I'm so excited.
Do you know why?
Because my Wu Tang Clan name* would be Crazy Menace.
I know, right? AWESOME.
Actually, I'm excited because I actually updated my Facebook page today. WOW.
Maybe tomorrow, I'll go on Google + and then Klout!
Honestly, I get such anxiety from this whole social media thing - when I got that email from Klout telling me they were on 10 platforms [or something. There was the number 10, but I'm not sure what else. I think I ended up with transitory hysterical blindness from looking at it.], I kind of hyperventilated a little because what the fuck? I CAN'T KEEP UP WITH THE FOUR THINGS I'VE SORT OF GOT GOING ON NOW.
I like blogs. They're a nice way to talk and listen and read and get to know people. I like Twitter, because it's like a quick make-out session with people you already like or want to get to know [and isn't the best make-out session with someone you are just getting to know? That frisson of excitement, that newness! That's never going to happen to me again. Fuck.] and it's really fun and fast and I don't feel like I have to commit to a huge emotional rollercoaster. Google + and Facebook and LinkedIn all kind of exhaust me. I feel like I don't have anything witty enough for Google + or warm and fuzzy enough for Facebook or braggy enough for LinkedIn. You know? They're the goody two shoes of the internet and I'm standing in the back, smoking and drinking vodka and cranberry out of a margarine cup.
I have no idea where this post was supposed to go.
Sorry.
Instead, let me ask you a couple of questions:
1. Who is your least favorite member of the Brady Bunch?
2. If you had a nickle, would you throw it in a fountain and make a wish or flick it at the head of that annoying coworker and then feign surprise?
3. Bonus question: Does the fact that someone has had sex with Karl Rove leave you feeling sick to your stomach? Me, too.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
* If you're interested in getting your own Wu Tang Clan name, and why the fuck wouldn't you be?, click here. And then tell me what it is in the comments. Because Wu Tang Clan ain't nothing to fuck with. Diversify your bonds, bitches.
Showing posts with label Are You Kidding Me?. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Are You Kidding Me?. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Fuck you, I said I was sorry
It may surprise you, but I am not the most genial person when it comes to apologizing.
Well, that's not quite true. I will apologize when I am in the wrong, and I will mean it, but this is something I have had to work on for years.
But apologizing is something that still galls me from time to time. Particularly when I feel like I'm being forced into an apology for something that maybe wasn't quite right but for fuck's sake, LET IT GO already.
I don't particularly like this aspect of my personality. I wish I was more forgiving, both of myself and others, but I am pretty much like a Mafia Don when it comes to slights. I will always remember and it's always personal.
This may not be the best way to deal with people. Particularly those in your family. And I wish that I would actually apologize without it becoming an ordeal.
Example:
The girl is mad at me for something I did.
This something was not directed at her - you know what? Here's the actual story:
I was coming off a super long week - lots of work, lots of tiredness, lots of stuff still to do. The husband was working long hours, too, and I was shuttling her to her lesson. We were running a few minutes late, which was my fault as I was thinking, "I can just finish folding these towels that have been sitting here for 4 days and then we'll go." So we were late.
And I pull into the parking lot and some dumbfuck family and their dumbfuck 8 or 9 year old kids are meandering all over the driving area of the parking lot, like sheep who have lost their sheepdog to keep them in line, and I say, "Get out of the way, you little cuntface."
Which pissed the girl off.
I mean, sure, not the nicest thing for me to say. But in my defense, the little kid didn't hear me and she was in my way.
Whatever, you can judge me.
So the girl is pissed at me for being mean to a kid WHO DIDN'T EVEN HEAR IT and I'm pissed at her for: 1. Not folding the fucking towels and 2. Being pissed at me for something that pretty much didn't even happen [If a crazy lady calls a kid a cuntface in a parking lot, did the tree actually fall in the forest?] and 3. JUDGING ME AND FINDING ME LACKING.
I wasn't thrilled with our detente, so I apologized to the girl.
Except it wasn't really an apology, because I felt I like I was apologizing for not being perfect. Which, contrary to popular opinion, I am not. So it was one of those non-apology apologies that have become all the rage lately, where people don't actually apologize for what they've done, or maybe they do apologize but then turn it into a blame session where the person they are apologizing to becomes the bad guy [I am excellent at this. Ask the husband.]. So then I had to apologize AGAIN, which I did after leaving the room and stewing for a while and realizing I was being a big fucking baby and sometimes it's just better to get along than to be right. But not very often. [I'm not certain how calling a kid a cuntface is being right, but there it is.]
I think I should start giving parenting and relationship advice. Any questions?
Well, that's not quite true. I will apologize when I am in the wrong, and I will mean it, but this is something I have had to work on for years.
But apologizing is something that still galls me from time to time. Particularly when I feel like I'm being forced into an apology for something that maybe wasn't quite right but for fuck's sake, LET IT GO already.
I don't particularly like this aspect of my personality. I wish I was more forgiving, both of myself and others, but I am pretty much like a Mafia Don when it comes to slights. I will always remember and it's always personal.
This may not be the best way to deal with people. Particularly those in your family. And I wish that I would actually apologize without it becoming an ordeal.
Example:
The girl is mad at me for something I did.
This something was not directed at her - you know what? Here's the actual story:
I was coming off a super long week - lots of work, lots of tiredness, lots of stuff still to do. The husband was working long hours, too, and I was shuttling her to her lesson. We were running a few minutes late, which was my fault as I was thinking, "I can just finish folding these towels that have been sitting here for 4 days and then we'll go." So we were late.
And I pull into the parking lot and some dumbfuck family and their dumbfuck 8 or 9 year old kids are meandering all over the driving area of the parking lot, like sheep who have lost their sheepdog to keep them in line, and I say, "Get out of the way, you little cuntface."
Which pissed the girl off.
I mean, sure, not the nicest thing for me to say. But in my defense, the little kid didn't hear me and she was in my way.
Whatever, you can judge me.
So the girl is pissed at me for being mean to a kid WHO DIDN'T EVEN HEAR IT and I'm pissed at her for: 1. Not folding the fucking towels and 2. Being pissed at me for something that pretty much didn't even happen [If a crazy lady calls a kid a cuntface in a parking lot, did the tree actually fall in the forest?] and 3. JUDGING ME AND FINDING ME LACKING.
I wasn't thrilled with our detente, so I apologized to the girl.
Except it wasn't really an apology, because I felt I like I was apologizing for not being perfect. Which, contrary to popular opinion, I am not. So it was one of those non-apology apologies that have become all the rage lately, where people don't actually apologize for what they've done, or maybe they do apologize but then turn it into a blame session where the person they are apologizing to becomes the bad guy [I am excellent at this. Ask the husband.]. So then I had to apologize AGAIN, which I did after leaving the room and stewing for a while and realizing I was being a big fucking baby and sometimes it's just better to get along than to be right. But not very often. [I'm not certain how calling a kid a cuntface is being right, but there it is.]
I think I should start giving parenting and relationship advice. Any questions?
Monday, August 8, 2011
Jeepers Creepers.
I am woefully behind on my blog reading. Seriously. It's pathetic. I miss you all so much, it makes me sad inside, like guava-filled donuts. I can read maybe a post or two a day, and I usually don't end up commenting, which makes me even sadder, because I LIKE commenting. I am full of how wonderful I am and expect everyone to be hanging on my every word. Right?
Anyway.
I was reading Grace at ThatsRightISaidIt.Dot.Mom's post and Lizbeth's Four Sea Stars' post on crazy creeper guys, and it got me thinking about just how fucking creepy guys can be. Not just the usual standing too close thing, but that unhinged moment when you realize that this guy? May be ridiculously dangerous. I'd like to share my story [thanks so much, Grace and Lizbeth, for the idea - I was in a blogwriting funk. How many times can I tell you about how much I hate nature before you all desert me? One more? I'm not taking that chance.]
I went to a pretty big university for undergrad. It sits in a college town that leaves you feeling pretty invincible - people are friendly, there are a lot of kids your age, and LOTS of opportunities to go out and have fun. And by have fun I mean drink. I'm not sure where you went to college, but I think that was an extra-curricular at mine. Or maybe just an extra-curricular for me.
I would go hang out with friends at the bar, at restaurants, at houses, and not really think about walking home later. Sometimes there were groups meandering down the road, sometimes there was just me.
One time, it was really late, and I was a little drunk [probably a lot drunk] and I had a face off with a raccoon. Now, as we know, I am no fan of nature [this does not count against me as a post about hating nature, since it's only tangential to my real post. Right?]. However, I do have a healthy respect for something that may be carrying rabies and most definitely is carrying some sort of disgusting garbage germs. Anyway, even though I was on a main business street, surrounded by buildings and the accoutrement of civilization, I let that raccoon have its space on the sidewalk and crossed the street to avoid it, all the while carefully keeping it in my sights, and warning people who were walking toward me about it. [Whether they heeded or understood my warning, I do not know. I'm guessing it depended on their own blood alcohol level.]
You'd think that incident would have given me an inkling that maybe I shouldn't be walking home alone at night. You'd be grossly underestimating how dumb I can be.
Later that summer, I was hanging out with friends at the restaurant where one of my roommates worked. At closing, they were headed in a different direction and I didn't want to wait the extra hour for my roommate to be ready to leave. I decided to head home.
I was again on a business street, walking along and minding my own business. The walk was maybe 15 minutes from the restaurant to my place, all but a block on busy streets. I had done it before and didn't really think about it. Granted, this was in the dark ages, before cell phones and the pseudo-safety they give you, but still - a few minutes walk by myself in the city I'd lived in for a year? I figured I'd be fine. And I was.
Until I heard some guy start yelling at me from his car. I glanced over, didn't recognize him, and kept walking. I ignored him, or tried to, until I realized he was slowly driving along at the speed I was walking.
Which was starting to weird me out.
He kept telling me how beautiful I was, and how much he liked me and how he wanted to take me out and be my boyfriend. And I kept walking a little bit faster, wondering when the hell he'd give up and leave.
Instead, he abandoned his car and started walking with me down the sidewalk.
Now, the things that still stun me are these:
1. Why would he do this and think it's o.k.?
2. Why didn't I start screaming?
3. Why was I even answering any of his questions?
Because he was still peppering me with questions. Where was I going? Do I want to go out with him? Did I know how beautiful I was? Did I have a boyfriend?
My one-word non-committal answers were not deflecting his attention. He seemed older, maybe late 20s, and was probably drunk. I had reached the end of the street and realized I could either turn right down a main street toward home, or turn left down a main street, and hopefully find a business that was still open. There were [and still are] those emergency phones all over campus, but my great fear at that point was that if I stopped walking, I'd be done for. He was really freaking me out.
I turned left.
I walked along, ignoring him, hoping I'd find something open when I realized I knew someone who worked at a pizza place up ahead. Someone who was a guy, who would hopefully scare this douchebag creeper away.
It pissed me off that I had to rely on some guy, because I think of myself as a very, very, very strong woman, I always have.
But at that point? I was weaker than this guy. I was smaller and the streets were quiet. And I didn't think my strength of character or pithy ability to make a cutting remark was going to do the job.
I went into the pizza place, with creepazoid following me in, and saw my friend. Who was actually more the brother of someone I knew. I mean, we knew each other, but weren't pals. Anyway, I quickly explained that creepy guy was not leaving me alone and was really freaking me out.
So my friend's brother shooed the guy away - I think we said he was my boyfriend - and drove me home. I thanked him for the ride and went into my apartment, glad to be safe at home.
And I wish I could say I was more careful about where I went or walking alone, but that would be a lie. I did a lot more dumb, dumb things, and it wasn't until my panic attacks and anxiety kicked into high gear that I really thought that walking around by myself in the middle of the night was probably not a good idea. It pisses me off that creepy guys have that innate ability to pen women in, like polite veal.
What about you? Crazy creeper stalker stories?
Anyway.
I was reading Grace at ThatsRightISaidIt.Dot.Mom's post and Lizbeth's Four Sea Stars' post on crazy creeper guys, and it got me thinking about just how fucking creepy guys can be. Not just the usual standing too close thing, but that unhinged moment when you realize that this guy? May be ridiculously dangerous. I'd like to share my story [thanks so much, Grace and Lizbeth, for the idea - I was in a blogwriting funk. How many times can I tell you about how much I hate nature before you all desert me? One more? I'm not taking that chance.]
I went to a pretty big university for undergrad. It sits in a college town that leaves you feeling pretty invincible - people are friendly, there are a lot of kids your age, and LOTS of opportunities to go out and have fun. And by have fun I mean drink. I'm not sure where you went to college, but I think that was an extra-curricular at mine. Or maybe just an extra-curricular for me.
I would go hang out with friends at the bar, at restaurants, at houses, and not really think about walking home later. Sometimes there were groups meandering down the road, sometimes there was just me.
One time, it was really late, and I was a little drunk [probably a lot drunk] and I had a face off with a raccoon. Now, as we know, I am no fan of nature [this does not count against me as a post about hating nature, since it's only tangential to my real post. Right?]. However, I do have a healthy respect for something that may be carrying rabies and most definitely is carrying some sort of disgusting garbage germs. Anyway, even though I was on a main business street, surrounded by buildings and the accoutrement of civilization, I let that raccoon have its space on the sidewalk and crossed the street to avoid it, all the while carefully keeping it in my sights, and warning people who were walking toward me about it. [Whether they heeded or understood my warning, I do not know. I'm guessing it depended on their own blood alcohol level.]
You'd think that incident would have given me an inkling that maybe I shouldn't be walking home alone at night. You'd be grossly underestimating how dumb I can be.
Later that summer, I was hanging out with friends at the restaurant where one of my roommates worked. At closing, they were headed in a different direction and I didn't want to wait the extra hour for my roommate to be ready to leave. I decided to head home.
I was again on a business street, walking along and minding my own business. The walk was maybe 15 minutes from the restaurant to my place, all but a block on busy streets. I had done it before and didn't really think about it. Granted, this was in the dark ages, before cell phones and the pseudo-safety they give you, but still - a few minutes walk by myself in the city I'd lived in for a year? I figured I'd be fine. And I was.
Until I heard some guy start yelling at me from his car. I glanced over, didn't recognize him, and kept walking. I ignored him, or tried to, until I realized he was slowly driving along at the speed I was walking.
Which was starting to weird me out.
He kept telling me how beautiful I was, and how much he liked me and how he wanted to take me out and be my boyfriend. And I kept walking a little bit faster, wondering when the hell he'd give up and leave.
Instead, he abandoned his car and started walking with me down the sidewalk.
Now, the things that still stun me are these:
1. Why would he do this and think it's o.k.?
2. Why didn't I start screaming?
3. Why was I even answering any of his questions?
Because he was still peppering me with questions. Where was I going? Do I want to go out with him? Did I know how beautiful I was? Did I have a boyfriend?
My one-word non-committal answers were not deflecting his attention. He seemed older, maybe late 20s, and was probably drunk. I had reached the end of the street and realized I could either turn right down a main street toward home, or turn left down a main street, and hopefully find a business that was still open. There were [and still are] those emergency phones all over campus, but my great fear at that point was that if I stopped walking, I'd be done for. He was really freaking me out.
I turned left.
I walked along, ignoring him, hoping I'd find something open when I realized I knew someone who worked at a pizza place up ahead. Someone who was a guy, who would hopefully scare this douchebag creeper away.
It pissed me off that I had to rely on some guy, because I think of myself as a very, very, very strong woman, I always have.
But at that point? I was weaker than this guy. I was smaller and the streets were quiet. And I didn't think my strength of character or pithy ability to make a cutting remark was going to do the job.
I went into the pizza place, with creepazoid following me in, and saw my friend. Who was actually more the brother of someone I knew. I mean, we knew each other, but weren't pals. Anyway, I quickly explained that creepy guy was not leaving me alone and was really freaking me out.
So my friend's brother shooed the guy away - I think we said he was my boyfriend - and drove me home. I thanked him for the ride and went into my apartment, glad to be safe at home.
And I wish I could say I was more careful about where I went or walking alone, but that would be a lie. I did a lot more dumb, dumb things, and it wasn't until my panic attacks and anxiety kicked into high gear that I really thought that walking around by myself in the middle of the night was probably not a good idea. It pisses me off that creepy guys have that innate ability to pen women in, like polite veal.
What about you? Crazy creeper stalker stories?
Friday, August 5, 2011
Week in Review - It's like that, and that's the way it is
Hola, bitches.
I'm enjoying my new job, but not the commute or the fact that there's nowhere to park. I like the idea of living in a town dedicated to walking and mass transit, but the reality of commuting there blows.
You know what else sucks when you have to walk to your car further than your garage? NATURE. That's what. All I see are ants running around and leafy greenery reaching out at me in a menacing fashion. It's really annoying. I like buildings. And concrete. I find their sterility soothing.
But that's not really news - I mean, you knew that about me anyway, right? I'm lazy and hate nature. Duh.
What is news? Besides the fact that I am so loving all of you who have been guest posting for me, and all you others who are planning on posting for me? Well, this is news:
Hosni Mubarak is being tried for crimes against humanity. Huh. Good. I am impressed that he showed up in Egypt for his trial, unlike most others who skeddaddle with all the country's loot. I'm less than impressed at his record of oppression. Props to his Ronald Reagan dye job.
I am righteously pissed at Obama and all the dumb fucks who decided that it's a good idea to cut funding when it's so desperately needed, and also to hold a country hostage for . . . what? Pandering to racist loons? Uterus up, you bastards, and do the right thing.
In China, where there are so many kinds of outrage for crimes against its people, there are new reports about Chinese officials seizing babies for adoption in the black market. I just don't even have the words for this. Here, Spain, I'm sure it goes on elsewhere. How heartless do you have to be to do something like this? I mean, I'm pretty callous, but this is beyond disgusting.
And finally, some good news: New York's Mayor Bloomberg and that bane of right wing crazies everywhere George Soros are donating $30million each to a fund in New York City to reach out to the chronically disenfranchised minority populations. The program will work to better the circumstances of over 300,000 young black and Latino men. Good.
What's new with you?
[PS COUNTDOWN TO MY BIRTHDAY - YOU'VE GOT JUST OVER A WEEK, PEOPLE!!!]
I'm enjoying my new job, but not the commute or the fact that there's nowhere to park. I like the idea of living in a town dedicated to walking and mass transit, but the reality of commuting there blows.
You know what else sucks when you have to walk to your car further than your garage? NATURE. That's what. All I see are ants running around and leafy greenery reaching out at me in a menacing fashion. It's really annoying. I like buildings. And concrete. I find their sterility soothing.
But that's not really news - I mean, you knew that about me anyway, right? I'm lazy and hate nature. Duh.
What is news? Besides the fact that I am so loving all of you who have been guest posting for me, and all you others who are planning on posting for me? Well, this is news:
Hosni Mubarak is being tried for crimes against humanity. Huh. Good. I am impressed that he showed up in Egypt for his trial, unlike most others who skeddaddle with all the country's loot. I'm less than impressed at his record of oppression. Props to his Ronald Reagan dye job.
I am righteously pissed at Obama and all the dumb fucks who decided that it's a good idea to cut funding when it's so desperately needed, and also to hold a country hostage for . . . what? Pandering to racist loons? Uterus up, you bastards, and do the right thing.
In China, where there are so many kinds of outrage for crimes against its people, there are new reports about Chinese officials seizing babies for adoption in the black market. I just don't even have the words for this. Here, Spain, I'm sure it goes on elsewhere. How heartless do you have to be to do something like this? I mean, I'm pretty callous, but this is beyond disgusting.
And finally, some good news: New York's Mayor Bloomberg and that bane of right wing crazies everywhere George Soros are donating $30million each to a fund in New York City to reach out to the chronically disenfranchised minority populations. The program will work to better the circumstances of over 300,000 young black and Latino men. Good.
What's new with you?
[PS COUNTDOWN TO MY BIRTHDAY - YOU'VE GOT JUST OVER A WEEK, PEOPLE!!!]
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Oh, yeah, THAT'S what work is like (It kind of sucks)
First, I want to thank the lovely and talented Karensomethingorother for doing such an excellent job as the inaugural Guest Poster. I'm also bitter and sad about Amy Winehouse dying, and full of loathing for Katy Perry, and hell, yes, those shades have to be drawn and . . . well, this is devolving.
Anyway, thanks so much and tune in next Tuesday for the next mystery Guest Poster. And tomorrow for the husband. He better have written something, or there will be blood.
I'm back at work, and it's not terrible. There is a learning curve, of course, because there are things that you forget when you've been out of work for almost 4 months, such as:
Giddy anticipation of your paycheck. I've been sitting at my desk, working, when I'll suddenly be seized by the need to know HOW MUCH MONEY I will be making if I work, say, 50 hours this week. And so I start tabulating and then I start thinking, well, why don't I work 54 hours, and then I think, well, why not 60 hours and then I punch myself in the head and dial it down. Because I am not working 60 hours this week. No matter how many shiny $$$ it will bring me.
That incessant chatter that you CANNOT CLICK AWAY FROM. I mentioned this on Twitter [because I am tired and so am recycling material, and also because maybe you don't follow me on Twitter and you missed this, and if you don't follow me, why not? I am fucking delightful.] and that lead to this:
Yes, you have to read it bottom up, but wouldn't it be wonderful if work was run like Twitter? WOULDN'T IT?
I also commandeered a good desk chair. Because I would totally do that on Twitter.
People do not understand / adhere to dress codes. Where I work it is all professionals, and I say this not because we are some fabulous elite, but because we are supposed to be PROFESSIONALS [no, not the hooker kind and not the Jean Reno kind, either.]
and we have a professional dress code, which clearly states NO OPEN TOED SHOES for women [I guess that thankfully goes without saying for the men] and so I am wearing closed toed shoes. And I am pretty much the only one because everyone else? Is wearing fucking flip flops. Please, ladies, please, let this trend/fad/abomination die its rightful death. Flip flops are for pools and public showers. Buy a nice pair of flat sandals. You'll look so much better. [PS Tomorrow I am being a daredevil and wearing sandals. WOOHOO!]
It is pretty near impossible to comfortably read a blog on my iPhone. And so I am woefully even further behind on my blog reading. But know that I love you, truly, with all my heart and cannot WAIT until I win that fucking lottery.
Anyone have any lucky numbers?
I MISS YOU ALL.
XOXOXOXOXO
Anyway, thanks so much and tune in next Tuesday for the next mystery Guest Poster. And tomorrow for the husband. He better have written something, or there will be blood.
I'm back at work, and it's not terrible. There is a learning curve, of course, because there are things that you forget when you've been out of work for almost 4 months, such as:
Giddy anticipation of your paycheck. I've been sitting at my desk, working, when I'll suddenly be seized by the need to know HOW MUCH MONEY I will be making if I work, say, 50 hours this week. And so I start tabulating and then I start thinking, well, why don't I work 54 hours, and then I think, well, why not 60 hours and then I punch myself in the head and dial it down. Because I am not working 60 hours this week. No matter how many shiny $$$ it will bring me.
That incessant chatter that you CANNOT CLICK AWAY FROM. I mentioned this on Twitter [because I am tired and so am recycling material, and also because maybe you don't follow me on Twitter and you missed this, and if you don't follow me, why not? I am fucking delightful.] and that lead to this:
I also commandeered a good desk chair. Because I would totally do that on Twitter.
People do not understand / adhere to dress codes. Where I work it is all professionals, and I say this not because we are some fabulous elite, but because we are supposed to be PROFESSIONALS [no, not the hooker kind and not the Jean Reno kind, either.]
 |
| Although that would make for an interesting workplace. |
It is pretty near impossible to comfortably read a blog on my iPhone. And so I am woefully even further behind on my blog reading. But know that I love you, truly, with all my heart and cannot WAIT until I win that fucking lottery.
Anyone have any lucky numbers?
I MISS YOU ALL.
XOXOXOXOXO
Monday, July 25, 2011
Wearing a black armband in memory of funemployment.
Well, I'm back at work. I am thrilled to be gainfully employed and sad that my summer vacation ended so abruptly. And mad that I didn't have the funds to enjoy my hiatus. And happy that I'll be productive. And a little thirsty because it's still so fucking hot.
Speaking of gainful employment - I'm back to the hellish commute, so do you have any audio book recommendations? I like mysteries, but nothing too scary or aggravating, since I'm already going to be throw down-ready while driving. I also like FUNNY books, but make sure they are funny haha not funny I'm going to kill someone if this slow-witted idiot doesn't end it soon. Yes, Confederacy of Dunces, I'm talking to you. I've already listened to Bossypants 3 1/2 times in a row, and I just got the hardcover, so I'm feeling like I should branch out.
************
Anytime anyone has asked me if I've seen Secretariat [and this has happened a surprising number of times - evidently I'm someone who comes across as horesy. I said HORSEY, not WHOREY. Gah, people, come on. I gave that up a long time ago. Just ask the husband. Which you can, on Thursdays.], I always say yes. Except I just realized I haven't. I actually saw Seabiscuit. I would argue that they are the same movie.
************
Guys need to wear shirts while working out. And riding bikes. And walking down the street. I don't care how awesome you think your bod is, no one wants to see that in the daylight. [Mostly because it is never as awesome as you think it is.] While I am all about body acceptance, I am more about equality, and until I can walk around in the heat, shirtless, and not have it be a big fucking deal, no one gets to.
************
We have been very lucky for pretty much the entire time we've lived in this house in that we've had good neighbors. Not best buds, or anything, but good neighbors we can chat with and get together with and who aren't assholes. Until last January, when the neighbors across the street moved and couldn't sell their house and so they are now renting it to the most fucking white trash pieces of shit in the history of shitty neighbors.
There must be between 4 and 8 people living in that house at any given time, and there are shitty cars parked on the street and the guy has some sort of business where he rents trucks - the latest from Penske, so Penske, if you're reading this, you need to clean house on the people you rent your trucks to - and he parks them in front of his house until the business at the end of the street closes at which point he illegally parks in their lot.
I hate him and all his trashy family with the heat of a thousand suns, and so does my neighbor, so we spend a lot of time texting each other when we see them do something stupid so that we can call the city.
Have you ever had a shitty neighbor? Do pitchforks and torches work?
************
Don't forget - it's the Raw Photos contest this week. Andygirl and I can't wait to see what you've got. Submit your best PEOPLE pictures so that we can judge you. In a loving way.
Speaking of gainful employment - I'm back to the hellish commute, so do you have any audio book recommendations? I like mysteries, but nothing too scary or aggravating, since I'm already going to be throw down-ready while driving. I also like FUNNY books, but make sure they are funny haha not funny I'm going to kill someone if this slow-witted idiot doesn't end it soon. Yes, Confederacy of Dunces, I'm talking to you. I've already listened to Bossypants 3 1/2 times in a row, and I just got the hardcover, so I'm feeling like I should branch out.
************
Anytime anyone has asked me if I've seen Secretariat [and this has happened a surprising number of times - evidently I'm someone who comes across as horesy. I said HORSEY, not WHOREY. Gah, people, come on. I gave that up a long time ago. Just ask the husband. Which you can, on Thursdays.], I always say yes. Except I just realized I haven't. I actually saw Seabiscuit. I would argue that they are the same movie.
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Guys need to wear shirts while working out. And riding bikes. And walking down the street. I don't care how awesome you think your bod is, no one wants to see that in the daylight. [Mostly because it is never as awesome as you think it is.] While I am all about body acceptance, I am more about equality, and until I can walk around in the heat, shirtless, and not have it be a big fucking deal, no one gets to.
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We have been very lucky for pretty much the entire time we've lived in this house in that we've had good neighbors. Not best buds, or anything, but good neighbors we can chat with and get together with and who aren't assholes. Until last January, when the neighbors across the street moved and couldn't sell their house and so they are now renting it to the most fucking white trash pieces of shit in the history of shitty neighbors.
There must be between 4 and 8 people living in that house at any given time, and there are shitty cars parked on the street and the guy has some sort of business where he rents trucks - the latest from Penske, so Penske, if you're reading this, you need to clean house on the people you rent your trucks to - and he parks them in front of his house until the business at the end of the street closes at which point he illegally parks in their lot.
I hate him and all his trashy family with the heat of a thousand suns, and so does my neighbor, so we spend a lot of time texting each other when we see them do something stupid so that we can call the city.
Have you ever had a shitty neighbor? Do pitchforks and torches work?
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Don't forget - it's the Raw Photos contest this week. Andygirl and I can't wait to see what you've got. Submit your best PEOPLE pictures so that we can judge you. In a loving way.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
People: Alternately awesome and what the hell?
O.k., first, I have to say thank you all for the hilarious comments I get on my blog. Honest to god, they make me happy to read and I still laugh when I think of them. [PS if you include your email address, I can email you back! Like a friend!]
The one that is still killing me right now is this comment I got on my post about the simple things, which for me evidently includes finding a pubic hair in a library cookbook [a book of ice cream recipes, which makes it somehow so much worse]:
Anyway, enough about how awesome you all are - I mean, this is MY blog, so I should just constantly be talking about how awesome I AM. Because truly, where else are you going to find someone as spectacular as I am? Nowhere, because people like me? As rare as diamonds [which I know are artificially scarce, but come on, cut me a break, here]. I am wondrous and my fabulousness is known throughout the microphone - I get stupid, I mean outrageous, stay away from me if you're contagious, cause I'm a winner, no not a loser . . .
O.k., I'll stop channeling Rob Base. [Go ahead, click on this YouTube link and I defy you to not chair dance.]
Anyway, I think I'm a pretty nice person - I mean, I give to charity, and I'm polite and I'll only talk about you behind your back when I'm sure you won't hear what I'm saying. I'm nice and people should want to get to know me.
It seems not everyone has gotten that message.
I was at the pool the other day [because it is 8,000 degrees and I also haven't had my fill of other people's urine polluting my space] and I thought I recognized this woman, but I wasn't sure from where. I thought we had caught glances a few times, you know? A few of those Do I know you? glances.
So I went up to her and said, "Hi, you look very familiar to me. I think I recognize you from somewhere."
And this bitch said, "Well I have no idea who you are."
Wow. O.k., evidently we are not destined to be friends, and I wasn't going to ask for a kidney, but what the fuck? How is that an o.k. way to react to someone? DOES SHE NOT KNOW WHO I AM?
She is so not allowed to read my blog.
The one that is still killing me right now is this comment I got on my post about the simple things, which for me evidently includes finding a pubic hair in a library cookbook [a book of ice cream recipes, which makes it somehow so much worse]:
Gary Oxford said...
-
That's what you get for checking out Clarence Thomas' "The Federalist Recipes".
Anyway, enough about how awesome you all are - I mean, this is MY blog, so I should just constantly be talking about how awesome I AM. Because truly, where else are you going to find someone as spectacular as I am? Nowhere, because people like me? As rare as diamonds [which I know are artificially scarce, but come on, cut me a break, here]. I am wondrous and my fabulousness is known throughout the microphone - I get stupid, I mean outrageous, stay away from me if you're contagious, cause I'm a winner, no not a loser . . .
O.k., I'll stop channeling Rob Base. [Go ahead, click on this YouTube link and I defy you to not chair dance.]
Anyway, I think I'm a pretty nice person - I mean, I give to charity, and I'm polite and I'll only talk about you behind your back when I'm sure you won't hear what I'm saying. I'm nice and people should want to get to know me.
It seems not everyone has gotten that message.
I was at the pool the other day [because it is 8,000 degrees and I also haven't had my fill of other people's urine polluting my space] and I thought I recognized this woman, but I wasn't sure from where. I thought we had caught glances a few times, you know? A few of those Do I know you? glances.
So I went up to her and said, "Hi, you look very familiar to me. I think I recognize you from somewhere."
And this bitch said, "Well I have no idea who you are."
Wow. O.k., evidently we are not destined to be friends, and I wasn't going to ask for a kidney, but what the fuck? How is that an o.k. way to react to someone? DOES SHE NOT KNOW WHO I AM?
She is so not allowed to read my blog.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Sometimes, it's hard to be me.
Soooo . . . last Thursday, I went to Old Lady Water Aerobics class, which starts at 9:00am, which is when I've been waking up recently [huh. I could get used to Funemployment.]. I did manage to wake up a bit early, but then somehow ended up racing from the house carrying my Stephen Colbert tote bag [which is actually the husband's, but which I have appropriated to use as a purse, since my old bag was filled with water due to a water bottle mishap] and my Whole Foods bag that held my towel and water shoes. [Hi, I'm liberal! is what my bags say about me. Also that I'm an old lady who can't be bothered to get a new purse, because these will do just fine.]
I can't find my lock key, and am too lazy/scattered to purchase a new lock [although, come to think of it, I don't know where the lock is, either], so I just put the bags on a chair in the pool area like I've done before and glided in with all the rest of the class, enjoying the camaraderie and realizing that I probably should move up a couple of class levels [As noted, I am lazy and also out of shape, but I can manage moving my fingers like I'm playing the piano with little to no soreness the next day]. Class finished, I got my stuff together, ran a couple of errands and headed home.
At home, I put everything away, showered, made lunch, and was finally greeted by the sleepy face of the girl, who has taken Extreme Sleeping to a whole new level this summer. Teenager-dom has arrived.
I started doing some freelance work [and reading some blogs] and time passed. After a while, I realized I needed to make a call, and that the number was on my iPhone.
Which I could not find.
I kept rechecking the Stephen Colbert tote bag. I looked in the Whole Foods bag. I looked on my desk, under the pile of papers, in the drawer, under the desk, on a shelf. I tried to remember if I had thrown the phone in my bag before I left, because that's one of the last things I do before leaving the house [the other is to hum the theme from Rocky as I walk out the door].
I couldn't remember putting it in my bag, but I definitely did NOT remember being unable to find it this morning.
I panicked. Everything was on that phone.
I lamented on Twitter. @Hubbit and @MrsJenBardall, among others, were helpful and consoling.
I called the husband at work - which was not only unhelpful, but also unsatisfying with regard to quelling my panic [The husband: I know you hate your phone, and you want a new one, but pretending to lose it so you'll get a new one? Me: I LOVE MY PHONE! I DON'T WANT A NEW ONE!! SHUT UP!!! GOODBYE!!!].
I realized I'd lost all credibility with the girl, who we had harped on for losing her phone this past winter. That, I think, was most painful. How could I feel markedly superior to my child if I couldn't hold that over her head?
I called the rec center. No phone turned in.
I went online with AT&T and chatted with a rep. Not helpful. No way for them to locate your phone.
I started pricing iPhones. GAH! HOW MUCH???
I called AT&T, hoping I'd get some help that way. A wonderful customer service rep patiently helped me, and told me to add the Family Map option, which would locate the phone for me if it was turned on. Then I could just get rid of the option when I found my phone. YAY! OF COURSE I WOULD.
I hung up and signed up and then had to call back, because I didn't know how to set this up.
The other surprisingly nice AT&T rep helped me and then transferred me to tech support, where a nice guy walked me through the steps to set it up and then, I waited for the map to locate my phone.
All the reps had reminded me that the phone would only be located. AT&T wouldn't go retrieve the phone. I could contact the police to go with me to get it, but that was up to me.
I had images of me and the law, showing up at someone's house, and a fuzzy, close up montage of me being reunited with my beloved.
I also had images of us shooting our way in and reenacting a scene from COPS to retrieve the innocent victim.
This is now about 1 hour and 45 minutes into panic time. I was despairing not only of never getting my phone back, but also of all the potentially productive time I'd lost. So much writing and cleaning not being done!
And then, the map image cleared and focused and I saw the house that the phone was in and . . .
It was my house.
THE PHONE WAS IN THE HOUSE!!!
I was simultaneously mortified and thrilled. Mortified, because how fucking dumb am I? And thrilled, because I at least knew that I would find the phone at some point.
The girl and I looked around, and she kept asking me if I had maybe left it in my pants from earlier, and I kept shaking my head and telling her, condescendingly, that my pants from earlier were sweatpants without pockets, no way were they holding my phone.
So she's standing in the bathroom, as I'm rechecking the office and my desk for the 8,000th time and she said, "Mom, I found your phone!"
Which was in the hamper.
In the pocket of a pair of pants I was wearing last night.
The last time I actually remember using my phone.
Yeah.
Not at ALL embarrassing.
I mean, thank god for Twitter and the internet, because otherwise my crazy would have been limited to the square footage of my house. And we can't have that, can we?
I can't find my lock key, and am too lazy/scattered to purchase a new lock [although, come to think of it, I don't know where the lock is, either], so I just put the bags on a chair in the pool area like I've done before and glided in with all the rest of the class, enjoying the camaraderie and realizing that I probably should move up a couple of class levels [As noted, I am lazy and also out of shape, but I can manage moving my fingers like I'm playing the piano with little to no soreness the next day]. Class finished, I got my stuff together, ran a couple of errands and headed home.
At home, I put everything away, showered, made lunch, and was finally greeted by the sleepy face of the girl, who has taken Extreme Sleeping to a whole new level this summer. Teenager-dom has arrived.
I started doing some freelance work [and reading some blogs] and time passed. After a while, I realized I needed to make a call, and that the number was on my iPhone.
Which I could not find.
I kept rechecking the Stephen Colbert tote bag. I looked in the Whole Foods bag. I looked on my desk, under the pile of papers, in the drawer, under the desk, on a shelf. I tried to remember if I had thrown the phone in my bag before I left, because that's one of the last things I do before leaving the house [the other is to hum the theme from Rocky as I walk out the door].
I couldn't remember putting it in my bag, but I definitely did NOT remember being unable to find it this morning.
I panicked. Everything was on that phone.
I lamented on Twitter. @Hubbit and @MrsJenBardall, among others, were helpful and consoling.
I called the husband at work - which was not only unhelpful, but also unsatisfying with regard to quelling my panic [The husband: I know you hate your phone, and you want a new one, but pretending to lose it so you'll get a new one? Me: I LOVE MY PHONE! I DON'T WANT A NEW ONE!! SHUT UP!!! GOODBYE!!!].
I realized I'd lost all credibility with the girl, who we had harped on for losing her phone this past winter. That, I think, was most painful. How could I feel markedly superior to my child if I couldn't hold that over her head?
I called the rec center. No phone turned in.
I went online with AT&T and chatted with a rep. Not helpful. No way for them to locate your phone.
I started pricing iPhones. GAH! HOW MUCH???
I called AT&T, hoping I'd get some help that way. A wonderful customer service rep patiently helped me, and told me to add the Family Map option, which would locate the phone for me if it was turned on. Then I could just get rid of the option when I found my phone. YAY! OF COURSE I WOULD.
I hung up and signed up and then had to call back, because I didn't know how to set this up.
The other surprisingly nice AT&T rep helped me and then transferred me to tech support, where a nice guy walked me through the steps to set it up and then, I waited for the map to locate my phone.
All the reps had reminded me that the phone would only be located. AT&T wouldn't go retrieve the phone. I could contact the police to go with me to get it, but that was up to me.
I had images of me and the law, showing up at someone's house, and a fuzzy, close up montage of me being reunited with my beloved.
I also had images of us shooting our way in and reenacting a scene from COPS to retrieve the innocent victim.
This is now about 1 hour and 45 minutes into panic time. I was despairing not only of never getting my phone back, but also of all the potentially productive time I'd lost. So much writing and cleaning not being done!
And then, the map image cleared and focused and I saw the house that the phone was in and . . .
It was my house.
THE PHONE WAS IN THE HOUSE!!!
I was simultaneously mortified and thrilled. Mortified, because how fucking dumb am I? And thrilled, because I at least knew that I would find the phone at some point.
The girl and I looked around, and she kept asking me if I had maybe left it in my pants from earlier, and I kept shaking my head and telling her, condescendingly, that my pants from earlier were sweatpants without pockets, no way were they holding my phone.
So she's standing in the bathroom, as I'm rechecking the office and my desk for the 8,000th time and she said, "Mom, I found your phone!"
Which was in the hamper.
In the pocket of a pair of pants I was wearing last night.
The last time I actually remember using my phone.
Yeah.
Not at ALL embarrassing.
I mean, thank god for Twitter and the internet, because otherwise my crazy would have been limited to the square footage of my house. And we can't have that, can we?
Friday, July 15, 2011
Week in Review - Are you kidding me? edition
People kill me. The dumb things they do, the dumb things they think they'll get away with. It just makes me wonder if some people are born without a moral compass or if they just kill that part of themselves with Seconal and whiskey [is that too Valley of the Dolls?]. Here's what's been going on this week:
Oh, the humanity. Republican idiots & presidential hopefuls Michele Bachmann and Rick Santorum [eeeewww] signed a pledge re: the importance of keeping marriage between a man and woman [because otherwise it's ANARCHY!] which also included the phrase
Rupert Murdoch [remember him?] is going to go before Parliament to answer questions about his really ridiculous, completely disgusting, horrifically amoral and patently illegal news gathering practices. How I WISH it was George Clinton & Parliament Funkadelic asking him questions.
In Afghanistan [remember that place?], a suicide bomber, who hid his explosives in his turban, killed himself and three people and injured others at a service for Afghan President Hamid Karzai's brother, Ahmad Wali Karzai, who was killed last week in a suicide bombing. I don't pretend to have any answers, here. I'm not even sure what the question is. So much anger and hatred and despair.
There's been a massive drought in the US, one which could rival the Dust Bowl. Every county in Texas has been designated a natural disaster area by the Department of Agriculture [I believe right thinking people have already designated Texas a compassion and liberal disaster area for years. Too bitchy? I'll exempt Austin, then.]. So . . . famine, that's one of the plagues, right? Or a sign of the apocalypse? When did the Mayans say things were going to come to an end? I'm not paying any more credit card or student loan debts. They can chase after me in hell. Where I believe they have express tickets, so they don't have to wait in line.
And finally, some movie opened last night. I haven't seen it yet, but have heard it is the best thus far. I'm going to a matinee on Saturday morning with a friend, because I am old and my eyes won't stay open past midnight. I believe they turn into pumpkins. Anyway, I love the HP books more than the movies, and remember reading them to the girl [skipping over the gory parts] when she was small, and then she grew and learned and began reading for herself. We would got to the midnight sales to get our books, and go to a town nearby that would turn itself into Hogsmead on the night of the book sales. Still, I like the movies, and have seen them all in the theater when they've come out. I'm a bit sad I didn't go last night, especially when I dropped the girl off and saw all the teens dressed up in their Hogwarts finery. I'm glad I was able to be part of this in some small way, and will be even happier with my giant bucket of popcorn at 9:15 on Saturday morning.
What's going on with you? Did you stay up too late last night?
Oh, the humanity. Republican idiots & presidential hopefuls Michele Bachmann and Rick Santorum [eeeewww] signed a pledge re: the importance of keeping marriage between a man and woman [because otherwise it's ANARCHY!] which also included the phrase
Slavery had a disastrous impact on African-American families, yet sadly a child born into slavery in 1860 was more likely to be raised by his mother and father in a two-parent household than was an African-American baby born after the election of the USA's first African-American President.Which, I don't even know what to say. Except maybe that these two doofuses are comedy gold? What the hell? They both tried to distance themselves from the passage once it was brought to light, and the group removed it from the pledge, but at a guess? I think they all still believe that. Assholes.
Rupert Murdoch [remember him?] is going to go before Parliament to answer questions about his really ridiculous, completely disgusting, horrifically amoral and patently illegal news gathering practices. How I WISH it was George Clinton & Parliament Funkadelic asking him questions.
 |
| I would pay cash money to see P-Funk and Rupert Murdoch face off - would they take him on the Mothership? Source. |
There's been a massive drought in the US, one which could rival the Dust Bowl. Every county in Texas has been designated a natural disaster area by the Department of Agriculture [I believe right thinking people have already designated Texas a compassion and liberal disaster area for years. Too bitchy? I'll exempt Austin, then.]. So . . . famine, that's one of the plagues, right? Or a sign of the apocalypse? When did the Mayans say things were going to come to an end? I'm not paying any more credit card or student loan debts. They can chase after me in hell. Where I believe they have express tickets, so they don't have to wait in line.
And finally, some movie opened last night. I haven't seen it yet, but have heard it is the best thus far. I'm going to a matinee on Saturday morning with a friend, because I am old and my eyes won't stay open past midnight. I believe they turn into pumpkins. Anyway, I love the HP books more than the movies, and remember reading them to the girl [skipping over the gory parts] when she was small, and then she grew and learned and began reading for herself. We would got to the midnight sales to get our books, and go to a town nearby that would turn itself into Hogsmead on the night of the book sales. Still, I like the movies, and have seen them all in the theater when they've come out. I'm a bit sad I didn't go last night, especially when I dropped the girl off and saw all the teens dressed up in their Hogwarts finery. I'm glad I was able to be part of this in some small way, and will be even happier with my giant bucket of popcorn at 9:15 on Saturday morning.
What's going on with you? Did you stay up too late last night?
Thursday, July 14, 2011
The terrible, horrible, no good, really bad day*
I hate Sundays.
I've said it before. I said it on Twitter [and got a lot of people responding that they hate them, too]. I'm sure I'll say it again.
They just make me so angry and unhappy and full of dread.
I spent the entire day Sunday ready to punch anyone who got in my way. It was not a nice feeling. Not even a little bit. Not for anyone involved.
I'm not even sure why I was so angry. I mean, there were a lot of annoying little things that happened - running out of soap for the shower, papers sliding off my desk, realizing I had three baskets of laundry to fold - but these were things that had happened often and never really set me over the edge [unlike, say, losing your phone - but that's a whole 'nother post]. It was a perfect storm of minor annoyances and crazy juice build up that had me muttering under my breath about how much I fucking hated everyone and everything and these stupid fucking cats and their stupid fucking hair and what the hell? why hadn't the husband made the bed again?
It was exhausting. And I kept having to say, over and over, "I'm sorry, please don't talk to me, I hate you and want to kill you right now," to the husband and the girl [I didn't tell the girl I wanted to kill her, just that I was in a really bad mood for no reason; I'm not THAT bad a parent. Just a really bad spouse. Consider yourself warned, in case I get divorced and am looking for a replacement spouse and have fixated on you.].
I mean, having a bad day because of some catastrophe at work or home or in the world, that I get. Even if it's lack of sleep or PMS or an imbalance in my humours or chakras, sure I get that. But hating on TINA FEY because she is so awesome and I am not and we'll never be friends? That's just wrong. [And so guilt inducing that I apologized to her audiobook for thinking evil thoughts. I may need medication.]
The only moderately o.k. time was taking the girl to see Scream 4 at the local third [fourth?] run theater [eh, it was fine, but too gory for our tastes], but I swear to god, as soon as it was over and I tried to use the tiniest bathroom in the history of the universe [it was the size of a coffin, no lie], the anger started building until I walked back into the house and that AAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHHH hateful feeling came crushing back.
Which led me to think that maybe I really need to re-vamp the house, except there is no money, and frankly? I don't want to live here anymore and I don't have a job to make money to leave and I am functionally unemployable and I have a really hard time deciding how to decorate and maybe I need to find an interior designer, but seriously? for this tiny house? or maybe I should just get rid of everything and that AAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHH just started all over again.
And so I had a really bad day, for seemingly no reason, that only ended when I went to bed at 1:00am after a tummy ache [I will spare you the details, but suffice to say, I'm glad I wasn't in India].
Does this ever happen to you? Where your hate dial gets turned to 11 for no reason? Please say yes. I'd like to not be alone when I'm a fucking lunatic.
XO,
S
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*Probably the best book title ever, although I am no fan of Alexander's giant melon-head. Huh. Evidently the crabbiness and bitchitude have not left the building. Awesome.
I've said it before. I said it on Twitter [and got a lot of people responding that they hate them, too]. I'm sure I'll say it again.
They just make me so angry and unhappy and full of dread.
I spent the entire day Sunday ready to punch anyone who got in my way. It was not a nice feeling. Not even a little bit. Not for anyone involved.
I'm not even sure why I was so angry. I mean, there were a lot of annoying little things that happened - running out of soap for the shower, papers sliding off my desk, realizing I had three baskets of laundry to fold - but these were things that had happened often and never really set me over the edge [unlike, say, losing your phone - but that's a whole 'nother post]. It was a perfect storm of minor annoyances and crazy juice build up that had me muttering under my breath about how much I fucking hated everyone and everything and these stupid fucking cats and their stupid fucking hair and what the hell? why hadn't the husband made the bed again?
It was exhausting. And I kept having to say, over and over, "I'm sorry, please don't talk to me, I hate you and want to kill you right now," to the husband and the girl [I didn't tell the girl I wanted to kill her, just that I was in a really bad mood for no reason; I'm not THAT bad a parent. Just a really bad spouse. Consider yourself warned, in case I get divorced and am looking for a replacement spouse and have fixated on you.].
I mean, having a bad day because of some catastrophe at work or home or in the world, that I get. Even if it's lack of sleep or PMS or an imbalance in my humours or chakras, sure I get that. But hating on TINA FEY because she is so awesome and I am not and we'll never be friends? That's just wrong. [And so guilt inducing that I apologized to her audiobook for thinking evil thoughts. I may need medication.]
The only moderately o.k. time was taking the girl to see Scream 4 at the local third [fourth?] run theater [eh, it was fine, but too gory for our tastes], but I swear to god, as soon as it was over and I tried to use the tiniest bathroom in the history of the universe [it was the size of a coffin, no lie], the anger started building until I walked back into the house and that AAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHHH hateful feeling came crushing back.
Which led me to think that maybe I really need to re-vamp the house, except there is no money, and frankly? I don't want to live here anymore and I don't have a job to make money to leave and I am functionally unemployable and I have a really hard time deciding how to decorate and maybe I need to find an interior designer, but seriously? for this tiny house? or maybe I should just get rid of everything and that AAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHH just started all over again.
And so I had a really bad day, for seemingly no reason, that only ended when I went to bed at 1:00am after a tummy ache [I will spare you the details, but suffice to say, I'm glad I wasn't in India].
Does this ever happen to you? Where your hate dial gets turned to 11 for no reason? Please say yes. I'd like to not be alone when I'm a fucking lunatic.
XO,
S
***************
*Probably the best book title ever, although I am no fan of Alexander's giant melon-head. Huh. Evidently the crabbiness and bitchitude have not left the building. Awesome.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
I think you missed one - a love letter to my family.
As you may have gathered, I do pretty much all the cooking in our little household. I don't mind it, generally, because I am pretty particular about my food [Let's talk about crazy food issues! I'll see your eating disorder and raise you crazed paranoia about potential allergies and possible poisonings!] and I'm also that person who says stuff like, "I'm hungry," and then shoots down everything offered as an option by anyone ever in the history of the world.
I'm fun to be around! Let's have a sleepover!
Anyway, the upside to doing all the cooking is that, in general, I'm relieved of clean up duties. The husband usually does them and lately we've tried to get the girl to be exclusive kitchen cleaner since it's summer and she has no other obligations and we don't want her to lack in the womanly arts department.
I still end up doing the dishes sometimes. Mainly when it's supposed to be the girl's turn and she's tired or it's late or there are so many dishes to wash. Evidently I want her to be soft and unskilled, like veal.
We have a double sink, but limited counter space, so I came up with the ingenious idea of putting a dish drainer in the sink that doesn't have the garbage disposal in it, since we so very seldom handwash ANYTHING. God bless whoever invented the dishwasher.* We don't really need two sinks and we really do need somewhere to put the microwave and the coffee maker, so it worked out perfectly for everyone. I think that's what synergy is.
However.
Every once in a while when I'll do the dishes and actually handwash something and it will sit in that fucking dish drainer until the End Times because both the husband and the girl evidently have transitory hysterical blindness and can't see anything in that part of the kitchen.
See? That martini shaker has been there since July 4th. That tile that the girl painted when she was maybe 4 years old and we use as a spoon rest? Has been there at least 3 months and is now completely wedged into the space. It's never coming out. The meat thermometer? A couple of weeks, at least.
WTF, people. WHAT THE FUCK?
*Shockingly, it was a woman named Josephine Cochran in 1886 who invented the first working dishwasher. Or at least that's what the internet tells me.
_________________________
Many thanks to the lovely Poppy from Funny Or Snot for coming up with this delightful posting topic. Kudos, dear Poppy. Kudos to you.
________________________In BIG GIANT AWESOME NEWS, I'm over at The Misadventures of Mrs. B doing a guest post. Go take a look - if you think I've gone over the edge with my cheesy goodness mac & cheese recipe yesterday, wait until you see this.
I'm fun to be around! Let's have a sleepover!
Anyway, the upside to doing all the cooking is that, in general, I'm relieved of clean up duties. The husband usually does them and lately we've tried to get the girl to be exclusive kitchen cleaner since it's summer and she has no other obligations and we don't want her to lack in the womanly arts department.
I still end up doing the dishes sometimes. Mainly when it's supposed to be the girl's turn and she's tired or it's late or there are so many dishes to wash. Evidently I want her to be soft and unskilled, like veal.
We have a double sink, but limited counter space, so I came up with the ingenious idea of putting a dish drainer in the sink that doesn't have the garbage disposal in it, since we so very seldom handwash ANYTHING. God bless whoever invented the dishwasher.* We don't really need two sinks and we really do need somewhere to put the microwave and the coffee maker, so it worked out perfectly for everyone. I think that's what synergy is.
However.
Every once in a while when I'll do the dishes and actually handwash something and it will sit in that fucking dish drainer until the End Times because both the husband and the girl evidently have transitory hysterical blindness and can't see anything in that part of the kitchen.
 |
| Please ignore the water spots in my stainless steel sink. Thanks! |
WTF, people. WHAT THE FUCK?
*Shockingly, it was a woman named Josephine Cochran in 1886 who invented the first working dishwasher. Or at least that's what the internet tells me.
_________________________
Many thanks to the lovely Poppy from Funny Or Snot for coming up with this delightful posting topic. Kudos, dear Poppy. Kudos to you.
________________________In BIG GIANT AWESOME NEWS, I'm over at The Misadventures of Mrs. B doing a guest post. Go take a look - if you think I've gone over the edge with my cheesy goodness mac & cheese recipe yesterday, wait until you see this.
Monday, July 11, 2011
I Love Tina Fey - the post you knew was coming.
I can't help it - I'm in love.
I've been a fan of Tina Fey's since Weekend Update on SNL and I've loved her in 30 Rock, but now? Listening to her read her audiobook of Bossypants? It's like the stars have aligned and I have found my soul mate. [Please don't tell her and scare her off. Thanks.]
She is brilliantly funny and very snarky and so. very. smart. I love this woman. I want us to be friends.
I want you all to read or listen to her read her book, so that we can talk about it and I won't seem like a complete lunatic for my NON-STOP yammering about how hilarious she is.
But she is! Really!
Funny and insightful and a badass.
And one of the things I love best is when she talks about how, when she and Amy Poehler were on SNL, Amy Poehler did something funny, and Jimmy Fallon was pretending to get all offended and said, "Oh, stop it, I don't like it," and Amy Poehler turned on him and said, "I don't fucking care if you like it," and I thought YAY! Yes! THAT is how I want to live my life.
I don't fucking care if you like it.
That is Tina Fey's advice for me. For us all.
I think most of the regrets and angst I've had are when I try and fit myself into someone else's idea of me. Someone else's opinion of how I should live or behave or act. It stifles me and I feel compromised and ridiculous and it never works out.
This is not to say that I'm going to do something as disgusting as removing my shoe and rubbing my foot on the carpeting in a public place [seriously? DISGUSTING!] but it does mean that I need to trust myself and my instincts and my abilities more. To just be myself and realize that people may like me or they may not like me, but it won't matter because I like me.
And now we have devolved into 1970s I'm O.k., You're O.k., and for that, I apologize.
Anyway, I can't stop recommending Bossypants, or Tina Fey in general. 30 Rock is one of the best things on t.v., which sounds like I'm damning it with faint praise, but I'm telling you it is GENIUS. Plus, Alec Baldwin? The sexiest of the Baldwins? Nice. And LL Cool J was on it for an episode. YUM. YUM.
Disclaimer: I did watch Baby Mama last night [I AM NOT STALKING TINA FEY THROUGH MY ELECTRONIC DEVICES] and while I loved her, I was underwhelmed by the movie in general. Then I realized that it was written and directed by a man, who I'm sure is lovely, but seriously? A singing scene? A dancing montage? How cliche. All they needed was another montage of Tina Fey trying on sexy clothes, which they mercifully skipped and instead just showed the end result of her being sluttily dressed by Amy Poehler and it would have been an 80s cliche trifecta. Still, my love for Tina Fey remains undimmed.
What do you think? Is this getting out of control? Or is my love for Tina Fey pure and righteous?
I've been a fan of Tina Fey's since Weekend Update on SNL and I've loved her in 30 Rock, but now? Listening to her read her audiobook of Bossypants? It's like the stars have aligned and I have found my soul mate. [Please don't tell her and scare her off. Thanks.]
She is brilliantly funny and very snarky and so. very. smart. I love this woman. I want us to be friends.
I want you all to read or listen to her read her book, so that we can talk about it and I won't seem like a complete lunatic for my NON-STOP yammering about how hilarious she is.
But she is! Really!
Funny and insightful and a badass.
And one of the things I love best is when she talks about how, when she and Amy Poehler were on SNL, Amy Poehler did something funny, and Jimmy Fallon was pretending to get all offended and said, "Oh, stop it, I don't like it," and Amy Poehler turned on him and said, "I don't fucking care if you like it," and I thought YAY! Yes! THAT is how I want to live my life.
I don't fucking care if you like it.
That is Tina Fey's advice for me. For us all.
I think most of the regrets and angst I've had are when I try and fit myself into someone else's idea of me. Someone else's opinion of how I should live or behave or act. It stifles me and I feel compromised and ridiculous and it never works out.
This is not to say that I'm going to do something as disgusting as removing my shoe and rubbing my foot on the carpeting in a public place [seriously? DISGUSTING!] but it does mean that I need to trust myself and my instincts and my abilities more. To just be myself and realize that people may like me or they may not like me, but it won't matter because I like me.
And now we have devolved into 1970s I'm O.k., You're O.k., and for that, I apologize.
Anyway, I can't stop recommending Bossypants, or Tina Fey in general. 30 Rock is one of the best things on t.v., which sounds like I'm damning it with faint praise, but I'm telling you it is GENIUS. Plus, Alec Baldwin? The sexiest of the Baldwins? Nice. And LL Cool J was on it for an episode. YUM. YUM.
Disclaimer: I did watch Baby Mama last night [I AM NOT STALKING TINA FEY THROUGH MY ELECTRONIC DEVICES] and while I loved her, I was underwhelmed by the movie in general. Then I realized that it was written and directed by a man, who I'm sure is lovely, but seriously? A singing scene? A dancing montage? How cliche. All they needed was another montage of Tina Fey trying on sexy clothes, which they mercifully skipped and instead just showed the end result of her being sluttily dressed by Amy Poehler and it would have been an 80s cliche trifecta. Still, my love for Tina Fey remains undimmed.
What do you think? Is this getting out of control? Or is my love for Tina Fey pure and righteous?
Friday, July 8, 2011
Week in Review - It's Friday I'm in Love
Oh, my lovelies, I have never been so happy to get to the end of the week. I actually slept more than an hour at a time last night [five whole hours in a row. IN A ROW. PLUS! I dreamed about Sawyer from Lost. Yum.] and my nieces are going home AND I'm going to a party tomorrow night! Yay! Party! With people!
What's been happening this week? Why, I'm glad you asked. Here you go:
JK Rowling said, "Never say never" about more Harry Potter stuff. SQUEEEEEE! Is it unseemly that a grown ass woman is this excited about children's books? Eh, who cares.
In an effort to stave off a horrific police and parliamentary inquiry and PR mess, Rupert Murdoch decided to close The News of the World, a tabloid newspaper in England that had been found to have hacked into the cell phones of child murder victims and terrorism victims and just seriously? Is this guy Mr. Burns from The Simpsons, but without the warmth? What the fuck? How do you live with yourself? Ugh. People make me sick.
In the great state of Texas, where they just can't get enough of killing people through the death penalty, the state decided to execute a Mexican national despite the fact that he wasn't afforded his right to meet with the Mexican consular when he was charged. Now, granted, this guy was a dirtbag and raped and killed a young woman, but the thing here is, Texas decided that it was more important to rush into trying and executing someone than it was to follow the rule of law which is that people get to meet their consulate when they are accused of a crime. A few more months was not going to matter to anyone at the start of this case, and certainly not now, except maybe to Rick Perry trying to build his bona fides with crazed isolationists. Adhering to international law means you have a leg up when someone from your country is in a precarious legal position [i.e. Amanda Knox].
In more legal news, you all know that Casey Anthony was found not guilty. I did not follow the case very closely and while I understand the visceral uproar over this - a child is dead, after all - I am not overly surprised at the result. While the states that have the death penalty have zero problems with putting it into action [see above] there is a marked disparity about who is actually put into this situation. And it should come as no surprise that it is mostly black men who murder white people who are ultimately executed. A young white woman is very seldom going to be put on death row.
In news of the what the hell? variety, evidently Spain has had a history of stealing babies and selling them for adoption. WHAT? Yeah. This began as a means of punishing leftist families under Franco [again, WHAT?] but took on a life of its own, with doctors, nurses and nuns [WHAT??] having colluded to steal babies who were just born and selling them off to a criminal network. Parents were told their babies had died and were buried. I can't even . . . WHAT THE FUCK?
And now as a palate cleanser of good news, Tom Hanks is bringing pollution free scooters to India. I have not traveled to India, as I would prefer to have diarrhea in my own home where there is a working toilet, but my understanding from friends is that there is traffic unlike any other place on earth. These scooters would make a small difference, but hopefully set the stage for more change. Bosom Buddies, Big, scooters. Is there anything this man can't do?
What have you got for me? I'm dying to know.
What's been happening this week? Why, I'm glad you asked. Here you go:
JK Rowling said, "Never say never" about more Harry Potter stuff. SQUEEEEEE! Is it unseemly that a grown ass woman is this excited about children's books? Eh, who cares.
In an effort to stave off a horrific police and parliamentary inquiry and PR mess, Rupert Murdoch decided to close The News of the World, a tabloid newspaper in England that had been found to have hacked into the cell phones of child murder victims and terrorism victims and just seriously? Is this guy Mr. Burns from The Simpsons, but without the warmth? What the fuck? How do you live with yourself? Ugh. People make me sick.
In the great state of Texas, where they just can't get enough of killing people through the death penalty, the state decided to execute a Mexican national despite the fact that he wasn't afforded his right to meet with the Mexican consular when he was charged. Now, granted, this guy was a dirtbag and raped and killed a young woman, but the thing here is, Texas decided that it was more important to rush into trying and executing someone than it was to follow the rule of law which is that people get to meet their consulate when they are accused of a crime. A few more months was not going to matter to anyone at the start of this case, and certainly not now, except maybe to Rick Perry trying to build his bona fides with crazed isolationists. Adhering to international law means you have a leg up when someone from your country is in a precarious legal position [i.e. Amanda Knox].
In more legal news, you all know that Casey Anthony was found not guilty. I did not follow the case very closely and while I understand the visceral uproar over this - a child is dead, after all - I am not overly surprised at the result. While the states that have the death penalty have zero problems with putting it into action [see above] there is a marked disparity about who is actually put into this situation. And it should come as no surprise that it is mostly black men who murder white people who are ultimately executed. A young white woman is very seldom going to be put on death row.
In news of the what the hell? variety, evidently Spain has had a history of stealing babies and selling them for adoption. WHAT? Yeah. This began as a means of punishing leftist families under Franco [again, WHAT?] but took on a life of its own, with doctors, nurses and nuns [WHAT??] having colluded to steal babies who were just born and selling them off to a criminal network. Parents were told their babies had died and were buried. I can't even . . . WHAT THE FUCK?
And now as a palate cleanser of good news, Tom Hanks is bringing pollution free scooters to India. I have not traveled to India, as I would prefer to have diarrhea in my own home where there is a working toilet, but my understanding from friends is that there is traffic unlike any other place on earth. These scooters would make a small difference, but hopefully set the stage for more change. Bosom Buddies, Big, scooters. Is there anything this man can't do?
What have you got for me? I'm dying to know.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
People Who are Assholes - Public Pool Edition
I love swimming.
Or, more honestly, I used to love swimming and now I love floating around in the water, chatting with my friends and family and playing frisbee or catch or Marco Polo or taking part in our patented Cheating Races [which are awesome and I highly recommend - details at the end of the post]. What I don't love? The assholes at the pool.
The kids who decided to aim the geyser of water at the adults sitting around the edge of the pool? Assholes. It's o.k. to call kids that, right? I may or may not have said, "You little fuckers" kind of under my breath [really out loud] as I walked past JUST EXACTLY WHEN they decided to aim Old Faithful and got soaked on one side when I wasn't planning on swimming because I'm still not feeling that great and just wanted to take a bunch of kids out swimming and keep them out of my hair. Jerks.
The guy who is talking on his cell phone like he's part of NASA and is trying desperately to safely bring in the final shuttle landing instead of being a middle manager at CompuGlobalMegaMart trying to track down a missing shipment of copier toner. Not that big a deal, dude.
The woman who thinks a public pool is the place to wear her slightly too small bikini. This is not that crowd. Not during daylight hours, anyway.
The teenagers. Because they are teenagers.
The person who screams the entire way down the water slide. THE ENTIRE WAY DOWN. It's not that scary, and that really, really echoes and cuts in on my ability to eavesdrop on the group to my left who are talking about whether or not tiny bikini had her boobs done [probably yes].
Ah, summertime. I need my own pool. And possibly some happy pills.
Who pisses you off at the pool?
**************
Cheating Races - these are a lot of fun, especially for mixed age groups. You basically decide on a race, like whoever walks backward to the other side of the pool and back first is the winner and ALL CHEATING IS ALLOWED, which means kids can leap on adults, adults can pick up and move children, anything goes. It's hilarious.
Or, more honestly, I used to love swimming and now I love floating around in the water, chatting with my friends and family and playing frisbee or catch or Marco Polo or taking part in our patented Cheating Races [which are awesome and I highly recommend - details at the end of the post]. What I don't love? The assholes at the pool.
The kids who decided to aim the geyser of water at the adults sitting around the edge of the pool? Assholes. It's o.k. to call kids that, right? I may or may not have said, "You little fuckers" kind of under my breath [really out loud] as I walked past JUST EXACTLY WHEN they decided to aim Old Faithful and got soaked on one side when I wasn't planning on swimming because I'm still not feeling that great and just wanted to take a bunch of kids out swimming and keep them out of my hair. Jerks.
The guy who is talking on his cell phone like he's part of NASA and is trying desperately to safely bring in the final shuttle landing instead of being a middle manager at CompuGlobalMegaMart trying to track down a missing shipment of copier toner. Not that big a deal, dude.
The woman who thinks a public pool is the place to wear her slightly too small bikini. This is not that crowd. Not during daylight hours, anyway.
The teenagers. Because they are teenagers.
The person who screams the entire way down the water slide. THE ENTIRE WAY DOWN. It's not that scary, and that really, really echoes and cuts in on my ability to eavesdrop on the group to my left who are talking about whether or not tiny bikini had her boobs done [probably yes].
Ah, summertime. I need my own pool. And possibly some happy pills.
Who pisses you off at the pool?
**************
Cheating Races - these are a lot of fun, especially for mixed age groups. You basically decide on a race, like whoever walks backward to the other side of the pool and back first is the winner and ALL CHEATING IS ALLOWED, which means kids can leap on adults, adults can pick up and move children, anything goes. It's hilarious.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Helpful Household Hints - Or a cry for help, I'm not sure which.
Dear Reader,
Be sure to clean your humidifier after its last use instead of leaving it sitting on the floor of your bedroom, calcifying and growing aggressive fungus.
Why?
So that you're not up at 1:00am on the 4th of July weekend scrubbing the water well in the bathroom next to where your in-laws are sleeping [because the kitchen sink is full of dishes], trying to get into the tiny crevices with a wash cloth covered in aloe hand soap stuck on the end of a rat-tail comb [why do you own this?], wondering, near tears, why there isn't some sort of long handled scrubby thing you could use to clean this fucking thing before it dawns on you that you actually DO have a long handled scrubby thing in the kitchen [thanks, IKEA!].
You get most of the crusties off before you realize you hear your father-in-law up and shuffling around, wanting to use the bathroom, and you decide, fuck this, I'm done, and you fill up the tank and head back to the bedroom, hoping for the best, and then nearly flooding the bedroom because you didn't tighten the seal on the bottom cap correctly. You become so frustrated trying to carefully move the base and not spill a metric ass ton of water that you accidentally unplug the surge protector and have to move the bookshelf and watch as the tv sways and you wonder if it will crash, because sure, why not, but you catch a break and it doesn't.
So you dump out the water, go back to your room, set up the partially clean humidifier [at this point, so long as some moisture gets sucked into your sinuses and throat, you don't care how many microbes come with it], go to climb into bed an hour after you left it and then you realize that your nightgown [shut up, people wear nightgowns] is soaked.
You may or may not shed a tired tear as you change.
And then you lay down on your sweet, sweet bed, with the monotonous hum of the humidifier lulling you to sleep, before you realize you're now awake, so you start documenting this delightful moment in time and hope that you aren't actually smelling aloe soap or mold spores or calcified particulants spewing from the humidifier until you realize you are finally too tired to care and you fall into a broken sleep, dreaming of being thirsty on an airplane tarmac.
Hope you enjoyed your holiday at least that much!
XO,
S
Be sure to clean your humidifier after its last use instead of leaving it sitting on the floor of your bedroom, calcifying and growing aggressive fungus.
Why?
So that you're not up at 1:00am on the 4th of July weekend scrubbing the water well in the bathroom next to where your in-laws are sleeping [because the kitchen sink is full of dishes], trying to get into the tiny crevices with a wash cloth covered in aloe hand soap stuck on the end of a rat-tail comb [why do you own this?], wondering, near tears, why there isn't some sort of long handled scrubby thing you could use to clean this fucking thing before it dawns on you that you actually DO have a long handled scrubby thing in the kitchen [thanks, IKEA!].
You get most of the crusties off before you realize you hear your father-in-law up and shuffling around, wanting to use the bathroom, and you decide, fuck this, I'm done, and you fill up the tank and head back to the bedroom, hoping for the best, and then nearly flooding the bedroom because you didn't tighten the seal on the bottom cap correctly. You become so frustrated trying to carefully move the base and not spill a metric ass ton of water that you accidentally unplug the surge protector and have to move the bookshelf and watch as the tv sways and you wonder if it will crash, because sure, why not, but you catch a break and it doesn't.
So you dump out the water, go back to your room, set up the partially clean humidifier [at this point, so long as some moisture gets sucked into your sinuses and throat, you don't care how many microbes come with it], go to climb into bed an hour after you left it and then you realize that your nightgown [shut up, people wear nightgowns] is soaked.
You may or may not shed a tired tear as you change.
And then you lay down on your sweet, sweet bed, with the monotonous hum of the humidifier lulling you to sleep, before you realize you're now awake, so you start documenting this delightful moment in time and hope that you aren't actually smelling aloe soap or mold spores or calcified particulants spewing from the humidifier until you realize you are finally too tired to care and you fall into a broken sleep, dreaming of being thirsty on an airplane tarmac.
Hope you enjoyed your holiday at least that much!
XO,
S
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
If it's Tuesday, it must be my day to unleash the randomness of my mind. Enjoy.
Let's just get to it, shall we?
************
I have a UFO tweeter following me! JEALOUS? YES, YOU ARE! When the mother ship lands, I'll put in a good word for you. Provided I'm not cowering under the bed. [Historical aside: When I was much younger and freer, I was in Santa Fe, which is a weird place, and some friends and I were talking one evening about what we would do if a UFO did, in fact, show up. Trust me when I tell you that when you are in Santa Fe, at night, this kind of thing seems more likely to happen than not. Anyway, we pretty much all agreed that shitting our pants would be Job One if an alien showed up at the side of the bed. What do you think?]
************
We are having an ass-ton of family over on July 4th. Which is great, I love having parties. It's just that it's dawning on me that we don't have a pool, nor do we live on lake, and I'm pretty sure we don't even have a sprinkler. I need fun warm weather activities for age ranges 8 - 70. STAT.
************
I have a tendency to be uber-competitive about somethings - especially things that have nothing to do with me. Also, I do not take kindly to perceived slights [and a slight can be perceived as being pretty much anything some days]. Yesterday I was speaking to the Academic Dean at the girl's new school, and we were going over the girl's course schedule [they want you to fill out a tentative 4 year plan at high schools now, did you know this? Weird, right?] and we got to the math portion.
Math, this year, has been sticky. The girl is fucking brilliant at math, but had a complete crisis of confidence and felt she was the dumbest kid in the history of kids who ever added or subtracted, which obviously affected her ability to deal with math and ultimately her final grade.
The Dean and I discussed this, and she suggested that rather than taking the more rigorous, advanced class in the fall, the girl take the regular, more sedately paced math class so that she could get her bearings back.
Great, right?
WRONG. I had to stifle - seriously, clam down like a motherfucker - this urge to make sure that the girl was in the advanced class, because goddamnit, she's smart. She doesn't need the slower paced class. That's bullshit.
Which is completely wrong. I know that. It's not as if the Dean said she'd have to go to remedial math or repeat a class, which in any case would have been fine if she needed it. Except I'm a fucking lunatic, and would have seen it as MY inability to have the girl function well in math class.
Which is even more wrong. And crazy. And what's worse is that I was getting bent about the girl not taking Algebra II & Trig and instead taking Algebra II. Which is a class that is still 2 fucking years ahead of her grade level.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Am I the only crazy like this? Please tell me I'm not.
************
Over at Circle of Moms, I've given my advice to new or soon-to-be moms, and evidently you can read my answer and vote for me [or just vote for me - trust me, I'm chock full of excellent advice on parenting, just reference above to my excellent parenting ability re: my daughter and math] so that I can be elected . . . Most Awesome in the Universe? I'm not sure. Anyway, vote here. [I have no idea why the formatting sucks. Sorry about that.]
************
O.k., so not only was this post full of randomness, but evidently full of questions I need you to answer. So here's one more:
If you had to make out with either Hall or Oates, which one would it be? Be honest.
************
I have a UFO tweeter following me! JEALOUS? YES, YOU ARE! When the mother ship lands, I'll put in a good word for you. Provided I'm not cowering under the bed. [Historical aside: When I was much younger and freer, I was in Santa Fe, which is a weird place, and some friends and I were talking one evening about what we would do if a UFO did, in fact, show up. Trust me when I tell you that when you are in Santa Fe, at night, this kind of thing seems more likely to happen than not. Anyway, we pretty much all agreed that shitting our pants would be Job One if an alien showed up at the side of the bed. What do you think?]
************
We are having an ass-ton of family over on July 4th. Which is great, I love having parties. It's just that it's dawning on me that we don't have a pool, nor do we live on lake, and I'm pretty sure we don't even have a sprinkler. I need fun warm weather activities for age ranges 8 - 70. STAT.
************
I have a tendency to be uber-competitive about somethings - especially things that have nothing to do with me. Also, I do not take kindly to perceived slights [and a slight can be perceived as being pretty much anything some days]. Yesterday I was speaking to the Academic Dean at the girl's new school, and we were going over the girl's course schedule [they want you to fill out a tentative 4 year plan at high schools now, did you know this? Weird, right?] and we got to the math portion.
Math, this year, has been sticky. The girl is fucking brilliant at math, but had a complete crisis of confidence and felt she was the dumbest kid in the history of kids who ever added or subtracted, which obviously affected her ability to deal with math and ultimately her final grade.
The Dean and I discussed this, and she suggested that rather than taking the more rigorous, advanced class in the fall, the girl take the regular, more sedately paced math class so that she could get her bearings back.
Great, right?
WRONG. I had to stifle - seriously, clam down like a motherfucker - this urge to make sure that the girl was in the advanced class, because goddamnit, she's smart. She doesn't need the slower paced class. That's bullshit.
Which is completely wrong. I know that. It's not as if the Dean said she'd have to go to remedial math or repeat a class, which in any case would have been fine if she needed it. Except I'm a fucking lunatic, and would have seen it as MY inability to have the girl function well in math class.
Which is even more wrong. And crazy. And what's worse is that I was getting bent about the girl not taking Algebra II & Trig and instead taking Algebra II. Which is a class that is still 2 fucking years ahead of her grade level.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Am I the only crazy like this? Please tell me I'm not.
************
Over at Circle of Moms, I've given my advice to new or soon-to-be moms, and evidently you can read my answer and vote for me [or just vote for me - trust me, I'm chock full of excellent advice on parenting, just reference above to my excellent parenting ability re: my daughter and math] so that I can be elected . . . Most Awesome in the Universe? I'm not sure. Anyway, vote here. [I have no idea why the formatting sucks. Sorry about that.]
************
O.k., so not only was this post full of randomness, but evidently full of questions I need you to answer. So here's one more:
If you had to make out with either Hall or Oates, which one would it be? Be honest.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
He just needs to stop. Seriously.
Scenes from a marriage:
SCENE ONE
The husband: I'm gonna light the grill. Is the chicken ready?
Me: Almost. Hey, I haven't been able to light the grill the last couple of times I've tried. Is that ignition thingy broken already? What the fuck?
The husband: I dunno. It worked last night. I'll check it out.
[A minute or so passes. I rinse and season chicken. The husband is out on the deck, making fire, like a real man. He comes back into the kitchen.]
Me: Did it work?
The husband: Yes. It works fine.
Me: Well, what the fuck?
The husband: . . . Did you turn the propane on?
Me: . . . .
The husband: . . . .
Me: . . . No.
The husband: Well, see, you have to turn the propane on -
Me: Shut. The fuck. Up.
END SCENE
**************
SCENE TWO
[We don't have cable, so we usually end up watching Hulu or Netflix or DVDs. Every once in a while, we'll watch something on one of the regular channels that come through the air.
The other night, it was The Hardy Boys.]
Me: Oh, my god, they're driving a Rape Van.
The husband: This acting is terrible. Is that Valerie Bertinelli?
Me: Yes. Parker Stevenson looks as good as I remember.
The husband: You know what we should do?
Me: What?
The husband: We could totally make this into porn.
Me: . . . .
The husband: Just hear me out. You can leave the show as it is - wooden acting, terrible plotlines, cheesy dialog. They've already got the porno music; you just add in sex scenes.
Me: . . . .
The husband: Seriously. I mean, listen to that dialog. And Valerie Bertinelli as some multiple personality chick, where one of the personalities is a crazy biker? This writes itself.
Me: Are you kidding me?
The husband: No. See? Right there, where they go off to "take care of it," even the Hardy Boys could get some guy on guy action. Wouldn't you like to see that?
Me: ARE YOU KIDDING ME? NO! I mean, Parker Stevenson, sure, but not Shawn Cassidy.
The husband: It's a gold mine.
Me: I seriously doubt that. The acting is terrible.
*************
SCENE THREE
The husband: I need new pillows.
Me: I just bought new pillows a few months ago.
The husband: These pillows suck. They're too flat.
Me: I purposefully asked and checked on pillows to get you pillows that would be comfortable because you sleep on your face. Those are the pillows.
The husband: I don't like them. I need new ones.
Me: Well, go get them.
The husband: I can't go get new pillows. I don't know what kind to get.
Me: THE KIND THAT YOU LIKE.
The husband: You're better at picking out pillows. You're the pillow expert.
Me: So even though you hate the pillows I just got you, you want me to pick out new pillows for you.
The husband: Yes. That's the rule. You're in charge of pillows.
Me: You deserve bad pillows.
SCENE ONE
The husband: I'm gonna light the grill. Is the chicken ready?
Me: Almost. Hey, I haven't been able to light the grill the last couple of times I've tried. Is that ignition thingy broken already? What the fuck?
The husband: I dunno. It worked last night. I'll check it out.
[A minute or so passes. I rinse and season chicken. The husband is out on the deck, making fire, like a real man. He comes back into the kitchen.]
Me: Did it work?
The husband: Yes. It works fine.
Me: Well, what the fuck?
The husband: . . . Did you turn the propane on?
Me: . . . .
The husband: . . . .
Me: . . . No.
The husband: Well, see, you have to turn the propane on -
Me: Shut. The fuck. Up.
END SCENE
**************
SCENE TWO
[We don't have cable, so we usually end up watching Hulu or Netflix or DVDs. Every once in a while, we'll watch something on one of the regular channels that come through the air.
The other night, it was The Hardy Boys.]
Me: Oh, my god, they're driving a Rape Van.
The husband: This acting is terrible. Is that Valerie Bertinelli?
Me: Yes. Parker Stevenson looks as good as I remember.
The husband: You know what we should do?
Me: What?
The husband: We could totally make this into porn.
Me: . . . .
The husband: Just hear me out. You can leave the show as it is - wooden acting, terrible plotlines, cheesy dialog. They've already got the porno music; you just add in sex scenes.
Me: . . . .
The husband: Seriously. I mean, listen to that dialog. And Valerie Bertinelli as some multiple personality chick, where one of the personalities is a crazy biker? This writes itself.
Me: Are you kidding me?
The husband: No. See? Right there, where they go off to "take care of it," even the Hardy Boys could get some guy on guy action. Wouldn't you like to see that?
Me: ARE YOU KIDDING ME? NO! I mean, Parker Stevenson, sure, but not Shawn Cassidy.
The husband: It's a gold mine.
Me: I seriously doubt that. The acting is terrible.
*************
SCENE THREE
The husband: I need new pillows.
Me: I just bought new pillows a few months ago.
The husband: These pillows suck. They're too flat.
Me: I purposefully asked and checked on pillows to get you pillows that would be comfortable because you sleep on your face. Those are the pillows.
The husband: I don't like them. I need new ones.
Me: Well, go get them.
The husband: I can't go get new pillows. I don't know what kind to get.
Me: THE KIND THAT YOU LIKE.
The husband: You're better at picking out pillows. You're the pillow expert.
Me: So even though you hate the pillows I just got you, you want me to pick out new pillows for you.
The husband: Yes. That's the rule. You're in charge of pillows.
Me: You deserve bad pillows.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Karma is a bitch. So am I. Two will enter. One will leave.
Kismet [If it's fated]
Inshallah [God willing]
Fate [Destiny]
Karma [You know this one]
All of these things conspired against and/or with me last week to keep me from sliding from bitchdom to jerkhood.
Let me explain:
As I may have mentioned a time or a million, I have been PTA president this past year at my daughter's school. So I've spent a lot of my time and money on crap for this school that, quite frankly, sometimes was done grudgingly. But I did it. I did it and you know what? In the end, I'm glad I could help out. I like to organize things and I like to be in charge and I like to make a difference.
I do NOT like it when I feel like I'm being dickslapped by the universe.
I spent hours and hours and money on the end of the year party for the school. Fine. Even though I thought it was ridiculous, I stepped up when no one else did and organized it. I ran the set up and I ran the party and I oversaw the cleanup. I worked my ass off for that school.
At which point I found out I owed the school $50.
The girl tells me that somehow she's had someone else's textbook for one of her classes all year, he's had someone else's, three or four other people have different books registered to them and no one seems to know what happened to hers. Obviously, there's been some sort of mix-up in registering the books. OBVIOUSLY.
The teacher sends me a nice, very detailed email about the missing book. And the note that he is truly, truly sorry, but I have to pay $50 or the girl's grades won't be sent to her new school.
FUCKING MOTHERFUCKING COCKSUCKING BULLSHIT.
I'm sorry, did I not just spend countless hours dealing with school crap that, had I billed at even a reduced rate for writing and NOT legal work, would still mean I was a couple thousand dollars in surplus for who owes what to whom? And didn't I just spend money on party donations?
I don't blame the teacher. Much. I mean, I get it, it's district policy.
But I was pissed. The secretary was on my side and felt bad that she had to take my check.
So the entire drive to the school to hand over my $50 check, I kept thinking, "Fuck this. I know there's at least $50 worth of candy & stuff from the party that I can take to even shit out. I DESERVE $50 worth of candy." Even though I knew the kids were going to use the stuff on their trip to the amusement park a few days later.
Except as I was thinking it, I was getting that shame feeling, like I knew I was doing something really, really, really wrong.
So I dropped off the check and went to the storage room, because I had told the staff I needed to stop in there and I had to keep up appearances and not say, "Yeah, I changed my mind. I'm not taking $50 worth of candy in return for the $50 book check." I wasn't going to take any candy because that would result in me waiting for karma to turn around and kick me in the ass HARDER than the $50 check. Which it would. And frankly? I've got enough on my plate.
And you know what? The fates had my back - because the candy was gone, so I wouldn't even be tempted [and in the throes of PMS? I WAS TEMPTED.].
Tell me, truly, would you have taken the candy? I like to think I wouldn't have, even if it was there, not only because I am trying to be a better person, but also because I kind of fear the retribution. What about you?
Inshallah [God willing]
Fate [Destiny]
Karma [You know this one]
All of these things conspired against and/or with me last week to keep me from sliding from bitchdom to jerkhood.
Let me explain:
As I may have mentioned a time or a million, I have been PTA president this past year at my daughter's school. So I've spent a lot of my time and money on crap for this school that, quite frankly, sometimes was done grudgingly. But I did it. I did it and you know what? In the end, I'm glad I could help out. I like to organize things and I like to be in charge and I like to make a difference.
I do NOT like it when I feel like I'm being dickslapped by the universe.
I spent hours and hours and money on the end of the year party for the school. Fine. Even though I thought it was ridiculous, I stepped up when no one else did and organized it. I ran the set up and I ran the party and I oversaw the cleanup. I worked my ass off for that school.
At which point I found out I owed the school $50.
The girl tells me that somehow she's had someone else's textbook for one of her classes all year, he's had someone else's, three or four other people have different books registered to them and no one seems to know what happened to hers. Obviously, there's been some sort of mix-up in registering the books. OBVIOUSLY.
The teacher sends me a nice, very detailed email about the missing book. And the note that he is truly, truly sorry, but I have to pay $50 or the girl's grades won't be sent to her new school.
FUCKING MOTHERFUCKING COCKSUCKING BULLSHIT.
I'm sorry, did I not just spend countless hours dealing with school crap that, had I billed at even a reduced rate for writing and NOT legal work, would still mean I was a couple thousand dollars in surplus for who owes what to whom? And didn't I just spend money on party donations?
I don't blame the teacher. Much. I mean, I get it, it's district policy.
But I was pissed. The secretary was on my side and felt bad that she had to take my check.
So the entire drive to the school to hand over my $50 check, I kept thinking, "Fuck this. I know there's at least $50 worth of candy & stuff from the party that I can take to even shit out. I DESERVE $50 worth of candy." Even though I knew the kids were going to use the stuff on their trip to the amusement park a few days later.
Except as I was thinking it, I was getting that shame feeling, like I knew I was doing something really, really, really wrong.
So I dropped off the check and went to the storage room, because I had told the staff I needed to stop in there and I had to keep up appearances and not say, "Yeah, I changed my mind. I'm not taking $50 worth of candy in return for the $50 book check." I wasn't going to take any candy because that would result in me waiting for karma to turn around and kick me in the ass HARDER than the $50 check. Which it would. And frankly? I've got enough on my plate.
And you know what? The fates had my back - because the candy was gone, so I wouldn't even be tempted [and in the throes of PMS? I WAS TEMPTED.].
Tell me, truly, would you have taken the candy? I like to think I wouldn't have, even if it was there, not only because I am trying to be a better person, but also because I kind of fear the retribution. What about you?
Monday, June 20, 2011
This is going to be completely incoherent. You've been warned.
I keep hearing/seeing/reading all about what to do with your kids now that school's out, so I'm jumping on the advice giving bandwagon. Here is what you do:
Wait until your kid is 12 or so, and then all they'll need you for is rides to someone else's house, or a large enough room for your child and his or her friends to sit around and watch movies, play video games or talk. Until then? I believe Valium offers the best ratio of relaxation : ability to continue to monitor your child. Good luck with that.
***************
I got an ice cream maker this weekend. I haven't used it yet, but I'm planning on making vanilla frozen yogurt tonight. I know, fancy, right? Except I was going to put in crushed up chocolate covered pretzels [three kinds of chocolate!], but someone ate them all. I think crushed up Heath bars are going in instead. Has anyone made ice cream/frozen yogurt before? I'm not sure why I'm so hesitant to do this. It's actually freaking me out.
****************
I'm starting a water aerobics class this week. It's called Arthritic H2O. I hope I can keep up.
Seriously. I'm more than a little concerned.
I did get really cute water shoes from Lands End, though. I had some cute ones, but cannot find them anywhere. Who would steal water shoes? Water fetishists? I don't want to know.
******************
I read 3 books in the past couple of weeks! THREE! One of which I'd already read, so I'm not sure I can count it. One which was so fluffy the pages were made of cotton candy. And one which was good and aggravating - London is the Best City in America. Good, because it was well written and captivating. Aggravating because I'm not sure how I feel about any and all of the characters. Has anyone else read this yet? Please do so, if you haven't, so I can talk to someone about this.
******************
I watched The Philadelphia Story with a few people on Twitter last night. I'd forgotten how good it was - and how much movies tend to suck now. I mean, I know that there were shitty movies since there were movies, but even the supposedly good ones now are not talky or smart enough to be considered that good. I need witty banter, not dick jokes. Unless that dick joke is a work of art. The dick. Or the joke. Either one.
On that note, I'm out.
Wait until your kid is 12 or so, and then all they'll need you for is rides to someone else's house, or a large enough room for your child and his or her friends to sit around and watch movies, play video games or talk. Until then? I believe Valium offers the best ratio of relaxation : ability to continue to monitor your child. Good luck with that.
***************
I got an ice cream maker this weekend. I haven't used it yet, but I'm planning on making vanilla frozen yogurt tonight. I know, fancy, right? Except I was going to put in crushed up chocolate covered pretzels [three kinds of chocolate!], but someone ate them all. I think crushed up Heath bars are going in instead. Has anyone made ice cream/frozen yogurt before? I'm not sure why I'm so hesitant to do this. It's actually freaking me out.
****************
I'm starting a water aerobics class this week. It's called Arthritic H2O. I hope I can keep up.
Seriously. I'm more than a little concerned.
I did get really cute water shoes from Lands End, though. I had some cute ones, but cannot find them anywhere. Who would steal water shoes? Water fetishists? I don't want to know.
******************
I read 3 books in the past couple of weeks! THREE! One of which I'd already read, so I'm not sure I can count it. One which was so fluffy the pages were made of cotton candy. And one which was good and aggravating - London is the Best City in America. Good, because it was well written and captivating. Aggravating because I'm not sure how I feel about any and all of the characters. Has anyone else read this yet? Please do so, if you haven't, so I can talk to someone about this.
******************
I watched The Philadelphia Story with a few people on Twitter last night. I'd forgotten how good it was - and how much movies tend to suck now. I mean, I know that there were shitty movies since there were movies, but even the supposedly good ones now are not talky or smart enough to be considered that good. I need witty banter, not dick jokes. Unless that dick joke is a work of art. The dick. Or the joke. Either one.
On that note, I'm out.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
How to make PMS your bitch. Or be a bitch while PMSing. I'm not sure how this is going to go.
I wish I wasn't one of those women who had to deal with PMS. Or, really, anything except maybe making out with Johnny Depp on a regular basis [how pissed am I that I didn't it make it my mission back when I was young and hot to go after him? I could've kicked Vanessa Paradis's ass].
Anyway, I try and stay on top of my PMS by doing all sorts of calming bullshit, like doing yoga every morning [yes, while watching the news], and eating right and getting enough rest and not immediately telling my husband that I hate every single thing about him and my fervent hope is that he start RIGHT NOW to either change who he is or make enough money so we can divorce and I can break up Johnny Depp's non-marriage to the mother of his children.
Some days it goes better than others.
Yesterday? Was not one of those days.
It began thusly:
Wake up at 5:30am because the alarm went off, even though you haven't gotten up at 5:30am in . . . are we closing in on a year now? Maybe. Fuck.
Roll over. Try and fall asleep. Realize it's not working. Hate the husband because he's able to sleep. Hate the wind for blowing a cool breeze into your bedroom. Hate the fact that your pillows are just a 1/4" out of place.
Give up and get up.
Go get your paper in your nightgown and fuzzy slippers and Helena Bonham Carter hair. Wave at the passing car. Who cares? You're married and going to stay that way forever because nothing good ever happens to you.
Do yoga while watching the news and hating Matt Lauer more than anyone on earth right that minute.
Realize you hate Al Roker even more. Debate going back to George Stephanopoulous, but know that you'll punch the t.v. if you do and you can't afford a new t.v.
Wonder if you'd miss the t.v. if you punched Matt Lauer.
Turn off the t.v.
Eat oatmeal and a banana while going through your email. End up with oatmeal specks on your keyboard and screen because you can't believe the garbage coming through your email.
Sigh and get down to work. Hate having to work. Hate not having enough freelance work to make a dent in your enormous pile of debt.
Wonder if you can have an IPO or a garage sale. Decide which would be easier. Probably an IPO, even though you technically don't have anything to offer.
Eat a healthy, balanced lunch of chicken & veggies & undressed salad with only brown rice as your carb. Put your dish in the kitchen sink. Return to your desk and begin to do your work [read blogs]. Open two links from your reader. Get up, go back into the kitchen and get 2 of the homemade chocolate chip cookies the girl made earlier in the week. Eat them pretty much en route to your desk, which is MAYBE 15 feet away. Sit down. Open up a new link, but don't wait for it to finish loading before you jump up from your seat to go back to the cookie jar and snag another cookie. Start to replace the lid before a hand that looks like yours but couldn't possibly be grabs another cookie. Manage to get back to the desk before you finish eating them. Feel sick to your stomach from all the sugar and flour.
Ignore every phone call you get because you cannot handle speaking to one more person today. They all suck. Completely. Wonder why does everyone WANT something from you? WHY???
Eat another cookie. Feel sicker. Sigh and put your head down.
Hope that you get your period soon because this is ridiculous.
***********************
PS Freedom winner announced on Friday. GET READY TO RUMBLE, BITCHES.
PPS I'm not even sure what the hell is happening here.
Anyway, I try and stay on top of my PMS by doing all sorts of calming bullshit, like doing yoga every morning [yes, while watching the news], and eating right and getting enough rest and not immediately telling my husband that I hate every single thing about him and my fervent hope is that he start RIGHT NOW to either change who he is or make enough money so we can divorce and I can break up Johnny Depp's non-marriage to the mother of his children.
Some days it goes better than others.
Yesterday? Was not one of those days.
It began thusly:
Wake up at 5:30am because the alarm went off, even though you haven't gotten up at 5:30am in . . . are we closing in on a year now? Maybe. Fuck.
Roll over. Try and fall asleep. Realize it's not working. Hate the husband because he's able to sleep. Hate the wind for blowing a cool breeze into your bedroom. Hate the fact that your pillows are just a 1/4" out of place.
Give up and get up.
Go get your paper in your nightgown and fuzzy slippers and Helena Bonham Carter hair. Wave at the passing car. Who cares? You're married and going to stay that way forever because nothing good ever happens to you.
Do yoga while watching the news and hating Matt Lauer more than anyone on earth right that minute.
Realize you hate Al Roker even more. Debate going back to George Stephanopoulous, but know that you'll punch the t.v. if you do and you can't afford a new t.v.
Wonder if you'd miss the t.v. if you punched Matt Lauer.
Turn off the t.v.
Eat oatmeal and a banana while going through your email. End up with oatmeal specks on your keyboard and screen because you can't believe the garbage coming through your email.
Sigh and get down to work. Hate having to work. Hate not having enough freelance work to make a dent in your enormous pile of debt.
Wonder if you can have an IPO or a garage sale. Decide which would be easier. Probably an IPO, even though you technically don't have anything to offer.
Eat a healthy, balanced lunch of chicken & veggies & undressed salad with only brown rice as your carb. Put your dish in the kitchen sink. Return to your desk and begin to do your work [read blogs]. Open two links from your reader. Get up, go back into the kitchen and get 2 of the homemade chocolate chip cookies the girl made earlier in the week. Eat them pretty much en route to your desk, which is MAYBE 15 feet away. Sit down. Open up a new link, but don't wait for it to finish loading before you jump up from your seat to go back to the cookie jar and snag another cookie. Start to replace the lid before a hand that looks like yours but couldn't possibly be grabs another cookie. Manage to get back to the desk before you finish eating them. Feel sick to your stomach from all the sugar and flour.
Ignore every phone call you get because you cannot handle speaking to one more person today. They all suck. Completely. Wonder why does everyone WANT something from you? WHY???
Eat another cookie. Feel sicker. Sigh and put your head down.
Hope that you get your period soon because this is ridiculous.
***********************
PS Freedom winner announced on Friday. GET READY TO RUMBLE, BITCHES.
PPS I'm not even sure what the hell is happening here.
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