because I wasn't totally jealous of her superior status as teenage wife and mother and frankly made no bones about my lack of interest or aspirations in either of those things (at any age), Missy thought that I was the biggest smarty pants asshole weirdo she had ever met and never stopped finding new and creative ways of letting me know how she felt. She certainly didn't like hearing about my taste in music, adventures in night clubbing and opinions about religion, politics or women's rights.

I might have stayed longer in the cash office of Gold Circle were it not for Missy. I was able to put up with her for about a year before I moved on to what I thought at the time was the greatest job in the world... which I will tell you about in my next post.

*I'm quite sure they weren't paying either the housekeeper or the daycare center a paltry $20 a week.

Thtop It

2009-10-21T13:56:00.010-04:00

Late last week I was having a nosh on some yummy crackers and extra sharp cheddar when I noticed that a couple of my bottom back teeth felt funny. My bite felt wrong. Thinking that I must have gotten some cracker bits all jammed up in there I went to bathroom, grabbed some floss and began to go to town. It only took a second to loosen whatever was stuck but when I popped out the floss something flew out of my mouth and landed with a tiny hard marble-ly sound into the sink.

Normally the crap stuck between my teeth doesn't do that.

Flossing is typically a pretty quiet activity for me.

My first thought was wow that was some tough cracker bit, then soon realized, as I'm sure you have gathered by now because you are probably way smarter than me and have noticed the graphic that the top of my post, that it was a big giant chunk of my tooth. Great. My tooth broke.

I finally was able to get it fixed today. Meanwhile it was no big deal. If anything it was a bit annoying because I was constantly poking and digging at the broken spot with my tongue which made for some pretty attractive facial expressions I'm sure, but that's just proof of my lack of self control. I wasn't in any pain.

Anyhoo... interesting thing I found out about myself today - my dentist has my chart marked that I'm a squirming cryface. It's true, I am. They even numb me when I get my teeth cleaned because I'm such a baby girl, but today because the work was a little more extensive than a cleaning, he had to replace a filling and build up the tooth and then file everything back down again, he numbed me way more than normal. Way more. Like my appointment was at 8am this morning, it's now almost 2:30pm and I am still numb.

Like unable to eat without fear of unknowingly biting my own lips off numb. So numb that I called the dentists office a couple of hours ago to make sure this was normal numb. The receptionist looked at my chart and was like Oh yeah, you might be numb for awhile still, like dinner time. Then she told me that I already had my chart marked to get extra numb and for this procedure he gave me a couple of extra squirts.

It's pretty irritating at this point and I've limited myself to very small bites of soft, soft food until I can be reassured that the food I'm swallowing doesn't include any parts of my own face. Fortunately for me the only truly soft, soft food we had in the house (ignoring oatmeal, of course, bleh) was a little tray of Tiramisu.

Oh yeth - I nearly forgot. A fun thide effect of the extreme numbneth and having no control of my own tongue ith that I'm currently unable to thay my Th'th, which I dithcovered during a brief phone converthation with my friend Thephanie thith morning. Here ith a picture:

Random Find

2009-10-21T09:41:00.005-04:00

Disturbing on many levels. It's that kind of day...

News Round Up

2009-10-15T01:12:00.022-04:00

1. Weekend before last MDH and I drove to Indianapolis (I know, I know, we are just too posh and glamorous and need to get over ourselves immediately) where we met with some good friends and saw the traveling King Tut exhibit at the children's museum.

It was the weekend of our wedding anniversary so MDH and I decided to arrive a day early to take in the sights of Indiana's state capital which is how we ended up touring the home of 23rd president Benjamin Harrison (yet another "feather" in our cap of presidential homes visited across America , we are now up to 7 - I know, I know, you're jealous of our James Bond like jet-setting life style filled with danger and erotic intrigue the level of which would bring a blush to the cheeks of the editors of the Penthouse forum). We thoroughly annoyed the poor docent by interrupting his scripted and well practiced room by room guided spiels to frequently and vigorously interrogate the poor old fellow on the origin and subspecies of various displayed items and tchotchkes about which he knew nothing. At the end of the tour Mr. Docent was kind to enough to call over one of the historians to help answer some of our questions.

Mr. Docent insisted that it was no trouble and explained that he actually considered our intense interest refreshing and enjoyed our challenging questions because he is used to corralling busloads of unruly school children who could care less about American history and our 23rd president and don't ask him to answer any question more taxing than the location of the restroom.

MDH and I topped off our busy day of sight seeing with a romantic dinner at St. Elmo's where we gorged ourselves on typical steakhouse fare such as shrimp cocktail, giant cuts of aged beef and a bottle of moderately priced red wine. Afterwards we waddled drunkenly back to our hotel room, bellies full and proceeded to spend the rest of the evening lolling around our hotel suite and stinking the place up with our noxious gasses. So sexy.

Anyhoo... we had a good time in Indianapolis. Thankfully I packed some Tums.

2. The following Monday afternoon after our return from Indianapolis (that would be last week) my dad called me to tell me that on Saturday as my mother was bending over, filling out a form to bid on an item in a silent auction at some affair they were attending at their country club someone at the table where she was bidding moved a box that had been under the table so that the box was now out in the aisle in front of the table and when my mother was finished filling out her bidding form she tripped over the box and fell down and broke her pelvis.

My mommy fell hard and broke her pelvis and was still in the hospital when my dad called to tell me 3 fucking days later. Fucking A man. I'm not sure why they do this, but not contacting me is pretty much included in all of their emergency planning meetings. Granted they live in Florida so I wouldn't have been able to do anything anyway, but still, keeping me, their only living child out of the loop, it's weird right?

So now my mom is in a rehab center learning how to perform exciting tricks like putting on her own underpants and rolling over in bed by herself. She may have to be there for several more weeks.

She refuses to talk to or see anyone but my father and me (with one exception described below) and even I'm not allowed to call her without permission. She arranges for me to call her via my dad who will call me at 11:27 and say "Your mom wants you to call her today at 11:30 and she will talk to you for 20 minutes or so...". It's like mission impossible.

Anyhoo... you may assume that I am concerned about my mother's condition for all the normal reasons that anyone would be, but I am also concerned that the multiple new medications she is taking for pain and anxiety (apparently she has mini-freak outs just before some of her more intensive physical therapy sessions) won't mix well with the Scotch my father has been sneaking in for her on his daily visits.

I am also concerned that my dad, left to fend for himself has thrown his low fat, low sodium, no cholesterol diet right out the window without my mom there to control every bite he puts in his mouth like she normally does.

The situation has gotten further out of hand because you see my father is a handsome and charming old chap who is very popular in the community, especially with some of the ladies, who have wasted no time swooping in to fill my parents refrigerator with their home cooked pot roasts, quiches, lasagnas and various other meat, cheese and egg heavy meals. My dad is far too polite to tell these sweet, concerned creatures that he cannot eat their fatty foods and frankly having all that good stuff conveniently prepared and ready to eat has been too much of a temptation so he's been eating it and now his ulcer has been acting up again.

An elaborate plot?

It wouldn't surprise me one iota to find out that any one of these ladies (not actually pictured above), who I personally have witnessed shamelessly flirting with my dad right in front of me and my mom, planted that box for my mom to trip over in an effort to get my mother out of the picture. There are a lot of lonely widows and divorcees in the neighborhood and my dad would be quite a catch.

My level of importance...
The charity auction where my mom fell and broke her pelvis was organized by a famous golfer who happened to be standing near my mother when she fell and who has been sending my mother flowers and calling her every single day since the accident. My mom is thrilled and I haven't the heart to mention that the famous golfer is probably only trying to butter her up so she won't sue the plaid pants off of him. She takes every call from the famous golfer even though the famous golfer has a tendency to call at the most inconvenient times, like when she is on her bedpan or sleeping or what have you. When I suggested that she simply not take the golfers calls or explain to the golfer that she was sleeping or in the middle of a big shit she acted as though I had lost my mind. How rude not to take a call from the famous golfer. And yet all my phone calls to her have to be by appointment only. At least I know where I stand.

Only 2 items in the News Round Up?
Other than job searching, overeating and watching too much TV that's really all that's been going on around here lately. I'll write again when I have more farting to discuss and issues about my parents I feel like airing publicly.

Kindest Regards,

Lady

I Didn't Know I Was Too Stupid to Live

2009-10-01T12:03:00.013-04:00

Knowing that I haven't worked for nearly a month now and am recovering from what was either the flu or a bad cold you would be right to assume that I've gotten very intimate with our television lately. Intimate enough to know that there is never anything on during the day so I try to avoid the TV altogether before I am reduced to just spinning around the channel guide like a hamster on a wheel until my thumb cramps up and I get disgusted and leave the room to find more productive ways to waste my time elsewhere.

All that channel spinning is how I came across a show called "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant". It's a show I've never seen (even though I'm going to rip on it for most of the rest of this post) and was never compelled until recently to find out more about. In the channel guide the title is cut off so all you can see is "I Didn't Know I Was...". You can't see the rest so I assumed it was a series in which people find themselves caught unawares in various situations for example:

I didn't know I was my own uncle

I didn't know I was sitting on an ant hill

I didn't know I was riddled with herpes

You get the gist. Whatever. I understand that there could be any number of situations, diseases and medical conditions you might have contracted without your knowledge, and yet it never occurred to me that being pregnant was one of them.

It was difficult, but somehow I was able to open my mind to the possibility that someone could be so unselfconscious and unaware of their own body that they live in every day and unknowingly be pregnant, carry an infant to full term and then be completely caught off guard when they cough 9 months later and poop out a baby.* It happens. Yet still I assumed that it was pretty rare and that Pregnant, was just one episode in the series called "I Didn't Know I Was".

I have since discovered that this is incorrect and apparently not being aware of your own pregnancy happens all the time or at least often enough that the topic merits it's own complete series and not just one episode. All of this in my mind begs the question - just how stupid are these people? I suppose I should break down and actually watch the show to find the answer.

Anyhoo... this is all coming from a woman who is hyper aware of every little gas bubble and goosebump on her own body. I contemplate the state of my own physical existence almost constantly. So I guess for me the show would be called - One Time When My Period Was Extra Late I Bought a Home Pregnancy Test Even Though I Was On the Pill and Hadn't Had Sex for Nearly a Year.**

So who am I to judge stupid?

* Remember, I haven't actually seen the show so I'm making assumptions about how one goes about delivering the baby of an unknown pregnancy. I realize that babies and poop are not extracted from the same location, but the word "poop" is funny.

** It was a long time ago.

Congratulations, you're still in the running towards becoming America's Next Hot Mess

2009-09-28T10:25:00.008-04:00

Forgive me Blogland for I have sinned. It has been 20 days since my last confession, I mean blog post. I have been a right mess and until recently was in no mood for much of anything other than playing endless games of Big Kahuna Reef (it's like Jewel Quest except with seashells and tikis) or watching endless amounts of mindless, syndicated television. Here are 2 important things that I have learned:

1. Tyra Banks is an ass.

2. I need the company of other human beings.

During the first couple of weeks in September I morphed into a weepy, be-sweatpantsed, mascara smeared, unemployed lady-blob.

Early last week I almost reached the tipping point and was moments away from an apathetic and joyless life consisting of eating all my food straight from a can and wearing nothing but mumus, but thanks to a kind email from Gwen with a picture of a kitty, the hope provided by an online Oracle class offered by my local community college, the company of my good friends Jogger and Ladette, and a well timed, real job opportunity I was able to start snapping out of it.

I shook out my pony tail, showered, got dressed again, and put on make up.

I started doing all those things that I had planned to do in order to take advantage of all the free time I had. I started making the bed every day. I finally took down and washed the living room curtains. I got my cholesterol checked (high, but not too bad) and made appointments for teeth cleaning and an eye exam. I even sucked it up and applied for unemployment (even though everyone kept telling me you can't get it when you were a temp, which turns out not to be true) and discovered that being on the dole isn't so bad.

Yes. This upswing lasted for about 4 days.

Just when things were looking up for me I was suddenly and violently shoved back into my sweatpants. I was struck back down into raccoon eyed, ponytail hell by what I can only assume was the flu. I don't know what kind of flu, but to please Gwen we'll call it the Heiney Flu (H1N1) although it could possibly simply be that it's a rotten head cold and I'm a big baby.

Anyhoo... What the hell man? This is like the 4th or 5th time I've been sick this year. Fuck. I like to think of myself as a hale and hearty type, but since last Tuesday I've been wallowing around in my jammies wheeling around a sickroom humidifier, that I rigged up on an office chair with a bath towel to catch any spills, with me from room to room. My glamorous entourage of late, in addition to the humidifier, includes the following:

1. A giant box of tissues with lotion.

2. A bag of sugar-free cherry cough drops.

3. A bottle of saline nasal spray.

4. A tube of medicated lip balm.

5. A box of the most potent decongestant available over the counter. It's the kind from the locked cabinet at the pharmacy counter that you have to sign for because people make crystal meth from it. My philosophy about cold meds is that if it isn't harmful to pregnant women and I'm able to operate heavy machinery then it's no good. I want the hard stuff.

6. A plastic grocery sack filled with all my used tissues - I call it "the sad sack".

So today I'm finally starting to feel a little bit better and I'm learning to live without the humidifier (it broke anyway - I'm sure I wore the fucking thing out) and the meds (I ran out). I started back up again with my online class and found my way back to my blog.

That's all I have the strength for at the moment. Stay well and keep busy.

Love, Lady

Friends Like This

2009-09-08T09:55:00.019-04:00

Making friends is so easy when you're a little kid. Pretty much all you have to do is live near someone your age and boom - companionship. It's like, hey nice bike, let's play fort. Easy.

As a grown up proximity alone does not a friendship make. I mean, I'm friendly with most of our neighbors, but I certainly don't want to invite them over to play fort, let alone talk to them for more than 5 minutes. I'm fond of the neighborly smile and wave from afar.

Even when I am able to determine that I have a few things in common with someone, I have to build up to committing to hang out, meet for dinner or drinks or what have you, and even then it's sketchy.

Making friends as an adult is a crap shoot. Start to make friends with a new person and even when things seem to be going great and you're getting along the next thing you know they try to recruit you to sell Amway for them, invite you to their next Klan meeting or try to get you baptized.

It can be terrifying because not only does this loony have your number, now they think that you are friends. Then I have to be the dick in the situation and be all like "I'm sorry I can't come to the quilting bee/cockfight/candle party, but I'm just crazy busy for the rest of my life."

The scariest thing anyone ever said to me in an overly eager tone was "we should be friends!"

Back off freak. It doesn't work that way, and besides you don't just blurt out a sentence like that. Weirdo.

I realize that I am dazzling to look at and have been entertaining you with my captivating, dry wit at this cocktail party non-stop. Don't get me wrong you've been a lovely audience, but I cannot make a commitment to a friendship based upon this encounter. I need facts. I need a list of hobbies and interests. I need to know that you are not going to go home from this party and dress your pet ferret up like Snow White and then leaf through your collection of clown porn.

Not to say that I'm not weird or that my friends aren't all freaks. I am weird and my friends are all weird, but we're all the same kind of weird, just in different ways. A certain je ne sais quoi of weird. Whatever it is - it works.

Anyhoo.. at this point I feel I'm rambling on a bit so I'm going to wrap it up. I'm sure you have deduced from reading this blog I don't have many close friends. The few that I do have live far away. I was missing them all very much this long Labor Day weekend and was thinking about how hard it is to make friends when you're an old weirdo and how lucky I am to have such great old weirdo friends.

Yeast Pilot

2009-09-01T18:35:00.011-04:00

They won't have me to kick around anymore... fuckers.

I didn't mean you. You are lovely and not a fucker. Not at all. I love you man. No the fine folks at Large Corporation are the fuckers. You are marvelous. And looking fantastic by the way - have you lost weight? Well, whatever you're doing, keep it up, I'm serious, you look great.

Anyhoo... my last day at Large Corporation is Friday and I have mixed feelings about it. OK. Not really. My feelings are not mixed. I'm feeling pretty solidly shitty about it from all angles. I've been furiously looking for another job and have had a couple of interviews recently, but at the moment I'm in that place where I really hate to be - in suspense.

The world has gone all topsy-turvey, I'm at sea and have no idea what my future holds. It's frightening. The only thing I know for certain is that I cannot work for Large Corporation anymore. Fuckers. Not you.

Meanwhile I'm trying to make the best of a sorry situation and have been socializing like crazy and exchanging digits (in case my elderly uncle Dan is reading this - Uncle Dan I'm referring to phone numbers and email addresses, not fingertips, calm down old man) with my fellow contractors and we have been meeting for drinks after work on an almost weekly basis. Drinking is fun!

Also fun, last Wednesday instead of going out for drinks after work my fellow contractor friend, and soon to be married lady, Ladette and I threw back a couple of margaritas at my place and I gave her a cooking lesson. Under my careful tutelage she made baked rigatoni and a gorgeous Caesar salad. Overall it was a win-win situation. She got to learn 2 easy recipes that she will be able to use the rest of her life from the short-cut master (Rachel Ray and her 30 Minute Meals can suck my balls) and I got to pompously bluster on and on about how smart and great I am and showcase all of my excellent kitchen gadgetry.

In other news - I need to make an announcement to some folks who are contributing to news stories about the economy, I think I know who you are, and it goes a little something like this:

Please stop claiming that every kind of sales industry is a barometer by which we can measure economic recovery. So far I've heard stories about how monitoring the heightening or declining sales of heavy equipment, lipstick, home furnishings, and now the last straw - today I heard a story about how the sales of men's underpants is an economic barometer. It's not. I promise you it's not. At least not more than the sales of anything else.

When the the news story referred to the MUI, a.k.a. the Men's Underwear Index I swear that my head burst into flames. Stop it all of you.

Now that I've got that off my chest, and thank you for listening, I can tell you about Yeast Pilot.

Well, actually I can't tell you very much about Yeast Pilot except that I have no idea what it means, but it was written in dry erase marker on the schedule board of the woman who sits in the cube next to me and I must have walked by and read it about 100 times last week.

Intriguing no? Say it with me... Yeast Pilot.

Most likely it's some new kind of nutritional supplement that Large Corporation is planning to produce and market to whoever they market that stupid shit to.

I however have decided that it is a terrific new slang insult.

Douchbag? So passe.

Say it with me again - Yeast Pilot.

All the cool kids will be saying it.

Nobody In Their Right Mind Would Need This - Special SkyMall Edition

2009-08-29T11:28:00.012-04:00

It has been quite awhile since I've been inspired by a product so dumb that I am moved to actually get up off my ass and then sit back down again in my office chair and create a post about it, but here it is:

The "Head Spa Massager"

Brought to you by the brilliant minds at SkyMall:

What fool can resist Italian design when paired with Japanese engineering?

Please, pretty please wear it to work.

I understand that times are tough so if you crave ownership of this lovely gadget but cannot afford $49.99 + shipping give me a call and I will personally come to your home, hand you a glass of red wine, put a spaghetti strainer on your head and knock you around a little bit until your blood circulation improves and you feel more relaxed.

I'm here to help.

A Guest Post from My Cat Turtle

2009-08-17T15:18:00.027-04:00

My owner-lady can't come to the blogs right now because she's too damn depressed and uninspired. More lap for me, less blog for you I guess. Meanwhile she has asked me to write a guest post which is quite a stretch for me considering that my brain is only the size of a walnut and my front paws are declawed which makes typing a bitch.

Anyhoo... (my owner-lady told me to say that) I thought I would take this opportunity to do that Bernard Pivot/Proust questionnaire that James Lipton does on Inside the Actor's Studio

1. What is your favorite word?
Chicken.

2. What is your least favorite word?
No!

3. What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?
Being told "No!" often inspires me to keep trying that much harder to go after the things that I want. I'm also a big proponent of napping.

4. What turns you off?
People who are duplicitous. Also getting wet, it's so undignified.

5. What is your favorite curse word?
Motherfucker. I say it all the time!

6. What sound or noise do you love?
The sound of children laughing, rain tapping gently on the roof, the can opener, and crinkling paper.

7. What sound or noise do you hate?
The vacuum cleaner.

8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
Dancer.

9. What profession would you not like to do?
Accountant. Bo-ring!

10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
Jump up here on the counter and have some chicken!

A Random Shit List

2009-08-03T09:40:00.026-04:00

1. Foil yogurt lids that seem specifically designed to spooge all over your clean blouse, computer monitor or any nearby surface that you would prefer not appear to be splashed with a pale creamy substance. Is there a brand of yogurt that has a lid designed to avoid lid-spooge? Can we have that please?

2. Person who drove a big giant beat up old camper to work every day last week and took up four parking spaces. Not that it inconvenienced me in any real way, other than that there were three less spaces available for the rest of us, but the idea of it bugged the shit out of me on many levels. However, as I walked by it each day on my way into the building I began to imagine all of the ways it would be inconvenient, expensive and not just a little embarrassing to be reduced to driving a big giant beat up old camper as your every day vehicle and then I wondered if perhaps you haven't hit upon some pretty hard times and don't need the added burden of my silent scorn. Or maybe you are just a dick.

3. Mysterious otherness in the butter. Actually, anything other than butter in the butter whether it is mysterious or recognizable is wrong, wrong, wrong.

4. ATM machines that ask me to choose English or Spanish for my transaction.

Um.... English.

I don't recall using an ATM anywhere else in the world that asked me to choose a language. In France you get French, in Mexico you get Spanish and so on.

I forgot to press the button to get cash back with my very important purchase of a hay bale sized box of maxi pads, peanut butter ice cream, and a bag of Cheetos at the check out counter in CVS the other day so I decided to use the cash machine next to the front door on my way out. It's the kind of purchase that really helps to explain the current delicate condition of my psyche. Anyhoo.. the ATM asked me not only to choose English or Spanish, which as I explained I already find irritating, but after I chose English it then asked me IN ENGLISH - You have chosen English for this transaction - is that correct?

Uh yeah... I meant to choose English, but riddle me this - If I had accidentally chosen the wrong language how would I be able to read your dumbass follow up question?

Also wondering aloud if anyone out there happens to be a designer of ATM machines - why the fuck is there a braille option on the drive-up ATM?

That is all for now - thank you for listening.

UPDATE 2:58PM - Just to clarify: I do not hate the ATM asking me English or Spanish out of any militant anti-immigration leanings. Frankly I could care less. The more the merrier I always say. No. I hate the ATM asking me English or Spanish because it is a waste of my precious time.

Nostalgia Saturday

2009-08-01T09:07:00.006-04:00

I was an Electric Company kid. I loved and watched Sesame Street too, but when I look back on it I think I probably watched the Electric Company throughout a much longer period of my childhood and I even remember watching it in school during inside recess.

Anyhoo... the other night I watched a little one hour documentary that I recorded on PBS. It was called The Electric Company's Greatest Hits and while watching this show I laughed and cried and sang along to all the old songs that I hadn't thought of for so long, but are so embedded in my brain there is no way I could ever have forgotten them.

I'm pasting a few of them here just in case any of you were Electric Company kids like I was and I hope you enjoy them as much as I always have.

tion

Tom Lehrer's LY Song

Tom Lehrer's Silent E Song

Gypsies, Tramps & Skeeves

2009-07-27T17:52:00.050-04:00

Well there is nothing quite like combining your 42nd birthday and a family reunion all in the same weekend to leave you feeling a wee bit maudlin. We've been back from Columbus for just a week and I've been a bit down. Not that I didn't have fun. I did. And not that I wasn't happy to see (most of) my family. I was. Perhaps things were a little too good and I wasn't quite ready to leave my old stomping grounds.

Last Friday afternoon I went out to lunch with my mother (in town for the reunion as well), and my friends Amy and Becky. It was marvelous. We laughed and laughed. Until my mom created one of those bizarro moments where the entire world (or in this case the entire restaurant) stops spinning, mouths are silenced and all ears became focused on her when she told this whacked out and racially tinged story about Romani Gypsies that she tried to dignify by saying she'd read it in "the paper".

Awkward.

Fortunately we recovered the moment and the good times resumed as my friends and I collectively made a decision to smile, nod and ignore her crazy ass and quickly move on to less nutty topics.

After my mother left I tried to restore my friends faith in journalism by revealing that the only "paper" my mom reads is the Villages Daily Sun and all they ever report is who died or who has grand kids visiting. I reassured them that she didn't read that clap-trap Gypsy story in the Washington Post or the New York Times. Clearly she made it up.

It's scary to see your parents age. A sad point, driven (literally) home to me in the bullet points listed below in the order that the thoughts popped into my head, as I got in the passenger seat of my mother's rented mini-van and took a short drive across the parking lot of a large mall after luncheon when we all wanted to grab coffees at a nearby cafe:

Damn. She has to drive? It's so close. Her legs must be very fucked up. I should ask her how fucked up her legs are ...

Damn. She uses a cane at home? Why hasn't she ever mentioned this. Um... Why didn't she bring it with her?

Vanity. Apparently my mom is more self conscious about being seen using a cane than she is about getting into a car and driving 50 feet.

Um... why is she driving in circles? We just drove right by the cafe. There's a spot. Oh. There's a spot. Oh. There's one. Oh. What the fuck?

Great. Now she's blind too. Apparently she only parks in spots where she can pull forward instead of having to back out.

This is bad.

I'll just say this about my mom's driving - the only reason she hasn't mowed anyone down (that we know of) is because thankfully they saw her first and were able to get the hell out of the way.

As for the rest of my weekend - here is the highlight reel of my family reunion in the form of, you guessed it, more bullet points:

Babies, babies, babies! My family sure can breed! I have two cousins who are my age WHO HAVE GRANDCHILDREN. I find this appalling when birth control is so cheap. I can't get excited that you are a grandparent. I just can't. Is that wrong?
Speaking of family planning, I'm old enough now that no one is asking MDH and me when we are going to start a family and this made me a little sad. It used to piss me off.

I raised a huge stink because there was no mustard. Who the hell was in charge of this BBQ shit pile? Call your event planner and get your money back no mustard. (It was my aunt Nan and I totally forgive her - but I made some noise) Hundreds of cheap-ass hot dogs and not one squirt of mustard in the whole goddamn place? I don't mind a cheap-ass hot dog, but I need to put some mustard on that shit to maintain my dignity.

What the hell? My sister's youngest child is going to be a senior next year. Stop it all of you. No more growing up. I mean it.

My entire extended family stayed at the Holiday Inn Express near the reunion venue and we basically took over the entire place. It was like that scene from Raising Arizona when all of those wild kids are trashing Hi & Ed's trailer. I lost count of all the people who walked into the pool area, fully decked out in swimsuits, crisp white hotel towel draped over one shoulder, rearing to go and then took one look at the drunk and noisy clan of rednecks who had high jacked the place and hauled ass right the fuck out of there.

My aunt Libby, who is in her late 60's and seems like a perfectly reasonable person on the surface, came down to enjoy her complimentary breakfast in that room hotels always have right off of the lobby, within clear view of the reception desk, elevators and main walkway of the establishment, wearing nothing but her housecoat (a light blue cotton whisp of a garment with embroidered flowers, gingham patch pockets, and white metal snaps up the front) and slippers (light pink terry cloth slides). Clearly she has come unhinged as she seemed neither to notice nor care that nobody else was dressed in this fashion or that it might be inappropriate or uncomfortable for the other patrons (me) in the hotel to see her in such a state of undress.

I got over it.

I slurred drunkenly on and on about Libby's embarassing housecoat at dinner Sunday night with MDH and several of our friends.

Apparently I wasn't over it, although I had forgotten all about my mom and the weird Gypsy thing until I talked to Amy on the phone last night.

Cha cha cha

2009-07-15T22:05:00.047-04:00

My best friend Amy teaches 2nd grade and she does this thing with her class where she gives each child a choice on their birthday about how they prefer the rest of the class sing the "Happy Birthday" song to them. She'll ask, "Do you want cha-cha's or no cha-cha's?".

If you choose cha-cha's then the birthday song is boisterous and loud with a lot of wahoo-ing and goes Happy Birthday to you - CHA-CHA-CHA, Happy Birthday to you - CHA-CHA-CHA. I think she does some other stuff too, like she wears a fright wig and big Mr. Magoo glasses, calls herself Birthday Betty and makes the birthday kid wear a giant sombrero or something. I'm not sure, but it's too late to call her to verify at the moment, so you'll just have to take my word for it. This isn't the New York Times and I don't have a staff of fact checkers here.

If you choose no cha-cha's then the song is just sung the normal way with very little fan fair. That's a fact.

I think it's nice that she gives them a choice.

She says you can pretty much divide the world into two kinds of people, those who prefer cha-cha's and those who prefer no cha-cha's.

I'm most definitely no cha-cha's.

And having said that now I will tell you that tomorrow is my birthday and that I will be 42. How the hell did that happen?

There won't be any cha-cha's or fan fair and that's just the way I like it. MDH and I are packing up the car when I get home from work and we're driving to Columbus where I will spend the weekend with my friends and family and that's totally fine with me. I bitch about my family a lot, but honestly I can't imagine a better way to celebrate my life than being surrounded by all the people I love.

Meanwhile I have spent the last week gorging on all sorts of ridiculous candies and treats and splurging on all sorts of crapola and potions along with various assorted services and telling myself it's for my birthday, including but not limited to:

Cute little pink ear plugs for $3.99. Quite a luxury as I usually sleep with cotton balls that I have rolled into tight little balls and jammed into my ears to quell the jackhammer of MDH's snoring but these adorable pink ear canal shaped nuggets of foam are official, the real McCoy.
A new hair cut with bangs and over $30 worth of hair care products at the salon, which really amounts to one can of Bedhead Queen for a Day and a new round brush because my old one broke a couple of weeks ago and I've been styling my hair with an old pick.

Swedish Fish that I bought to give to my friend Becky when I see her in Columbus, but I ate half the bag last night while I watched 24 Hour Party People on our DVR and I can't very well give her a half eaten bag of candy wrapped up with a rubber band.
The roast beef with swiss on rye with mayo that I bought for lunch at the cafeteria today - normally I pack something healthy.
A pap smear and 3 month supply of birth control pills. Par-tay.
An order of hot and sour soup and steamed dumplings for dinner tonight.

So that's me, livin' large.

Anyhoo... I'll take my cha-cha's this weekend in the form of the big Who Doesn't Lunch family reunion on Saturday filled with aunts, uncles, cousins, softball, grilled corn on the cob with lots of butter and salt, new babies that'll get passed around for cuddling, and the never ending bourbon soaked (we are from Kentucky after all) poker game that goes on, after all the kiddies are tucked in bed, into the wee hours of the morning.

In case you were wondering, the picture at the top is a festive "Ass" pinata that I found on Google Images quite by accident.

I hope you all have a wonderful my birthday weekend - cha cha cha!

Same Old Song & Dance

2009-07-08T17:05:00.029-04:00

Another position has become available at the company where I'm contracting so I am once again trying to balance that fine line between being assertive and being a giant pain in the ass.

You thought I was going to say aggressive didn't you?

My efforts to gain permanent employment at the company where I'm contracting have moved way past aggressive.

It feels like campaigning and it's what you have to do apparently to get the attention of management and human resources around there. You have to continually make phone calls, ask people for your support and ask them to call the manager of the department with the available position and speak on your behalf.

It's like a fucking telethon and I'm the good cause.

Then you have to meet with people, upper level management type of people, and express your interest in the position even though the managers you are meeting with are not necessarily the managers in the department that has the available job, but the managers you meet with should know the manager of the department with the job so that they can give that manager the heads up about how great you are.

It's also a good idea to meet with at least two or three of the people who actually work in the department that has the available job and express your interest in the position and ask them intelligent questions about the department and the work they do and than also ask them to speak with their department manager on your behalf. This is also a good way to get the skinny on who else may have applied and get a fix on your competition.

I'm telling you this shit is exhausting and I don't even know if I'm going to get an interview yet.

And nobody tells you that you have to do any of this shit, but it's what you have to do to get noticed when you want to get a job here and are not already an employee.

They will always consider internal candidates before they consider you when you are not already an employee there. Even if the internal candidate is considerably less qualified than you, has all the intellect of a hay rake and all the tact and personality a pygmy goat (although they certainly are very cute aren't they?) the internal candidate will be considered more desirable than you.

Did I mention that this process of constantly and aggressively selling yourself in extremely high gear only to stand by helplessly and watch while internal pygmy goat candidates who are dumber than hay rakes get the positions you are supremely qualified to do is exhausting? Well it is.

You know what is even more exhausting? Having to smile and be nice to the pygmy goats who got the jobs I wanted and in certain circumstances, when professional courtesy has required it, actually congratulate them and welcome them to the team.

It feels like a punch in the gut every time.

I want to work there and will do whatever it takes.

So I campaign.

I would don tights, a tutu, tap shoes and a top hat, do a song and dance number on the table tops in the cafeteria and for my finale passionately scream out "who do I have to blow to get a fucking job around here??", if I thought that might work.

I hope it doesn't come to that. All my tights have holes in the toes.