I was sick all weekend and spent Sunday watching most of the first season of Cougar Town [seriously, are you watching this show? Check it out on Hulu or do like I did and get the DVDs from the library. You will not regret it. And then we can all start playing Penny Can. PENNY CAN!!].
Anyway . . . sick, tired, so very wiped out. Here's an old post from ages ago you may enjoy. Or you may not. I'm kind of hopped up on meds and not a very good judge of stuff right now.
***************** Originally posted 10/06/07 [I know, right? Like a thousand years ago!]******
I'm done. Seriously.
I am minding my own business, driving down the street, where the CARS are supposed to be, when I come upon an idiot bike rider who decides the sidewalk isn't good enough (Insert inane bike rider complaint about "I can't ride on sidewalks blah blah blah" here) and so I have to make sure that I look out for Idiot Biker who has no interest in traffic law or in staying in the same general area.
Do you not get that there are VERY LARGE METAL OBJECTS HURTLING DOWN THE SAME PATH? Idiot.
(Biker: "Oh, but you should look out for bikers." Fine. When you are sitting in your house, greasing your gears, be sure to look out for cars, o.k.?)
Even better is when I'm driving down a windy park road where there is a FUCKING BIKE PATH and there are idiot bike riders who insist on riding on the shoulder.
I don't even want to know what the inane rationale is for that one. It's not going to fly. What? The bike path is made of some kind of material from an alternate dimension that eats bike wheels? What?
Finally, today, I was driving down a residential street, which is chock full of sidewalks, when a person was RUNNING in the street. Where, again, the very large metal objects are. Not running like he was being chased. Just out for a jog.
AND THEN. AND THEN! I was driving home down my own residential street which is again, PLAGUED with sidewalks, when I saw a person WALKING IN THE STREET. IN THE FUCKING STREET.
Not a Screw Authority Sullen Teenager, out to show The Man she's not following any dumb rules.
Not a child who escaped his parents' watchful eyes and is scampering, free as a chipmunk, in the street.
No. This was a middle aged woman in a track suit, out for her morning constitutional.
Now I am a very careful driver (because I have horrific anxiety about getting into an accident) and I will watch out very carefully for other cars, because you never know when another driver is texting something important (C U L8R KBY) or suddenly spills the soup they are eating in their lap. Because they are in big cars and might hurt me if they lose control.
I will even brake for animal life, from stupid squirrels and chipmunks to deer to those fucking geese and ducks who think they and their brood can cross ANYWHERE THEY WANT. Because they are idiot animals who evidently cannot read street signs.
But you. You humans. There is no excuse but pure cussedness for your behavior. It must end now.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Friday, February 25, 2011
These are the times that try my soul
I'm at work today, reading the NYT [and working - seriously. I was. Stop judging.] and my coworker asked me about this article about Iran's surging importance in the Middle East during everything that's going on. I hadn't read it yet, but said it was interesting that Iran was moving into a position where it would be a major player in the area.
This guy who also works with us came up behind us and started talking about Iran and blah blah blah and while I had to give him credit for being somewhat more well-informed than most people [he knew that there were 2 different types of Islam in the region, but couldn't identify either one], I wanted to punch him because he was just spewing some bullshit racist stereotyping. [They all hate us unless we prop up their dictators kind of bullshit.]
The thing that made me most crazy, and I'm not sure why, was when he said, "Well, people in Iran don't consider themselves Arabs. They think they're Persians."
And I just wanted to punch him because THEY ARE FUCKING PERSIANS. Jesus, dummy, get a map. You know who are Arabs? SAUDI ARABIANS. Everyone else has their own identity. Just because they are most all Muslim doesn't mean they are the same. Does the fact that most North Americans are Christian mean I can start calling you Canadian or Mexican and scoff at your attempt to identify as American?
Gah. People.
This guy who also works with us came up behind us and started talking about Iran and blah blah blah and while I had to give him credit for being somewhat more well-informed than most people [he knew that there were 2 different types of Islam in the region, but couldn't identify either one], I wanted to punch him because he was just spewing some bullshit racist stereotyping. [They all hate us unless we prop up their dictators kind of bullshit.]
The thing that made me most crazy, and I'm not sure why, was when he said, "Well, people in Iran don't consider themselves Arabs. They think they're Persians."
And I just wanted to punch him because THEY ARE FUCKING PERSIANS. Jesus, dummy, get a map. You know who are Arabs? SAUDI ARABIANS. Everyone else has their own identity. Just because they are most all Muslim doesn't mean they are the same. Does the fact that most North Americans are Christian mean I can start calling you Canadian or Mexican and scoff at your attempt to identify as American?
Gah. People.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Reason #526,429 I Hate the Suburbs
Graduation celebrations for elementary and middle schools.
Seriously.
Because suddenly we live in Appalachia or the inner city and our kids are only going to get schoolin' up to the 8th grade and we need to celebrate this fact with a giant carnival type festival.
LOLJK, people, this is the middle- to upper-middle class suburbs. We all moved here because of the great school system. OF COURSE our kids are going to finish 6th or 8th grade. What the hell else are they going to do? Go work in factories making lead-based dolls for their younger siblings to play with?
Do we really need to spend countless volunteer hours and donations and money to say, "Hey, kids, WAY TO GO!! Way to go to high school for the next four years and to college for the next 4-6 years after that! And grad school! BRAVO!!!"
Honest to god, THIS is why the rest of the world hates America.
Seriously.
Because suddenly we live in Appalachia or the inner city and our kids are only going to get schoolin' up to the 8th grade and we need to celebrate this fact with a giant carnival type festival.
LOLJK, people, this is the middle- to upper-middle class suburbs. We all moved here because of the great school system. OF COURSE our kids are going to finish 6th or 8th grade. What the hell else are they going to do? Go work in factories making lead-based dolls for their younger siblings to play with?
Do we really need to spend countless volunteer hours and donations and money to say, "Hey, kids, WAY TO GO!! Way to go to high school for the next four years and to college for the next 4-6 years after that! And grad school! BRAVO!!!"
Honest to god, THIS is why the rest of the world hates America.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Looking a gift horse in the mouth [Wednesday in Pictures]
A text conversation between the husband and me.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Something New
I'm not a recipe sharer.
I mean, I cook. Every fucking goddamn day, I cook.
But I don't really share recipes, because after the initial attempt at a recipe, I end up just winging it. It works out well, but whenever someone asks me for the recipe for something, I have to say, "Well, it's like this, you take some broth and some carrots - however many you think you'll eat..." and then I have to stop and apologize because it's just not going to work. I mean, I can tell you what I use, and when I add things, and the temp I cook it at, but beyond that? Nothing.
Except:
I just made granola bars last night, and they are awesome. The girl loves my granola bars - she thinks they're the best things ever. Her friends agree. And they're way easy. So here's my attempt to share the recipe. I've adapted this from a couple of different recipes I found online [I think from allrecipes.com], but they are my own.
Suniverse's Granola Bars *
4 1/2 cups rolled oats
1 cup flour
1 tsp baking soda
1Tbsp vanilla
3/4 cup brown sugar
1 cup butter, softened [or nuked for about 25 seconds, because you forgot to soften it]
1 cup honey
Dried cherries
Dried cranberries
Raisins
Chocolate chips
1 cup almonds, crushed
Butter a 9x13 baking dish. [I used a 9 1/2 x 13 1/2 or some weird ratio. It's fine to use something not exact. I think.]
Preheat the oven to 350F.
In a really, really large bowl, dump in your oats. [I use Quaker Original because that's what they have at Costco.]
Mix your flour and baking soda together in a measuring cup. Add to the oats.
Add vanilla, brown sugar, butter and honey. [I just poured the honey, but I think it was a cup.]
Add fruit and nuts and chocolate. I add a handful at a time and eyeball it until I think I've got the correct fruit to oat ratio. And then I add the chocolate & nuts.
Mix this all together. Every time, I start hopefully with a spoon or a rubber spatula. And every time I end up using my hands. Just use your hands. You won't feel inadequate for your inability to mix with utensils.
The mixture should adhere to itself. If it's too crumbly, your bars will be crumbly. Add some extra butter. It's o.k.
Pour the mix into your buttered baking dish. I say pour, but it's more like dump because the stuff isn't going to glide out. I usually end up pulling it out with one hand while I hold the giant bowl tipped on its side in the baking dish with my other hand.
Smoosh down the granola mix so that it's nice and even.
Bake for 30-35 minutes. I'd check at 25 minutes. If it's not a nice light brown and somewhat firm, I'd give it a few more minutes. Mine took about 35 minutes this time, but it varies.
Cut into what you consider a serving size. I try and get at least a dozen big ass bars.
Eat. I store the rest in the baking dish covered in plastic, because the girl loves them and they don't last, but you can put them in individual plastic bags and also freeze them for later.
Yummy.
* Measures are my best guess. I mean, I use the pretty much exact measurement for most of the stuff, but I know for a fact that I don't measure the baking soda, vanilla or honey. Or the fruits, nuts or chocolate. So basically I measured the flour and oatmeal and sugar. Well, I measured the flour. Sort of.
I mean, I cook. Every fucking goddamn day, I cook.
But I don't really share recipes, because after the initial attempt at a recipe, I end up just winging it. It works out well, but whenever someone asks me for the recipe for something, I have to say, "Well, it's like this, you take some broth and some carrots - however many you think you'll eat..." and then I have to stop and apologize because it's just not going to work. I mean, I can tell you what I use, and when I add things, and the temp I cook it at, but beyond that? Nothing.
Except:
I just made granola bars last night, and they are awesome. The girl loves my granola bars - she thinks they're the best things ever. Her friends agree. And they're way easy. So here's my attempt to share the recipe. I've adapted this from a couple of different recipes I found online [I think from allrecipes.com], but they are my own.
Suniverse's Granola Bars *
4 1/2 cups rolled oats
1 cup flour
1 tsp baking soda
1Tbsp vanilla
3/4 cup brown sugar
1 cup butter, softened [or nuked for about 25 seconds, because you forgot to soften it]
1 cup honey
Dried cherries
Dried cranberries
Raisins
Chocolate chips
1 cup almonds, crushed
Butter a 9x13 baking dish. [I used a 9 1/2 x 13 1/2 or some weird ratio. It's fine to use something not exact. I think.]
Preheat the oven to 350F.
In a really, really large bowl, dump in your oats. [I use Quaker Original because that's what they have at Costco.]
Mix your flour and baking soda together in a measuring cup. Add to the oats.
Add vanilla, brown sugar, butter and honey. [I just poured the honey, but I think it was a cup.]
Add fruit and nuts and chocolate. I add a handful at a time and eyeball it until I think I've got the correct fruit to oat ratio. And then I add the chocolate & nuts.
Mix this all together. Every time, I start hopefully with a spoon or a rubber spatula. And every time I end up using my hands. Just use your hands. You won't feel inadequate for your inability to mix with utensils.
The mixture should adhere to itself. If it's too crumbly, your bars will be crumbly. Add some extra butter. It's o.k.
Pour the mix into your buttered baking dish. I say pour, but it's more like dump because the stuff isn't going to glide out. I usually end up pulling it out with one hand while I hold the giant bowl tipped on its side in the baking dish with my other hand.
Smoosh down the granola mix so that it's nice and even.
Bake for 30-35 minutes. I'd check at 25 minutes. If it's not a nice light brown and somewhat firm, I'd give it a few more minutes. Mine took about 35 minutes this time, but it varies.
Cut into what you consider a serving size. I try and get at least a dozen big ass bars.
Eat. I store the rest in the baking dish covered in plastic, because the girl loves them and they don't last, but you can put them in individual plastic bags and also freeze them for later.
Yummy.
* Measures are my best guess. I mean, I use the pretty much exact measurement for most of the stuff, but I know for a fact that I don't measure the baking soda, vanilla or honey. Or the fruits, nuts or chocolate. So basically I measured the flour and oatmeal and sugar. Well, I measured the flour. Sort of.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Massages can give me angst. Yeah, I know. What doesn't?
Finally, FINALLY got an appointment for a massage.
After 1 & 1/2 years of NO massages [amazingly, no job = no money = no luxuries. Fuckers.], I made an appointment.
Which I then I had to reschedule.
Which my masseuse [I need a better word here. Body rubber? No, that's even weirder.] had to reschedule.
And then TA DA! The day finally came.
And I forgot how weird it is to get a massage.
Because there's the whole being naked and being touched by someone [I'm assuming] you aren't having sex with [unless your partner is actually adept at giving you a massage without inflicting pain, unlike some people I could name] [or you're starring in a porno] [or I guess if you're at the doctor] [I don't know your life]. Plus, you're giving them money to do this.
There's also the should I keep my underwear on or take them off? dilemma.
And the awkward tell me about your body discussion [you know, where does it hurt? not please explain that mole or elaborate mythological tattoo].
And the realization that you [I] haven't shaved your legs in a really, really long time. Or your armpits. [What? I'm feeling European. Plus, it's cold, and I need an extra layer of warmth.].
And there's the hope that you don't smell because you [I] haven't showered yet.
And then the sweet relief of having your body rubbed [seriously, there has to be some better way to put this] - or in my case, the constant tensing in pain because OW OW OW do I have some knots on my body.
And then the immediate, pressing need to PEE RIGHT THIS SECOND, HOLY GOD, CAN I RUN TO THE BATHROOM NAKED? Am I the only one who has to pee like this?
So, yeah. I had a massage, and it was good.
After 1 & 1/2 years of NO massages [amazingly, no job = no money = no luxuries. Fuckers.], I made an appointment.
Which I then I had to reschedule.
Which my masseuse [I need a better word here. Body rubber? No, that's even weirder.] had to reschedule.
And then TA DA! The day finally came.
And I forgot how weird it is to get a massage.
Because there's the whole being naked and being touched by someone [I'm assuming] you aren't having sex with [unless your partner is actually adept at giving you a massage without inflicting pain, unlike some people I could name] [or you're starring in a porno] [or I guess if you're at the doctor] [I don't know your life]. Plus, you're giving them money to do this.
There's also the should I keep my underwear on or take them off? dilemma.
And the awkward tell me about your body discussion [you know, where does it hurt? not please explain that mole or elaborate mythological tattoo].
And the realization that you [I] haven't shaved your legs in a really, really long time. Or your armpits. [What? I'm feeling European. Plus, it's cold, and I need an extra layer of warmth.].
And there's the hope that you don't smell because you [I] haven't showered yet.
And then the sweet relief of having your body rubbed [seriously, there has to be some better way to put this] - or in my case, the constant tensing in pain because OW OW OW do I have some knots on my body.
And then the immediate, pressing need to PEE RIGHT THIS SECOND, HOLY GOD, CAN I RUN TO THE BATHROOM NAKED? Am I the only one who has to pee like this?
So, yeah. I had a massage, and it was good.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Procrastination usually [always] kicks my ass.
Cards I've written but never sent:*
Thank you, Jesus, for saving all of us.
Get well soon to my great aunt who died before I could send it.
Thank you to the dean of admissions for the campus tour and then the girl was accepted before I sent it.
Misaddressed Christmas card to family who doesn't celebrate Christmas but, you know, people like getting cards at the holiday, right? Especially with family pictures? Even if it's February?
Thank you card for a wedding gift that I found in an end table after we moved out of our first apartment two years after we had been married.
____________
* One of these is not true. Guess which one.
Thank you, Jesus, for saving all of us.
Get well soon to my great aunt who died before I could send it.
Thank you to the dean of admissions for the campus tour and then the girl was accepted before I sent it.
Misaddressed Christmas card to family who doesn't celebrate Christmas but, you know, people like getting cards at the holiday, right? Especially with family pictures? Even if it's February?
Thank you card for a wedding gift that I found in an end table after we moved out of our first apartment two years after we had been married.
____________
* One of these is not true. Guess which one.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Thursday In Pictures
I'm sincerely hoping this goes with her when she goes to boarding school.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Empty Nests First Have To Be Emptied, Right?
On Friday, the dean of admissions from one of the schools the girl applied to called and left a message telling me the girl had been accepted to the school.
WOOHOO!
I was so excited, I got teary listening to it.
And then I accidentally erased it. Fucking iPhones and their swipe-y-ness.
So I called the husband and told him and he was all, "Well, of course they'd accept her. No doubt in my mind." Mr. Anti-Climax.
I called the dean back to tell her I got the message and that we were thrilled. I also mentioned I got overly excited and accidentally erased it. She didn't offer to call back and leave another message. Strike one, people. Strike one.
I found a coworker who has an iPhone and we spent several minutes trying to figure out how to access the deleted message. Answer: You can't.
I told another coworker about the girl's acceptance and he said, "Wow. That's great, but what are you going to do without her? You've got an empty nest coming up fast. How will you fill your time?"
And I thought, Yeah, you obviously don't have kids. How will I fill my time? How WON'T I?
* Playing my flute
* Writing
* Reading
* Working out
* Not driving to activities
* Not checking homework
* Using the bathroom by myself
* Not having teenagers over
* Not having to run out and purchase last minute items because, "Oh, I forgot, I need XYZ thing tomorrow."
* Taking photos
* Cross-stitching
* Finding NEW hobbies
* Not being part of the PTA
* Sitting quietly
I mean, I love my kid fiercely, but . . .
WOOHOO!
I was so excited, I got teary listening to it.
And then I accidentally erased it. Fucking iPhones and their swipe-y-ness.
So I called the husband and told him and he was all, "Well, of course they'd accept her. No doubt in my mind." Mr. Anti-Climax.
I called the dean back to tell her I got the message and that we were thrilled. I also mentioned I got overly excited and accidentally erased it. She didn't offer to call back and leave another message. Strike one, people. Strike one.
I found a coworker who has an iPhone and we spent several minutes trying to figure out how to access the deleted message. Answer: You can't.
I told another coworker about the girl's acceptance and he said, "Wow. That's great, but what are you going to do without her? You've got an empty nest coming up fast. How will you fill your time?"
And I thought, Yeah, you obviously don't have kids. How will I fill my time? How WON'T I?
* Playing my flute
* Writing
* Reading
* Working out
* Not driving to activities
* Not checking homework
* Using the bathroom by myself
* Not having teenagers over
* Not having to run out and purchase last minute items because, "Oh, I forgot, I need XYZ thing tomorrow."
* Taking photos
* Cross-stitching
* Finding NEW hobbies
* Not being part of the PTA
* Sitting quietly
I mean, I love my kid fiercely, but . . .
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Top 5 Reasons My Husband is a Bummer
1. Rational thinking. He insists on this while I am far more comfortable in the mercurial world of my zig zaggy emotions.
2. Poor family. God, you'd think he'd make sure he was related to some really old, really rich, really generous people. No. He didn't and he's not.
3. Refusal to go to bed at the same time I do. What's wrong with a 9:30 bed time?
4. Horrible at massage. Seriously. It's a crime against humanity, what he does. He must have learned these techniques at a CIA extraordinary rendition camp.
5. Eyelashes are three times longer and thicker than mine. Bastard.
***********
Need more of my vitriol? Of course you do. Check me out at Secret Society of List Addicts. It's a blast.
2. Poor family. God, you'd think he'd make sure he was related to some really old, really rich, really generous people. No. He didn't and he's not.
3. Refusal to go to bed at the same time I do. What's wrong with a 9:30 bed time?
4. Horrible at massage. Seriously. It's a crime against humanity, what he does. He must have learned these techniques at a CIA extraordinary rendition camp.
5. Eyelashes are three times longer and thicker than mine. Bastard.
***********
Need more of my vitriol? Of course you do. Check me out at Secret Society of List Addicts. It's a blast.
Monday, February 14, 2011
This Is Party Time
And it's not polite for you to muck around*
Last weekend, we had a Super Bowl party, and the husband and I were in agreement that this was our last party for quite a while. Then the girl asks if she can have an anti-Valentine's Day party, and of course we said, "Sure, why not?" We've got leftover party stuff from the Super Bowl party. It's always party time, which is better than a cold bath with someone you dislike.**
And then she invited 20 kids. Aaargh.
About 15 or 16 showed up.
Which was fine, sort of. I was at work and running errands and the girl took care of setting up for the party [man, it's nice to have a teenager, right?], so there was very little prep involved on my part.
The kids were mostly those we've known for at least 5 or 6 years, and they've been over for parties before. There were a few new kids, too.
One of the new kids ended up doing something stupid to another kid, and I had to be Mean Mom and yell at her and all the other kids for their general fuckery. Not yell yell. Speak authoritatively, I guess.
Well, this kid took it to heart, ended up calling her parents and leaving early.
Which made me feel awful, even though, seriously? Don't act like that. You're 14, not a baby.
So I felt/feel horrible, because I don't like making people feel bad.
I don't know. I hate dealing with people.
Happy Monday!
__________
*That's from The Jazz Butcher's "Party Time" [Lyrics] which, if you have never heard it, please listen. [You Tube] He's fantastic.
** Also from that song.
Last weekend, we had a Super Bowl party, and the husband and I were in agreement that this was our last party for quite a while. Then the girl asks if she can have an anti-Valentine's Day party, and of course we said, "Sure, why not?" We've got leftover party stuff from the Super Bowl party. It's always party time, which is better than a cold bath with someone you dislike.**
And then she invited 20 kids. Aaargh.
About 15 or 16 showed up.
Which was fine, sort of. I was at work and running errands and the girl took care of setting up for the party [man, it's nice to have a teenager, right?], so there was very little prep involved on my part.
The kids were mostly those we've known for at least 5 or 6 years, and they've been over for parties before. There were a few new kids, too.
One of the new kids ended up doing something stupid to another kid, and I had to be Mean Mom and yell at her and all the other kids for their general fuckery. Not yell yell. Speak authoritatively, I guess.
Well, this kid took it to heart, ended up calling her parents and leaving early.
Which made me feel awful, even though, seriously? Don't act like that. You're 14, not a baby.
So I felt/feel horrible, because I don't like making people feel bad.
I don't know. I hate dealing with people.
Happy Monday!
__________
*That's from The Jazz Butcher's "Party Time" [Lyrics] which, if you have never heard it, please listen. [You Tube] He's fantastic.
** Also from that song.
Friday, February 11, 2011
It's Question Mark Friday!
Blah blah blah, it's always all about me. Now I want to know about you. Especially because I'm working like a crazy person and can't read blogs like I want to.
1. Favorite song lyric? ["I'll start fucking Posh like Dave Beckham, C'mon!" - Fatboy Slim's Wonderful Night]
2. Do you like to wear hats? If so, what kind? [In theory, yes, all kinds. In practice, I can't because I look like Krusty the Klown. It's not fair.]
3. Right handed or left handed? [Right]
4. What type of water bottle do you carry? [Plastic Rubbermaid. I have a few aluminum and a Kleen Kanteen, but they leave a weird aftertaste. Or maybe I'm just used to the leached plastic taste. Who knows?]
5. Do you paint your toenails in winter? [ALWAYS! To match my fingernails. This week: OPI's Blushingham Palace.]
What have you got for me, friends?
1. Favorite song lyric? ["I'll start fucking Posh like Dave Beckham, C'mon!" - Fatboy Slim's Wonderful Night]
 |
| Yes, please. |
3. Right handed or left handed? [Right]
4. What type of water bottle do you carry? [Plastic Rubbermaid. I have a few aluminum and a Kleen Kanteen, but they leave a weird aftertaste. Or maybe I'm just used to the leached plastic taste. Who knows?]
5. Do you paint your toenails in winter? [ALWAYS! To match my fingernails. This week: OPI's Blushingham Palace.]
What have you got for me, friends?
Thursday, February 10, 2011
This Was My Day
5:30AM
Alarm goes off. I have it set to the classical music station, because
1) I can't handle bad news first thing in the morning;
2) I loathe morning djs;
3) I can't get my iHome to play my iPhone as an alarm; and
4) the guy who comes on at 6 kills me. He actually made an Arrested Development reference ["There's always money in the banana stand"] about classical music. I love him.
Before 6, it's random classical stuff, which is not as entertaining, but easily brings me into consciousness. I lay there, needing to pee, mostly awake, but not ready to get up and face the day. I want to get up and do yoga, like I used to every morning at 5:30. I was much happier then. Or at least I think I was. Maybe I was so tired I was slaphappy.
5:50AM
I'm out of bed, I've peed, sucked back the Advair [making note of time and dose number, so I don't end up thinking I've double dosed myself and have to call the 24hour pharmacy, completely freaking out. AGAIN.], and I'm ready to get my shower on when I realize I need to check and see if the paper has been delivered, since it wasn't yesterday, and then I went online and got another delivered and then I got home and TA DA - 2 papers.
So I go out in the single digit weather in my nightgown and slippers because our USUAL paper delivery person puts it right on the porch next to the door, but we've got some passive aggressive person delivering the paper this week and it's halfway down the drive way. I get it and come back up to the porch to find:
THE DOOR WON'T OPEN.
I am out in the winter in a thin tshirt nightgown and fuzzy blue slippers trying to push the door handle thingy open but it's frozen shut. So I start pounding on the door, thinking,
THOSE RAT BASTARDS ARE STILL SLEEPING AND THEY ARE NEVER GOING TO WAKE UP AND I CAN'T EVEN GO AND POUND ON THEIR BEDROOM WINDOWS BECAUSE OF THE FUCKING UMPTY THOUSAND INCHES OF SNOW COVERING THE YARD.
And then the girl finally woke up and staggered into the living room and opened the door and I am really fucking sick of winter. I'm hearing good things about the west coast.
6:00AM
I go back to bed.
HAHAHA. I wish.
Instead, I do a 10 minute yoga thingy to try and calm down from my second near death experience involving snow in less than a week [read all about the first one here]. I finish my half-assed yoga and shower, taking time to wash my hair because, you know, it's so pretty.
6:40AM
Showered. Hair done. Dressed. Make up slapped on. Jewelry on [I've been wearing the same earrings and necklace for about a month now, even though I've got really cute stuff, because I am in a jewelry rut. Boo.].
I go back in the bathroom and see that I've left my deoderant on the sink and realize - I forgot to put it on. Debate just not wearing any, but realize that's not fair to anyone. Particularly me, who will be closest to the stench. Decide I'm not undressing and try and put deoderant on while wearing a bra, camisole, shirt and sweater [it is fucking cold as shit in my office]. I manage to do so, but it's a damn good thing I was wearing a white shirt, is all I'm saying.
6:50AM
Collect giant tote bag with paper & book and purse type stuff in it, giant insulated lunch tote with water, breakfast, lunch and snacks in it, grab keys, put on coat, tell husband and girl good bye, ask husband why he looks so out of sorts and find out that I'd used up all the hot water washing my hair.
How is this possible? We just got a new fucking water heater. My hair is giant, sure, but I hadn't realized it was so massive that I was ruining the ecosystem. Debate dreadlocks and realize I could not handle the filth.
7:35AM
Arrive at work after cursing and loathing the people who DON'T KNOW HOW TO FUCKING DRIVE.
Work.
Read the paper.
Work.
Eat.
Work.
3:30PM
Go to Kohl's during my lunch [which I took late to make the end of my day go quicker] to find some cute socks, only to find that they are renovating. I debate running away, because my anxiety + possibility of renovation germs & debris = OMG THE HORROR. I tell myself I'll be ok [LOOK, a woman is bringing her BABY in here. It's safe!] and rush to get my socks [no cute ones, only lame work type socks] and some new underwear for the husband even though it's WAY on the other side of the store, near more debris spewing renovation.
I pay up and leave and spend the next hour worried I've got some toxic asbestos something or other slathered on me. I check my face in the cute pocket mirror in my purse and calm myself - there's no debris there, nothing is swelling or empurpling.
There is, however, a giant chin hair.
I hit the bathroom with my trusty tweezers and get rid of that posthaste.
6:05PM
I leave work, thankful that my mother is at my house, making dinner for me and my family and watching the girl and her friend since the husband and I are both working late. She's even folded laundry, she tells me!
6:06PM
I start cursing shitty drivers.
6:45PM
I get home.
Put a load of dishes in the dishwasher because my mother has made a ton of food and there is going to be at least 2 loads [I will not wash by hand, thanks.].
Sort laundry & start washing the girl's uniform, because she has karate tomorrow and she probably shouldn't stink - I think they mean something different by overpowering your opponent.
Eat dinner with the girl and her friend, putting away the food and deciding I really don't want to do another load of dishes. Maybe these can just stay here?
9:00PM
Check blog comments. Am full of joy to find that it's o.k. to love Turk and JD! They really ARE awesome!
Start thinking about a blog post. Realize I've got nothing. Start writing this.
Husband comes home. Tell him I'm writing a blog post. He says, "LOL JK, baby!"
Fin
Alarm goes off. I have it set to the classical music station, because
1) I can't handle bad news first thing in the morning;
2) I loathe morning djs;
3) I can't get my iHome to play my iPhone as an alarm; and
4) the guy who comes on at 6 kills me. He actually made an Arrested Development reference ["There's always money in the banana stand"] about classical music. I love him.
 |
| George Michael and Maybe - the cutest incesty couple ever. |
5:50AM
I'm out of bed, I've peed, sucked back the Advair [making note of time and dose number, so I don't end up thinking I've double dosed myself and have to call the 24hour pharmacy, completely freaking out. AGAIN.], and I'm ready to get my shower on when I realize I need to check and see if the paper has been delivered, since it wasn't yesterday, and then I went online and got another delivered and then I got home and TA DA - 2 papers.
So I go out in the single digit weather in my nightgown and slippers because our USUAL paper delivery person puts it right on the porch next to the door, but we've got some passive aggressive person delivering the paper this week and it's halfway down the drive way. I get it and come back up to the porch to find:
THE DOOR WON'T OPEN.
I am out in the winter in a thin tshirt nightgown and fuzzy blue slippers trying to push the door handle thingy open but it's frozen shut. So I start pounding on the door, thinking,
THOSE RAT BASTARDS ARE STILL SLEEPING AND THEY ARE NEVER GOING TO WAKE UP AND I CAN'T EVEN GO AND POUND ON THEIR BEDROOM WINDOWS BECAUSE OF THE FUCKING UMPTY THOUSAND INCHES OF SNOW COVERING THE YARD.
And then the girl finally woke up and staggered into the living room and opened the door and I am really fucking sick of winter. I'm hearing good things about the west coast.
6:00AM
I go back to bed.
HAHAHA. I wish.
Instead, I do a 10 minute yoga thingy to try and calm down from my second near death experience involving snow in less than a week [read all about the first one here]. I finish my half-assed yoga and shower, taking time to wash my hair because, you know, it's so pretty.
6:40AM
Showered. Hair done. Dressed. Make up slapped on. Jewelry on [I've been wearing the same earrings and necklace for about a month now, even though I've got really cute stuff, because I am in a jewelry rut. Boo.].
I go back in the bathroom and see that I've left my deoderant on the sink and realize - I forgot to put it on. Debate just not wearing any, but realize that's not fair to anyone. Particularly me, who will be closest to the stench. Decide I'm not undressing and try and put deoderant on while wearing a bra, camisole, shirt and sweater [it is fucking cold as shit in my office]. I manage to do so, but it's a damn good thing I was wearing a white shirt, is all I'm saying.
6:50AM
Collect giant tote bag with paper & book and purse type stuff in it, giant insulated lunch tote with water, breakfast, lunch and snacks in it, grab keys, put on coat, tell husband and girl good bye, ask husband why he looks so out of sorts and find out that I'd used up all the hot water washing my hair.
How is this possible? We just got a new fucking water heater. My hair is giant, sure, but I hadn't realized it was so massive that I was ruining the ecosystem. Debate dreadlocks and realize I could not handle the filth.
7:35AM
Arrive at work after cursing and loathing the people who DON'T KNOW HOW TO FUCKING DRIVE.
Work.
Read the paper.
Work.
Eat.
Work.
3:30PM
Go to Kohl's during my lunch [which I took late to make the end of my day go quicker] to find some cute socks, only to find that they are renovating. I debate running away, because my anxiety + possibility of renovation germs & debris = OMG THE HORROR. I tell myself I'll be ok [LOOK, a woman is bringing her BABY in here. It's safe!] and rush to get my socks [no cute ones, only lame work type socks] and some new underwear for the husband even though it's WAY on the other side of the store, near more debris spewing renovation.
I pay up and leave and spend the next hour worried I've got some toxic asbestos something or other slathered on me. I check my face in the cute pocket mirror in my purse and calm myself - there's no debris there, nothing is swelling or empurpling.
There is, however, a giant chin hair.
I hit the bathroom with my trusty tweezers and get rid of that posthaste.
6:05PM
I leave work, thankful that my mother is at my house, making dinner for me and my family and watching the girl and her friend since the husband and I are both working late. She's even folded laundry, she tells me!
6:06PM
I start cursing shitty drivers.
6:45PM
I get home.
Put a load of dishes in the dishwasher because my mother has made a ton of food and there is going to be at least 2 loads [I will not wash by hand, thanks.].
Sort laundry & start washing the girl's uniform, because she has karate tomorrow and she probably shouldn't stink - I think they mean something different by overpowering your opponent.
Eat dinner with the girl and her friend, putting away the food and deciding I really don't want to do another load of dishes. Maybe these can just stay here?
9:00PM
Check blog comments. Am full of joy to find that it's o.k. to love Turk and JD! They really ARE awesome!
Start thinking about a blog post. Realize I've got nothing. Start writing this.
Husband comes home. Tell him I'm writing a blog post. He says, "LOL JK, baby!"
Fin
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Overthinking
Here is my dilemma:
I LOVE the t.v. show Scrubs. LOVE IT.
I have all the seasons on DVD and watch it when I'm sick, on an unending loop. It makes me feel better. I've also taken to watching it to fall asleep for the past couple of weeks, because I've been stressed out and cranky. [No. That is NOT my usual mode of existence. Shut it.] It soothes me.
My problem is this - a lot of the humor between JD & Turk [easily the best screen couple ever] [except maybe Nick & Nora Charles] [or Katherine Hepburn and Cary Grant] [whatever, they're awesome]
ANYWAY,
a lot of the humor is about how close JD & Turk are and how Turk, particularly, worries that they seem too gay.
Even though it's just Guy Love, between two guys.
I'm no fan of homophobia, but I love this show and think it does a great job at beings smart and funny [two of my favorite things], so I don't know if I'm reading too much into this or what. Maybe I'm just tired. I don't want to stop watching it, but I'm tired of feeling that conflict, that I'm watching something offensive. I'm not offended. But maybe somebody might be? Is that crazy?
Am I insane? Probably.
I LOVE the t.v. show Scrubs. LOVE IT.
 |
| I'm no superman. |
My problem is this - a lot of the humor between JD & Turk [easily the best screen couple ever] [except maybe Nick & Nora Charles] [or Katherine Hepburn and Cary Grant] [whatever, they're awesome]
ANYWAY,
a lot of the humor is about how close JD & Turk are and how Turk, particularly, worries that they seem too gay.
 |
| How awesome are they? AWESOME! |
I'm no fan of homophobia, but I love this show and think it does a great job at beings smart and funny [two of my favorite things], so I don't know if I'm reading too much into this or what. Maybe I'm just tired. I don't want to stop watching it, but I'm tired of feeling that conflict, that I'm watching something offensive. I'm not offended. But maybe somebody might be? Is that crazy?
Am I insane? Probably.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
School's Out.
A few weeks ago I was reading this article in the paper and was struck by this:
There are multiple classes being "taught" in Florida [and, I believe, other school districts throughout the country] that are entirely based on computer work. But they aren't computer classes. Instead, they are core curriculum classes like precalculus that are not taught at all. The students are in a classroom filled with computers and their assignments are given to them by the computer and they do their work there on the computer on their own. No teacher to ask questions. No teacher in the classroom. [They do have a "facilitator" to handle technical problems with the computers.]
Now, say what you will about shitty teachers. We've all had them. Our kids have them. There is nothing that kills the interest to learn more than a shitty teacher. Except, I would argue, NO teacher.
How is this possible? How has education come to this?
And then I realized - it doesn't matter. Because the only jobs being created are in the service sector, where you'll be using a computer to ring up people's purchases. Better to get used to it now, right?
Gah.
**************
On a more positive note, I discuss delicious breakfast food at Secret Society of List Addicts. Yum.
There are multiple classes being "taught" in Florida [and, I believe, other school districts throughout the country] that are entirely based on computer work. But they aren't computer classes. Instead, they are core curriculum classes like precalculus that are not taught at all. The students are in a classroom filled with computers and their assignments are given to them by the computer and they do their work there on the computer on their own. No teacher to ask questions. No teacher in the classroom. [They do have a "facilitator" to handle technical problems with the computers.]
Now, say what you will about shitty teachers. We've all had them. Our kids have them. There is nothing that kills the interest to learn more than a shitty teacher. Except, I would argue, NO teacher.
How is this possible? How has education come to this?
And then I realized - it doesn't matter. Because the only jobs being created are in the service sector, where you'll be using a computer to ring up people's purchases. Better to get used to it now, right?
Gah.
**************
On a more positive note, I discuss delicious breakfast food at Secret Society of List Addicts. Yum.
Monday, February 7, 2011
This is becoming ridiculous
Saturday I was at work, like a sucker, and I looked out the window around 2:00 and noticed a few snow flakes falling. Huh, I thought, I hadn't realized we were getting flurries today, and turned back around to my desk to focus on my work [i.e. read the paper and follow Twitter].
Half an hour of rigorous work later [what is an 8 letter word for elocution?], I look back out the window.
White out.
Seriously. It was all snow. Falling hard and fast.
I text the husband and the sister to see what they knew about this. I check the Weather Channel and start losing it: Winter Weather Advisory until 7pm. Fuck. I work 45 minutes from home. I am fucked.
Then I read: Total accumulation expected - 1-2".
Oh, o.k., not a big deal. That's not a ton of snow. I can drive through that. I was going to work until 6, but I can stay later and that'll be fine.
Then I realize, as I look out the window at my car, that there is ALREADY about 2" of snow piled on my car. And you can't see the road. At all. It is covered in snow.
AWESOME.
I start panic texting and calling the husband about WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO I CANNOT HANDLE THIS I HATE DRIVING AND CAN'T DO THIS.
I discuss our options with coworkers who live out near me.
At 2:45, we decided to bail. For a couple of reasons:
1. Driving when it's light out is far preferable to driving in the dark in bad weather.
2. There is definitely more snow coming down than they say and we wanted to get out while we could.
3. The county we work it DOES NOT PLOW ITS ROADS FOR SHIT. Seriously, it is a FAR wealthier county than the one I live in, but because they want to save money on taxes, they barely plow. For their geographic area, I later found out, they had 12 trucks out plowing. TWELVE. For almost 7 inches of snow. Assholes.
So we pack up our shit and go. I am wearing MaryJanes, and have no snow boots, because THERE WAS NO INDICATION that it would snow, much less snow that much. One coworker is wearing those Ugg slipper clog things and has no snow boots AND no snow scraper.
We are the Donner Party.
It takes me 1 1/2 hours to make the 45 minute drive home. GrandeMocha was twittering me weather updates and cheering me on.
It took me almost an hour to get to my county, which usually takes me about 20 minutes. I did not see one snow plow for the almost 5 inches that had already come down. I did see jackass people who thought that snow covered roads meant that they could drive 40-50 miles an hour in their Chrysler minivans. Fucking idiots.
As soon as I hit the county line, I shit you not, I saw THREE snow plows. THREE. On the major road, chugging along, scraping snow and shooting salt. I got behind one and made it home much more easily, thanking my stars that I was strong enough to deal with that drive and not completely lose my shit.
I have also revamped my NO LIVING IN THE SOUTH policy and am taking suggestions for milder climates. This is bullshit.
Half an hour of rigorous work later [what is an 8 letter word for elocution?], I look back out the window.
White out.
Seriously. It was all snow. Falling hard and fast.
I text the husband and the sister to see what they knew about this. I check the Weather Channel and start losing it: Winter Weather Advisory until 7pm. Fuck. I work 45 minutes from home. I am fucked.
Then I read: Total accumulation expected - 1-2".
Oh, o.k., not a big deal. That's not a ton of snow. I can drive through that. I was going to work until 6, but I can stay later and that'll be fine.
Then I realize, as I look out the window at my car, that there is ALREADY about 2" of snow piled on my car. And you can't see the road. At all. It is covered in snow.
AWESOME.
I start panic texting and calling the husband about WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO I CANNOT HANDLE THIS I HATE DRIVING AND CAN'T DO THIS.
I discuss our options with coworkers who live out near me.
At 2:45, we decided to bail. For a couple of reasons:
1. Driving when it's light out is far preferable to driving in the dark in bad weather.
2. There is definitely more snow coming down than they say and we wanted to get out while we could.
3. The county we work it DOES NOT PLOW ITS ROADS FOR SHIT. Seriously, it is a FAR wealthier county than the one I live in, but because they want to save money on taxes, they barely plow. For their geographic area, I later found out, they had 12 trucks out plowing. TWELVE. For almost 7 inches of snow. Assholes.
So we pack up our shit and go. I am wearing MaryJanes, and have no snow boots, because THERE WAS NO INDICATION that it would snow, much less snow that much. One coworker is wearing those Ugg slipper clog things and has no snow boots AND no snow scraper.
We are the Donner Party.
It takes me 1 1/2 hours to make the 45 minute drive home. GrandeMocha was twittering me weather updates and cheering me on.
It took me almost an hour to get to my county, which usually takes me about 20 minutes. I did not see one snow plow for the almost 5 inches that had already come down. I did see jackass people who thought that snow covered roads meant that they could drive 40-50 miles an hour in their Chrysler minivans. Fucking idiots.
As soon as I hit the county line, I shit you not, I saw THREE snow plows. THREE. On the major road, chugging along, scraping snow and shooting salt. I got behind one and made it home much more easily, thanking my stars that I was strong enough to deal with that drive and not completely lose my shit.
I have also revamped my NO LIVING IN THE SOUTH policy and am taking suggestions for milder climates. This is bullshit.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Words of Wisdom
These are things I've passed on to my daughter as she's slowly entered the dating world:
- Nice suits and lots of money. That's what you look for in a husband.
- Don't marry a funny guy. It's not worth it.
- It's just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor man. Easier, actually.
- The couple that steals together stays together.
- Never show affection. Or weakness. Guys hate that.
- He'd make a good first husband.
- Don't have opinions. Just smile and nod and look pretty.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Oh, kids these days
Me: And blah de blah blah blah.
The girl: Yeah, it's LOL JK.
Me: You did not just text-speak at me.
The girl: Ugh, I know. I'm so embarrassed.
Me: You don't deserve to go to boarding school.
The husband: What did she say?
Me: LOL JK.
The husband: LOL JK? Laugh Out Loud Jesus Christ?
Me: Oh, that's totally what it means now.
The girl: Yeah, it's LOL JK.
Me: You did not just text-speak at me.
The girl: Ugh, I know. I'm so embarrassed.
Me: You don't deserve to go to boarding school.
The husband: What did she say?
Me: LOL JK.
The husband: LOL JK? Laugh Out Loud Jesus Christ?
Me: Oh, that's totally what it means now.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Horcruxes
I was thinking today that your children are like Horcruxes.*
Parts of your soul, separated from yourself, in another being that can be destroyed. Except, you know, you don't have to murder to make one.**
See? Harry Potter has lessons for everyone.
--------------
* I can't believe you don't know what a Horcrux is. Read about it here.
** But kids sure are murder on your body while you're creating them, aren't they? HAR-DE-HAR!
Parts of your soul, separated from yourself, in another being that can be destroyed. Except, you know, you don't have to murder to make one.**
See? Harry Potter has lessons for everyone.
--------------
* I can't believe you don't know what a Horcrux is. Read about it here.
** But kids sure are murder on your body while you're creating them, aren't they? HAR-DE-HAR!
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
In Memoriam Sophie Kinsella's Books
There are things I love - television shows, movie franchises, book series - that have disappointed me. I mean, I started out loving them, and then . . . they falter.
And I give them a second chance.
And they suck even worse.
I've decided to give eulogies to the things I once loved that have been wrenched from my life because of shitty writing or execution. Here are their sad tales.
************
I am a fan of lightweight reading. I really am. I think it's because I tend to dwell on misery in my own life, so I seek a way out, a place of joy or at least entertainment, when I'm reading. [My ego forces me to add that this doesn't mean I'm stupid or illiterate or incapable of reading something weighty or serious. I will critique the shit out of whatever you put in front of me. Feminist literary theory? A Marxist interpretation? BRING IT.]
Anyway, now that we've established that I'm smart and very self-conscious of being thought otherwise, I want to talk about one of my old standbys in lightweight reading:
Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic series.
Well, at least the first book.
The second was o.k.
By the time the third one rolled around, I was ready to smack Becky and her idiotic incapability to JUST STOP SPENDING SO MUCH FUCKING MONEY ON USELESS SHIT.
Honest to god, here is the plot of everyone of her books:
Becky spends and spends and spends.
Friends/parents/husband admonish her.
She pretends to stop.
She spends and spends and spends.
She is found out.
Everything works out in the end.
I would have loved it if she ended up in rehab or an SA meeting [Shopaholics Anonymous? Does that exist?]. Or if she got a huge comeuppance. Or even if she just said, "Screw you guys, I'm married to a super-rich guy now, I'M SHOPPING." That, I could respect.
Instead, it seems like Becky is one of those helpless, vapid, scatterbrained bimbos who, despite enough reinforcement that would have a RAT cutting up her credit cards and buying only with cash, cannot see that A [Problems with money] follows B [Spending too much money] EVERY SINGLE TIME.
So, while I recommend that first book, unless you are more forgiving of people's foibles than I, I have to regretfully say that I cannot recommend the rest.
[Twenties Girl was o.k. Ish. I listened to it during my trip to work and managed to get through the whole thing.]
**********
Need to know more about what I think? Head over to Secret Society of List Addicts, where I discuss accents. No. Really.
And I give them a second chance.
And they suck even worse.
I've decided to give eulogies to the things I once loved that have been wrenched from my life because of shitty writing or execution. Here are their sad tales.
************
I am a fan of lightweight reading. I really am. I think it's because I tend to dwell on misery in my own life, so I seek a way out, a place of joy or at least entertainment, when I'm reading. [My ego forces me to add that this doesn't mean I'm stupid or illiterate or incapable of reading something weighty or serious. I will critique the shit out of whatever you put in front of me. Feminist literary theory? A Marxist interpretation? BRING IT.]
Anyway, now that we've established that I'm smart and very self-conscious of being thought otherwise, I want to talk about one of my old standbys in lightweight reading:
Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic series.
Well, at least the first book.
 |
| I didn't use the Isla Fisher cover, even though I like her, because I didn't see the movie. And this is the cover I have. |
 |
| This one was o.k. Readable. Barely. |
Honest to god, here is the plot of everyone of her books:
Becky spends and spends and spends.
Friends/parents/husband admonish her.
She pretends to stop.
She spends and spends and spends.
She is found out.
Everything works out in the end.
I would have loved it if she ended up in rehab or an SA meeting [Shopaholics Anonymous? Does that exist?]. Or if she got a huge comeuppance. Or even if she just said, "Screw you guys, I'm married to a super-rich guy now, I'M SHOPPING." That, I could respect.
Instead, it seems like Becky is one of those helpless, vapid, scatterbrained bimbos who, despite enough reinforcement that would have a RAT cutting up her credit cards and buying only with cash, cannot see that A [Problems with money] follows B [Spending too much money] EVERY SINGLE TIME.
 |
| Becky can never get to the star. Never. No matter how much cheese she follows. |
[Twenties Girl was o.k. Ish. I listened to it during my trip to work and managed to get through the whole thing.]
**********
Need to know more about what I think? Head over to Secret Society of List Addicts, where I discuss accents. No. Really.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)