Sunday, October 28, 2007

You say hallucination, I say photograph...

I have proof. Proof I say! I have PROOF that hook-dude exists. I know there are people who think I’ve been making him up, or possibly hallucinating him. Well FIE on this people, because this weekend I got me some ever-lovin’ proof. I got PITCHURS!

Saturday I did a little photo-stroll through our open-air local market, which just happens to congregate across the street from our County courthouse. And in front of the courthouse is this big courtyard-type-deal that is called the “ Free Speech Plaza.” Or “Wacky Hippy Drum Circle Spot.” This is where people come to chant or drum or wave their “I’m Against This!” signs. Or, apparently, to be a guy with a hook for a hand, should that be your thing.

Because there he was! Hook Dude, big as life (and someday one of you will have to tell me where that phrase comes from) hangin’ with friends who have a couple of hands, rather then the hand/hook combo. And me with my camera!

So I cross the street but I know I gotta be sneaky-sly here, because some folks don’t like having their picture taken. For most people I’m pretty hardcore about it – “golly, I guess you shouldn’t have left the safety of your home then, eh?” or like that. But in the case of a guy with a lethal weapon welded on to the end of his arm I figure super-sneaky is the way to go.

So I did my standard sneaky thing: I find someone who I know won’t mind me snapping their picture, such as a guy with a p
olitical sign (who by definition wants ATTENTION, ATTENTION, ATTENTION!) or the drummers in the circle, who hope their rhythmic rhythms will incite passers by to spontaneously bust out dancing. So they can’t be shy either. I focused in on a not-shy figure, but who is about as far away as the true target, and in similar lighting, and I meter and focus it all up. But I also peeky-peeky out the corner of my eye where my target is, and when I can see their distracted I POUNCE! Voila!

So now all of you nay-saying nellies can just lump it, because hook dude is real and I gots me the proof. Now I just need to capture the talking parking meters on film. Soon.

Thursday, October 25, 2007


One of the folks I work with is a sensitive sort. She has a long and impressive list of pet peeves, and handles her peeves with the smooth aplomb of a water balloon in the crotch. I had kind of been given the 411, and thought I could handle her sensitivities no problem because I’d known other sensitive souls in my day, but I’d totally underestimated just the level of peevishness she can attain.

But that’s not what bothers me. What bothers me is that when Ms. Sensitive is peeved she cannot deal with it on her own. No, she needs to share. Specifically she shares with the one that has peeved her. And even that isn’t my chief bug. The thing most up my butt about this is that when she shares her new peeve with the peever she always chastises them for having committed a social feau pax. In other words, when you step on her size 16 toes she scolds you for being all impolite and uncool. Except that it’s NOT a problem for everyone – it’s just that she’s super-extra-special sensitive. But she can only see it as a collapse in ettiquette. I've got your ettiquette right here, sweetie!

If someone wants to be all kinds of prickly that’s fine with me. (ok, so that’s a lie. I hate it when people are so very touchy-touchy. Frankly if you insist on being made of feathers and tinkly glass and a fine layer of fragile sugar then you should take a job like data entry from the safety of your own sofa and leave the rest of us in peace. Or get a dang layer of skin that can be rained on once in a while! But I digress…) I just say you don’t pull me aside and lecture me on conversational etiquette like I’m some kind of uncultured, overbearing boob! Your peeves are your own issue – own them and move on with your world. You can even tell me that you’ve got the peeve, as in “hey, I just wanted to make you aware of this pet peeve I’ve got in the hopes that you’ll look out for it some in the future…” I’ll try to avoid your Jumbo-sized, tender-to-the-touch toes if I can. (although I’ve started a list of her peeves because I know I’m gonna forget some of them eventually – I can only hold so much info in my sad little brain.) I just resent being scolded as though I stood up in the middle of a meeting and dropped trow for the assembled personage or whizzed into her lunchbox!

I handled yesterday’s little interaction with smooth disconnection, as though she were making any sense at all. However I did stop her after she helpfully pointed out that I’d have the same reaction if she’d done the same thing to me. There will be NO comparisons between us, so says I, and so I helpfully corrected her on that little false assumption. But for the future I figure I’ve got a couple of options for how to handle these moments. I can either let her make mistakes and try not to giggle when she falls (ker-SLAM!) on her pinched little face, or I can take the high road but be sneaky-sneaky when I sneakily give her sneak-help. Which would make me the better person, and be better for the organization all around. Even though there would be less giggling. Wish me luck with the higher ground.

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

Wanted: better face, less blushy.

So I still have my crush on Dr. Cyanide. And also, by the way, crushes suck. I don’t think the Doctor knows that I have a crush, but if he had any idea about it he’d TOTALLY know about it because of how often I act like a total goober because of it! Like I’m WAY too enthusiastic about anything that results in my helping him out. Get him coffee? Sure! Help him with a meeting? Fine! Clean his house? OKEE DOKEE! Well, maybe not the last thing.

Also I think I’ve actually blushed a couple of times. I have several problems with that, not the least of which is I DON’T BLUSH!! I have never been a blusher and I pride myself on my non-blushiosity and so when I realized the other day that either I was blushing or someone had set fire to my face I was SUPER peeved! Plus embarrassed. Which does the same thing as the blush. You can see, I’m sure, the vicious circle here? Stupid blush.

Today I saw him coming up the stairs and had a TOTALLY VALID WORK QUESTION to ask him so I waited in the hallway. Which I would have done for anyone else in the same situation, so I wasn’t doing ANYTHING wrong! He popped out of the stairs and saw me and said “waiting for me? Wow, I’m being stalked!” which was funny, and meant to be funny, and if I’d had any brains I would have said “oh darn, you’re on to me! Guess I can stop bringing my binoculars to work!”

That’s what I should have said.

But the stupid crush got there first and that’s not what I said. No, instead I said this:

“Hmmm? What? Oh no! No, not at all! No, not stalking, I was just waiting is all. Because I saw you coming, that’s all. That’s all it was.”

And then I burst into flames and collapsed as a little pile of stupid, crushy, embarrassed damn dust. Is all.

Also the next 20 minutes were full of my brain chewing that idea up into smaller and smaller pieces:

Stalking, me? Stalking? No, I’m not, right? I’m not! There’s plenty of time when I’m not! And besides, is it stalking if I’m being paid to do it? (gee, is there such a thing as a professional stalker? No, probably not.) I bet he was joking. Right? He was, he had to be. Because if he wasn’t joking that means he knows I have this stupid crush, which he does NOT know because if he knows I’ll have to set fire to myself, which I could probably do just by putting something flammable next to my face when I blush WHICH IS PROBABLY HOW HE KNOWS ABOUT MY STUPID CRUSH OH MY GOD!

So, in short, I’m going to have to either quit this very good job, kill Dr. Cyanide or marry the very next person who wanders near my radar so as to throw suspicion off of myself. I’ll let you know which thing I decide to do.

Monday, October 22, 2007

The All-Vidiot Installment!

There are things I should write about, but lately I've been overwhelmed by the number of excellent videos that have been sent to me or I've found or were shoved under my door, etc... Anyway, I'm all about the sharing, and so I share these lovelies with you, my lovelies. More writing will come, but for now? FUNNY...

(Note: Not all of these funnies are safe for kids or work -- tread carefully!)

~stolen from my hero, Joshilyn Jackson, over at Faster Than Kudzu. I know actual people with far less rhythm then this little guy!~

~if you haven't discovered these guys yet you should. Everyone should. I'm sending missionaries into the wilds of third world jungles to make sure they know -- that much everyone~

~this marks the moment when I first fell for both Steve Carell and Steven Colbert. Not to mention Steven's 11 brothers and sisters, and Steve's excellent french pronounciation.~

~my favorite thing in every episode of Saturday Night Live are the digital shorts, and especially random and bizarre things like this. Which I would like to think are just like what I would do. With that kind of time. And resources. And support people.

And talent.

Friday, October 19, 2007

I Heart Pandora. And her box. (dirty!)

Have you guys tried this? Pandora Radio? I’m probably the last person in all the world to have discovered this, but I heart it so. It’s seldom that I read something in a geek magazine and think “Amen my brothers!!” but the recent Wired release of a Geekapedia waxed poetic (or I should probably say “waxed nerdetic”) about how much better Pandora Radio was then any of the other online “we know what you want to hear and play it for you as if we are magically living in your spleen (which is the organ where you keep your musical desires)” radio stations. And amen my geeky, nerdy, tech-obsessed brothers!

I have three stations created so far. One is all about female singers who wail about unrequited love or lost love or unhealthy love or the love of a woman and her motorbike, and all in haunting, minor keys. The second is drum-heavy, bass-heavy jams with nods to the rock-gods of the very late ‘70s or early ‘80s and plays “Canary in a Coal Mine” at least twice a day because it psychically knows that I want to hear it three times a day but that would be indulgent and it cares about my wellbeing. I just set up the third station and today will be it’s big test. But how could my beloved Pandora do wrong by me? I believe it can’t.

Why all this obsession about music? My boss is out of the office today.

(No, it does make sense. Just go with me…)

See, if I were to be promoted and get a fancy job with a fancy title and business cards and MY OWN OFFICE there’s one big thing I would love more then anything else. (except maybe the raise.) If I had my own office I could have music while I worked. In this new situation I’m sitting with a bunch of other people and so I can’t listen to music. And it’s the first job in years, probably since high school, where I can’t listen to music as I work. I’m pretty sure it’s going to kill me or drive me mad.

If I don’t have music playing in my head I still have music in my head. But instead of being a jazzy tune created by tunefull people it’s a small chunk of 1-3 totally different songs that has been lumped together in my sad, tuneless brain into a loop that will never… ever… end. Or sometimes it’s not even music! I actually get phrases stuck in my head. Not musical phrases, but just words. Like quotes from a movie? I have the ability to get “Why would you lock me in? And why are you getting calls from J. Edgar Hoover?” (points for knowing the movie) stuck in a non-stop loop in my brain. (all of this has got to make my obvious insanity much more understandable.)

The only exception are the days like today where my boss is out of the office, so it’s “catch up” day, and when you’re doing catch-up work then wearing headphones on one ear and filling the brain with Pandora-tunes just makes sense! If my day goes as planned I’ll get so much work done PLUS I won’t be any more crazy when I leave today then I was when I arrived! (a small triumph, I realize, but still.)

So here I sit, with my new Pandora station crooning piano-heavy pantheons to girls who steal your black t-shirts and dudes who don’t cut their hair. Rock me, Pandora. Rock me with your psychic play list.

Thursday, October 18, 2007

The last of the baby-free women

So it’s official. Every woman I know is pregnant, nursing or done having kids because they’ve already had so very many of them and done the “having babies” thing so very well that there’s no reason to ever do it again. I’m now not only the only single woman anyone knows, but also the only one without various smaller versions of me in tow.

I’m of mixed feelings about this. Truly I do like the idea of having a kid. I’d kind of assumed that I’d have one at some point, but it’s one of the few tasks that is actually not at all possible without a little help from a guy. Or at least some guy-ingredients. Simply put, it’s the only thing I want to do that my single status has blocked. The only thing. It’s just that it’s kind of a big thing.

It’s also one of the few things that has a built-in expiration date. Like I can’t keep saying “I’ll just wait and see” too much longer, because soon enough my system will take the question out of my hands. And I’ll admit that I find this pressure kind of… what would be the word? Let’s go with nauseating.

For instance, I can’t be honestly happy for other people when they confide in me that they’re having a kid. I want to be. I want to be all giddy and do the standard “Eeeeeeeeeeeee!” squeal with jazz-hands and then touch the tummy with wonder and awe, even though there’s nothing there but half-digested chicken enchilada. But the best I can manage is “Wow, that’s great! How do you feel?” and then while they explain whatever symptoms their suffering through the listening part of my brain shuts off so that I can divert energy to the silently envying and hating parts of the brain, where I silently hate and envy this lovely friend of mine because she’s pregnant and by the way I’m not. Nor is there any chance of my being so any time soon. Which I already knew, but am now all aware of because of the baby, or chicken enchilada, she’s got in her belly area. And since she's here and so danged happy I might as well just blame her.

This is a very small and not-so-good way to feel. Because of these not-so-good feelings and other minor panic moments I’ve researched what it takes to have a kid with the assistance of a turkey baster and UPS delivery from “Wigglers R Us” I’m so the poster child for “sisters are doin’ it by themselves, baby!” so the idea of being a single mom by choice just kind of fits.

Plus I do think I’d be a good mom. I think I could use all the excellent parenting techniques that my parents used on me and make a pretty cool person. That’s what they did, my parents. They used their excellent parenting techniques and made two pretty cool people. (yes, I’m one of them, and by the way shu- uh-!)

Sometimes, though, when I’m feeling crappy (like I was on Friday) I think about how if I had a kid I wouldn’t have had the option of curling up on the couch with my bag of potato chips and my flat Pepsi and my goofy TV and tell everyone to go hang. There would be some little person demanding things like attention and energy. And food. And the occasional diaper change. And I couldn’t go “Honey, come and get your child and make it leave me alone!” because I’d be it. And that’s something to consider.

I guess I’ll just wait and see.

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

Could be Worse. Could be Crunch Berries!

Hi, my name is Femtastic and I am a photography addict.

(Hi, Femtastic!)

I’m not kidding, and here’s how I discovered my addiction: remember before how I said that we (a whole bunch of us, more then ½ of whom were cute little kidkins?) went to the super-fun farm to feed goats and get punchmans? Remember that? Just yesterday? Anyone? Anyone?

Right, so as we pulled into the parking lot I thought to myself “gosh, there will be EVER so many lovely chances to take excellent pictures, especially since it’s so nice and sunny and lovely here and you can hardly even tell that it’s FALL it’s so nice and sunny! I’m going to take all these great pictures with my camera. EXCEPT THAT I FORGOT MY CAMERA AT HOME!!!!” Then I melted into a tiny moment of wailing and gnashing of teeth and pulling of hair and cursing the day I was born. It was tiny, but impressive.

But then I accepted the lack of camera and moved on with the day. The kids fed goats and I was fine. They played on the old-timey playground structures and I was fine. They rode by on the old-timey horse-drawn wagon thing and I was fine. I handled it all extremely well.

BIG, BIG LIE. I spent the rest of the afternoon cursing myself every time a wonderful picture popped up. A wonderful picture that I was incapable of capturing for myself because my picture-capturing device was so very NOT THERE. Three times I almost convinced myself to drive the 25 minutes home and additional 25 minutes back just to get the camera. I watched other people with lovely cameras taking the lovely pictures that I wanted to take and my stomach hurt. My Stomach HURT ME. To punish me for the stupidity of being the only person there who WASN’T capturing these lovely, idyllic moments. THE ONLY PERSON!

Finally I just had to accept the fact that I am now a person who has not just two additions, but actually three. Pepsi (sweet, carmel-colored goodness…), cheeseburgers and photography. (Lucky that I kicked that pesky heroin thing…) Of course it could be so very, very worse.

Now that I’ve accepted that I have a problem (which is the first step to solving a problem) I’ll just need to figure out the 12 steps to recovery. I believe they’ll look something like this:

1) Take pictures.
2) Take more pictures.
3) Take animal pictures.
4) Take scenic pictures.
5) Pictures of buildings and buildingy stuff.
6) More animals.
7) Is that abstract? Take a picture of it!
8) Take Self portraits (no idea why)
9) Next take Portraits of others, because then I capture their soul!
10) Take portraits of strangers, but be ready to RUN LIKE CRAZY.
11) Download and bask in the glow of excellent pictureness.
12) Repeat steps 1-11 until crazy.

Monday, October 15, 2007

Groan + Augh x Creeeeaaak = I'm super-old

This weekend I was busy and industrious and helpful. And now today I am creaky and groany and SUPER-old.

I’m pleased about all that was accomplished, because prior to accomplishing those things my biggest accomplishment in about 24 hours had been starting my period. (no high fives required.) I’m pissed to report that since having finally had sex (over a decade ago - not a recent accomplishment people) and going on the pill and then going OFF the pill my lady parts (the inside ones that dudes don’t get so excited about) took serious offense and have been punishing me ever since. To the point that the whole day before my most recent womanly joyous celebration (see how I’m sucking up? It never helps) I was actually convinced I was getting the flu.

(which was embarrassing in a whole other way, as I’d just spent the previous week at my job at the hospital telling people that I pretty much never get the flu (knock on e-wood) and that the rest of my family who get flu shots still get the flu (although I’m sure it’s a different flu then what they were inoculated against, but who cares because it's still the flu and having any flu sucks!) and therefore I would NOT be going downstairs for a flu shot, thank you very much, and enjoy the poking. And then I suddenly was getting the flu and that just couldn’t happen because I’d lose face. Oh, and also have the flu. But mostly the bad part was the losing of face!)

So finally on Saturday I discover both that I’m not getting the flu and also that I’m still a vibrant and fertile woman. Dammit. My resentment both of being duped into thinking I was sick and also of it all just being because I’m a girl (I hate that word, but more on that rant later) caused me to be further foolish still during the weekend.

Like Saturday I did 2 hours of weeding. On my knees, as weeders do. Which is fine for most, but I have crappy knees who don’t respond well to long periods of time on them. But in case that wasn’t foolish enough, I finished weeding and skipped, la-la-la, over to the back corner of my carport to do battle with bramble bushes who once had a supporting role in the Disney Sleeping Beauty movie as “the huge, killer, thorny vines that kept out the prince and kept in the Beauty and were slightly more scary then the villain who had turned into a big dragon!” These things are actually from my behind-the-house neighbor’s yard, but they’ve made their way through my bushes and they’re just plain taking over. I had macho leather welders gloves and they helped, but still it was a pitched battle for sure.

And then on Sunday I and a pile of younger people (my sister’s kids) joined the Royal Family on a trek to our most commercial and also most entertaining of local farms. The goal was the hunt and retrieval of Halloween punchmans for all, but the King and Queen (being new parent types especially) went all out and there was “let’s feed the goats!” (which is much more fun then it sounds – it incorporates an elaborate series of ropes and pullies!) and a horse-drawn wagon ride out to the sprawling punchman patch and everything.

Of course I went all old-fashioned and puristy. “no thanks!” says I to the idea of the horse-drawn wagon of goodness. “I’m gonna walk!” says I. “Pushing this 42 lb wheelbarrow!” says I. “With the one wheel, full of some – but either not enough or maybe too much – air. Which likes to bounce, bounce BOUNCE down the path. The very long path. Very, very long path… Did they move the punchmans? Didn’t they used to be just here? How much longer? Wow, it sure is sunny for October!...” My 13-yr old nephew was also silly enough to skip the ride, and so there are he and I pushing our 100+ lbs of bouncy wheelbarrow and punchmans up the long, long, super-long path (which I think they made very long, by planting the punchmans much further away, so that the cost of the wagon ride would seem a much more reasonable thing. Sneaky farmer types!) while the rest of the group rode away into the sunset.

And THEN (no, still not done) I brought the sister’s kids home to where everyone else in my family was busy painting primer on every non-floor or non-window surface in their “gosh, is this STILL being remodeled?” house. They’ve been working on this tremendously ambitious remodel plan since before Independence Day and now we’re to things like sheet rock and paint color choices and admiring the new circle-shaped window, and when it comes to this point you ask your family for help painting.

So I spent the next several hours on my knees (which you may remember I don’t do so good) or on a ladder (which I also don’t do so good, but for very different, much more phobic, reasons) and apparently in shoes that I need to throw away because they don’t support as much as they pinch-and-bind (it’s a patented two-step process) and getting hand cramps and painting up above my head and who knew a paint cup the size of a Big Gulp could get so heavy?

And in the end, I’m now a thirty-sevenish person trapped inside the body of a seventy-sevenish-type person, who groans when she either sits or un-sits and who is too dang aware of her joints and considers the cost before deciding to reach for anything over a foot away from her general area. And indulges in cranky rants apparently.

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

Passive Aggressive on a grumbly day

OK, so I hate everybody today. Not sure why, but I do.

I have some ideas though.

Like the fact that I took a cut in pay when I changed jobs, even though I make the same hourly wage. This cut in pay is courtesy of the HR people at the old job, who apparently never figured out how much they were supposed to take from my pay for taxes, and the HR people at the new job, who do know how much to take. And they also take it. And even though they’re right, and even though I had to pay a bunch of money to the tax man last April (which sucked, because I never have spare piles of a bunch of money sitting around waiting for somewhere to spend it!), it still sucks. Oh, and I’ll still end up owing money next April because of the months I was working at “El Stupido Grande HR Company.”

And I have been given three very unpopular messages to deliver to the rest of the world today by my various bosses, such as “would you come to a meeting at 7am on Monday?” or “we need those lists that you were supposed to make a month ago” (which, by the way, apparently NOBODY did because they keep saying ‘do you want this? Or this? Or what do you want?” and I can’t reply with “the damned thing I asked you to make a month ago! That’s what I want! And thanks for your ability to follow damned directions!!!!”) and even though I don’t want these meetings or lists I’m still the one that everybody hates and yells at (ok, E-Yells, but it still sucks) and I can’t reply appropriately (with an E-finger) for I am of the “peon” class and phylum.

And it’s been supposed to rain every day this week, so I’ve not biked in because nobody in town has rain pants, but then every day it’s grey and ominous looking all the day long but never does a drop of rain fall. Like the weather is mocking me!

And now it’s raining.

Days like this make me crazy and I act out in such fabulously passive aggressive ways, because the day is nobody’s fault entirely, yet someone must pay.

And so I just finished whizzing and decided not to wash my hands. So there! Take that official hand washing policy! You are SO not the boss of me! I control my hand-washing destiny! And today I say NO MORE!

It would be much more empowering if I’d actually pee’d on my hands or something, but still it’s a step. Power to the people – the people with dry hands!

Tuesday, October 09, 2007

Slightly less then secret blogging

Most important rules for secret blogging:

1) use fake names for all people, places, some things.
2) don’t display your face on the website if at all possible
3) keep your stupid mouth shut about it!

I keep messing up rule number 3…

So I’ve been tapped as a “Guest Writer’ (and can we take just a minute to marvel at how special that makes ME sound?...) to contribute things to a friend’s website. (how did the friend find out about my blog? Through a sneaky process of guile and underhandedness. She guessed and I responded with “when did I tell you about my blog?” Next stop: CIA operative.) Anyhoo, the other site is called “What Ladies Think” and the basic idea behind it is a place where guys can post “What is the DEAL with you ladies???” questions and get “SIGH. You guys just do not get it!!!” responses from women. But for now, while all the other stuff is being assembled and such (and don’t ask me – I used the standard blogger template for a reason, people. The high-tech stuff has me totally befuzzled.) they’re starting with a blog. And I have a blog. And like chocolate to peanut butter, we were brought together in a magical collaboration.

Or something.

I’m not really sure what I’ll say there which would be different then what I already say here. In theory I’m talking to a readership of men, though I suspect that might not be such the case quite yet. Still, I’m gonna try to hit the ground running in much the same way I will in the future (so, kind of a flaily run where my arms are free to go as they please and I run the risk of dislocating a shoulder with each flail).

My biggest fear with this thing is that I’ll fall onto stereo-typical concepts and such. I don’t want to write posts like “we already know what happens if we pull your finger, that’s why it’s not funny.” So I’m really wracking my brain for solid, quality ideas for posts…

HA! Man, I held that straight face for like 40 seconds! Yeah, you guys already know my posts will be things like “why women should just go ahead and burp” or “You know what’s funny? When her dog loves you more then he loves her. Super funny.” (quality stuff. High-larious!) I encourage you guys to come and look and read and enjoy. And tell friends. Always tell friends. I told you guys, and you’re my friends, right?

Monday, October 08, 2007

Work is hard, mornings are crappy and writing is fun

OK, so my regular readers (and you know who you are. And you’re my FAVORITES!) will remember that a few months ago I changed jobs. And also that this new job is better then my old job, which was not a BAD job, per say (who uses that word in actual conversation, really?) but was not the right job for me. And also that this new job is much more rightly for me and I’m liking it better.

That said, I still hate having a job.

If I were writing this at 2pm I probably couldn’t really sell it, because I always hate my jobs much, much more between 7am and 10am then any other time. Because only my jobs (that at that time I’m hating) could make me get up before 9am. Constantly. Something like 5 days out of 7. And this I very much hate.

On the weekends? On the weekends I feel noble to the point of deserving McDonno’s sinful breakfasty goodness if I even THINK about getting up before 9am! And when I do get up at 9am I am overwhelmed by the number of things I can get done before noon, because often the only thing I’m for sure getting done before noon on a weekend is GET UP. It’s not that I’m lazy. (LIE. I am TOTALLY LAZY. But it’s not JUST that I’m lazy. It’s so, so, SO much more then that!) I just really, really hate mornings.


I’ve had people – people who are obviously morning people and who will never, ever get it – tell me “oh, you just need to make sure that you’re getting to sleep early enough, getting enough sleep, getting good sleep, and then you’ll just leap out of bed both cheery AND bright and greet the day with a song in your heart.” Obviously I respond to this craziness with the appropriately lengthy (5 seconds minimum) raspberry, with lots of spit. Because hating the mornings has nothing to do with the previous night’s sleep. It has to do with mornings being early and bad.

And so every weekday morning I start the day with the following:

Alarm goes off and I think “seriously?” followed, so immediately as to possibly be part of the exact same previous thought, with “crap.” And then I lie there for a few minutes trying to figure out if there’s any bonafide reason I should call in sick to work. Which is hysterical because I don’t call in sick to work when I’m really sick, so there’s no way I would call in sick when I’m just hating the mornings. But I have to push through that thought anyway. And then I get up and drag myself to the kitchen to put a Pepsi in the freezer (shut up) and let out any and all kitties who want to go out. And then I do the rest of the getting up, but until I’m out of the shower there’s still the monologue in my head trying to figure out if I’m “sick.” Because maybe I am, and if I am I could go back to bed.

Side note: my girl kitty is a morning kitty. Not the boy – he knows better, and about half of the time when I wake up he’s lying next to me, completely zonked, and when the alarm wakes him up he opens one eye just enough to give me the “Seriously? Crap.” Look. Which he then follows-up with a super-cute cuddle maneuver and purring and several other dirty cat tricks designed to persuade me that I should call in sick. He really does not help the process. Lulu, however, is more then happy to jump on the bed and move immediately to my bladder, where she Irish-jigs until I’m forced to get up for the sake of the clean sheets. She’s evil but effective. And in the mornings I consider selling her back to the shelter. End side note.

All of this is just to say that the job I have right now is plenty excellent for being a job, and I’m not planning to leave it for any other jobs. What I do hope to do someday is find a way to make a living that doesn’t require me to get up for anyone’s business but my own. And whenever I damn well want to. Which will pretty much never be before 9am. Right now I think my best chance (which is saying durn near close to no chance at all) is as a writer, which I like doing and which I don’t have to do at a certain time, so yay. And which I’d like to think I do pretty well, but frankly I only have my best beloved friends to tell me otherwise and they already know they should only say glowy good things about my writing because I’m fragile and could pout if otherwise. Which NOBODY needs to see.

So I’ll keep getting up, but I’m gonna keep writing too, and doing it whenever I can so I can get good and figure out a way to do more then distract me from my other stuff, but rather also make a living at it. And then I can quit this job and never have another “job” again because instead I’ll be “a writer.” Who gets up at 9am. All. The. Time.

(And all of you people with kids who are about to tell me that I should never have kids because it means you never get to sleep in can just stop, because I know this and because I’ll burn that bridge if I ever get to have kids and because hey, if you knew anybody at all with kids before you had them then you already knew this was coming and therefore no sympathy for you! Until I do someday have kids! And have to get up! In which case at that point I’ll have sympathy for you if you have sympathy for me?)

Monday, October 01, 2007

All the good ones ARE married or gay.

You know what’s a sign that someone is both cool and hot? When they look good with a tambourine.

No, sorry. Not ‘good’. Tasty. Yummish. Smackeral. FOOIIIINNEEE! (Which yes, would be pronounced “foo-eye-nee” But you know what I’m going for here. Hormones done wrecked my natural spelling abilities…) yeah, Rockstar dude rocked things with his very own band after he helped my nephew’s band do some rocking. All in all, it was a rocking weekend.

And did I mention the lovely, hot-and-cool running Fine-osity on display?

Like so?

Heck, he even makes playing a trumpet look yummy! NOT EASY, MY PEOPLES!

It was lovely, and I was tingly. Right up until my sister mentioned his girlfriend.


It would be a tremendously, marshmallow-filled lie with chocolate drizzles to say that I was shocked, or even surprised, or even mildly struck by the knowledge that hot rocker dude wasn’t single. Because here’s the dirty secret that I keep telling all of my non-single friends who are so desperate to set me up: there are no single-and-excellent dudes at my age. They’re all married, hooked up and/or gay. ALL. OF. THEM.

And my friends try to argue the point, but there’s a very simple way of proving it. I just ask them to name all of their quality male single friends our age.

The silence is the kind where mushrooms thrive and blossom and grow to be the size of VW Beetles. So Much non-answeredge. SOOO Much quiet, desperate, yet futile wracking of brains, and they always concede the point.

Not that they don’t know of a few single dudes, but they’re always those ones that they love despite their multitudes of flaws, flaws, flaws, but would never actually encourage someone that they also love to get involved with. Drinking buddy? Sure. Play cards with? Fine. Pee on the side of a bronze statue with him? Absolutely. Introduce to a girl you know? Are you MAAAAD?!?!

It is because of this phenomenon that I pretty much assume every cool, attractive or clever guy I meet is already involved, or married, or possibly “father of three with a fourth on the way.” It’s just a matter of the law of averages. And in the meantime, I can absolutely enjoy the view. And the rockin’ tambourine solo. (eat your heart out, William Shatner!)