How are you today? I'm superfantastic.

Have I reached the party to whom I am speaking?

On Saturday, I went down to AlamObama Headquarters to take part in calling voters in battleground states. I wanted to do something since I feel strongly about the outcome of this election and it doesn't much matter who I vote for here in Texas.

But I hated every minute of it.

Only one person I called was rude to me. That wasn't the problem. The problem was, I hate the phone. Sure, I like talking to friends and family members, but I hate calling people I don't know well, much less people I don't know at all. I don't even like ordering pizza on the phone and will do it online when I can. I will almost always email rather than call when the option is available to me. Partly it's because I think the phone is so demanding. The phone says I must talk to you RIGHT NOW while email says hey, when you get a minute...

But a lot of it probably stems from a job I had in college where rude people on the phone were very much the problem. I worked in the telephone interview unit of Conseco Medical Insurance. People who applied for the insurance had to be called to complete an interview on their medical history and other risk factors.

Except some people would forget that they had applied, apparently, and assume that we were telemarketers. And they were all kinds of assholes about it. The worst one I can remember was someone who told me to hang on and then went and turned on her fax machine so it would make that high-pitched squealing noise. I had a headset that went directly in my ear, making this especially painful. So I had to send her application back to her insurance agent, who would tell her that she'd have to call in and do the interview or not get the policy. This probably set her back a couple of weeks at least, all because she couldn't spare 15 seconds to find out that I had a legitimate need to speak to her.

But that is beside the point. There is no excuse for that or any other rude behavior even if the person is a telemarketer. I've heard and read about mean tricks and clever pranks you can pull on telemarketers because they have it coming for bothering you. And it is no end of irritating to me.

Do you really, honestly think that person wants to call you? Do you think telemarketing was a career goal that this person had? People do telemarketing because they have to. Why should you be mean to them? Just say no thank you and hang up. Or get caller ID and don't answer it if you don't know the person calling. Or turn off your ringer during dinner if you're going to get so all-fired pissed off about anybody calling you then. Or get on the Do Not Call List.

But above all, keep in mind that the person on the other end of the phone is a person. I dealt with people in that job who said no end of rude, demeaning, and horrible things to me, even when they knew why I was calling. I had the option to hang up on them, but I also had a quota of interviews to get done if I wanted to keep the job. Why anyone felt it was their right to verbally abuse me for doing my job, I do not know. They were free to refuse the interview and apply for different insurance if they didn't like it.

(Now, of course Conseco was using this information for purposes of declining people on the basis of their pre-existing conditions or excluding those conditions from coverage. I asked people about their back problems or asthma or whatever so Conseco could say "We'll cover you, just not anything related to your back/asthma/etc." Which renders your health insurance a lot less useful, but they can get away with these things because nobody tells them they can't. My loathing of insurance companies comes from having seen the inner workings of one.)

But back to my point: play nice with the kids on the phone, please. Chances are, they'd much rather be at a dinner table with some people they actually know, too.

To coin a phrase

No, really. I have invented a new phrase. I am posting it here so that I can document my invention and be properly credited in the future.

See, the job hunt process represents a series of high and low moments for me. I find a new listing and I get really excited about the possibility. Then I remember how many previous positions I've gotten really excited and hopeful about, only to hear nothing (or have three, yes THREE interviews for before being rejected YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE) and then I get far less excited and hopeful. Rather, I become the opposite of hopeful in these moments.

I was writing about this in an email recently and the phrase that seemed most appropriate was "emotional rollercoaster". However, I didn't want to use it for a couple of reasons. For one thing, it's just a hackneyed and over-used expression, isn't it? But perhaps more importantly, I still have a hard time thinking that a rollercoaster is a fitting illustration. It's a bit...violent.

I've written before here about how I tend to mostly exist in the emotional middle-ground, particularly as far as the outside world is led to believe, so there's probably not much need to get into that. And yes, the lows have been lower than usual in the past few months, but it's not the depths of despair or anything. I can and do get out of bed every single day.

All of that to say, while my mood is up and down more than usual, the fluctuations require neither seatbelt, nor shoulder harness. You do not have to be this tall to ride this ride.

I have thus christened it the emotional teeter-totter.

(Sadly, Google reveals that my totally original phrase has indeed been previously used by more than one person. Damn you Google and your all-seeing internet eye!)

(However, I maintain that it still counts since I hadn't ever heard it anywhere before inventing it in my own head.)

(So there.)

In which I whine. Feel free to skip this one.

I seem (temporarily, I hope) to have lost my funny.

Things aren't great right now. I guess, more accurately, I'm not great right now.

First of all, allow me to admit that it's Crazy Week, meaning that Inner Crazy Girl has the reins and everything is amplified many times over.

Second, we have an Approaching Birthday Situation.

Third, I am looking for a job YET AGAIN. This follows a year of looking for a job in Austin and a year of looking for a job in Madison.

It wasn't supposed to be this hard this time.

You always hear about how they need special ed teachers everywhere, and nowhere more than here in San Antonio, where they are constantly building schools. And I was going to have my alternative certification program to help me get a job. If I moved here and did this, I could get a job that was challenging and rewarding and came with insurance and a real paycheck so I could finally not have to worry about money all of the time.

This was supposed to be a sure thing. It has turned out to be anything but.

The district that partners with my program has no openings. I've applied now with eight districts. I have emailed over 60 schools and every response I've gotten has been about how there are no openings. Even more maddening is that getting a job seems to be much more about luck and timing than qualification. Most districts don't list their specific openings, so unless you contact every individual school, you have no way of knowing where the openings are, should there even be any. One girl from my program happened to walk into a high school when they had an opening and was hired on the spot. As far as I know, she's the only one of the sixteen of us to have gotten a job.

The fourth thing is a bit tricky to bring up. It's just, I'm still trying to adjust being back here in a family that looks very different from the one I left a year ago June. I'm happy for everyone and in case it wasn't perfectly obvious, I adore my niece and nephew. But being the token single and childless one takes some getting used to. The single part is for the best right now and I definitely have no desire to change the childless status, so it's just the way things are.

But all of this, added together, has inspired a bit of a meltdown. I'm about to be 31. I am single, childless, and unemployed. I don't own a home. I don't even have any savings. I don't see what I've done with all of these years and all of that supposed potential. This isn't the way things were supposed to turn out.

Obviously, there's no deadline here. Things don't have to have turned out by 31. It just feels pretty old to be this far from having anything figured out. It feels like there should be so much more to show for it.

Crazy Week will come to an end, and with any luck, there will be an I got a job! post coming soon. But in the meantime, there are no longer comical children in my day to transcribe for your entertainment, so you're stuck with me and my consuming ennui, my pervasive malaise, my relentless compulsive chewing away at the inside of my mouth. I apologize. I don't want to be this for you or for the people stuck dealing with me in real life. But I also don't feel like faking it anymore.

Things aren't good right now. I'm not good right now. And I can't seem to find my funny anywhere.

Underwear as far as the eye could see...

It's the ice cream sandwich that really pisses me off.

See, the burglar or burglars who broke into our house today while we were gone took the time to take an ice cream sandwich from the freezer, eat it and throw the wrapper in the trash.

NEVER MIND that they had left our underwear scattered all over our rooms when they pulled our drawers out or just dumped out the contents of my backpack onto the couch before using it to carry out the stuff they stole.

AT LEAST THEY DIDN'T LITTER.

The stuff they stole includes my computer, iPod, garnet earrings, and a bag containing every necklace that I owned (none of which have one damn bit of value to anybody but me) along with Holly's iPod, CDs, and her jewelry, some of which was actually quite valuable, both sentimentally and monetarily.

For those of you who are wondering, I think I last backed up the contents my computer a year ago?  Maybe?  And yes.  I KNOW.  But it is TOO LATE NOW.  LESSON LEARNED, "BACKING UP IS ESSENTIAL" SERMON NOT NEEDED.

As much as I am not in a position to buy a new computer right now, I think it's the loss of the stuff that was on it that bothers me more.  Along with the idea that anybody could be looking at anything on there right now.  No, I do not think the most likely teenage miscreants who took it have any interest in my photos and Word documents, but they can see them and I can't and that makes me very, very upset.

I say most likely teenage because of the stuff they did not steal, which includes a whole box of checks that was in my bedroom.

The police officer says they can check the pawn shops for my computer and our iPods if we give them the serial numbers (although he also said the burglars will most likely keep the iPods).  The fingerprint guy says since this is probably the work of kids, they'll probably get a match on these fingerprints when the perpetrator is arrested years from now for something else.

But I really want the fingerprints to help them catch the guy.  Because wouldn't it be some kind of justice if the asshole got caught based on those very nice fingerprints he left on an ice cream sandwich wrapper?

Every Now and Then I Fall Apart

Just not in front of anybody.

I've written here before about how I'm a repressed WASPy Midwesterner and don't generally acknowledge that I have feelings at all around very many people, much less what those feelings might be.  I come from a stoic people.  I've been told that I am "hard to read", "inscrutable", and "dead inside".

Plus, when you're pretty even-tempered most of the time, it's all the more shocking to people when you display strong emotion.  As a person who doesn't like to draw attention to herself, I learned early on that emotional outbursts were not in my best interest.

I'm also really neurotic about whether people are doing things for me because they want to or because they feel obligated.  One way of making sure that no one is feeling emotionally manipulated into anything is just to keep emotion out of it as much as possible.

But perhaps most significantly, there's my early religious education.  Wasn't Away in a Manger one the first Christmas carols that you Christian-type folks learned in Sunday school?  Let's consider these lyrics:

The cattle are lowing, the baby awakes, but little Lord Jesus no crying he makes.

The message here?  "Yeah, the cows woke the baby Jesus up, but did he cry about it?  He did not.  And you, preschool Sunday schooler, are not even a baby.  What's all the blubbering about?  How about taking a cue from the little Lord Jesus and turning off the waterworks?  You're almost four now.  Get it together."

It's entirely possible that I wouldn't be emotionally stunted at all if not for the Christmas children's program.  Maybe I wouldn't have had to define effusive for my boss last summer after having told her that I'M NOT IT so she'd stop asking me wasn't I excited about whatever it was.  I might even have been able to cry in front of one of my closest friends last month without the benefit of an Irish car bomb and an indeterminate number of Lynchburg lemonades.

Yep, it's definitely all due to early Christmas carol exposure.  That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

They have tiny little fingers for picking my lock and they're already wearing masks. Think about it.

Did you ever read Bridget Jones's Diary?  Do you remember how she was afraid that she would die alone in her apartment and no one would know and she'd be found three weeks later, half-eaten by wild dogs?

Well.  I was telling Katie yesterday about how I had started hyperventilating the other night, causing me to flash back to that, thinking, "That could be me.  No one would know!  They might be surprised that I didn't show up for work and didn't call, but it would be quite some time before anyone figured it out.  I could be eaten by wild dogs!"  Well, ok, there aren't a lot of wild dogs in my neighborhood, but there are curiously large raccoons.  Sure, I've only ever seen them getting into the trash outside, but maybe our garbage just tides them over until they get another opportunity to feast on human flesh.  WHO'S TO SAY?

Katie assured me that she would realize that something was wrong when I hadn't Twittered in a while, hopefully before the raccoon bears got to me.  She did think she might have a hard time convincing the Madison police to break into my apartment based solely on lack of microblogging.  I think she might be right there.  "But she hasn't complained to the internet about the weather in two whole days!" probably wouldn't get her too far with law enforcement types.

It does mean that I better not slack on my posting, doesn't it?  I'd hate to incite rumors of my untimely death just because I wasn't sure you wanted to hear about what I ate for breakfast or the status of my leg hair.  Fortunately, I don't generally let such concerns about inanity stop me.  From now on, you can just think to yourself, "Well that was pointless, but I guess she definitely hasn't been eaten by mutant raccoons yet."

If you don't hear from me for several days, you can consider that my official "I've fallen and I can't reach my computer to tell the internet so that they may enjoy a laugh at my expense" cry for help.  And if my trash is tipped over and all of my shiny objects missing, I think we'll all know who's to blame.

Let it stop! Let it stop! Let it stop!

That's the title of the post I started writing last night about all of the lots of snow that we got this weekend.  I've just deleted everything I had written, but let me catch you up quickly: We had lots of snow this weekend.  Boo, lots of snow.  I hate you, lots of snow.  I hate driving in you.  I hate walking in you.  I hate the way that you have turned my block into an icy slope of treacherous doom.

See, the impulse to move somewhere with off-street parking was an excellent one.  As I have watched people shoveling their cars out of spots on the street, I have become ever more grateful for my little parking lot.  However, my little parking lot is at the end of my little dead end street, meaning that we are not a priority for plowing.  It also happens to be at the bottom of a hill, making the drive up it in its current slick state a bit of an adventure.  I was not entirely sure I would reach the top this morning.  The Focus is not equipped for this sort of thing.

Speaking of the Focus, it has decided that now is a fine time to begin giving me problems.  Back before Thanksgiving the heat stopped working, which obviously, now that the weather has gotten frightful, represented a big problem for me.  Alan noticed over Thanksgiving weekend that it was also looking like it was going to overheat.  He opened the hood, quickly discovered that the problem was a total lack of coolant, and filled it with some he had at home.  And presto, heat!  And a totally free and effective car repair.  Let me tell you, I was experiencing some stress over the getting my car to the shop, getting home, and getting to work and back while it was being fixed, along with how exactly I was going to pay for repairs.  But lo, a Thanksgiving miracle!

Which lasted just over a week.  I still had no warm air by the time I got to work this morning, so I checked out the coolant situation (getting my cream-colored mitten quite filthy, might I add) and noticed that yet again, I am out.  Well, crap.  I can fill it myself (what is it with me and coolant?) but obviously there's a more serious problem here.  So I'll just have to figure out the getting around sans car thing and hope for a quick and inexpensive repair.  First, I've got to get groceries.  Not only do I not have any food to speak of, but I used the end of the coffee this morning.  Obviously, this represents emergency conditions.

Everybody think melty thoughts.  And, uh, can I bum a ride to work?

If someone could remove the tiny gentleman with the pickaxe from behind my left eye, that would be super.

All of that caffeine yesterday turned out to be a pretty big mistake.

The headache started on Sunday.  Then it got bigger on Monday.  By the time I woke up on Tuesday it was a monster.  The kind that pounds pretty steadily right up until you make a sudden movement and feel as if you've just found your forehead in the path of a baseball bat being swung for the fences.  (That's the expression, right?  "Swing for the fences?"  I don't really have personal experience with this.  My approach when I was forced to play baseball in gym class was to hope to God to just make contact with the ball, or at the very least, not to get hit in the face.)

I try to take Advil for the headaches.  Which is what I did on Sunday and Monday.  By yesterday morning, I was out of patience with this headache.  So I went with the nuclear option: three Excedrin and coffee.  Plus a peanut butter sandwich because you want some substantial food in you in this situation or your internal organs will begin to shake.  Which is not as bad as the headache, but disconcerting nonetheless.

There are some downsides to treating your migraine with caffeine (in addition to the organ shivers).  The thing is, it's highly effective for a few hours.  Then the headache comes back and you have to start over.  And maybe you will have two more Excedrin and a Diet Dr Pepper.  And if your body is only accustomed to getting the caffeine content in one Diet Dr Pepper per day and has instead gotten the caffeine content in five Excedrin, a big coffee, and a Diet Dr Pepper, well then you just might find yourself up reading until three a.m. despite the fact that you need to be somewhere before ten the next morning.  You know that you need to be sleeping, and you are powerless to make that happen.  You made your choice hours ago.  Deal with it.

So, I'm back to Advil today and also possibly a nap.

(I really wish I had anything more interesting to tell you about today than my headache, but I don't, so it was this or nothing.  I'm not entirely convinced that nothing wouldn't have been the better option, but it's too late now.  To hell with quality control.  Quantity has officially won the battle.)

Yes, it looks like I have enough of these kinds of posts to create a whole new category.

Things that are currently making me crabby:

1. Yet another “we had many qualified candidates” letter.

2. The way that it takes me an ENTIRE DAY to write a cover letter that I’ll begin to consider submitting.

3. My toilet has been running for about three hours now and making growly noises and I haven’t heard back from anyone about coming to fix it despite the fact that there seem to have been maintenance people working in my building non-stop for two weeks now.

4. Noisy maintenance people making noise all day for the past two weeks.

5. Roofers blocking my ability to park in my parking space (which, if you’ll recall was the entire reason for moving here and paying higher rent) twice in one week.

6. The roofer coming in on Monday to apologize to me, making me feel guilty for giving him the Bitchy Stare of Death while walking in from the street.

7. Women who think that women aren’t qualified to be president on the basis that they are women. Because women are the weaker sex and too nurturing and emotional for the job. I don’t care what you think of a particular woman candidate, but to discount your entire gender as unqualified is really just incomprehensible to me.  (I just read on her website that she  said that women are the physically weaker sex, but that was edited.  Except what does physical strength have to do with a person's ability to be a strong president?  Let's ask FDR.)

8. Not only is it incomprehensible, but totally inconsistent with history. Did anyone ever accuse Margaret Thatcher of being too nurturing or emotional? They called her the Iron Lady, not the Maternal Lady or the Weepy Lady.

9. There is no chocolate in my house and the free wine has not yet begun to arrive.

10. Having all of the time but none of the money necessary to go and see my new nephew.

At least Roary is there on my behalf.

(This post was not written as an excuse to insert this photo, but once I got it from Dawn, I could not help including it.  Anybody want to complain? I am not too nurturing to deal with you.)

If you're happy and you know it, sit there quietly.

It was early Friday morning.  I was waiting in line to get on an airplane when the woman behind me started whistling some random series of notes that wasn't even really a song.  And I thought to myself:

Whistling in public should be outlawed.

At the very least, whistling before 10 a.m., I amended. 

Yes, I can be quite grumpy, and especially in the morning.  But I also do not feel that everyone ought to be subjected to whatever song a person may have in his or her head, particularly in a loud and high-pitched form.  I constantly have songs running through my head.  Quite often they are really annoying songs, and yet I keep them to myself.  You're welcome, society.  Please return the favor.

Maybe you'll think me less curmudgeonly for my anti-whistling stance once you've heard what happened shortly thereafter. 

A woman was sitting next to me on my second plane who, first of all, complained to someone on her phone about the window seat that she got with no seat in front of it because she couldn't put her carry-on bag on the floor and then she'd have to wait until we had taken off to get it out of the overhead compartment to get some work done.  I offered to switch her for my middle seat, which did have a seat in front of it and thus, underseat storage, but she didn't go for it.  She hogged that window and didn't even look out of it, even when there were mountains.  But I digress.

She had a soda can to dispose of and when the flight attendant didn't notice her holding it out, she WHISTLED AT HER. 

We live in a society where this behavior, while rude and degrading and horribly condescending, is still legal.  I'm making a little bit more sense now, aren't I?  It's not entirely about me just being crabby.

I mean, it's not like I want to outlaw rainbows and sunshine.  Well, not after 10 a.m. anyway.

Things That Do Not Mix Well

PMS

Being damn near 30

Getting mistaken repeatedly for your sister, the bride, and having to tell person after person NO, I AM NOT GETTING MARRIED.

Just so we're clear here, I am not hankering for some big-time scarypants commitment.  My irritation had much more to do with the Look of Pity that followed the realization that I'm the spinster sister.  The "poor dear, maybe someday" look.  Don't think I don't know it by now.

Stomps feet. Shakes fists. Throws self on floor. Holds breath and turns red.

I DON'T WANT to write more cover letters.

I DON'T WANT to tape up boxes.

But more than anything, I DON'T WANT TO PACK MY STUFF AGAIN I JUST GOT HERE AND UNPACKED EVERYTHING TWENTY MINUTES AGO.

I need to apply for more jobs.  I need to pack up my apartment.  I need, at some point, to figure out what all I need to pack for a trip to New York and Texas and two weddings and a rehearsal dinner and possibly a Broadway show.

What I want to do is just go to bed and sleep for a long, long time.  I don't know why I'm so tired.  I slept a lot this weekend.  And when I wasn't sleeping I wasn't doing anything strenuous (say, oh I don't know, PACKING.)  As evidence of this, I present a portion of a phone conversation I had with Katie on Saturday night:

"I'm drinking a beer and watching The War Room."

"I'm drinking a beer and watching baseball."

We are two wild and kraaaaaaazy girls!  I'll let you decide which one was me.  (Hint: It would take a lot more than one beer to make baseball any kind of interesting to me.  Like maybe if a ballpark had some sort of Ladies' Night with free cosmos and the crowd gets to decide which players are Shirts and which players are Skins.  I might go to that.) 

Anyway, to sum up: sleepy, have to move as soon as I get back from my trip, need a job soon, out of beer, but do still have tequila.

Won't you help me continue my procrastination, Internet?  Perhaps I could regale you with some tidbits of randomness.

1. I saw a woman go to a vending machine today and come back with cheese curds.  Even if they weren't in the vending machine, as I believe they were, then that only means that she was walking around with cheese curds in her purse.  Only in Wisconsin

2. I got my hair cut tonight.  It looks ok so far.  The stylist started out the small talk with whether I'm from that side of town (not really), whether I work around there (umm...sort of?), and then on to, "So, do you have kids or anything?"  What is it with people?  No, I have no kids.  Yes, I have anything.  Plenty of things.  Lots and lots of not-packed things.  It's Grover and the Everything in the Whole Wide World Except Kids Museum around here.  Sheesh.

3. I'm a little bit in love with this sentence from Harry Potter and the Giant Book That Jake Didn't Pick Up This Weekend So That I Now Have to Pack It: "Dawn seemed to follow midnight with indecent haste."  Now that's a good sentence.

4. Does it count as packing if I drink the tequila?  The bottle would no longer be sitting on top of my refrigerator, all unpacked-like.  Yes, I think it counts.

Ok, I'm off to pack!  (Note to Future Me: Screw you!  Hahahahaha!)

Stupid cars and why they are stupid and expensive and also stupid

I just leased you your own parking spot, FORD FOCUS.  And this is the thanks I get.

I got in my car to go to work this morning.  There didn't seem to be any air coming out of the vents and yet the fan was on 1 and the AC light lit.  I turned it up to 2, same story.  3, ditto.  Turning it up to 4 (the largest number available to me) caused air to blast out, but the AC light to turn off, indicating what I could already feel, namely that this air was in no way conditioned. 

I could live without AC here.  I might look shiny and windblown, but it could be done.  And much more easily than when I went without AC for a summer in my '86 Celebrity which had 4 doors with hand-crank windows.  At least I can roll down both of my current windows easily from the comfort of my driver's seat.  And I have a sunroof now!

Except the defrost works the same way the air works - blast of non-cooled air when turned on 4.  Nothing otherwise.  At some point I might need some defrosting, no?

Which means taking my car in to some person who will be condescending and possibly dishonest and handing it over for an indeterminate amount of time and getting home and around and back to the car place somehow and then paying lots and lots of money.

When I mentioned this tale of woe to my father, what did he say?  "All cars need work from time to time."  Sure, Dad, take the car's side.  Did the Focus buy you a cool Remember the Oilers t-shirt for Father's Day?  I didn't think so.

I hate owning a car.  This one has been far less trouble than the '94 Saturn of Doom, but still.

I was pretty happy to not have a car at all when I lived in New York, although the whole "no more large and unanticipated expenses!" plan didn't really pan out, as I wound up paying a large and unanticipated sum of money to have my wisdom teeth removed.  As much as I do not enjoy the car repair scenario, it does narrowly edge out having objects ripped out of my head.

And that, folks, is just about as Pollyanna as I can get for you today on this subject.

Ford Focus, I will deal with you later.

Strong Dislike Monday returns!

Because I have nothing interesting to tell you, and because the increased number of comments on these survey-type posts makes me feel popular, and because I feel certain that we all have plenty more things to bitch about, I bring you the return of Strong Dislike Monday.

1. What's irritating you these days?

2. Is there a commercial that you find more annoying than most?

3. Do you have a least favorite cliche or other tired, overused phrase?

4. What current reality show do you feel represents the most significant scourge on mankind?

5. What daily and/or household task do you most dread?

6. I bet we can all think of more terrible songs.  I know I can.

Let's kick things off with my own personal annoyances:

1. Mosquitoes.  Bills.  Other drivers.  Tyra Banks.  The total lack of magically appearing groceries in my kitchen.  The way that chocolate has so damn many calories.

2. I think it is Kotex that is urging me to have a happy period.  I don't even have to be PMSing to be irritated by that slogan.  I have also been shocked to see that they even show the happy cow commercials here in Wisconsin.  Bold move, California.

3. "Just be yourself."  I think this has got to be the least helpful piece of advice ever.

4. The Girls Next Door

5. Hmmmm...I despise cleaning the bathtub, but now I only have a shower stall.  I do hate to clean mirrors.  I never used to mind until I worked at Ann Taylor and had to clean THIRTY THREE of them every time I opened the store.  Also, I refuse to dry dishes, but that is only because they can accomplish this entirely on their own if left unattended.  It is the only household task that does itself.

6. I forgot before about Angry All the Time by Tim McGraw and what I do feel is surely my least favorite song, Heart's All I Wanna Do Is Make Love to You.  You will never see me move so fast as I do to change the station when that song begins.

Ok, now you.

You know how sometimes I write posts that are full of nothing but bitter complaining? Yeah, this is one of those.

Last night was ugly.  I was not feeling well and was, consequently, up until about four this morning.  Have you checked your TV listings for 3am recently?  Bleak.  Very, very bleak. 

At one point, I checked my symptoms on webMD and one of their actual recommendations for me: Avoid constipation.  Is this not a goal that we all pretty much have?  Is there someone out there thinking, "Wait, webMD, you're telling me that constipation is not something to aspire to?"

I don't have any students today, so I thought I'd sleep until noon or so, what with the getting to bed at four and all.  Then at eight this morning, my normally quiet neighborhood suddenly converted to the Den of Deafening Noise.  First there was the car alarm for a good five or ten minutes.  Then there was the truck that was apparently just circling the block in reverse (BEEP!BEEP!BEEP!BEEP!BEEP!)  Then they mowed the lawn next door.  Then they did the edging with the noisiest edger in the long and glorious history of weedwackers.  Seriously, I got up out of bed to see what was going on since it sounded like it was about to burst through my window screen at any moment, all horror movie style.  (Coming soon to theaters: The Lawnboy.  "Your lawn has never looked better.  Too bad YOU'LL BE DEAD!")  Then there was some sort of large machinery going on in the parking lot next door, which I thought was annoying until they introduced the one that loudly chugs like some sort of cartoon jalopy.

Which is why I have finally given up and gotten out of bed to write you this sunshiney little post.  As soon as I put on leaving-the-house clothes, I'm off to the store for healthy food and also Diet Dr Pepper because I drank my last one on Saturday and while I was going to make an effort to ease off the diet soda, now is clearly not the time.

Top of the morning to you. YOU CAN HAVE THE REST OF THE MORNING TOO FOR ALL I CARE.

Bit of a rough morning.

There was the getting up in time to get to work at 7:00 around 7:00 after getting to bed well past midnight.  It was made even more fan-freaking-tastic by the following:

a) Cramps.

b) Having to jam my rings on this morning (they are now living in my wallet) since, hey, someone's  a little puffy today!  Pretty.

c) Some sort of freaky bug bite on the inside of my left ankle which is now red, hot, and swollen.  Making walking around in tennis shoes a real party, let me tell you.

d) Particularly since the socks I am wearing are the ones I threw away because they always slide right off my heel and under my foot when I walk.  Except I packed every last pair of socks that I own, so I grabbed these off the floor next to my overflowed trash can.

e) I went to the first aid kit in the break room to get something to put on the bug bite and had a little laugh over a product called Fem-trin.  Until I gave up on wearing my rings and realized that perhaps I could use such a product.  Except I am fairly certain that Fem-trin is going to contain a diuretic and every trip to the restroom will require putting my left shoe back on.

But hey!  It is my last day of work here!  And I am moving somewhere that only has your garden variety biting insects, rather than The Texan Bugs Of Doom that have been trying for three years now to kill me.    And tonight, I get to see Angela, conveniently located as she is on my way to Madison.  Angela has recently been setting land-speed records for last minute thesis writing, so I have a feeling that she can use a drink just as much as I can.  Margaritas are loaded with anti-histamines, no?

I sense a theme here

You should have talked to me yesterday.  Yesterday I was going on 10 solid hours of sleep and was happily enjoying geeky TV and being highly productive on the errand-running/household chores front and could have coherently told you the story of how I met Amy on Saturday and did not even make a gigantic fool of myself.  But then my body felt so damn well-rested that it did not feel any need whatsoever for sleep until roughly 5:00 this morning.    And then I had to wake up at 7:00.  You do the math.  Even the thunderstorm overnight, which normally I love, was pissing me off as I lay awake.  That's right - I was irritated with a weather phenomenon.

In conclusion, apwiurafeqkcvdahegriouwepnvbmcxzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Taking it out on the celebrities. And feeling pretty ok about it.

It is Monday morning and I am crabby.  So let us make fun of people!  Shall we?

Oh, Jennifer Hudson.  Everyone adores you.  We are so happy for you even as we envy your talent and luscious lips.  Your dress is quite nice.  But whoever convinced you that you needed that horrible, shiny little Dracula-collared capelet should be kicked firmly in the shins.

Nicole, it is nice to see you in a color that doesn't match your deathly pallor.  But any dress the description of which can include the words "giant bow" should be avoided.  I would have thought that we all could have learned this lesson from the bridesmaid dresses of the 90s.

This goes double for you, Anne Hathaway.

J Lo: your dress?  Meh.  Your husband?  Looks like a corpse.

What is...why would...but...sigh.

Now Melissa, why would you go and sink all of that money into Botox only to cover your expressionless forehead with giant bangs?  It just doesn't make economic sense.  Your black nail polish, however, is quite fetching.

Yikes.  That is just A LOT of hair gel.  I have not seen this much hair gel in one photo since those pinups of NKOTB that I ripped out of Tiger Beat.

Speaking of NKOTB (look - a segue!) Donnie's little brother was there.  Marky Mark was in fact nominated for Best Supporting Actor.  What's next, the Funky Bunch for Best Original Screenplay?  Ha!  Oh, I just never get tired of the Funky Bunch jokes.  But you know who I bet does?

Who knew that Elizabeth Shue was there?  And what happened to her?  Not as in, "where has she been all of this time" but really - WHAT HAPPENED TO HER?

Star date 986725343098: Eddie thought he could use all of the little mirrors on my dress to check his teeth before giving his acceptance speech.  Then that old man won instead.  Goshdarnit!

That stern-looking man behind Penelope is on the look-out for PETA members who might try to douse Penelope with red paint.  How many flamingos had to die to make that skirt, Penelope?

Kate Winslet, you look lovely.  As usual.

As did Reese Witherspoon and Helen Mirren and probably plenty of other people.  Leonardo DiCaprio continued to look fourteen years old.  Then some people won awards.  Some of them made long speeches and I stayed up too late.  The end.

Valentine's Day: Whoop-dee-frickin-doo.

I'm not sure why I feel compelled to post about this at all.  But I will ask you this one question, Internet: is 9:45 am too early to begin eating chocolate on Valentine's Day, do you think?

If you'd like to actually read something amusing about this most superfantastic. of all days, go here.

And have a good one.  Or have some chocolate.

Intolerable Acts

I make no secret of my unabashed love of Christmas music. I think it’s a real shame that we only get to listen to it for one month a year, but I suppose that therein lies much of its allure. It’s just such happy music and fun to sing along with. All of that said, there remain certain Christmas songs that I will not tolerate. These seem to be proliferating every year. The current list includes:

Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer – Just when my faith in humanity was restored by the canceling of OJ’s book and TV deals, this song returns to remind me that things are indeed pretty bleak.

Santa Baby – Sex, greed, and Santa.  Sounds like a Dateline expose. 

Do You See What I See – A star with a tail as big as a kite? That doesn’t even make sense.

Santa Claus is Coming to Town by Bruce Springsteen – I will listen to this song for the first five minutes. The next forty minutes of Bruce repeating ever more loudly and vehemently how Santa Claus is coming to town, not so much.

The Christmas Shoes – Has there ever been a song, nay ANYTHING as maudlin as this? I can’t imagine it, but if there were it would certainly run on the Lifetime Movie Network and star Valerie Bertinelli.

The Twelve Days of Christmas and any of the assorted novelty versions – I do make an exception for the Muppet version. It’s Muppetastic. 

That’s all that comes to mind at the moment, although I certainly do not approve in general of girl or boy bands that add a crappy beat and their own verses to real Christmas songs. But otherwise, I’m down with the carols. Good thing we now have two all Christmas stations so I can flip when one of these crimes against Christmas music comes on. Because I am in need of extra holiday goodness seeing as how it is going to be 80 degrees here today. At least it’s beginning to sound a lot like Christmas. In my car anyway.

And in related holiday news, Happy Hanukkah, everybody!

XOXO

Dear Expedia Corporate Travel,

If you must keep me on hold for over an hour, could you please, for the love of God and all that is holy, get some new hold music already!  Because those six bars of crappy imitation "music" you play in between frequent reminders that all of your agents are helping other customers, please stay on the line and you will be with me shortly, are etched into my brain.  Permanently.  You people are holding me hostage to my phone and I think the Geneva Convention and even President George W. Bush would have something to say about this torturous soundtrack.

Or, here's an idea: make your website ACTUALLY HELPFUL.  Then I would stop calling you all together and I bet a lot of other people would too and you might not be experiencing increased call volume causing longer than normal hold times.

I would not mind so much if I were ever arranging any of this international travel for myself, but as you very well know, it is never for me, so give a girl a break already and PICK UP THE PHONE.

And may your dreams be equally haunted by the strains of muzak.

Your valued customer,

Lori

Love? Maybe next Thursday.

Because this Thursday?  Already kicking my ass.

I believe I have mentioned something about not liking mornings.  This is a vast understatement and doesn't even address how not functional I am in the morning.  I set my alarm for 6:39 so I can snooze three times and still ostensibly be up by 7:00.  Except they do the news and weather right around then, giving me an excuse to stay in bed even longer.  So then I'm running late before I'm even up.  And, much like my mother, I do not deal with light in the morning.  This is not merely a psychological aversion.  If I go straight from bed into my bathroom and turn on the lights, even with my eyes closed I will have tears running down my face.  So my dad has been kind enough to install a dimmer switch for me (I have left a trail of dimmer switches in apartments all over Texas and the East Coast - thanks, Dad!)  I crank it all the way down before turning it on, and then up just a tidge until, say, the tub becomes somewhat visible.

Which is what I did this morning.  I then reached into the tub to pick up the drain cover thingy to clean all of the hair out of it so I could start the shower.  And then I felt something crawling on my hand.  And I did what any rational, thinking person would do in my situation.  FREAKED THE HELL OUT.  I dropped the drain thingy and flung whatever it was off my hand and saw it run behind my toilet.  And as I went to get the Raid, I frantically repeated it was probably a cricket, it was probably a cricket, it was probably a cricket, or maybe an earwig.  And then I foamed it to death and as it lay on my bathroom rug, I had no choice but to deal with the reality that it was, of course, a roach.  Not a terribly big one, but still.  STILL.  It was a roach that had been ON MY HAND.  (Give me a minute while I try to figure out how to spell that sound that accompanies a big full body shudder.)

I believe I would rather encounter a snake in my bathtub than a roach.  I am pretty sure that at some point in my life I have voluntarily held a snake in my hands.  And yet, Joe Whatshisname could offer me $10,000 to let a roach crawl on me and I would tell him exactly what he could do with his money and also probably call him a lunatic. 

Was I clear enough that all of this occurred less than one minute after I had pried myself out of bed?  So now, not only do I have a serious case of the heebie jeebies and a compulsive need to wash my hands repeatedly, I could not even get in a decent frame of mind for the rest of the day.  I could not, for example, enjoy the fact that the big storm last night got the humidity out of the air, meaning that I could finally have a good hair day.  And when I walked outside into the first real sweater weather of the year, I could not muster any childlike joy at all.  Even the Safety Dance playing on my radio on the way to work could not cheer me up.  I could have danced, but I didn't want to.

Sanitized for your aggravation

Hover-peers, you are officially on notice.

You know who you are.  Women whose precious butts are far too precious to actually come into contact with a public toilet seat.  So instead, you hover over said toilet seat, inevitably leaving drops of pee on the seat.  The seat which was just fine for sitting until YOU PEED ON IT.

Yes, I have strong feelings about this.

But it's not just me.  I first discovered that I was not alone when I read this important piece by a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist.  Then Emily and I discovered our mutual outrage over this topic.  Which led to an email in which she said this:

"I went into the bathroom at work and saw that someone had put paper over the seat to sit down and then apparently flushed their business but not the toilet paper they sat on to protect them from the horrible germy seat. I knew you wouldn't approve. Why would someone who is clearly afraid of other people's butt germs leave toilet paper that their own butt sat on for someone else to touch? I am angered by this. I think we should start an official campaign against squatters and sprinklers and toilet paper seat cover users. I hate them all."

Well said, Emily.  I could not agree more.

This toilet-paper-leaving-behind person reminded me of yet another hygiene menace in our midst.  You know those people who use a paper towel to open the bathroom door, fearing that you, Person In Front of Them, have not washed your hands before exiting?  Sure, fine, whatever.  Except a woman in my workplace does this, then throws the now nasty-looking crumpled paper towel toward the trash can outside the bathroom and often misses.  And then I have to use yet another paper towel to pick up this paper towel, lest this paper towel of fastidiousness have also been used to, say, wipe the snotty snottiness from her snotty too-good-for-door-handles-but-not-for-littering nose.

In conclusion, you people with your need to keep your butts and hands free of germs are creating a squalid world for the rest of us.  Stop immediately.  Or I will be forced to personally come to your office and sneeze on your phone and/or keyboard, which Science proves is actually more germ-ridden than the toilet seat.  Well, the toilet seat before you defiled it, that is. 

Consider the campaign begun.

[Note: According to the creepy make-up man on Ten Years Younger, the toilet seat covers offered in public restrooms are made of the same material as those little oil-blotting sheets for your face, which is a use that, as I am afflicted with combination skin, I can totally get behind.  No pun intended.]

Woe is me & etc.

NOTE: Written and posted last Friday.  But it seemed time to have something else at the top, so I'm moving this one up.  New post coming tomorrow...

So that [Tell me something good] post wasn't intended as an Affirm Me for the Love of God exercise.  I really thought more of you would just tell me jokes or delightful anecdoes.  Not that I am complaining about the nice comments.  You really are very sweet, Internet people.  What you didn't see (but are about to!) is what happened after I left work just after posting the Lamest Post in the History of Posts.  Crabby, crabby, crabby with a little bit of crazy thrown in for good measure!

I was sitting at an intersection when I saw a person coming around with a bucket collecting donations.  I've seen kids here before collecting for youth groups or football teams and my reaction yesterday was, "In my day, we did real fundraisers."  Which got me wondering, when exactly did I turn one hundred years old?  In MY DAY?!?!

This ocurred as I was on my way home from Target after discovering that apparently when I was off not paying attention, society had come together and decided that we were no longer using leave in conditioner in spray form.  (You wanna dance, Society?  I will meet you at the bike racks after school and you had better bring it!)  Because while I sort of randomly started using the Thermasilk leave in conditioner spray a few years ago, running out of it has clearly demonstrated that my hair REQUIRES the leave in conditioner in spray (not gel!) form in order to do that voodoo that it do so...ok, not well, but also not staticky and stuck to my face or limp, dead, and dirty-looking.  In three entire aisles of hair products, I came across only one bottle of spray leave in conditioner, it being Dove.  (I haven't tried it yet since today I am sporting an oh-crap-I-snoozed-too-many-times ponytail.  Yes, I am a grown up person wearing a ponytail to work.  Shut up.)  I also picked up a new hair dryer since I killed yet another one.  I am the Hannibal Lechter of hair dryers.  Except not, because I don't eat them.

And finally, on to what I almost did eat, namely Pop Tarts for breakfast.  Except I didn't buy them since my justification for buying unhealthy breakfast treats did not hold up so well upon examination.  The thing is, I've been losing weight recently, not due to any extra self-control or exertion on my part so much as just not having been particularly hungry for about a month.  (Before anyone freaks out, allow me to say that I swear, I am still eating.  Just not so damn much all the time.)  So the new jeans that I just bought are already getting fairly roomy.  And as I stared at the Pop Tarty goodness, I thought to myself, "hey if I bought Pop Tarts, maybe my jeans would fit again!"  Which, allow me to say myself, is some screwed up thinking.  And then I backed away from the Pop Tarts.

And now, thanks to good Internet mojo, it being Friday afternoon, and that nectar of the gods known as Free Diet Dr. Pepper, I am feeling much better. 

The End.

Tell me something good

So.  I've been feeling sort of blah lately.  Could be the cubicle.  Or the sitting in it for eight hours a day.  Or the not getting any calls from any of the thousands of permanent job people to whom I've sent my resume.  Or the week-long series of Very Bad Hair Days.  Or maybe it's just the mean reds.

In any case, there's no Tiffany's in walking distance, so I am asking you, dear readers, to literally make my day.  Tell me something good, Internet.  Whatever comes to mind.

Confidential to Idiots

When driving in pouring rain, TURN YOUR HEADLIGHTS ON.

Thank you,

The Management

The Snot Report

I won't say that mountain cedar is the devil, just that it is clearly in his employ.

The newscaster told me that it was "Heavy" today and showed a graphic with the number 8000-something.  And he smiled when he said it, so he's on my list too.

Currently the Kirkland Signature Non-Drowsy Aller-Clear (Compare to Claritin!) is neither non-drowsying nor aller-clearing.  Making the Costco-laritin item #3.

Finally, we have the Texas Hill Country, which has a new freaky allergen-that-you've-never-before-encountered for each and every month of the year.  I thought that when I left San Antonio it would be due to the rampant conservatism or total lack of autumn, but I now realize that I'll more likely be fleeing the seasonal floating crud particles of doom.  Because Republican politics, while irritating, at least do not clog up one nostril, leaving the other one free for breathing, yet drippy.  I hate that.

I'm a drowsy, runny, itchy, stuffy woman on the edge.  Don't cross me.

Last Straw

So my mom was telling me about this new book I should read about how to meet and attract men.  Written by...wait for it...Dr. Phil.  DR. PHIL!  I think she was hinting toward buying it for me for Christmas--the gift of you're not getting any younger.  That is just the living end.

XOXO

Dear California,

That's it.  We're fighting.  I'll admit--you seduced me with your nice weather and your fresh oranges the size of my head and your clam chowder in a sourdough breadbowl for sale right on the street.  I was willing to overlook your batshit crazy politics.  But now, NOW you have gone too far.

I think you know what this is about.  I thought I was over it but then you rubbed it in my face again today right in the middle of Celebrity Poker Showdown.  Is nothing sacred, California?

Happy cows live in California, you say.  You greedy bastards.  Wisconsin has one thing!  One!  Why must you try to take even that away from people who have done nothing to you but spend their hard-earned dollars cleaning your Rose Bowl out of beer.  (Seriously, you didn't see that coming?)  What, cornering the American market on television, movies, wine, produce, and crazies weren't enough for you?  Now you're gunning for America's Dairyland.  Why, California?  Why?

You should know that in addition to cheese, we also produce alarming amounts of beer.  What?  Too good for beer?  Well I hope you enjoy drip drying, because we're also your number one (pun intended!) source of toilet paper.

So lay off, California.  And enjoy your tofurkey and cranberry sauce.  Whoops!  Who controls the cranberry supply?  Something to think about.

your cheesehead friend,

Lori

I was told that I could listen to the radio at a reasonable volume.

Today in my staff meeting I learned at the same time as all of my coworkers that my desk was being moved, my room given to a new therapist, and I would start seeing my students in the conference room or whatever other nook, cranny, or crawl space may be available.  I am officially Milton. 

They better not try to take my stapler.

Come to think of it, I don' t even have my own stapler, but may God have mercy on their souls if my 3-hole punch goes missing.

XOXO

A post in which I do not discuss the swimming.

(except to point out that the style name of my new goggles is The Natator making me I suppose some sort of Nautical Terminator the same way that guy from Snap was the Lyrical Jesse James.)

Dear SBC Yahoo! DSL,

You might be the devil.  We Three Blondes pay you PLENTY of our hard-earned money each month.  (Seriously, one Blonde wrangles 22 second-graders for said money.  Another does some sort of Scientific Things involving Math.)  And yet, your Broadband Link light constantly flashes orange, mocking us with your stubborn refusal to do your one and only job and our total powerlessness to make you.

Before you, I had dial-up.  It was slow, but I could always, ALWAYS check my email anytime I wanted.  That's right, bitch.  I said dial-up was better than you.  And way cheaper.  Take that.

And I will post this rant-in-letter-format if you will only be so good as to let me online.  Pretty please.

Kisses,

Lori

(This rant was written last night in a murderous rage which included an Office Space-esque fantasy involving the DSL box and a baseball bat in the backyard.  However, I couldn't post it last night since the orange flashing would not stop.  So this morning I sat down to a green light which immediately started flashing orange when I touched the mouse.  I swear, for once in my life I am not even exaggerating.  I think the little bastard knew what I was going to write.  Spooky.)