OK, the only good thing about a day of crankitude like yesterday is that the next day my irritation tank is pretty much empty. It will take me 2-3 days to charge it back up, so now I'm super cool. I'm Zen cool. You could poke me with a paperclip and I'd be like "cool. Look, there's a tiny spot on my arm now. cool." and maybe I'd even nap a little. (also I post things off-mission.)
I brought in to work cool music to listen to on my headphones. (that's how I can listen to any music that I want here at the office w/out worrying that someone else might not be in the mood for the Ramones or the Violent Femmes -- I have headphones on my head. It's my music, and my music alone.) So right now Prince is telling me all about the rosey-colored hat his sweety wore that one time it rained. Pretty soon he's going to explain to me what he does or doesn't need from a girlfriend. Rumor has it that being either rich or cool is not required. I'm cool anyway.
I decided to have a bagel and red delicious apple (the only kind of apple that tells you how good it's gonna taste in the name -- it's delicious, people!) for breakfast, which is different then yesterday or probably tomorrow, because usually I have a Pepsi and 3-4 handfuls of Cheddar Cheese Baby Goldfish crackers. But bagel plus apple equals coolness, so that was today's breakfast.
I took a little break this mornin' and wandered out to commune with nature. In this case the role of "nature" was being played by a duck couple that hangs out in the bushes by our office (they're the best version of love, people. Ducks should so be the international animal ambassador of love! Screw swans -- they're mean and have hidden secret bird teeth! However I'll cover the duck=romantic thing in some future post.) and a cat that I think wanders down the river bike path from a rich person's house to look for free-range critter snacks. They entertained my visit with much generosity. I think they could tell how cool I am.
There was this guy that I had to call because my boss said "hey, could you call this guy and ask for this thing?" and when I first called I talked to his assistant, who faxed the thing right over. But I had to call back because the thing she faxed looked like a draft copy and when I called back the actual guy answered. (with me so far?) So anyway I explained to him why I was calling and "gee, Mr. owner of the little local business-guy, could you have your assistant send the finished copy some time? No hurry." and he was totally ass-hatty and pissy and told me to have my boss (you remember him -- he's the guy that asked me to make this call in the first place?) call him back. And the reason why? "Because I told you to tell him to call me back." Because I told you to. Like I'm 5 years old and I've asked him "why?" 60 times in a row and all he's got left is "because I told you." SUPER jerky asshat.
Yesterday I would have excused myself for a quick errand, where I would have driven to his office and set fire to all the fancy cars in his parking lot. (because I don't know what car is his, but I know it's fancy and probably black with some kind of asshat ego plate like "culr thn u" so if I burn them all down I get him for sure.) But yesterday I was not cool or Zen at all. Today I'm cool. Today I feel sorry for him that he's so not cool and feel even more sorry for his family since I bet he's always an asshat and I was only super-not-cool for yesterday. (and just a little bit I hope that a duck craps on his head while flying over him today.)
So I'll try to finish that other post again today, because even if it does commit suicide for a second time I should be able to take it in stride. Because I have the reserves to absorb such annoyances today. Today I am keeping my lunch soda frosty in my armpit. Today I am Samuel L. Jackson's pen pal. Today I am friends to the animals and the Prince. Today? I am cool.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Grumble, grumble, murder, grumble...
Woe to be the guy who was waiting at home for me on days like today.
I am cranky. No, sorry, it should be this: CRANKY. I can't exactly explain when it started, and it was probably something very minor. But then websites that I wanted to look at had the audacity of being unavailable! And tools that I need to do my job here at my job were messin' with me! Not working and such! And it got warm enough outside that I was slightly uncomfortable when driving home for lunch! SLIGHTLY TOO WARM! And now I know I'll have to take the life of an innocent bystander before I'm done today. I don't want to, you understand. I have to.
Seriously, I'm normally a pretty jovial person. I'm all light-hearted and cheery and I often make other people's days turn all around just because I'm (as I may have mentioned) goddamn jovial! But then you get a day like today, where it feels like all the annoying things in the world have conspired against me. This kind of day is bad. It's a bad thing. And I become pure, unadulterated evil when exposed to enough of a day such as this.
Oh but see, the evil happens mostly at home. Because that's the thing I love about my home -- nobody there but me! I don't have to be nice to anyone or polite. I can indulge my inner a**hole and nobody else gets hurt. (oh sure, there's the kitties, but they're extremely sensitive to that shift in the air that means "Mama ain't happy!" and they make themselves comfortably scarce.)
I had another post, one that I've been meaning to publish for over a week, that I'd almost finally finished. Almost! And then my day reared it's ugly head and another poor soul was lost to it; the soul of the unpublished post. Now everyone should be very, very impressed that I didn't kill any of the following 3 people who wandered by my desk right after that. They were smiling and cheery and totally unaware of the minefield they were traipsing through. "Tralala!" cheered them as they treekled by, "look how gleeish are we because we have no idea that you're a human bear trap, just waiting to chew off our bottoms!" and they oblivious themselves right by and I DON'T EVEN KILL THEM!
But I don't because I know I can soon go home and grumplemungus around there and get it out of my system w/out actual bloodshed. If there was someone there when I got home, like a partner, I'd have to greet them like this:
"Get out. Get out right now while you still have your life and your precious, precious limbs."
They'd run, but they probably wouldn't run back. Or they would foolishly stay to try to make me feel better and I'd have to spend the bulk of the night burying body parts and scrubbing blood out of the carpet.
Lucky me and lucky everyone else that I'm a single girl on days like today.
I am cranky. No, sorry, it should be this: CRANKY. I can't exactly explain when it started, and it was probably something very minor. But then websites that I wanted to look at had the audacity of being unavailable! And tools that I need to do my job here at my job were messin' with me! Not working and such! And it got warm enough outside that I was slightly uncomfortable when driving home for lunch! SLIGHTLY TOO WARM! And now I know I'll have to take the life of an innocent bystander before I'm done today. I don't want to, you understand. I have to.
Seriously, I'm normally a pretty jovial person. I'm all light-hearted and cheery and I often make other people's days turn all around just because I'm (as I may have mentioned) goddamn jovial! But then you get a day like today, where it feels like all the annoying things in the world have conspired against me. This kind of day is bad. It's a bad thing. And I become pure, unadulterated evil when exposed to enough of a day such as this.
Oh but see, the evil happens mostly at home. Because that's the thing I love about my home -- nobody there but me! I don't have to be nice to anyone or polite. I can indulge my inner a**hole and nobody else gets hurt. (oh sure, there's the kitties, but they're extremely sensitive to that shift in the air that means "Mama ain't happy!" and they make themselves comfortably scarce.)
I had another post, one that I've been meaning to publish for over a week, that I'd almost finally finished. Almost! And then my day reared it's ugly head and another poor soul was lost to it; the soul of the unpublished post. Now everyone should be very, very impressed that I didn't kill any of the following 3 people who wandered by my desk right after that. They were smiling and cheery and totally unaware of the minefield they were traipsing through. "Tralala!" cheered them as they treekled by, "look how gleeish are we because we have no idea that you're a human bear trap, just waiting to chew off our bottoms!" and they oblivious themselves right by and I DON'T EVEN KILL THEM!
But I don't because I know I can soon go home and grumplemungus around there and get it out of my system w/out actual bloodshed. If there was someone there when I got home, like a partner, I'd have to greet them like this:
"Get out. Get out right now while you still have your life and your precious, precious limbs."
They'd run, but they probably wouldn't run back. Or they would foolishly stay to try to make me feel better and I'd have to spend the bulk of the night burying body parts and scrubbing blood out of the carpet.
Lucky me and lucky everyone else that I'm a single girl on days like today.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Another deal-breaker I wasn't aware of.
So for my J-O-B (gleh) I have to make packets for these seminars. It's one of those things where you're adding names to forms and putting names on labels and naming names on names of namey-things, so you see a lot of names. (alotalotalot of names) Yesterday I'm naming the name-name-names on some namernames and I realized something else that makes me itchy (and not in the good way):
Couples who's first names have the same first letter. I'm talking Bob and Barbara Smith; Chester and Chelsea Jones; Felix and Fiona Farfegnugan. I know this isn't necessarily their fault, and that most likely they didn't scour the globe looking for a mate who shared their first name starting letter. (For those few who DID scour the globe I say SHAME ON YOU.)
I can't really tell you why, but I know that it gives me the heebie-jeebies. I'm heebie-jeebied all over from such things. It brings to mind women w/ jauntily flung shoulder-sweaters and men's thick man-bracelets. Itchy.
And so I have to add "dudes who's name starts w/ "F" to my deal-breaker list. Of course one doesn't get their real names from the site, so I will have to work out some kind of witty way of checking on that in any first emails. After all, I don't want to become smitten with an F-dude. Don't want the heartbreak that is emailing w/ someone and finding out we have oh so much in common ("Really? You sucked your thumb until Middle School too? With a blanky or not? Yeah, I was a blanky-user too!" and then thumpy hearts and musical notes floating around my head and tingly tingles) and then have the guy say "by the way, my name is Franktastic -- what's yours?"
My name is can't love a man named Franktastic. Sigh.
Couples who's first names have the same first letter. I'm talking Bob and Barbara Smith; Chester and Chelsea Jones; Felix and Fiona Farfegnugan. I know this isn't necessarily their fault, and that most likely they didn't scour the globe looking for a mate who shared their first name starting letter. (For those few who DID scour the globe I say SHAME ON YOU.)
I can't really tell you why, but I know that it gives me the heebie-jeebies. I'm heebie-jeebied all over from such things. It brings to mind women w/ jauntily flung shoulder-sweaters and men's thick man-bracelets. Itchy.
And so I have to add "dudes who's name starts w/ "F" to my deal-breaker list. Of course one doesn't get their real names from the site, so I will have to work out some kind of witty way of checking on that in any first emails. After all, I don't want to become smitten with an F-dude. Don't want the heartbreak that is emailing w/ someone and finding out we have oh so much in common ("Really? You sucked your thumb until Middle School too? With a blanky or not? Yeah, I was a blanky-user too!" and then thumpy hearts and musical notes floating around my head and tingly tingles) and then have the guy say "by the way, my name is Franktastic -- what's yours?"
My name is can't love a man named Franktastic. Sigh.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
'Cause I'm a WOOOman! Double-ew, Oh, M-A-N!
I can bring home a mower
'semble it with my own hands
And never, never, ever let you
Forget there's no man!
...sorry about that. But if it makes it any better, rest assured that I'll have the song stuck in my head WAY LONGER then you will. Because that's how my brain (never) works.
So today I tell you of how I don't need any man. I know this is a point I've made before. (some people think I make it way too much. Then again, some of those people didn't even own a toolbox until I gave them one, so ha!) Anyway, yesterday was a great example of a day where, except for some mechanical aid from my Dad, I accomplished things oft called "manly"and yet without any penis.
This all starts with the fact that it rains a bunch in Hippyville. Makes things green and lush, but also makes it hard to find time to mow the lawn. And I have kind of a big lawn (like 400-500 square feet maybe?) and also my lawn is about 79% weeds. Weeds, weeds, all kinds of weeds. I don't feel self conscious about it because it was mostly that way when I got there and I just lost the losing battle I was fighting. ANYWAY, all this is just to tell you that I'm trying, this year, to conquer these weeds -- the weed wars I'm calling it -- and the rain is just working against me. I need, right now, to mow and to re-spray some excellent weed-killing stuff on the remaining weed strong-holds so that I can then mow (again) and rake the last of the dead bodies off of the battlefield, and then throw down grass seed and sit back and marvel at my grassy accomplishments.
But first I have to mow the lawn. And it keeps raining.
So yesterday was sunny and excellent and I ran home and changed into junk-jeans and started mowing! I was pushing around my antique gas mower(I call him Clippy the Wonder-Mower!) that was a permanent loan about 3+ years ago. It's old and funky and some parts are a little completely broken, but it works just fine for the thing I need: cut down and bag me some grass and weeds. Along we mowed, munchy-munchy-munchy-Plehhhh... Without warning my old mower friend just passed away.
Did I panic? No! (lie, I did panic for a sec, but I bet everybody does that.) I started going over everything that I already understood about lawnmower physionomy. Sparkplug still attached? Check. Still full tank of gas? Check. Throttle still connected to engine? Check. Etc, etc, etc. Then I called my Dad (the superior motorhead) and he came over and checked my checking and determined that I'd checked the checkable items checkily. We removed the sparkplug (and got excited when it seemed like the connection had been wimpy! Easy solution! But not our solution.) and cleaned it and checked the gap and cleaned the air filter and did a bunch of other things, and finally decided two things: it was not easily fixed (hmmm, pretty much no compression behind the sparkplug. That's bad.) and I needed a plan B.
I sent Dad home for his dinner and came up with my plan B: I drove over to my local department store with sad clothes but excellent tools and appliances (you know who you are) and purchased my first personally-owned lawn mower! It's red (why are they always red? They're always, always, absolutely always red! Except when they're green, but that's hardly ever because mostly always they're red-red-red.) and shiny (which Clippy hasn't been since ever) with baggyness and clean wheels and it's mine-all-mine-all-mine.
When I flagged down the fresh young man to take my pretend money for my very real mower he asked if anyone had helped me and looked shaken when I said no. He then asked if "someone" was moving the car around to the loading area and should we wait for "them." And I said no. And he got kind of lost and twitchy, because here he was in a scary place with the sale of a large, possibly dangerous power tool and no man to discuss torque and engine size and horsepower with. Me? I just watched him twitch.
Once I was able to convince him that I knew which model I wanted, what attachments I didn't want and that I was able to do the paying for it part all by my little, girly self I asked where to pick it up, and drove my very own car around to the loading area all by my little girly self too. And I didn't break a nail or anything! (take that, boy salesperson!) Then I had to go through the same song and dance as I talked the loading area guy to into letting me shove it into the car myself because, after all, I had to be able to get it back out again once I got home, right? I drove me and my mower home and put it together and filled it with the required fluids and nobody was killed or made otherwise dead during any of it!
And I'm not done yet! Once I had put my shiny (it's SO shiny!!) red mower to bed in it's new home I came in to tackle my cloggy bathtub drain. Oh yes, I had to deal with a drainage issue in the same night! And this is not the first night of arguing with this tub. Since Sunday it's fought me, and I've had three mornings of grimy feet and three evenings of ucky toxic goo fumes all over the bathroom. Yet still it refused to let the water fly freely to it's watery home. So I got the big guns. I bought a snake! A drain snake! A red (to match the mower), but less shiny, drain snake and I snaked that drain hoo boy! Snaked it within an inch of it's drainy life I did! And was I successful? Did water flow freely???
No. Super-failed. Big lack of any water zooming about. Today I had to give in and call drain-cleaning specialists.
But that's not the point, people. My point is this and only this: I tackled both the heartbreak of dead mowers and the agony of drainyless drains all by myself. I used tools and devices and contraptions and took things apart and put them together and did the some assembly that was required and everything.
Don't get me wrong -- men can be quite nice. They can be tall and broad of shoulders. They can sport evil-looking facial hair (evil but also nasty!) and rock a sporty shirt/tie combo. Nothing better then a guy who can give a quality foot rub or make a tasty dinner! I like them and sometimes want them and occasionally desire them (dirty!) and am proud that I don't have to need them.
Until someone has to climb a ladder. Screw that sh*t -- Mama don't climb no ladders!
EDITED TO ADD:
Men can be hunky, dashing, manly-hot jet pilots who do tricks at 1 million miles an hour and charm the socks off of both me and Jon Stewart. Woof!
'semble it with my own hands
And never, never, ever let you
Forget there's no man!
...sorry about that. But if it makes it any better, rest assured that I'll have the song stuck in my head WAY LONGER then you will. Because that's how my brain (never) works.
So today I tell you of how I don't need any man. I know this is a point I've made before. (some people think I make it way too much. Then again, some of those people didn't even own a toolbox until I gave them one, so ha!) Anyway, yesterday was a great example of a day where, except for some mechanical aid from my Dad, I accomplished things oft called "manly"and yet without any penis.
This all starts with the fact that it rains a bunch in Hippyville. Makes things green and lush, but also makes it hard to find time to mow the lawn. And I have kind of a big lawn (like 400-500 square feet maybe?) and also my lawn is about 79% weeds. Weeds, weeds, all kinds of weeds. I don't feel self conscious about it because it was mostly that way when I got there and I just lost the losing battle I was fighting. ANYWAY, all this is just to tell you that I'm trying, this year, to conquer these weeds -- the weed wars I'm calling it -- and the rain is just working against me. I need, right now, to mow and to re-spray some excellent weed-killing stuff on the remaining weed strong-holds so that I can then mow (again) and rake the last of the dead bodies off of the battlefield, and then throw down grass seed and sit back and marvel at my grassy accomplishments.
But first I have to mow the lawn. And it keeps raining.
So yesterday was sunny and excellent and I ran home and changed into junk-jeans and started mowing! I was pushing around my antique gas mower(I call him Clippy the Wonder-Mower!) that was a permanent loan about 3+ years ago. It's old and funky and some parts are a little completely broken, but it works just fine for the thing I need: cut down and bag me some grass and weeds. Along we mowed, munchy-munchy-munchy-Plehhhh... Without warning my old mower friend just passed away.
Did I panic? No! (lie, I did panic for a sec, but I bet everybody does that.) I started going over everything that I already understood about lawnmower physionomy. Sparkplug still attached? Check. Still full tank of gas? Check. Throttle still connected to engine? Check. Etc, etc, etc. Then I called my Dad (the superior motorhead) and he came over and checked my checking and determined that I'd checked the checkable items checkily. We removed the sparkplug (and got excited when it seemed like the connection had been wimpy! Easy solution! But not our solution.) and cleaned it and checked the gap and cleaned the air filter and did a bunch of other things, and finally decided two things: it was not easily fixed (hmmm, pretty much no compression behind the sparkplug. That's bad.) and I needed a plan B.
I sent Dad home for his dinner and came up with my plan B: I drove over to my local department store with sad clothes but excellent tools and appliances (you know who you are) and purchased my first personally-owned lawn mower! It's red (why are they always red? They're always, always, absolutely always red! Except when they're green, but that's hardly ever because mostly always they're red-red-red.) and shiny (which Clippy hasn't been since ever) with baggyness and clean wheels and it's mine-all-mine-all-mine.
When I flagged down the fresh young man to take my pretend money for my very real mower he asked if anyone had helped me and looked shaken when I said no. He then asked if "someone" was moving the car around to the loading area and should we wait for "them." And I said no. And he got kind of lost and twitchy, because here he was in a scary place with the sale of a large, possibly dangerous power tool and no man to discuss torque and engine size and horsepower with. Me? I just watched him twitch.
Once I was able to convince him that I knew which model I wanted, what attachments I didn't want and that I was able to do the paying for it part all by my little, girly self I asked where to pick it up, and drove my very own car around to the loading area all by my little girly self too. And I didn't break a nail or anything! (take that, boy salesperson!) Then I had to go through the same song and dance as I talked the loading area guy to into letting me shove it into the car myself because, after all, I had to be able to get it back out again once I got home, right? I drove me and my mower home and put it together and filled it with the required fluids and nobody was killed or made otherwise dead during any of it!
And I'm not done yet! Once I had put my shiny (it's SO shiny!!) red mower to bed in it's new home I came in to tackle my cloggy bathtub drain. Oh yes, I had to deal with a drainage issue in the same night! And this is not the first night of arguing with this tub. Since Sunday it's fought me, and I've had three mornings of grimy feet and three evenings of ucky toxic goo fumes all over the bathroom. Yet still it refused to let the water fly freely to it's watery home. So I got the big guns. I bought a snake! A drain snake! A red (to match the mower), but less shiny, drain snake and I snaked that drain hoo boy! Snaked it within an inch of it's drainy life I did! And was I successful? Did water flow freely???
No. Super-failed. Big lack of any water zooming about. Today I had to give in and call drain-cleaning specialists.
But that's not the point, people. My point is this and only this: I tackled both the heartbreak of dead mowers and the agony of drainyless drains all by myself. I used tools and devices and contraptions and took things apart and put them together and did the some assembly that was required and everything.
Don't get me wrong -- men can be quite nice. They can be tall and broad of shoulders. They can sport evil-looking facial hair (evil but also nasty!) and rock a sporty shirt/tie combo. Nothing better then a guy who can give a quality foot rub or make a tasty dinner! I like them and sometimes want them and occasionally desire them (dirty!) and am proud that I don't have to need them.
Until someone has to climb a ladder. Screw that sh*t -- Mama don't climb no ladders!
EDITED TO ADD:
Men can be hunky, dashing, manly-hot jet pilots who do tricks at 1 million miles an hour and charm the socks off of both me and Jon Stewart. Woof!
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Things I hate about my J-O-B
To be clear, I have had worse jobs then the one I have now. MUCH, MUCH WORSE. I've had jobs that paid far less, jobs that required the touching of food or people's (almost) naked body parts, jobs where I had to stand or walk pretty much the entire time. I've worked for people who would cry when challenged, or people who felt it was good for the overall company if he occasionally screamed at someone until they evaporated completely. There was a fellow I worked for who seemed extremely nice on the face of things, but it turned out he enjoyed to lie, insult and finally go crazy. Which was even more disorienting because of how nice he seemed. On the face of things. See, nice guys aren't supposed to be all those evil things. It breaks the brain when they are.
What I'm saying is that the j-o-b that I currently have is not the worst there ever was, and I know this 100%. I have no confusion over this fact. It's the main reason that a job that was supposed to be temporary 2+ years ago has evolved into something a wee bit more constant -- because it was better then nothing and not too terrible a way to spend the day. And in terms of what I do it's not too hard and the expectations on me are usually not too unsurmountable.
But still I groan every weekday morning. Still I find myself repeating my morning mantra from 6th grade, when I had to get up for band practice BEFORE school: "I think I'm sick. Am I sick? I don't feel great, but am I actually sick? I should probably check my temperature, although I don't actually feel warm... I wish I could stay home." And here are the top three reasons why I'm coming down with the plague at 7am, 5 days a week:
Reason #1: I work for "The Man".
It's true, I do. And it's SO "The Man" too. It's this big corporation who's only goal is to make big money by helping other "the mans" make and keep and hoard and squeeze and bathe in big money. They're all about waste and using-up and "who cares?" and "I got mine, screw yours!" It's depressing. I feel like I need to shower and brush my teeth half-way through the day. Only half-way. There's no point in raising questions of "shouldn't we stop printing these 100-page reports every single week?" and "hey, why don't we have a recycling bin?" and "I sure do wish there was a safe place to put a bike in our parking lot so I didn't have to drive to work all the time..." because by saying these things you are a communist slacker hippy freak. And also wasting "The Man's" time. Which is someone's money. Big money. (showering now.)
Reason #2: THE MAN is notoriously stupid.
I cannot calculate how much of my sad, dirty time is spent trying to explain things to the robots working at the Home Office (nest of "The Man") things like "but if we mail this on day A, how can you expect it to be back, signed, and mailed to you and received by you all on day B? Do you know something about the magic of mail that I don't?" I actually had a conversation w/ someone at the Home Office (probably a lovely person, but one who has been very clearly trained that they follow the bouncing ball of the script and they do NOT THINK FOR THEMSELVES! EVER! ON PUNISHMENT OF BEING CRUSHED UNDER A MASSIVE PILE OF EXCUSES!!!) about how we'd sent in a form to update a client's existing bank information. H.O. drone was busy explaining to me that there WAS no existing bank information, and therefore what should she do with this replacement info? In an effort to keep making progress as I brought up the client's accounts on my end I asked her "couldn't you just set that bank information as their bank information?"
"Yeah, I could do that." silence. silence. Hey, is that a tumbleweed I hear rolling behind them on the other end of the line? Rolling by the silence?
"So, would you do that then?" I ask, feeling stupid for having to say it out loud.
"You want me to do that then?" she asks back, apparently not convinced by all that saying out loud that I stupidly did.
"Yeah, that would be --" and then I'm stuck with what to say next, because here I sit, staring at the great gobs and GOBS of existing bank information we have on file for these clients. These clients whom she called me about due to their complete lack of existing bank information. So do I say "great." so as to finish my thought and just hope she can set up bank info? Do I ask her to verify the client info again, just in case she magically pulled up clients with the same names but who live in Texas? Do I ask if I'm being punked? Candid Camera? "Hey," I finally finish up, "could I talk to a supervisor?" I figured it would be good if I freed up this person to catch all those errant tumbleweeds.
Reason #3: Red Tape, Red Tape, Red Tape...
Today, a very average, run-of-the-mill Tuesday, I processed (I kid you not) over 265 pages worth of forms, applications and other assorted paperwork. I had to call and ask some poor soul to send me an original death certificate for their late wife because WE won't take a copy, even though everyone else will. Now that is one hell of a fun conversation to have with a GRIEVING WIDOWER. "So sorry for your loss -- could you dig through your paperwork and mail me yet another piece of paper, which will look exactly like the one you already sent but be a lovely shade of blue? Thanks. Sorry. Crawling down the drain now..." And whenever I start to get the hang of how all this stuff is currently working they send word from on high (chief breeding grounds of "The Man") that they're about to change everything. Not COMPLETELY change it, but enough that nothing will be correct for about a month. This, they figure, will help to prevent any accidental progress that someone could be making.
The people I work with are lovely; bordering on spiffy. They're all good eggs who also want to do their job well. The people I work for are also lovely and seem to value me, which is a very nice feeling. But this job is burning out my inner hope and positivity. Much like boric acid. I think I need a change.
What I'm saying is that the j-o-b that I currently have is not the worst there ever was, and I know this 100%. I have no confusion over this fact. It's the main reason that a job that was supposed to be temporary 2+ years ago has evolved into something a wee bit more constant -- because it was better then nothing and not too terrible a way to spend the day. And in terms of what I do it's not too hard and the expectations on me are usually not too unsurmountable.
But still I groan every weekday morning. Still I find myself repeating my morning mantra from 6th grade, when I had to get up for band practice BEFORE school: "I think I'm sick. Am I sick? I don't feel great, but am I actually sick? I should probably check my temperature, although I don't actually feel warm... I wish I could stay home." And here are the top three reasons why I'm coming down with the plague at 7am, 5 days a week:
Reason #1: I work for "The Man".
It's true, I do. And it's SO "The Man" too. It's this big corporation who's only goal is to make big money by helping other "the mans" make and keep and hoard and squeeze and bathe in big money. They're all about waste and using-up and "who cares?" and "I got mine, screw yours!" It's depressing. I feel like I need to shower and brush my teeth half-way through the day. Only half-way. There's no point in raising questions of "shouldn't we stop printing these 100-page reports every single week?" and "hey, why don't we have a recycling bin?" and "I sure do wish there was a safe place to put a bike in our parking lot so I didn't have to drive to work all the time..." because by saying these things you are a communist slacker hippy freak. And also wasting "The Man's" time. Which is someone's money. Big money. (showering now.)
Reason #2: THE MAN is notoriously stupid.
I cannot calculate how much of my sad, dirty time is spent trying to explain things to the robots working at the Home Office (nest of "The Man") things like "but if we mail this on day A, how can you expect it to be back, signed, and mailed to you and received by you all on day B? Do you know something about the magic of mail that I don't?" I actually had a conversation w/ someone at the Home Office (probably a lovely person, but one who has been very clearly trained that they follow the bouncing ball of the script and they do NOT THINK FOR THEMSELVES! EVER! ON PUNISHMENT OF BEING CRUSHED UNDER A MASSIVE PILE OF EXCUSES!!!) about how we'd sent in a form to update a client's existing bank information. H.O. drone was busy explaining to me that there WAS no existing bank information, and therefore what should she do with this replacement info? In an effort to keep making progress as I brought up the client's accounts on my end I asked her "couldn't you just set that bank information as their bank information?"
"Yeah, I could do that." silence. silence. Hey, is that a tumbleweed I hear rolling behind them on the other end of the line? Rolling by the silence?
"So, would you do that then?" I ask, feeling stupid for having to say it out loud.
"You want me to do that then?" she asks back, apparently not convinced by all that saying out loud that I stupidly did.
"Yeah, that would be --" and then I'm stuck with what to say next, because here I sit, staring at the great gobs and GOBS of existing bank information we have on file for these clients. These clients whom she called me about due to their complete lack of existing bank information. So do I say "great." so as to finish my thought and just hope she can set up bank info? Do I ask her to verify the client info again, just in case she magically pulled up clients with the same names but who live in Texas? Do I ask if I'm being punked? Candid Camera? "Hey," I finally finish up, "could I talk to a supervisor?" I figured it would be good if I freed up this person to catch all those errant tumbleweeds.
Reason #3: Red Tape, Red Tape, Red Tape...
Today, a very average, run-of-the-mill Tuesday, I processed (I kid you not) over 265 pages worth of forms, applications and other assorted paperwork. I had to call and ask some poor soul to send me an original death certificate for their late wife because WE won't take a copy, even though everyone else will. Now that is one hell of a fun conversation to have with a GRIEVING WIDOWER. "So sorry for your loss -- could you dig through your paperwork and mail me yet another piece of paper, which will look exactly like the one you already sent but be a lovely shade of blue? Thanks. Sorry. Crawling down the drain now..." And whenever I start to get the hang of how all this stuff is currently working they send word from on high (chief breeding grounds of "The Man") that they're about to change everything. Not COMPLETELY change it, but enough that nothing will be correct for about a month. This, they figure, will help to prevent any accidental progress that someone could be making.
The people I work with are lovely; bordering on spiffy. They're all good eggs who also want to do their job well. The people I work for are also lovely and seem to value me, which is a very nice feeling. But this job is burning out my inner hope and positivity. Much like boric acid. I think I need a change.
Friday, May 18, 2007
I feel funny
As it turns out, I still have hormones.
I still have tingles and sizzles around cuteness.
When gleefully exposed to smokey-good cuteness my insides do all the things insides are supposed to do, flip-flopping and swirling and whee-ee-eeing.
Why do I tell you this? These things that most would consider not necessary? These things that most would say with that "well of course I can count to 10, cross my fingers, blow my nose... why do you ask?" I say this because I'd not been completely sure.
Used to be I had crushes on people. I was the crushiest of crush havers, both on the impossible and possible. I'd get them on tv people, on movie stars, on rock stars. I'd get them on UPS delivery dudes (rock those brown shorts!) and the tech guy I worked with. But I'd get them. And frankly, I'd enjoy them!
I like crushes! They're simple (no need to worry if you should do something because when it comes to crushes you should never, ever do something) and fun (ooh, tingles much like I fell asleep on my hormones wrong and now they've gone all pins and needles!) and remind you that lust is fun and possibly sex might be too -- something to think about someday. Yeah, I'd crush at the drop of a hat. A cute hat. On a cute person, worthy of a good crush.
Then one day it seems like I stopped having them. I became crushless.
I'd still find people attractive, woofy, even hot. I'd still appreciate a solid butt (oh Daniel Craig, newest of the bonds, why can't James spend the entire movie walking in and out of the surf in tight trunks?), good face, stuff like that. But no tingles or racing wows or that goofy grin for no reason except hormones. Crushless have I been.
After a while I figured this is what it's like when there's been nothing hormonal for a while. The system gets used to it, the same way people tell me you get used to not eating sugar or drinking caffeine. (crazy, crazy people who would deny their body these gifts of wonderment because they are crazy and also hate their body and never want to experience the true joy that is an icy, frosty glass of Pepsi. Crazy.) I figured that such an adjustment would probably just make things easier, and that if there was nobody to get a crush on anyway then what did it matter? Best to not be frustrated.
But not so! Because last night there was this guy and guess what -- cute! Guess what else -- crushy cute! Actual shades of smittenness, with little flutters of "oh gosh and golly!" swirled in like fudge! Yes, it was a lovely evening of "ooh, did he just make eye contact?" and "hey there, he chuckled ever so slightly at something witty that I SAID!" plus "why oh why will nobody else mention how awesome I am? Work with me, people!" All in all, a very nice and spicy way to spend an otherwise average Thursday evening. And so nice to get the sizzles back.
I still have tingles and sizzles around cuteness.
When gleefully exposed to smokey-good cuteness my insides do all the things insides are supposed to do, flip-flopping and swirling and whee-ee-eeing.
Why do I tell you this? These things that most would consider not necessary? These things that most would say with that "well of course I can count to 10, cross my fingers, blow my nose... why do you ask?" I say this because I'd not been completely sure.
Used to be I had crushes on people. I was the crushiest of crush havers, both on the impossible and possible. I'd get them on tv people, on movie stars, on rock stars. I'd get them on UPS delivery dudes (rock those brown shorts!) and the tech guy I worked with. But I'd get them. And frankly, I'd enjoy them!
I like crushes! They're simple (no need to worry if you should do something because when it comes to crushes you should never, ever do something) and fun (ooh, tingles much like I fell asleep on my hormones wrong and now they've gone all pins and needles!) and remind you that lust is fun and possibly sex might be too -- something to think about someday. Yeah, I'd crush at the drop of a hat. A cute hat. On a cute person, worthy of a good crush.
Then one day it seems like I stopped having them. I became crushless.
I'd still find people attractive, woofy, even hot. I'd still appreciate a solid butt (oh Daniel Craig, newest of the bonds, why can't James spend the entire movie walking in and out of the surf in tight trunks?), good face, stuff like that. But no tingles or racing wows or that goofy grin for no reason except hormones. Crushless have I been.
After a while I figured this is what it's like when there's been nothing hormonal for a while. The system gets used to it, the same way people tell me you get used to not eating sugar or drinking caffeine. (crazy, crazy people who would deny their body these gifts of wonderment because they are crazy and also hate their body and never want to experience the true joy that is an icy, frosty glass of Pepsi. Crazy.) I figured that such an adjustment would probably just make things easier, and that if there was nobody to get a crush on anyway then what did it matter? Best to not be frustrated.
But not so! Because last night there was this guy and guess what -- cute! Guess what else -- crushy cute! Actual shades of smittenness, with little flutters of "oh gosh and golly!" swirled in like fudge! Yes, it was a lovely evening of "ooh, did he just make eye contact?" and "hey there, he chuckled ever so slightly at something witty that I SAID!" plus "why oh why will nobody else mention how awesome I am? Work with me, people!" All in all, a very nice and spicy way to spend an otherwise average Thursday evening. And so nice to get the sizzles back.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
And now, the exciting conclusion...
(I don't know why I set myself up like that. Such pressure! What if this conclusion isn't so exciting? Or it may be kind of exciting, but it's not really a conclusion... Yeah, I really should have called this something like "just in case you were wondering..." or "oh, and by the way this is the uneventful ending of the thing from before.")
So when last we saw our hero (that's me) she was all irritated with Yenta.com, sending them an angry email demanding to know where they got off charging her for another 3 months when she was pretty sure(ish) that she'd done something that had made it cancel or something. How Dare!!! This after her total ambivilence about whether or not to sign up for 3 more months, or to instead take up snow kyaking or space table tennis. (in space no one can hear you foul.)
DAY ONE:
Femtastic: I can't afford another 3 months. I need that money for other things! Also I'm angry that what I thought was happening was either not happening or I was confused. Both things that make me angry! And besides, hasn't this all been kind of a waste of time? Yes, I'm absolutely sure that I'm going to fight this until they give me back my money and cancel this additional 3 months!
[stomps off in a huff. At least until she gets 2 steps from her computer, where there is this big bin of mail and things to file, and she has to climb over that and then there's the laundry basket and other things... don't trip... don't fall...]
DAY TWO:
Femtastic: I can't believe they haven't replied to my email yet. Absurd! Where is their pride in giving good customer service? Oh, I am so gonna yell at them in the next email. And I'm writing that next, scathing email right now!
[sees that new episode of Heroes is starting.]
Femtastic: OK, not right now, but really soon. Probably before I go to bed. So Scathing will it be!
DAY THREE:
Femtastic: Oh boy, now it's been even longer and they haven't replied, and I'm gonna write them and yell and Oh! Looky! I got paid! Well, that's good. That's gonna let me do a couple of things I couldn't do for fear of that $60 coming out of the bank account. So glad that I was paid, and hey I should go now and buy that new CD by (insert name of musician who makes CDs). Also I want bagels and $30 of clearance anything from Target. So I will have to write the scathing (SO SCATHING!) email later toni- tomorrow. I'll write it tomorrow because after all my shopping tonight I'll be sleepy. But tomorrow, it is SO ON!
DAY FOUR, FIVE, SIX:
[Femtastic goes to the beach with her family for a super-cool Mother's day weekend and also Granny appreciation gathering and has a really good time and just doesn't even care about the $60 or the scathing email, because look how pretty the sunset and how sparkly the shiny beach stones!]
DAY ELEVENTY-THREE:
Femtastic: So wait, who was I scathed at again? I know I was scathed at somebody... Starts with a V? Or an E? Maybe starts with a C... Sigh. The fire, she is gone. I am too tired, and it's been too long. And I got paid, so I guess I'll do another 3 months of Yenta.com after all.
...and so we find ourselves as members of Yenta.com once again. And since I did pay for it I went ahead and took a renewed look around, with new, renewedy eyes.
But that's something for the next post.
So when last we saw our hero (that's me) she was all irritated with Yenta.com, sending them an angry email demanding to know where they got off charging her for another 3 months when she was pretty sure(ish) that she'd done something that had made it cancel or something. How Dare!!! This after her total ambivilence about whether or not to sign up for 3 more months, or to instead take up snow kyaking or space table tennis. (in space no one can hear you foul.)
DAY ONE:
Femtastic: I can't afford another 3 months. I need that money for other things! Also I'm angry that what I thought was happening was either not happening or I was confused. Both things that make me angry! And besides, hasn't this all been kind of a waste of time? Yes, I'm absolutely sure that I'm going to fight this until they give me back my money and cancel this additional 3 months!
[stomps off in a huff. At least until she gets 2 steps from her computer, where there is this big bin of mail and things to file, and she has to climb over that and then there's the laundry basket and other things... don't trip... don't fall...]
DAY TWO:
Femtastic: I can't believe they haven't replied to my email yet. Absurd! Where is their pride in giving good customer service? Oh, I am so gonna yell at them in the next email. And I'm writing that next, scathing email right now!
[sees that new episode of Heroes is starting.]
Femtastic: OK, not right now, but really soon. Probably before I go to bed. So Scathing will it be!
DAY THREE:
Femtastic: Oh boy, now it's been even longer and they haven't replied, and I'm gonna write them and yell and Oh! Looky! I got paid! Well, that's good. That's gonna let me do a couple of things I couldn't do for fear of that $60 coming out of the bank account. So glad that I was paid, and hey I should go now and buy that new CD by (insert name of musician who makes CDs). Also I want bagels and $30 of clearance anything from Target. So I will have to write the scathing (SO SCATHING!) email later toni- tomorrow. I'll write it tomorrow because after all my shopping tonight I'll be sleepy. But tomorrow, it is SO ON!
DAY FOUR, FIVE, SIX:
[Femtastic goes to the beach with her family for a super-cool Mother's day weekend and also Granny appreciation gathering and has a really good time and just doesn't even care about the $60 or the scathing email, because look how pretty the sunset and how sparkly the shiny beach stones!]
{Time Passes...}
DAY ELEVENTY-THREE:
Femtastic: So wait, who was I scathed at again? I know I was scathed at somebody... Starts with a V? Or an E? Maybe starts with a C... Sigh. The fire, she is gone. I am too tired, and it's been too long. And I got paid, so I guess I'll do another 3 months of Yenta.com after all.
...and so we find ourselves as members of Yenta.com once again. And since I did pay for it I went ahead and took a renewed look around, with new, renewedy eyes.
But that's something for the next post.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Cliffhanger!
Previously on Unlikely In Love...
Femtastic: Oh crap, I have 24 hours to decide if I want to do any more Yenta.com. Help me, readers out there, help me!
Readers: Keep going, you can do it, don't give up the dream, if you don't love yourself then how can anyone else love you, never let them see you sweat, you're soaking in it, etc...!
Femtastic: Wow, I'm so glad that my readers came through with their suggestions. My readers are awesome... I'm gonna cancel Yenta.com...
And now, Unlikely In Love, Season Finale Cliffhanger episode, now with more "Wowsers!!":
Femtastic: Yeah, even though the readers who had an opinion had the opinion of "don't stop yet, and maybe even make those marketing bastards at Yenta.com come through with the 6-month free service!" I'm still gonna cancel because funds are tight (damn you, Uncle Sam! And also your friend the cracker of heads in Ford Escort station wagons! And the gas companies too! rant, rant, rant...) and because I'm just not sure this avenue will work for me and plus also second guess and lose all confidence and and question my every move and wonder what the hell I'm thinking and other really bold, dynamic things that could go through someone's head...
[Femtastic goes to her computer and futzes around with things over at Yenta.com. Femtastic finds the "want to cancel your subscription?" button, conveniently located hiding right under a rock behind a couch under a sheet in a locked closet marked "radioactive waste - do not enter!" and almost, barely, pretty much doesn't but practically does click it. But doesn't click it. Mostly.]
Femtastic: I'll decide about this later on, like maybe right before midnight tonight.
Next day...
Femtastic: Crap, crap, crap, I never went back to Yenta.com! I'll bet they totally charged my credit card for another three months! Crap!
[Clicks through the website and finds what sure looks to her like her subscription has been cancelled. Seriously, she really did look and see stuff saying "you're not subscribed anymore. You want to play, you gotta pay beotch. We don't love you anymore." but in marketing-eeze. She breaths a sigh of relief and vows to think of it no more that day.]
Next day...
[She probably mowed her lawn, or there may have been a movie or a nap. Or a movie about a nap? I'd see that movie...]
Next week day, which was probably the next day or the one after that...
Femtastic: I'd better write the post about what I decided to do about Yenta.com. For my loyal readers, whom I hate to leave hanging. [type, type, typity-type, pithy cute things that are witty and clever and which I will be oh so smug about having written...] Let's see, what was the exact wording from the website that said that I was no longer of the body? Why, I'll just go to the site and see!
[clicks to Yenta.com, where they welcome her with open, loving arms and ask "where have you been the last couple of days? What did you do this weekend? You look like you got a little sun -- did you get some sun?" and in no place say that she isn't signed up. Femtastic checks the subscription status page, and where she was really, really sure that it said "nobody here loves you until we get more money!" it now says "we love, love, love you so much -- at least for the next 3 months. Oh, and thanks for that $60 that we took from your bank account."]
Femtastic: Damn you, Yenta.com! I wish I could quit ya! (winkies to everyone who got that.) I'm writing such a strongly worded email like you would not believe!! You'll be sorry, you will!
[writes an email that could possibly be referred to as "scathing" or at least cranky. Sends the email. Eagerly awaits the apologetic reply. Waits, waits, waits...]
Femtastic: Oh crap, I have 24 hours to decide if I want to do any more Yenta.com. Help me, readers out there, help me!
Readers: Keep going, you can do it, don't give up the dream, if you don't love yourself then how can anyone else love you, never let them see you sweat, you're soaking in it, etc...!
Femtastic: Wow, I'm so glad that my readers came through with their suggestions. My readers are awesome... I'm gonna cancel Yenta.com...
And now, Unlikely In Love, Season Finale Cliffhanger episode, now with more "Wowsers!!":
Femtastic: Yeah, even though the readers who had an opinion had the opinion of "don't stop yet, and maybe even make those marketing bastards at Yenta.com come through with the 6-month free service!" I'm still gonna cancel because funds are tight (damn you, Uncle Sam! And also your friend the cracker of heads in Ford Escort station wagons! And the gas companies too! rant, rant, rant...) and because I'm just not sure this avenue will work for me and plus also second guess and lose all confidence and and question my every move and wonder what the hell I'm thinking and other really bold, dynamic things that could go through someone's head...
[Femtastic goes to her computer and futzes around with things over at Yenta.com. Femtastic finds the "want to cancel your subscription?" button, conveniently located hiding right under a rock behind a couch under a sheet in a locked closet marked "radioactive waste - do not enter!" and almost, barely, pretty much doesn't but practically does click it. But doesn't click it. Mostly.]
Femtastic: I'll decide about this later on, like maybe right before midnight tonight.
Next day...
Femtastic: Crap, crap, crap, I never went back to Yenta.com! I'll bet they totally charged my credit card for another three months! Crap!
[Clicks through the website and finds what sure looks to her like her subscription has been cancelled. Seriously, she really did look and see stuff saying "you're not subscribed anymore. You want to play, you gotta pay beotch. We don't love you anymore." but in marketing-eeze. She breaths a sigh of relief and vows to think of it no more that day.]
Next day...
[She probably mowed her lawn, or there may have been a movie or a nap. Or a movie about a nap? I'd see that movie...]
Next week day, which was probably the next day or the one after that...
Femtastic: I'd better write the post about what I decided to do about Yenta.com. For my loyal readers, whom I hate to leave hanging. [type, type, typity-type, pithy cute things that are witty and clever and which I will be oh so smug about having written...] Let's see, what was the exact wording from the website that said that I was no longer of the body? Why, I'll just go to the site and see!
[clicks to Yenta.com, where they welcome her with open, loving arms and ask "where have you been the last couple of days? What did you do this weekend? You look like you got a little sun -- did you get some sun?" and in no place say that she isn't signed up. Femtastic checks the subscription status page, and where she was really, really sure that it said "nobody here loves you until we get more money!" it now says "we love, love, love you so much -- at least for the next 3 months. Oh, and thanks for that $60 that we took from your bank account."]
Femtastic: Damn you, Yenta.com! I wish I could quit ya! (winkies to everyone who got that.) I'm writing such a strongly worded email like you would not believe!! You'll be sorry, you will!
[writes an email that could possibly be referred to as "scathing" or at least cranky. Sends the email. Eagerly awaits the apologetic reply. Waits, waits, waits...]
TO BE CONTINUED...
WILL Yenta.com ever reply to Femtastic's email?STAY TUNED! (for like, a day or so. Nothing like January of next year. Seriously, blink and I'll be back.)
WILL she get a refund on her subscription charge?
WILL she ever find love, online or offline?
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
It Could Be Worse, Chapter Two...
OK, so when you're not doing something, but you're surrounded by it, you tend to become observant. You see things that you're sure the rest of the people (the ones doing it. (giggle.) not that "it".) don't see. Here are some examples that make being "in wove" a little less of a goal:
- Dude and chick walking along, Dude's arm slung super-cool around the chick's shoulder. He's walking her through the place (name the place: grocery store, mall, County Fair, etc.) and he's really being cool and she's really aware of his coolness. He's macho, not even looking where he's going and she's smitten, with googly-eyes only for him, and that's when he walks her straight into a pole or tower of boxes... Super-cool...
- You're sitting in a coffee place or restaurant or somewhere that couples go to be coupley and you hear this: "Do you wove me?" And then you resist the urge to chuck-up in your coffee or salad. Nothin' worse then that relationship where one must constantly be told their woved, right up until the other forgets why they ever said "yes I wove you." in the first place.
- You're the second person to notice the very, very married guy checking out the uber-hotty college co-ed. The first person? Mrs. Married Guy. Now Cranky Mrs. Married Guy. And you know that she's noticed him how? Your eyes met hers as they were moving off of the soon-to-be-late Mr. Married Guy. At that time you determined it's too time consuming to have to give the witness' statement and you beat feet elsewhere. As the cries erupt behind you. Via Con Dios, Married Guy. Via Con what-were-you-thinking Dios...
Sunday, May 06, 2007
Either I'm cynical or she's CRAZY.
Beautiful Dreamer is playing the field again, bless her big, old, squishy heart. It's not that she's ditched the previously happy-find-dude, but since he lives out of town (a 45-min drive) and they're not overly serious yet she decided there was no reason she should stop keeping her options open. This, by the way, is one of those rare times that I totally agreed with her!
So through her online dating site of choice (something like "Big Ol' Fans o' Jesus Who Are Lookin' for LUV.com") she's got another 2-3 guys on the line. She's quite skilled at this! One fellow is what she would call "forward" or what I would call "Run, Run, RUN AWAY from the crazy man!" We are clearly coming at this from very different perspectives.
What do I mean? OK, here's a good example. She's not yet met this man, OK? I think it's important that we establish this fact and refer to it often. (don't worry, I'll handle that part.) So far it's been some emails and a few phone calls. During a recent phone call they were making plans to meet. Meet for the first time, remember!
Many options were tossed out, including a drive to the coast which is about an hour away. At which point he starts on this very bizarre train of thought:
"Of course if we go to the coast for dinner we'd be there pretty late. We'd have to drive back late. Unless we stayed the night? I have friends who live on the coast and I'm sure we could stay there. Or we could go to a hotel? Of course we'd get seperate rooms. Or if we didn't I assure you that I'm a complete gentleman. I mean even if you ended up lying in my arms you'd be totally safe..."
In the space of one paragraph we go from "hey, we should meet some time." to "I promise I wouldn't grope you too badly if we slept in a hotel room together. You know, that first time I ever meet you." Gah!
Or there was the time they were talking on the phone (probably about how they couldn't pick eachother out of a line up, seeing as they have NEVER MET) and Mr. Quickie McQuickerton announces that he (on a walk as they chat) has arrived at his dream house. He then proceeds to describe this house, it's features, price, location etc., because she needs to come by at some point and look at it and decide if she likes it too, since they couldn't live in it if she didn't like it. Once they'd met. Ever. Since they haven't yet met at all. EVER.
Oh, and also that she has a kid named (false name now) Kate and he has one named (also false name) Kaitlin, so "they'd have two Kates." They. That family would contain 2 Kates. That family that hasn't actually even met yet, but please let's be sure to contemplate the name challenges and pick out the house and practice the story of how we met to tell our Grandkids, assuming that we ever do meet. BECAUSE WE HAVE NOT EVEN MET YET!
She tells me these stories and she's all a giggle and a twitter and a piffle and preen and "isn't he cute? Isn't he sweet? Isn't he duckie?" Where as in my head I'm thinking "isn't he stalkie? Isn't he clingy? Isn't he the guy I'll be giving a statement about after he meets you, claims you and then kills you in some terribly romantic murder suicide!!!!" I sure won't be able to say to the news anchor from Channel 5 "Gosh, it sure was a surprise. He didn't seem at all like the type." Man oh man does he seem like the type! Look in Wikipedia under "the type" and we might be able to see what this guy looks like, for I'm sure he's pictured proudly.
I don't know exactly why her pursuits for online wove are so much more productive then mine. I'd ask her if she's doing anything special, but I can't tell her that I'm doing anything at all, so that's out. But I can't help if wonder whether part of the difference is deep-seeded in our ways of looking at this stuff. Because she finds each new facet cool and fascinating, where as I'm seeing the prologue to a Lifetime movie-for-women around every corner.
Oh well, maybe I am making murderous, calamitous mountains out of nervous, twitchy little molehills. If not I guess I could get up at her memorial service and tell everybody "I told her so." Once they've actually met. (shudder...)
So through her online dating site of choice (something like "Big Ol' Fans o' Jesus Who Are Lookin' for LUV.com") she's got another 2-3 guys on the line. She's quite skilled at this! One fellow is what she would call "forward" or what I would call "Run, Run, RUN AWAY from the crazy man!" We are clearly coming at this from very different perspectives.
What do I mean? OK, here's a good example. She's not yet met this man, OK? I think it's important that we establish this fact and refer to it often. (don't worry, I'll handle that part.) So far it's been some emails and a few phone calls. During a recent phone call they were making plans to meet. Meet for the first time, remember!
Many options were tossed out, including a drive to the coast which is about an hour away. At which point he starts on this very bizarre train of thought:
"Of course if we go to the coast for dinner we'd be there pretty late. We'd have to drive back late. Unless we stayed the night? I have friends who live on the coast and I'm sure we could stay there. Or we could go to a hotel? Of course we'd get seperate rooms. Or if we didn't I assure you that I'm a complete gentleman. I mean even if you ended up lying in my arms you'd be totally safe..."
In the space of one paragraph we go from "hey, we should meet some time." to "I promise I wouldn't grope you too badly if we slept in a hotel room together. You know, that first time I ever meet you." Gah!
Or there was the time they were talking on the phone (probably about how they couldn't pick eachother out of a line up, seeing as they have NEVER MET) and Mr. Quickie McQuickerton announces that he (on a walk as they chat) has arrived at his dream house. He then proceeds to describe this house, it's features, price, location etc., because she needs to come by at some point and look at it and decide if she likes it too, since they couldn't live in it if she didn't like it. Once they'd met. Ever. Since they haven't yet met at all. EVER.
Oh, and also that she has a kid named (false name now) Kate and he has one named (also false name) Kaitlin, so "they'd have two Kates." They. That family would contain 2 Kates. That family that hasn't actually even met yet, but please let's be sure to contemplate the name challenges and pick out the house and practice the story of how we met to tell our Grandkids, assuming that we ever do meet. BECAUSE WE HAVE NOT EVEN MET YET!
She tells me these stories and she's all a giggle and a twitter and a piffle and preen and "isn't he cute? Isn't he sweet? Isn't he duckie?" Where as in my head I'm thinking "isn't he stalkie? Isn't he clingy? Isn't he the guy I'll be giving a statement about after he meets you, claims you and then kills you in some terribly romantic murder suicide!!!!" I sure won't be able to say to the news anchor from Channel 5 "Gosh, it sure was a surprise. He didn't seem at all like the type." Man oh man does he seem like the type! Look in Wikipedia under "the type" and we might be able to see what this guy looks like, for I'm sure he's pictured proudly.
I don't know exactly why her pursuits for online wove are so much more productive then mine. I'd ask her if she's doing anything special, but I can't tell her that I'm doing anything at all, so that's out. But I can't help if wonder whether part of the difference is deep-seeded in our ways of looking at this stuff. Because she finds each new facet cool and fascinating, where as I'm seeing the prologue to a Lifetime movie-for-women around every corner.
Oh well, maybe I am making murderous, calamitous mountains out of nervous, twitchy little molehills. If not I guess I could get up at her memorial service and tell everybody "I told her so." Once they've actually met. (shudder...)
Thursday, May 03, 2007
With apologies to the Clash.
Guess what? My membership with Yenta.com expires very soon. Extremely soon. OK, TOMORROW soon. I happened to wonder exactly when I signed up (because it seemed like it had been a little while) and so I peeked over there and noticed that under "End Date" it says 5/4/07. Which is another way of saying tomorrow. A really specific, direct, clear way of saying "you're going to have to decide about doing this again tomorrow, dufus." (the 'dufus' is silent)
I'll be honest -- I wasn't really ready to make this danged decision again. Heck, it feels like I was trying to figure out what to do about Wove.com only a few months ago! (ha.) Now I'm back here again wondering if it makes any sense to spend $60 for another 3 months of contacting nobody and having nobody contact me. (Who says I don't have a positive outlook? Bah!) Then again, here's the curveball for this time around: this particular website advertises that if someone is a member for 6 months and does not find wove (and really, what would be the odds of that, right? Crazy talk!) they'll get an additional 6 months for free.
As itchy as I get at the idea of throwing another $60 down this rabbit hole, I can't help but wonder if that might not make it worth it. After all, I do like rabbits. And I think I'd like the idea of getting another 6 months that are pressure-free. Just having this sitting in the background, waiting for that magical email saying "hey, I'm a young, handsome, brilliant and witty millionaire who has spent the last 10 years studying abroad and now wishes to find love. Oh, and I love to cook, love the Muppets and just happen to have a disease which makes chunky women look absolutely irresistable to me. What's your sign?" [Open For Business]
So I know I'm not giving you guys much time to chime in, but I need your help. What should I do here? Opinions? I've sent an email to the people running Yenta.com to make sure that I'm understanding their pitch correctly -- I'd hate to commit to another 3 months (and a wad of cash which could be buying me monthly chocolate, which you can always count on) only to be told "oh gosh and golly no, that offer only applies if you pay for a 6-month membership, not 2 3-month memberships. That's not how the math works. You're screwed. Thanks for calling and have a nice day."
But assuming that the offer does apply, should I stay or should I go now? After all, if I go there may be trouble. Then again, if I stay there could be double! So, my darling friends and fellow readers, let me know. Should I stay or should I go?
UPDATE:
I heard back from Yenta.com and they tell me this:
"Oh gosh and golly no, when you signed up 3 months ago we weren't making that offer so you do NOT get 6 months for free if you don't find wove after the next 3 months. Even though we truly do believe that if you do this for 6 months and don't find wove you should get 6 free months. We're confusing like that... And have a nice day."
I'll be honest -- I wasn't really ready to make this danged decision again. Heck, it feels like I was trying to figure out what to do about Wove.com only a few months ago! (ha.) Now I'm back here again wondering if it makes any sense to spend $60 for another 3 months of contacting nobody and having nobody contact me. (Who says I don't have a positive outlook? Bah!) Then again, here's the curveball for this time around: this particular website advertises that if someone is a member for 6 months and does not find wove (and really, what would be the odds of that, right? Crazy talk!) they'll get an additional 6 months for free.
As itchy as I get at the idea of throwing another $60 down this rabbit hole, I can't help but wonder if that might not make it worth it. After all, I do like rabbits. And I think I'd like the idea of getting another 6 months that are pressure-free. Just having this sitting in the background, waiting for that magical email saying "hey, I'm a young, handsome, brilliant and witty millionaire who has spent the last 10 years studying abroad and now wishes to find love. Oh, and I love to cook, love the Muppets and just happen to have a disease which makes chunky women look absolutely irresistable to me. What's your sign?" [Open For Business]
So I know I'm not giving you guys much time to chime in, but I need your help. What should I do here? Opinions? I've sent an email to the people running Yenta.com to make sure that I'm understanding their pitch correctly -- I'd hate to commit to another 3 months (and a wad of cash which could be buying me monthly chocolate, which you can always count on) only to be told "oh gosh and golly no, that offer only applies if you pay for a 6-month membership, not 2 3-month memberships. That's not how the math works. You're screwed. Thanks for calling and have a nice day."
But assuming that the offer does apply, should I stay or should I go now? After all, if I go there may be trouble. Then again, if I stay there could be double! So, my darling friends and fellow readers, let me know. Should I stay or should I go?
UPDATE:
I heard back from Yenta.com and they tell me this:
"Oh gosh and golly no, when you signed up 3 months ago we weren't making that offer so you do NOT get 6 months for free if you don't find wove after the next 3 months. Even though we truly do believe that if you do this for 6 months and don't find wove you should get 6 free months. We're confusing like that... And have a nice day."
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
The grande scheme of things
There's this job and I want it.
More then I want a partner I want this job.
More then I want to be skinny so as to better be worthy of a partner I want this job.
More then I want to be sexually refreshed before I die so as to make sure that if there is an afterlife that no snotty angel says to me "really? One person? And you lived to be HOW OLD? And he was an A-Hole too, right?" and then tch, tch, tch's at me and shakes his halo-sportin' head I want THIS JOB.
Just so you understand where the search for love or lust or nooky or whatever falls in the grand scheme of things, it goes like this:
1) happy in my own skin
2) friends and family to be happy and healthy
3) life pursuit (job, career, whatever) that is important to me and makes a difference
4) not be poor. (I don't need to be rich, but I don't ever again want to have to pick between a new mop or dinner.)
and finally...
5) a partner. Or a membership to the chocolate of the month club.
But right now, just about more then anything I want this one new, excellent job.
I won't give too many details -- suffice it to say it's a job that would have many of the things I sit and dream about while at my current job. It would provide me with a feeling of personal pride in my work. I could do something creative with my time. I'd have a stinkin' cool title. (I cannot tell you how high on my list of career priorities "cool title" sits. The day that "Web Master" became an actual title on people's business cards I cried just a little bit. I'd love to be something with "wizard" or "Lord" in it.)
Here's where I'm in "pit of my stomach full of angry pit vipers" stress mode. I applied to this job something like a month ago. I did the whole sh-bang; the resume, the cover letter, samples of my previous work... I was at least impressive enough for them to say "Interesting... Tell me more..." (but in the special hiring manager lingo, dontcha know.) Oh and I gave them more. More awesomeness! And then I knew that I'd have to wait.
And wait. And wait...
I know what you're thinking: "if she would put as much attention and energy and desire into spicing up her love life as her work life this woman would be rolling in dudes!" I think it says something important that the idea of putting this level of interest into my love life just makes me feel tired. Or maybe it's just that a dream guy hasn't showed up, where as the dream job has.
Still, one dream thing at a time. Let me land this big fish and then we'll see what else is floating out there. (come on monthly chocolate!)
More then I want a partner I want this job.
More then I want to be skinny so as to better be worthy of a partner I want this job.
More then I want to be sexually refreshed before I die so as to make sure that if there is an afterlife that no snotty angel says to me "really? One person? And you lived to be HOW OLD? And he was an A-Hole too, right?" and then tch, tch, tch's at me and shakes his halo-sportin' head I want THIS JOB.
Just so you understand where the search for love or lust or nooky or whatever falls in the grand scheme of things, it goes like this:
1) happy in my own skin
2) friends and family to be happy and healthy
3) life pursuit (job, career, whatever) that is important to me and makes a difference
4) not be poor. (I don't need to be rich, but I don't ever again want to have to pick between a new mop or dinner.)
and finally...
5) a partner. Or a membership to the chocolate of the month club.
But right now, just about more then anything I want this one new, excellent job.
I won't give too many details -- suffice it to say it's a job that would have many of the things I sit and dream about while at my current job. It would provide me with a feeling of personal pride in my work. I could do something creative with my time. I'd have a stinkin' cool title. (I cannot tell you how high on my list of career priorities "cool title" sits. The day that "Web Master" became an actual title on people's business cards I cried just a little bit. I'd love to be something with "wizard" or "Lord" in it.)
Here's where I'm in "pit of my stomach full of angry pit vipers" stress mode. I applied to this job something like a month ago. I did the whole sh-bang; the resume, the cover letter, samples of my previous work... I was at least impressive enough for them to say "Interesting... Tell me more..." (but in the special hiring manager lingo, dontcha know.) Oh and I gave them more. More awesomeness! And then I knew that I'd have to wait.
And wait. And wait...
I know what you're thinking: "if she would put as much attention and energy and desire into spicing up her love life as her work life this woman would be rolling in dudes!" I think it says something important that the idea of putting this level of interest into my love life just makes me feel tired. Or maybe it's just that a dream guy hasn't showed up, where as the dream job has.
Still, one dream thing at a time. Let me land this big fish and then we'll see what else is floating out there. (come on monthly chocolate!)
Sunday, April 29, 2007
I don't FEEL any older...
Happy Birthday to me! (go ahead, have some cake on me. I'm a giver.)
Before I go on there are two things I should tell you. The first is a quickie: this one is almost certainly going off-mission. (but since it's my birthday I'm good with that.)
The second is an explanation of my philosophy of birthdays, which is this: I believe that everybody should think about everyone that they like and love more then they think of themselves, MUCH more then of themselves, for 364 days of each year. If we all think of others consistently then there will be many people thinking of us, and we'll all be ok. But for one day each year, on the day that you were born, you should think of yourself, yourself, and YOU SEF, BABY! I live this philosophy. It's a winner. Win-Ner.
37 years ago today my Mom was probably cursing my very existence, planning sweet revenge on my Dad and promising sexual favors to any doctor who could make this blessed hell STOP. These days we call this childbirth. But to my amazement she's forgiven me, and she and my Dad happily hang with me on my birthday pretty much every year. I give to all on April 28th; I give to all on April 30th. But April 29th is MY day. On April 29th I give to me.
Understand that up until last Thursday I was convinced that I was going to be spending my birthday at the bedside vigil of Granny. In fact, I was pretty sure that Granny's ironic sense of humor had her planning to pull the plug ON my birthday. It would have been a fabulous way for my life-long sparring partner (but with love, big love) to get in the very last word and with no way for me to get back at her! Oh I would have cursed her, but I also would have bowed to her brilliant strategy. She was the master.
But I guess she decided, at the last, to be generous and free the whole family Thursday afternoon. Suddenly I needed to decide how I wanted to spend my birthday, and I went with one of my favorite ways to spend any day: a day-trip to the pacific coast. Me, the parents and a family chum had one hell of a Mutual of Omaha day!
We saw elk, we saw a bald eagle, there was also a golden eagle and frollicking harbor seals. In one day! I have a pained trigger finger from all the picture taking!
And we listened to excellent music and all sang along as we cruised down the road. And we ate snacks (because seriously, what is a road trip without snacks? Prison in a foodless car, that's what.) and then also amazing fish and chips as the sun sank in the west (same place it normally sinks, but it's much cooler when the west is all full of water, like a big, cosmic bathtub filling up with the sun) And I got to fall asleep in the back seat on the drive home, which is one of my favorite things since childhood but one I don't get to do much anymore because when you're the driver they really don't like for you to fall asleep in the car and when you're super-single you're pretty much always the driver...
Now it's the end of the day and I'm riding the high into the day after my birthday, also called the "oh crap, that's right: I'm not the center of the universe anymore. Sigh."-day. I'll think of others and give of myself and be generous and considerate and work my philosophy the other 364 days of the year. 364 days to go, baby. Happy Birthday to me.
Before I go on there are two things I should tell you. The first is a quickie: this one is almost certainly going off-mission. (but since it's my birthday I'm good with that.)
The second is an explanation of my philosophy of birthdays, which is this: I believe that everybody should think about everyone that they like and love more then they think of themselves, MUCH more then of themselves, for 364 days of each year. If we all think of others consistently then there will be many people thinking of us, and we'll all be ok. But for one day each year, on the day that you were born, you should think of yourself, yourself, and YOU SEF, BABY! I live this philosophy. It's a winner. Win-Ner.
37 years ago today my Mom was probably cursing my very existence, planning sweet revenge on my Dad and promising sexual favors to any doctor who could make this blessed hell STOP. These days we call this childbirth. But to my amazement she's forgiven me, and she and my Dad happily hang with me on my birthday pretty much every year. I give to all on April 28th; I give to all on April 30th. But April 29th is MY day. On April 29th I give to me.
Understand that up until last Thursday I was convinced that I was going to be spending my birthday at the bedside vigil of Granny. In fact, I was pretty sure that Granny's ironic sense of humor had her planning to pull the plug ON my birthday. It would have been a fabulous way for my life-long sparring partner (but with love, big love) to get in the very last word and with no way for me to get back at her! Oh I would have cursed her, but I also would have bowed to her brilliant strategy. She was the master.
But I guess she decided, at the last, to be generous and free the whole family Thursday afternoon. Suddenly I needed to decide how I wanted to spend my birthday, and I went with one of my favorite ways to spend any day: a day-trip to the pacific coast. Me, the parents and a family chum had one hell of a Mutual of Omaha day!
We saw elk, we saw a bald eagle, there was also a golden eagle and frollicking harbor seals. In one day! I have a pained trigger finger from all the picture taking!And we listened to excellent music and all sang along as we cruised down the road. And we ate snacks (because seriously, what is a road trip without snacks? Prison in a foodless car, that's what.) and then also amazing fish and chips as the sun sank in the west (same place it normally sinks, but it's much cooler when the west is all full of water, like a big, cosmic bathtub filling up with the sun) And I got to fall asleep in the back seat on the drive home, which is one of my favorite things since childhood but one I don't get to do much anymore because when you're the driver they really don't like for you to fall asleep in the car and when you're super-single you're pretty much always the driver...
Now it's the end of the day and I'm riding the high into the day after my birthday, also called the "oh crap, that's right: I'm not the center of the universe anymore. Sigh."-day. I'll think of others and give of myself and be generous and considerate and work my philosophy the other 364 days of the year. 364 days to go, baby. Happy Birthday to me.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
It's good to have goals
I hate to break it to all of you, but you're not going to live forever.
I know this because if there was anyone who was ever going to live forever it was my Granny. She didn't age a bit from my first solid memory of her (around age 7, when she moved to Hippyville) until about 10 years ago. She stayed a little old, but not elderly, for over 20 years. Didn't get sick, never got hurt... Live forever, that was Granny.
And even after she did suddenly get old, and then older, and then uncomfortably old, she was still gonna live forever. We celebrated 90 years with a big party. We celebrated 95 years with an even bigger one. We were already starting the planning of her 100th birthday party, which was to be HUGE.
But I have absolute proof right now that nobody will ever live forever. Because Granny gave up that option Thursday afternoon. She has moved on to blaze a trail through the next cool challenge, and I'm glad that she'll have all those rules figured out by the time I get there. After all, she did a crap load of amazing stuff when she was here. She really made the most of her 97+ years, including traditional adventures such as marriage, 3 kids, 5 grandkids and 9 great-grandkids.
She also had many not-so-traditional adventures, such as going to a picture show with a mobster's bodyguards, singing on the radio when radio was tv, traveling all over Europe with a girlfriend and no dude (shocking for the time!) and even a short trip to a mental institution. (she committed herself -- probably the bravest thing ever.)
Now I have to figure out what I want on my list of adventures before I move on. Let's assume I have another 60 years to fill. With what do I wish to fill them, dear Liza, dear Liza, with what do I wish to fill them, dear Liza, with what? (thank you, Muppets) In honor of old, old, very old Granny and her list of "here's what Granny did with Granny's time" I am starting my own list of things I'd like to do my time. It will ever be a work in progress (much like my life. Yours too? Something else we have in common. I feel very close to you right now.) but I'll try to keep it current. A never-ending meme, if you will. Here's what I got so far:
I know this because if there was anyone who was ever going to live forever it was my Granny. She didn't age a bit from my first solid memory of her (around age 7, when she moved to Hippyville) until about 10 years ago. She stayed a little old, but not elderly, for over 20 years. Didn't get sick, never got hurt... Live forever, that was Granny.
And even after she did suddenly get old, and then older, and then uncomfortably old, she was still gonna live forever. We celebrated 90 years with a big party. We celebrated 95 years with an even bigger one. We were already starting the planning of her 100th birthday party, which was to be HUGE.
But I have absolute proof right now that nobody will ever live forever. Because Granny gave up that option Thursday afternoon. She has moved on to blaze a trail through the next cool challenge, and I'm glad that she'll have all those rules figured out by the time I get there. After all, she did a crap load of amazing stuff when she was here. She really made the most of her 97+ years, including traditional adventures such as marriage, 3 kids, 5 grandkids and 9 great-grandkids.
She also had many not-so-traditional adventures, such as going to a picture show with a mobster's bodyguards, singing on the radio when radio was tv, traveling all over Europe with a girlfriend and no dude (shocking for the time!) and even a short trip to a mental institution. (she committed herself -- probably the bravest thing ever.)
Now I have to figure out what I want on my list of adventures before I move on. Let's assume I have another 60 years to fill. With what do I wish to fill them, dear Liza, dear Liza, with what do I wish to fill them, dear Liza, with what? (thank you, Muppets) In honor of old, old, very old Granny and her list of "here's what Granny did with Granny's time" I am starting my own list of things I'd like to do my time. It will ever be a work in progress (much like my life. Yours too? Something else we have in common. I feel very close to you right now.) but I'll try to keep it current. A never-ending meme, if you will. Here's what I got so far:
- travel to 3 other continents (Australia, Africa and possibly a pole?)
- own my own house.
- have at least one piece of writing published.
- own a 1963 Ford Falcon convertible. That runs.
- have sex with at least one other guy besides WWIT-Dude
- Fire a shotgun and a rifle.
- win a blue ribbon in photography from somebody what matters.
- own a first edition of a good book.
- keep a plant alive, outside, for more then one season.
- learn how to do at least one of the following dances: tango, salsa or swing.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
I am JUST SAYING.
It just seems to me that if I'm not using the equipment I shouldn't have to go through the hassle of maintaining it.
For instance, if I've not done more then piddle with my private region in the last decade I should be exempt from having to schedule Gyno appointments, let alone go to them. No cold things in warm places, no poking where I've not been poked, I should be given a "get out of Gyno free" card!
The same thing with mammograms. Someone asked me recently how long it had been since my last mammogram, and when I replied with the totally reasonable answer of "so I should have had one by now?" they were all shocked of face! As though I'd replied "well, I think the last one was right after I shot that priest but before I set fire to all of those puppies..." No priests were shot, no puppies set ablaze, and yet such a look was I given!
I mean, if you buy a car and drive it around for a couple of years, and then you park it in the garage for a decade, you shouldn't have to drive it over to the mechanic every year for a check up, right? I understand that when you decide to start up that car again after being idle so long that it will probably not start right away, and may take some tender care to get it to turn over. I'm ready for that, should I ever take this old jalopy out for another spin. (Man, I sure hope you guys are clear on the analogy I'm going for here. Or else I'll get emails claiming that I went off-mission with no warning!)
To take the time and the money and all to schedule appointments for fun things like my gynocologist or the special, special experience that is the mammogram... It just seems like a vicious joke. I say if you have to keep up the up-keep then the doctor's office should have a complimentary "refresher" that the offer. Right there in the office. Have some handsome, young buck named something like "Turk" or "Hans" who is skilled in the ways of... oh you know...
"using the equipment..."
"dusting off the furniture..."
"exercising the pony..." (seriously, I could populate an encyclopedia of these.)
"waxing the porsche..."
"fluffing the pillows..."
"using the guest soaps..." (last one.)
"driving the submarine..."
For a service like that (sanctioned by a doctor, so you know it's healthy and all) I would pay a little more. And it would be reserved for those who aren't gettin' any at home. If you've got a dude and he's watcha call unskilled you can't use the service! In that situation you have to either skill your man or just stop using him. No fair double-dippin'!
Sigh. For now I guess I should find a gynocologist and make an appointment for a tune-up.
For instance, if I've not done more then piddle with my private region in the last decade I should be exempt from having to schedule Gyno appointments, let alone go to them. No cold things in warm places, no poking where I've not been poked, I should be given a "get out of Gyno free" card!
The same thing with mammograms. Someone asked me recently how long it had been since my last mammogram, and when I replied with the totally reasonable answer of "so I should have had one by now?" they were all shocked of face! As though I'd replied "well, I think the last one was right after I shot that priest but before I set fire to all of those puppies..." No priests were shot, no puppies set ablaze, and yet such a look was I given!
I mean, if you buy a car and drive it around for a couple of years, and then you park it in the garage for a decade, you shouldn't have to drive it over to the mechanic every year for a check up, right? I understand that when you decide to start up that car again after being idle so long that it will probably not start right away, and may take some tender care to get it to turn over. I'm ready for that, should I ever take this old jalopy out for another spin. (Man, I sure hope you guys are clear on the analogy I'm going for here. Or else I'll get emails claiming that I went off-mission with no warning!)
To take the time and the money and all to schedule appointments for fun things like my gynocologist or the special, special experience that is the mammogram... It just seems like a vicious joke. I say if you have to keep up the up-keep then the doctor's office should have a complimentary "refresher" that the offer. Right there in the office. Have some handsome, young buck named something like "Turk" or "Hans" who is skilled in the ways of... oh you know...
"using the equipment..."
"dusting off the furniture..."
"exercising the pony..." (seriously, I could populate an encyclopedia of these.)
"waxing the porsche..."
"fluffing the pillows..."
"using the guest soaps..." (last one.)
"driving the submarine..."
For a service like that (sanctioned by a doctor, so you know it's healthy and all) I would pay a little more. And it would be reserved for those who aren't gettin' any at home. If you've got a dude and he's watcha call unskilled you can't use the service! In that situation you have to either skill your man or just stop using him. No fair double-dippin'!
Sigh. For now I guess I should find a gynocologist and make an appointment for a tune-up.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Stinkin' cool way to do Earth Day
Off-topic, but very holiday-appropriate!
OK, so today I'm mowing the lawn. I'm doing it because I don't own a machete and fear things that lurk in tall, tall grass, and so I mow. I'm mowing, mowing, oh so mowing and I determine it's the right time for one of those dramatic pauses where one stretches their back, peers at the shiny sun (as if to say "good lord but that is a bright sun we have there!" like that could be a bad thing) and wipe one's brow with the butt of one's thumb. I stretch, peer and wipe and in that moment of quiet my internal voice was finally able to break through with this question:
"Say, what's with all the bug action over there by the trubs?"
Tangent: they're either trees that are the height and majesty of shrubs or shrubs with the depth and potency of shrubs. Since they are neither true tree nor sure shrub I dub them trubs.
Anyhoo, these trubs run along the north side of my yard between me and the northern neighbors. And sure enough, smack dab in the middle of the line of trubs, about 2 feet off the
ground, there is much bug commotion. I stare, I stare, and then I see that the commotion actually the comings and goings of bees from a MASSIVE swarm hanging off a trub branch! Big! Large! Not at all teeny! Bees, baby!
There was a time I would have made a beeline (sorry) straight to the phonebook and looked up "killer of bees!" to solve my problem. But three things have changed: First, one of my favorite people became a beekeeper and blogged about it (so, SO cool. If you haven't read it you must. I'll wait...)
...Second, I've accumulated so much guilt about this planet and what we, the greatest villain from any Disney or Disney-like animated movie, have done to everything that I couldn't kill off any little critters li
ke that. And third is this whole thing about how bees are dissappearing mysteriously and we're all doomed. So I got a bee-centric phone number from the phone book and discovered Groovy Bee Dude. (not his name, but he's innocent and you know what we do with the innocent. That's right, we protect them.)
And so suddenly I'm in the middle of this awesome Mr. Science episode! I called my sister's kids so that they could check this out (never waste a moment of natural wonder, I always say! Rest in peace, Marlin Perkins.) and took pictures and it was stinkin' cool. This Groovy Bee Dude brought a box and took this bunch of bees (looking all the world like golden, stripey grapes with wings and stingers and buzzing and flying and ok, hardly anything like grapes except for their being bunchy and hanging off of the branch.) and just shook them down into the box!
You know that if we'd done such a thing it would have gone something like this:
After he had the branch de-beed he had to leave the bee box in the yard until night, at which point all the bees would gather up in the box for protection and such. At that point just about all the girls (the bees) would be calling the box their new home, looking after the queen (who was so dang cooperative and just went straight into the middle of the box first thing! thanks, your majesty!) and doing the most impossible headcount ever. And in the meantime Groovy Bee Dude went to dinner.
Leaving me with the bee box in my yard.
But not scary! I waited until the anxiety level around the hive had calmed down (how would you like it if someone shook your ground until you fell into a box!) and then I wandered over and sat and enjoyed this unique moment. Me and a tiny little universe of lives doing their thing. The whole box hummed. Within a few minutes the bees were settled into the new home and resumed their beely coming and going. They ignored me, minding their own beeswax (sorry) and I sat and watched them for a long time.
Happy Earth Day, folks. I hope everyone got to do something that made them feel like they've earned their corner of the globe, at least a little bit. Tomorrow: back to the mission.
OK, so today I'm mowing the lawn. I'm doing it because I don't own a machete and fear things that lurk in tall, tall grass, and so I mow. I'm mowing, mowing, oh so mowing and I determine it's the right time for one of those dramatic pauses where one stretches their back, peers at the shiny sun (as if to say "good lord but that is a bright sun we have there!" like that could be a bad thing) and wipe one's brow with the butt of one's thumb. I stretch, peer and wipe and in that moment of quiet my internal voice was finally able to break through with this question:
"Say, what's with all the bug action over there by the trubs?"
Tangent: they're either trees that are the height and majesty of shrubs or shrubs with the depth and potency of shrubs. Since they are neither true tree nor sure shrub I dub them trubs.
Anyhoo, these trubs run along the north side of my yard between me and the northern neighbors. And sure enough, smack dab in the middle of the line of trubs, about 2 feet off the
ground, there is much bug commotion. I stare, I stare, and then I see that the commotion actually the comings and goings of bees from a MASSIVE swarm hanging off a trub branch! Big! Large! Not at all teeny! Bees, baby!There was a time I would have made a beeline (sorry) straight to the phonebook and looked up "killer of bees!" to solve my problem. But three things have changed: First, one of my favorite people became a beekeeper and blogged about it (so, SO cool. If you haven't read it you must. I'll wait...)
...Second, I've accumulated so much guilt about this planet and what we, the greatest villain from any Disney or Disney-like animated movie, have done to everything that I couldn't kill off any little critters li
ke that. And third is this whole thing about how bees are dissappearing mysteriously and we're all doomed. So I got a bee-centric phone number from the phone book and discovered Groovy Bee Dude. (not his name, but he's innocent and you know what we do with the innocent. That's right, we protect them.)You know that if we'd done such a thing it would have gone something like this:
- Dress from head to tow in the bee-resistent suit and hood and gloves and still hate to get close enough to the buzzing branch to touch it.
- Take branch.
- Shake once over the box and run, run, run like a little girl with a little bit of squealing thrown in.
- Stand a safe distance away, cowering and watching the box to see if anything has moved down into the slots.
- After a while, creep back to the branch and shake remaining bees from the branch into box.
- More of the running and the squealing.
After he had the branch de-beed he had to leave the bee box in the yard until night, at which point all the bees would gather up in the box for protection and such. At that point just about all the girls (the bees) would be calling the box their new home, looking after the queen (who was so dang cooperative and just went straight into the middle of the box first thing! thanks, your majesty!) and doing the most impossible headcount ever. And in the meantime Groovy Bee Dude went to dinner.
Leaving me with the bee box in my yard.
But not scary! I waited until the anxiety level around the hive had calmed down (how would you like it if someone shook your ground until you fell into a box!) and then I wandered over and sat and enjoyed this unique moment. Me and a tiny little universe of lives doing their thing. The whole box hummed. Within a few minutes the bees were settled into the new home and resumed their beely coming and going. They ignored me, minding their own beeswax (sorry) and I sat and watched them for a long time.
Happy Earth Day, folks. I hope everyone got to do something that made them feel like they've earned their corner of the globe, at least a little bit. Tomorrow: back to the mission.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Curtain Call
Not for me, just in case anybody was alarmed.
I've spent much of this week hanging out with my 97-year old Grandmother. We call her Granny. And when I say "we" I mean the entire population of Hippyville calls her Granny. She's lived here for almost 30 years and she's always been one of those people who attracts others to her.
But for me Granny is also a role model. In many ways, but specifically I'm talking in the area of being a single woman. Because she has been single for the majority of her life. By choice, I think.
See, Granny had a Husband, with whom she had 3 kids. But after a while the Husband found another woman, in another town, for whom he could be a hero. And the Husband needed that. He was a man who really needed a woman who needed him. Husband liked being needed, being necessary, being someone's hero. Unfortunately for the Husband, his greatest love was a woman who could absolutely take care of herself. She was independent, strong willed... she was a f*cking force of nature.
So here was the Husband, with a wife who was the envy of all who knew them and by far one of his biggest selling points to friends, neighbors, clients. and also with a mistress in a nearby town who satisfied for him the need to be needed. And the poor, sad man couldn't make up his mind. No matter how much Granny did for him, in running his home and raising his kids and helping him build a business and being his partner. No matter all of that, because the Mistress did the one thing that Granny couldn't do: the Mistress couldn't get along without the Husband.
Eventually Granny laid down the law and confronted the Husband about his extra relationship. He tried to sell her on the idea of them all living together (because apparently he was living in a fantasy universe) and Granny responded as any reasonable woman would (glass ashtray to the head.) And they divorced, and Husband married Mistress (now Wife Mark 2) and they had a couple of kids of their own. They had their lives and they both had their deaths and Granny marches on.
One time when I was young I asked Granny about Husband. I hadn't really known him and he died when I was fairly young, but I couldn't figure out what could have happened there. Granny said it in her words, and they were this: "Husband wasn't happy because I didn't need him. I chose him. I wanted him. I loved him. But I didn't need him. And that was what he desired most of all." And here I am, at the age of almost 40 having never met a man that I needed. In fact, I pride myself on being independent. Strong willed. I'm working still on "force of nature." And if that means that I also stay single because I can't find a way to need a man, or a man who doesn't need to be needed, then so be it.
Granny is super, super old. She hasn't really been the Granny that I knew for a couple of years, and especially the last 6 months. She's had some health scares, some trips to the hospital, some time in rehab facilities... She doesn't eat much or drink much or follow conversations or do much else. Yesterday the parents brought her back to her little Granny flat, built on the back of their house, so that she can wrap things up at home.
I was sitting in her room this morning around 2am, checking that her chest was moving and counting down the 2 hours until I'd have to roll her over again, and I hated that this frail thing was the force of nature I'd enjoyed sparring with my whole life. But when you are as strong as she is, and you decide you're sticking around as long as you can, that's what happens. Still, no matter. Because more then anything I will remember Granny as the woman who taught me that you can want, you can love, you can choose, but it's ok if you don't need. If you can take care of yourself, you get that much more freedom in your world.
But for right now I'm going to take care of her. I'll check in as much as I can, but I'm gonna take care of her.
I've spent much of this week hanging out with my 97-year old Grandmother. We call her Granny. And when I say "we" I mean the entire population of Hippyville calls her Granny. She's lived here for almost 30 years and she's always been one of those people who attracts others to her.
But for me Granny is also a role model. In many ways, but specifically I'm talking in the area of being a single woman. Because she has been single for the majority of her life. By choice, I think.
See, Granny had a Husband, with whom she had 3 kids. But after a while the Husband found another woman, in another town, for whom he could be a hero. And the Husband needed that. He was a man who really needed a woman who needed him. Husband liked being needed, being necessary, being someone's hero. Unfortunately for the Husband, his greatest love was a woman who could absolutely take care of herself. She was independent, strong willed... she was a f*cking force of nature.
So here was the Husband, with a wife who was the envy of all who knew them and by far one of his biggest selling points to friends, neighbors, clients. and also with a mistress in a nearby town who satisfied for him the need to be needed. And the poor, sad man couldn't make up his mind. No matter how much Granny did for him, in running his home and raising his kids and helping him build a business and being his partner. No matter all of that, because the Mistress did the one thing that Granny couldn't do: the Mistress couldn't get along without the Husband.
Eventually Granny laid down the law and confronted the Husband about his extra relationship. He tried to sell her on the idea of them all living together (because apparently he was living in a fantasy universe) and Granny responded as any reasonable woman would (glass ashtray to the head.) And they divorced, and Husband married Mistress (now Wife Mark 2) and they had a couple of kids of their own. They had their lives and they both had their deaths and Granny marches on.
One time when I was young I asked Granny about Husband. I hadn't really known him and he died when I was fairly young, but I couldn't figure out what could have happened there. Granny said it in her words, and they were this: "Husband wasn't happy because I didn't need him. I chose him. I wanted him. I loved him. But I didn't need him. And that was what he desired most of all." And here I am, at the age of almost 40 having never met a man that I needed. In fact, I pride myself on being independent. Strong willed. I'm working still on "force of nature." And if that means that I also stay single because I can't find a way to need a man, or a man who doesn't need to be needed, then so be it.
Granny is super, super old. She hasn't really been the Granny that I knew for a couple of years, and especially the last 6 months. She's had some health scares, some trips to the hospital, some time in rehab facilities... She doesn't eat much or drink much or follow conversations or do much else. Yesterday the parents brought her back to her little Granny flat, built on the back of their house, so that she can wrap things up at home.
I was sitting in her room this morning around 2am, checking that her chest was moving and counting down the 2 hours until I'd have to roll her over again, and I hated that this frail thing was the force of nature I'd enjoyed sparring with my whole life. But when you are as strong as she is, and you decide you're sticking around as long as you can, that's what happens. Still, no matter. Because more then anything I will remember Granny as the woman who taught me that you can want, you can love, you can choose, but it's ok if you don't need. If you can take care of yourself, you get that much more freedom in your world.
But for right now I'm going to take care of her. I'll check in as much as I can, but I'm gonna take care of her.
Monday, April 16, 2007
It could definitely be worse...
Sometimes in life the universe comes along, on it's cosmic milk-and-egg delivery run, to remind you that things could be worse. For me that moment often comes when I see scary biker pirate dude.
There's a guy who frequents the neighborhood just north of mine. He's one of those guys who is recognizable to everyone -- "oh yeah, I know the guy you're talking about! I just saw him at the west side Shop-fer-Crap last Muffleskin Day!" -- but known by no one -- "no idea who he is. Sure stands out in a crowd, though!" And boy does he! But wait, let me paint you a picture:
You can't drive past such a fellow citizen and not do a couple of things. Double-take. Watch him in your rear-view mirror. Wonder where he's going or where he just came from. Mr. Scary Biker Pirate Dude, walkin' down to the Piggly-Wiggly for Cheezy Doodles. Senor Biker Pirate Muchacho, off to the pet store for food for his ferret. Forsooth, Biker Pirate Scurvy Dog, how be the puppet show and mime-a-palooza you attended? And by the way, WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO YOUR RIGHT HAND?
That's the other thing you can't help doing after driving past old S.B.P.D. (as I'm calling him). You have to wonder what happened to his hand and, more to the point (sorry, couldn't resist) why, when he was faced with the decision about how to replace his now-missing righty, he went with "fully-sharpened, wrought-iron, scary, scary, scary hook!" Not a fake hand, or one of those articulating jobbies that can open and close. No, he thought "this is the opportunity I've been waiting for to finally have a sharp, steel, pokey thing with me at all times." No doubt he'd been forced to suffer many instances where he was needing a sharp, steel pokey thing and had none. Never happen again!
But if you're like me the other thing that you sometimes do, as S.B.P.D. is getting smaller and smaller in your rearview mirror, is wonder if there is a Mrs. Scary Biker Pirate Dude. What would the woman in his life be like? What would be the pitfalls of living w/ someone who always has a meat hook coming off his wrist? Does she have any Black-and-Decker body parts of her own? Any funny stories about getting jabbed by the hook? Complete with ugly-looking puncture wounds of course. Just how big a vat of bactine would someone have in their home when living that life?
So I'm trying, as I wander past my now-familiar cast of Yenta.com characters, to remind myself that they may be no Paul Newman or Nathan Fillion, but at least they probably don't have a sharpened, wrought iron hook for a hand. And that's gotta count for somethin'.
There's a guy who frequents the neighborhood just north of mine. He's one of those guys who is recognizable to everyone -- "oh yeah, I know the guy you're talking about! I just saw him at the west side Shop-fer-Crap last Muffleskin Day!" -- but known by no one -- "no idea who he is. Sure stands out in a crowd, though!" And boy does he! But wait, let me paint you a picture:
- About 6 ft tall.
- Super-skinny. I'm talkin' Tim Burton animated hero skinny.
- Long, dark hair down his back. Stops probably just over his nonexistent heiny.
- Sometimes just moustache, sometimes full-on evil Spock goutee.
- Always wears the same thing: black, beat-up skinny jeans and a black biker jacket. And the leather jacket is always, always zipped up to nipple-height. (I'm guessing -- I haven't actually measured the height of his nipples.)
- Right hand is a razor-sharp, wrought iron hook.
You can't drive past such a fellow citizen and not do a couple of things. Double-take. Watch him in your rear-view mirror. Wonder where he's going or where he just came from. Mr. Scary Biker Pirate Dude, walkin' down to the Piggly-Wiggly for Cheezy Doodles. Senor Biker Pirate Muchacho, off to the pet store for food for his ferret. Forsooth, Biker Pirate Scurvy Dog, how be the puppet show and mime-a-palooza you attended? And by the way, WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO YOUR RIGHT HAND?
That's the other thing you can't help doing after driving past old S.B.P.D. (as I'm calling him). You have to wonder what happened to his hand and, more to the point (sorry, couldn't resist) why, when he was faced with the decision about how to replace his now-missing righty, he went with "fully-sharpened, wrought-iron, scary, scary, scary hook!" Not a fake hand, or one of those articulating jobbies that can open and close. No, he thought "this is the opportunity I've been waiting for to finally have a sharp, steel, pokey thing with me at all times." No doubt he'd been forced to suffer many instances where he was needing a sharp, steel pokey thing and had none. Never happen again!
But if you're like me the other thing that you sometimes do, as S.B.P.D. is getting smaller and smaller in your rearview mirror, is wonder if there is a Mrs. Scary Biker Pirate Dude. What would the woman in his life be like? What would be the pitfalls of living w/ someone who always has a meat hook coming off his wrist? Does she have any Black-and-Decker body parts of her own? Any funny stories about getting jabbed by the hook? Complete with ugly-looking puncture wounds of course. Just how big a vat of bactine would someone have in their home when living that life?
So I'm trying, as I wander past my now-familiar cast of Yenta.com characters, to remind myself that they may be no Paul Newman or Nathan Fillion, but at least they probably don't have a sharpened, wrought iron hook for a hand. And that's gotta count for somethin'.
Friday, April 13, 2007
What if you threw a wink party and nobody came?
So the good (and surprising) news was that out of 6 winks I didn't get one single rejection! Not one! Look at me, being not at all rejected! Wahoo!
The other news (good? bad? unclear) is that out of 6 winks nobody winked back. Or emailed. Or even noticed? I'm all out there, winking my heart out and everybody else is unresponsive. You know, like I was to the guy who winked at me. Maybe this is just a karmic kickback. Maybe I should wink back? Even if I'm not interested? Or maybe I should go ahead and reject him? Or maybe I'm reading all sorts of meaning into stuff that is 100% coincidental?
Part of me would kind of prefer some good, old fashioned rejection. Rejection is clear and direct. You know where you stand with rejection. And I tend to go straight to "angry" with rejection, which is an emotion I'm totally versed in.
So then I'm thinking "maybe I should start over again and do some more winking?" So I search and review and find that it's all the same guys out there. Apparently there are only 35 dudes who match my preferences in Hippyville. 34 -- that's it. I've winked at 6 of them, there are about 11 without pictures (and therefore off limits because I'm not that daring), another 15 who I'm not interested in (vegetarian, morning person, too touchy-feely, morning person, not my type, looks-wise, morning person...) and, according to the math, 2 more guys whom I have lost in the shuffle somehow. (I should really look for them -- what if they're in the swamp?)
the commercials are saying it's a whole new Yenta.com, but to me it's just the same old guys. Plus 2 in the swamp.
The other news (good? bad? unclear) is that out of 6 winks nobody winked back. Or emailed. Or even noticed? I'm all out there, winking my heart out and everybody else is unresponsive. You know, like I was to the guy who winked at me. Maybe this is just a karmic kickback. Maybe I should wink back? Even if I'm not interested? Or maybe I should go ahead and reject him? Or maybe I'm reading all sorts of meaning into stuff that is 100% coincidental?
Part of me would kind of prefer some good, old fashioned rejection. Rejection is clear and direct. You know where you stand with rejection. And I tend to go straight to "angry" with rejection, which is an emotion I'm totally versed in.
So then I'm thinking "maybe I should start over again and do some more winking?" So I search and review and find that it's all the same guys out there. Apparently there are only 35 dudes who match my preferences in Hippyville. 34 -- that's it. I've winked at 6 of them, there are about 11 without pictures (and therefore off limits because I'm not that daring), another 15 who I'm not interested in (vegetarian, morning person, too touchy-feely, morning person, not my type, looks-wise, morning person...) and, according to the math, 2 more guys whom I have lost in the shuffle somehow. (I should really look for them -- what if they're in the swamp?)
the commercials are saying it's a whole new Yenta.com, but to me it's just the same old guys. Plus 2 in the swamp.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
100 things about Femtastic...
OK, so I'll move this over to the "About Me" (just as soon as I figure out how to do it) but I figured I'd post this here for two, very important reasons. First, it's the best way for all of my patient readers to finally see what I've come up with. Second, MAN it's been a while since I've posted!! Bad me, BAD ME!!! Anyhoo, here's the list. I'm confident that most of it is probably true.
- I've been single since 1996. I'm not sure I want to change, but I'm open to whatever comes next. (update: in 2009 I met T.E. and stopped being single. As it turned out changing was awesome)
- I come from a family of married people -- we're not much for divorcing.
- I have 2 cats -- Mr. Man (all black) and Lulu (calico)
- I like to think I'm a photographer (check Snapstastic.blogspot.com to decide for yourself)
- I own no ipod. (The future scares me.) However a couple of years ago I got an iPhone. (apparently the future didn't scare me THAT much)
- Instead I prefer to own music in smaller, self-contained units of measure. My people call them "CDs"
- At this time my CD collection numbers just short of 400 disks
- I have two tattoos and have a third I'm dying to add. But I feel like I can't do it justice until I no longer work for "The Man"
- Right now I work in a lame office job. It's a decent way to pay the rent but I live for weekends and holidays (update: yeah, this has changed too. But you'll have to read the blog for that knowledge)
- I'm still not sure what I want to be when I grow up
- Whatever it is, it won't include math, science or filling out paperwork.
- I live in the upper left-hand quarter of the US of A...
- ...in a small town that has been home (no matter where I was living) since I was 2. I call it Hippyville
- I performed improvisational comedy for 6 years in Washington, DC
- I'm kind of afraid of horses. They're very big and powerful and I got beat-up by one once when I was little.
- Few things delight me as much as the Muppets. I've seen all the shows, the movies... LOVE THEM!
- I take loyalty to an absurd level.
- I don't read books very much. Certainly not as much as I should. I should really read more books.
- Then again, when I do read I can get obsessive about it.
- I've read and re-read The Princess Bride, Ender's Game and all of the Milne Pooh books.
- I talk a bunch. A big bunch. Most people think I can hold my breath for a really long time because of how much I talk.
- IalsotalkfasterthenanybodyyouknowohyesIdonoseriouslyjusttrustmeonthis!
- I have a huge collection of comic books. I'd still collect but I can't keep track of the schedule
- I hung my magnetic poetry set next to the toilet for deeper output and get magical things like "chocolate is an elaborate apparatus for delicate arms." So true. So true.
- I sleep with the TV on.
- When I don't have the tv on I have dreams so vivid that they exhaust me by morning
- Yes, I do know that everybody says you should never sleep with the TV on. But they need to spend a night in my brain!
- I hate to exercise. I wish I didn't hate it so, but I do
- But I really like playing Paintball and Laser Tag.
- All of my relationships have been long distance ones. The closest I've ever lived to a partner was a 2-hour drive.
- I design jewelry in my spare time. 'Cause beads are cool. Yes they are. (yes they are. shut up. no YOU shut up.)
- The only sport I enjoy to watch is NASCAR. (can you believe I'm still single?)
- I used to dream of seeing James Taylor in concert because I adore him.
- Then I got to see him in concert. TWICE!
- The second time he signed my Dad's vinyl copy of Sweet Baby James, and the crowd went WILD.
- Now I'm dreaming of seeing the Police in concert. Summer 2007, baby!
- I have irrational fears of heights, large bodies of water and the Dentist. Especially the dentist. (oh how I hate you, Doctor of Pain!)
- Some day I really do want to jump out of a plane. (with a parachute! With a parachute!)
- One of my tattoos is Winnie the Pooh. (Edwin Shepard illustration, not Disney Pooh. I spit on Disney Pooh.)
- I never went to college. I wanted to wait until I knew what I wanted to study. I'm still weighing my options and saving my pizza delivery money.
- I've had crushes on about 60% of my friends without them knowing about it.
- Before I die I must (MUST) play the role of Lucy in "You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown"
- I'm addicted to three things, in this order: Pepsi, TV, the internet.
- I've got one grandparent left. As of this year (2007) she's 97 years and 6 months old. (Granny passed away in April of 2007. She had a grand life and I'm hoping to follow in those footsteps.)
- She stopped being a grown-up about 3 years ago. Now we treat her much like you handle a toddler.
- I don't remember what she used to be like when she was really her and that makes me really mad.
- Because of my experiences with the elderly in my life I really don't want to live to be too old. When I can no longer make rational decisions for myself I'd like my last decision to be "pillow or tall staircase?"
- I'm pretty sure that most of my friends, even the truly close ones, find me really annoying about 50% of the time.
- However I'm amusing or helpful enough the rest of the time to make it worth the effort. (whew!)
- I'm ok with both of those facts, but I prefer the second one.
- Spiders make me very uneasy, but I love snakes.
- My knees can bend backwards, thanks to kneecaps that are too high.
- It's a cool party trick, but my Mom and Sister won't let me do it. Something about it being bad for my knees. Whatever!
- I'd like to have a kid some day, but the later it gets the less likely it seems.
- I throw like a girl, but I shoot like a dame.
- I know all the lyrics to "Bust a Move" by Young MC
- Also the lyrics to many Sondheim tunes, most Cat Stevens songs and practically all Barenaked Ladies jams.
- I don't ever want to meet someone who has my birthday. I prefer to be 100% selfish on my birthday and if I share it with someone I'd have to be considerate of their feelings.
- Dark chocolate is SO much better then any other chocolate. Heck, white chocolate isn't even really chocolate!
- My favorite fancy candy is dark chocolate covered caramels. My favorite cheap candy would be Nutty Bars
- I live in a duplex next to some guy whom I've never met. Never even seen clearly. For over 3 years.
- I hate to cook and, therefore, suck at it.
- I also suck at gardening, though I don't hate it so much.
- I never, ever watch the news. Instead I get all my television news from Jon Stewart.
- But I do listen to the news on NPR every weekday.
- I pretty much always listen to all CDs on "shuffle". It's like getting a new CD every time I listen!
- I'm allergic to bandaids. I don't know if it's the adhesive or the latex, but either way I get bumps, bumps, ITCHY-ITCHY BUMPS!!
- Truthfully I'm hoping it's the adhesive, because apparently most condoms are made of (if you can believe it) LATEX! (remember the bumps? NOT something I want in my "special place")
- I always bring my own candy and soda to the movies. It's kind of the cost, but it's also that I can't get there early enough to stand in line for the theater food. Also the very high cost. And it's expensive.
- I'd love to take a martial arts class, but I don't really have the dedication. Or the flexibility. (or the pajamas)
- When I was 12 I cut off the tip of my left thumb. They sewed it back on, including stitches through the thumbnail. It killed the nerve endings in the tip of my thumb.
- About 6 years later I discovered the nerve endings in my thumb had come back to life. I discovered it by jamming a pin into my thumb, showing off how there were no nerves. SURPRISE!
- My dream car is a 1963 Ford Falcon convertible. Sky blue. p-r-e-t-t-y...
- I have a big old collection of shot glasses; I don't collect them anymore because I have friends and family who bring them back to me from all over the globe.
- Every day I have a 16 oz. glass of milk with ice cubes.
- I sometimes dream of giving up and just going for full-on FAT. So much easier, ya know?
- I have truly dreadful handwriting. No kidding; I wish that my friend Risky could follow me around and do all my signatures because my name looks so much cooler when she writes it.
- Then again, I can type 85-90 words per minute.
- My favorite sleep is in a room full of people hanging out and having fun around me.
- I am absolutely NOT a MORNING PERSON. People always say "you'd have a much better morning if you'd just go to bed earlier and get a full night's sleep." No. It just doesn't matter what I do the night before: I will always hate mornings.
- My hearing is not so good anymore due to years of listening to music in my headphones at the volume level of "stupid-loud"
- To compensate I'm a better-then-average lip reader.
- And I still listen to music on my headphones at "stupid-loud"
- I've never tried any illegal drugs.
- But I've had way more then one person's fair share of Jagermeister.
- I like my Jagermeister with a Wheat Thin chaser
- I don't watch reality shows because they make everyone who watches them look very stupid...
- ...except, apparently, Dancing with the Stars when, and only when, I have the flu and am feverish.
- I've seen the Rocky Horror Picture Show over 125 times. IN the theaters!
- But I'm not in favor of the in-theater casts. They force everyone to stifle their fun for the sake of the casts.
- One of my favorite ways to spend time is playing board games. I'm geeky that way. (yes, that way too.)
- At the same time I'm not really into video games much. And also don't do sports.
- I was a virgin until 1994...
- ...and I last "made the beast with two backs" in 1996. (you do the math!)
- My people name their cars. The first car I ever paid for myself was a 1965 Chevy Corvair convertible, which I named Stella Star.
- My current car is a Mazda 6 Station Wagon I call Hope.
- She got the name because her previous (and only other) owner worked the Obama campaign in 2008.
- I am a dead shot when firing small guns like a 22. But I can't get past the kick of the larger caliber guns.
- I can cut my own matte board when framing my art
- I sucked my thumb until I was 11 years old. I still miss it sometimes.
Saturday, April 07, 2007
APPARENTLY I have needs...
There's this new meme blazing through the blogosphere and it's very, very simple: you type your name and "needs" into google and see what you get. Initially I feared going off-mission, but this one just kept veering back towards mission and so I saw it as a good precursor to releasing the "100 things About Me" list. Before you find out what I think I'm all about, let's see what the World Wide Web thinks I'm all about, shall we? Woohoo!!
"Femtastic needs to get real stoned" What amuses me here is not the idea that I need to get stoned, but that I need to get real stoned. Like all the stoned-getting I've been doing so far has been entirely too half-assed. Like my getting stoned is being critiqued here, ya know?
"Femtastic needs a lot of assistance with self help skills such as toileting" So, just so I'm clear here: Toileting is a skill?
"Femtastic needs to make sure that "caddie-father" doesn't turn into a dirty word" Hey, you're not the boss of me, you caddie-father you!!
"Femtastic needs your help" Like that's news to any of you guys...
"Femtastic NEEDS its own whale NOW" I want to complain about being described as "its" but then I might not get my OWN WHALE! I'm getting my OWN WHALE!
"Femtastic Needs Buttons!!!!!!" For the whale...
"Femtastic needs a home" Big enough to fit in the whale...
"Femtastic needs to have his butt whipped in order to “straighten him out”." I'd like the scores of people who have thought this for years to please line up. Right next to the whale!
"Femtastic needs to beat matt again more than matt needs to beat Femtastic" I wonder if it's fair to put this out there w/out giving this 'Matt' guy a chance to chime in. If you're Matt please let me know how much you need to beat me. And then I'm kickin' your ass, ya Caddie-Father!
"Femtastic needs someone who knows how to handle horses on the ground" I'm cool with the flying horses -- it's just the earth-bound ones that are flummoxing me.
"Femtastic needs to learn to use his imagination" I don't know, it's got to be a pretty good sign about my imagination that I'm both referring to myself in the third person AND as a dude!
"Femtastic needs a nap" AMEN MY BROTHAH!!!
"Femtastic needs suctioning" Is that what you crazy kids are calling it these days? Naughty!
"Femtastic needs to do this, Femtastic needs to do that" (nag, nag, nag...)
"i dont think Femtastic needs to kill anymore people" I don't think you get to make that decision! (needless to say, now you must die. caddie-father.)
"Femtastic needs to engage in criminal conspiracy to make money?" My favorite part of this one? That it's a question! Like we're running this idea up the flagpole to see if anybody salutes? Criminal conspiracy? Anyone? Anyone?
"Femtastic needs to stay on top of the ball" Dirty...
"Femtastic needs some cash to buy Lydia a present" (obviously Lydia wrote this one. Greedy damned caddie-father...)
"Femtastic needs a title" I'm thinking something along the lines of 'Magical Captain of all Wonderment and Googleplotzing' (esquire)
"Femtastic needs to stay hot" Stay Hot? Stay Hot?
"Femtastic needs to adopt a sense of urgency and attack better on the ground" For the love of God, someone find me a man! STAT!!! (stat is Doctor-speak for "now")
Up next: 100 things. About Femtastic!!!
"Femtastic needs to get real stoned" What amuses me here is not the idea that I need to get stoned, but that I need to get real stoned. Like all the stoned-getting I've been doing so far has been entirely too half-assed. Like my getting stoned is being critiqued here, ya know?
"Femtastic needs a lot of assistance with self help skills such as toileting" So, just so I'm clear here: Toileting is a skill?
"Femtastic needs to make sure that "caddie-father" doesn't turn into a dirty word" Hey, you're not the boss of me, you caddie-father you!!
"Femtastic needs your help" Like that's news to any of you guys...
"Femtastic NEEDS its own whale NOW" I want to complain about being described as "its" but then I might not get my OWN WHALE! I'm getting my OWN WHALE!
"Femtastic Needs Buttons!!!!!!" For the whale...
"Femtastic needs a home" Big enough to fit in the whale...
"Femtastic needs to have his butt whipped in order to “straighten him out”." I'd like the scores of people who have thought this for years to please line up. Right next to the whale!
"Femtastic needs to beat matt again more than matt needs to beat Femtastic" I wonder if it's fair to put this out there w/out giving this 'Matt' guy a chance to chime in. If you're Matt please let me know how much you need to beat me. And then I'm kickin' your ass, ya Caddie-Father!
"Femtastic needs someone who knows how to handle horses on the ground" I'm cool with the flying horses -- it's just the earth-bound ones that are flummoxing me.
"Femtastic needs to learn to use his imagination" I don't know, it's got to be a pretty good sign about my imagination that I'm both referring to myself in the third person AND as a dude!
"Femtastic needs a nap" AMEN MY BROTHAH!!!
"Femtastic needs suctioning" Is that what you crazy kids are calling it these days? Naughty!
"Femtastic needs to do this, Femtastic needs to do that" (nag, nag, nag...)
"i dont think Femtastic needs to kill anymore people" I don't think you get to make that decision! (needless to say, now you must die. caddie-father.)
"Femtastic needs to engage in criminal conspiracy to make money?" My favorite part of this one? That it's a question! Like we're running this idea up the flagpole to see if anybody salutes? Criminal conspiracy? Anyone? Anyone?
"Femtastic needs to stay on top of the ball" Dirty...
"Femtastic needs some cash to buy Lydia a present" (obviously Lydia wrote this one. Greedy damned caddie-father...)
"Femtastic needs a title" I'm thinking something along the lines of 'Magical Captain of all Wonderment and Googleplotzing' (esquire)
"Femtastic needs to stay hot" Stay Hot? Stay Hot?
"Femtastic needs to adopt a sense of urgency and attack better on the ground" For the love of God, someone find me a man! STAT!!! (stat is Doctor-speak for "now")
Up next: 100 things. About Femtastic!!!
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Being sick vs. being sick w/ guests
I lost the battle of the trash can. But at least I decided to give up being at work and was home when the battle was lost. Whew! But sadly I spent Monday and much of today being very lie-downy on the couch. (oh my beloved, beloved couch. I sometimes forget how much I love you, but you're always there for me and you never judge. Even when I spend 2 days on you in the same clothes...)
Anyway, as I was pulling myself back out to the category of "the living" today I found myself thinking about what such a period of yuck would be like with someone else in the house. Maybe it's because I've been a solo player for so long, but I am very, very sure that if I WERE to be sick with a partner I'd pretty much insist that they be anywhere but my house until I were better. Truly. Because if I feel cruddy the last thing I want to do is feel like I've got guests in the house.
Which brought me to another realization, which is that if I ever were to decide to co-habitate (big if, but I was feverish and the mind was traveling FAR. Purple elephant; black, female president far, people!) I'd never get over feeling like the other person was this guest in my place who would just never GO AWAY. I like having my own space and I don't know how anyone gets used to having someone else in their space 24/7. But assuming that I could get beyond that on a normal day, the second I start re-living my previous day's dietary choices I know I'd take the time, between yorps, to demand some ME TIME.
Oh, it gets worse.
I am also sure that I'd be a miserable nurse for someone else. I can do "sympathetic" when out in the world for quite a while. I spent 2 hours at my Granny's hospital bedside, trying to get her to take a pain pill while she cursed and whacked at me (different story, but probably one you'll get to read later). But then I get to come home and not give a crap about anybody else besides me. And the cats. And that works well because they're even more self-obsessed then I am, so they MAKE me give a crap about them. You won't find a plant living in my house because they refuse to speak up, but all the cats are alive, fat and sassy. But they get to be that way because they're cats. Any guy that diva-esque I'd have to exterminate.
Do you see what I'm saying here? Basically as I come out of my plague fog I realize something really important that I must add to my Yenta.com profile: I'm looking for someone who will NEVER get sick, and who, if I get sick, will get a hotel room.
I'm sure he's out there.
(List of 100 things is 2/3rds done, but I have to review it to see what the hell I typed while in the plague fog. Not that I think it would be wrong, but rather things you don't need to know...)
Anyway, as I was pulling myself back out to the category of "the living" today I found myself thinking about what such a period of yuck would be like with someone else in the house. Maybe it's because I've been a solo player for so long, but I am very, very sure that if I WERE to be sick with a partner I'd pretty much insist that they be anywhere but my house until I were better. Truly. Because if I feel cruddy the last thing I want to do is feel like I've got guests in the house.
Which brought me to another realization, which is that if I ever were to decide to co-habitate (big if, but I was feverish and the mind was traveling FAR. Purple elephant; black, female president far, people!) I'd never get over feeling like the other person was this guest in my place who would just never GO AWAY. I like having my own space and I don't know how anyone gets used to having someone else in their space 24/7. But assuming that I could get beyond that on a normal day, the second I start re-living my previous day's dietary choices I know I'd take the time, between yorps, to demand some ME TIME.
Oh, it gets worse.
I am also sure that I'd be a miserable nurse for someone else. I can do "sympathetic" when out in the world for quite a while. I spent 2 hours at my Granny's hospital bedside, trying to get her to take a pain pill while she cursed and whacked at me (different story, but probably one you'll get to read later). But then I get to come home and not give a crap about anybody else besides me. And the cats. And that works well because they're even more self-obsessed then I am, so they MAKE me give a crap about them. You won't find a plant living in my house because they refuse to speak up, but all the cats are alive, fat and sassy. But they get to be that way because they're cats. Any guy that diva-esque I'd have to exterminate.
Do you see what I'm saying here? Basically as I come out of my plague fog I realize something really important that I must add to my Yenta.com profile: I'm looking for someone who will NEVER get sick, and who, if I get sick, will get a hotel room.
I'm sure he's out there.
(List of 100 things is 2/3rds done, but I have to review it to see what the hell I typed while in the plague fog. Not that I think it would be wrong, but rather things you don't need to know...)
Monday, April 02, 2007
You still gots some time to chime...
So I've got about a 1/3rd of the list of things done (man, who knew it would be so hard to come up with 100 things about myself?) and I'm gonna have to spend today trying VERY, VERY HARD to not recycle yesterday's food (IF you know what I mean?) so I'm not gonna get the About Me list finished today.
But that means that you lucky people have a little more time to tell me what you'd like to hear about. For instance, beautiful and brilliant Courtney asked for some very general location info -- can do, Courtney!!
So seriously, put on the thinking caps and get creative, because when you take things like "what you do for a living" or "what your name is" off the table, it opens up a truly FASCINATING new collection of stuff!
And wish me luck with my trash can...
But that means that you lucky people have a little more time to tell me what you'd like to hear about. For instance, beautiful and brilliant Courtney asked for some very general location info -- can do, Courtney!!
So seriously, put on the thinking caps and get creative, because when you take things like "what you do for a living" or "what your name is" off the table, it opens up a truly FASCINATING new collection of stuff!
And wish me luck with my trash can...
Friday, March 30, 2007
Happy "Cyber Bullies Suck!" Day!
So for those of you who haven't heard (and therefore apparently ONLY read my blog. Which makes you special, special, oh so special...) there was much drama this week regarding people using the pure artform of the blog for purposes only evil. You can find one person's take on the whole thing here, and someone else's take here (and by putting "cyber bully" into your favorite search engine I'm sure you'll find a skillion more...)
When I read the first post above, written by a woman who felt very seriously that she'd had death threats made towards her and was pretty freaked, I had two reactions. One was that it sucked (also called the "duh!" response) and the other was that she was overreacting a little. As many, many people who have commented on this since it first hit the news have said, bullying is nothing new, "death threat" might be a bit of a stretch (though I do think the threat is in the definition of the victim -- you feel threatened, you were threatened. Period.) and the last thing folks like these bullies should get is massive attention for being, frankly (warning: curse words coming!) big, cowardly, pathetic shit-sticks.
But this ball got rolling with much momentum and nary a bit of moss, until another blogger declared today officially "Stop Cyberbullying Day!" (OK, Hallmark, where are my greeting cards, my official baby onesie, my "I heart Stop Cyberbullying Day" coffee mug?) Now on the one hand how could you speak out against such a thing? Really, find me the guy who will write a blog post called "Cyberbullying is Rad and everybody should do it. Also later I'll be kicking a puppy." But I also try not to leap upon wagons full of bands. So I want to find the thing to say here that speaks from my special place. (the heart, damn it, the heart! shame on you...)
The folks who were accused of making death threats claim that they are getting backlash from Kathy Sierra because they were criticizing her books. I mean they say this specifically. If you read the comments after her posting there's a guy going by the name "Joey" who keeps defending himself by saying "Hey, what I said was taken out of context. I was just negatively critiquing her book!" It's true that I never saw the original postings being referenced, but I just can't for the life of me figure out how the sentence (and he's verified that this is what he wrote) "the only thing Kathy has to offer me is that noose in her neck size." could ever be classified as a book critique. Mention the book, mention her writing or even mention books in GENERAL and you might have my attention. But this, my friend, is a cruel comment at BEST and serves absolutely no purpose other then to hurt. Even Ebert would tell you that critics are not out there to hurt people.
So if you ARE out there to hurt people what does that make you? (watch carefully -- we're about to come full circle) A BULLY. So regardless of what else comes down the pipe on this I will forever remain convinced that Kathy Sierra was bullied by some bad folks.
Now, let's talk about the people. Why does someone bully? I have some theories on that. I think a bully tends to be someone who is a) weak, b) pathetic, c) powerless in any way that matters and d) angry. And the reasons that they bully? To get a) attention, b) attention, c) look at me, look at me, I do TOO matter! and/or d) did I mention attention? So I'm very sorry that the end result of all of this is that the completely worthless people who purpetrated the original offense can now consider themselves minor celebrities in the blogging world.
I have a different idea for how to combat this in the future: make damn sure they get NO attention. Delete the comments, never, ever, EVER visit any sites they populate and generally treat them like the impossibly lame wastes that they are. I think Kathy Sierra, and anyone else who is ever attacked like that, should do what they think is right, but I would hope that this is the last full-scale dedication of time that these guys ever get. Because in the end it's all they ever really wanted.
Last thing: Someone out there who may now or someday read this has got to be saying to themselves "oh sure, easy for you to say. You blog anonymously. Even if someone were to ever threaten you it's not like you should fear for your life, because they probably don't know who you are, so you're safe." And you'd be right. And I'd think it too if I were reading this. I don't blog secretly for reasons of safety, and I think my friends who DO know about this blog would back that up. If anything, I'm known for leaping into danger in truly comic book fashion and worrying about the consequences much, much later. But I will say this:
If ever I felt that my blogging in secret was giving power or comfort to low-life's such as these I'd come clean in a heartbeat. I can't think of a better reason to come out of the secret blogger closet then to say to the bullies, cyber or otherwise, of the world: You don't matter. You're worth nothing and nobody should give you a second thought.
Because if you did matter to anyone or anything you wouldn't have to prove your worth by hurting others. Grow up or go away.
Sorry that this is so drama-y. Bullies are kind of a hot button for me; flashback to me as the drama geek from highschool, dragging my drowning buddy from the school pool. I promise this will return to being lite and airy by the next post. (If you haven't voted on what you'd like me to add to my "about me" check the previous post.) But I guess I felt like moments like these may be another reason I respect the blogosphere. If the world builds you a magical tool that gives you an instant voice you have to use it when it counts. Consider me counting!!
stopcyberbullying
When I read the first post above, written by a woman who felt very seriously that she'd had death threats made towards her and was pretty freaked, I had two reactions. One was that it sucked (also called the "duh!" response) and the other was that she was overreacting a little. As many, many people who have commented on this since it first hit the news have said, bullying is nothing new, "death threat" might be a bit of a stretch (though I do think the threat is in the definition of the victim -- you feel threatened, you were threatened. Period.) and the last thing folks like these bullies should get is massive attention for being, frankly (warning: curse words coming!) big, cowardly, pathetic shit-sticks.
But this ball got rolling with much momentum and nary a bit of moss, until another blogger declared today officially "Stop Cyberbullying Day!" (OK, Hallmark, where are my greeting cards, my official baby onesie, my "I heart Stop Cyberbullying Day" coffee mug?) Now on the one hand how could you speak out against such a thing? Really, find me the guy who will write a blog post called "Cyberbullying is Rad and everybody should do it. Also later I'll be kicking a puppy." But I also try not to leap upon wagons full of bands. So I want to find the thing to say here that speaks from my special place. (the heart, damn it, the heart! shame on you...)
The folks who were accused of making death threats claim that they are getting backlash from Kathy Sierra because they were criticizing her books. I mean they say this specifically. If you read the comments after her posting there's a guy going by the name "Joey" who keeps defending himself by saying "Hey, what I said was taken out of context. I was just negatively critiquing her book!" It's true that I never saw the original postings being referenced, but I just can't for the life of me figure out how the sentence (and he's verified that this is what he wrote) "the only thing Kathy has to offer me is that noose in her neck size." could ever be classified as a book critique. Mention the book, mention her writing or even mention books in GENERAL and you might have my attention. But this, my friend, is a cruel comment at BEST and serves absolutely no purpose other then to hurt. Even Ebert would tell you that critics are not out there to hurt people.
So if you ARE out there to hurt people what does that make you? (watch carefully -- we're about to come full circle) A BULLY. So regardless of what else comes down the pipe on this I will forever remain convinced that Kathy Sierra was bullied by some bad folks.
Now, let's talk about the people. Why does someone bully? I have some theories on that. I think a bully tends to be someone who is a) weak, b) pathetic, c) powerless in any way that matters and d) angry. And the reasons that they bully? To get a) attention, b) attention, c) look at me, look at me, I do TOO matter! and/or d) did I mention attention? So I'm very sorry that the end result of all of this is that the completely worthless people who purpetrated the original offense can now consider themselves minor celebrities in the blogging world.
I have a different idea for how to combat this in the future: make damn sure they get NO attention. Delete the comments, never, ever, EVER visit any sites they populate and generally treat them like the impossibly lame wastes that they are. I think Kathy Sierra, and anyone else who is ever attacked like that, should do what they think is right, but I would hope that this is the last full-scale dedication of time that these guys ever get. Because in the end it's all they ever really wanted.
Last thing: Someone out there who may now or someday read this has got to be saying to themselves "oh sure, easy for you to say. You blog anonymously. Even if someone were to ever threaten you it's not like you should fear for your life, because they probably don't know who you are, so you're safe." And you'd be right. And I'd think it too if I were reading this. I don't blog secretly for reasons of safety, and I think my friends who DO know about this blog would back that up. If anything, I'm known for leaping into danger in truly comic book fashion and worrying about the consequences much, much later. But I will say this:
If ever I felt that my blogging in secret was giving power or comfort to low-life's such as these I'd come clean in a heartbeat. I can't think of a better reason to come out of the secret blogger closet then to say to the bullies, cyber or otherwise, of the world: You don't matter. You're worth nothing and nobody should give you a second thought.
Because if you did matter to anyone or anything you wouldn't have to prove your worth by hurting others. Grow up or go away.
Sorry that this is so drama-y. Bullies are kind of a hot button for me; flashback to me as the drama geek from highschool, dragging my drowning buddy from the school pool. I promise this will return to being lite and airy by the next post. (If you haven't voted on what you'd like me to add to my "about me" check the previous post.) But I guess I felt like moments like these may be another reason I respect the blogosphere. If the world builds you a magical tool that gives you an instant voice you have to use it when it counts. Consider me counting!!
stopcyberbullying
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