Besides, the last time that I had lots of stomach aches (and acid reflux on top of that), the doctors poked and prodded me, took my blood, made me drink nasty things, and dug around in my innards with a scope, and after all that, all they could tell me was, “everything looks fine, but uh, maybe drink less coffee?” (which: ha!). So I don’t know why I should go back now. Especially since today, my stomach doesn’t hurt quite as bad. On the other hand, now I have nausea to go with it. It will be interesting to see where this goes. I’ll keep you posted.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Thursday, December 13, 2007
I just opened up my granola bar package for my mid-morning snack, and of the two bars, one was much smaller than it should have been. Also, it was pie-shaped. And the other bar tasted kind of funny. I ate it anyway (the regular sized one, not the small one). I was hungry.
I should have known that this was just going to be a day of bizarre-o-ness. My morning commute was very foggy. The visibility on the road wasn’t bad–you could see a good 15 car lengths in front of you–but everything on either side of the road was completely hidden by the fog. And above the road was foggy, too. So it was like being in a tunnel of fog. It was strange and creepy, in a fun kind of way. I really enjoyed it. But it was strange.
And speaking of strange, I was running almost an hour late this morning because I slept right through my alarm. That’s not strange at all, but the reason I was so tired was because of strange events last night. Well, maybe not strange. Maybe “unwelcome” is a better word choice.
As Sherlock Holmes (and the narrator of Pushing Daisies) would say, the facts are these: last night I was in my room, trying to figure out what to wear to work the next day and talking to RR. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the wall, and slowly, my brain started to let me know that, hey, there’s . . . a . . . something. There. On the wall. Or, you know, in the wall. When my brain finally got through to me, I stopped mid-sentence and just stared. RR followed my gaze. And we just stood there for a good five second, looking at the bubble in the paint.
It was at least four inches across and quite, quite tall.
“Hmm,” we said. “That’s not . . . that’s not right, is it?” we said.
We got a little closer and just looked at it. We hesitated to touch it, because it could be anything in there, but I did. It was squishy. Yep, we concluded, it’s full of water.
Oh, I should mention that it’s been raining quite a bit lately.
Right. Ok. So bubble of water in the wall. And under the paint, we could see a trail of smaller bubbles leading up to the big ‘un. We’re slow but not stupid. We followed the trail up to the ceiling.
“Oh, dear,” we said.
The ceiling, she was saggy. Saggy and soggy. It looked like that’s where the water had come from, but to confirm, I got on a step stool and poked at the ceiling. Yep. Damp.
So here was our strategy. We got a straight pin and a towel. We, um, for lack of a better word, lanced (ew) the big bubble, and sure enough, a LOT of water came out onto the towel that we’d suspected we’d need. And then we poked at the ceiling, but no water there (probably because it had all pooled into the bubble). So then I stood on the step stool with a hair dryer and dried my ceiling and the wall as best I could. And then while RR emailed the property management company and our landlord, I ran around and cleaned, because now the landlord might be coming by, and we really don’t want him to think that we’re slobs. That took a bit longer than I would have liked it to.
So then I went to bed. I thought about sleeping in another room, but then I didn’t. But poor rr, she was so worried about the ceiling caving in on me that she came in several times, in the middle of the night, with a straight pin taped on a stick, to poke at the ceiling and make sure that it was ok. I did wake up for that. I just cannot describe to you what it feels like to wake up from a deep sleep to see someone clad in plaid flannel pajamas with ruffles on them poking at your ceiling with a stick. It’s odd. But very sweet!! I think I should have slept in another room and spared her the worry.
Anyway, didn’t get a lot of sleep last night. And I didn’t get a lot of sleep the night before either because just when I’d been drifting off to sleep, something buzzed my ear, so of course I shot out of bed, did the “is it on me?” dance for a minute, then examined every inch of my room to figure out what did the fly-by. That took a while. Then I went to drag rr out of bed to help me, but she was dead to the world, and she’d been up all night the night before, and I just couldn’t bring myself to wake her up. So I just gave up and went back to bed. But it took me a while to get to sleep after that.
I feel fine, though. Assuming that granola bar was ok, I should be good to go the rest of the day, provided the coffee doesn’t run out.
Oh! And that remind me. Ok, I have definitely concluded that either (a) someone is trying to burn down the building or (b) someone is messing with me. Yesterday, I went into the break room, and to see EMPTY COFFEE POT SITTING ON THE BURNER STARING AT ME. This has to be personal. It just can't be an accident anymore. I immediately charged into the office directly across from the break room to try to find a witness, but neither the resident of that office nor the coworker talking with him had seen anything. Or so they said. I have my eye on them.
I truly do not understand. Why on earth would you put a bone-dry glass container on a burner and turn it on, and then just walk away? And they couldn’t have been trying to make coffee and just forgot to pour water into the coffee maker because there also weren’t any grounds in the part where you put the coffee. So, seriously, what the heck, y’all? It doesn’t make any sense–unless it’s being done on purpose.
Ok, that is all.
Monday, December 10, 2007
See, recently they’ve really stepped up the monitoring of our innernet use at work, so I’m trying to minimize the time I spend online doing non-work related stuff. And then when I get home, well, things don’t work out for blogging there, either. First, all I do all day at work is read and think about what to write, so when I get home and have to read and think about what to write, I’m kind of burned out and my brain doesn’t cooperate with putting the words together.
Also, starting around Thanksgiving, I developed a cold, or my allergies got really bad, not sure which, but whichever it was, it involved lots and lots of kleenex. So I just kind of sat around once I got home and did nothing but watch t.v. Then rr had a bunch of projects and work all needing to be done at the same time, and that involved the use of the computer.
Then we found out that one of our cats’ cancer had come back, so we had to deal with medicating her, and I spent so much time worrying about it that I just couldn’t face reading about other people’s lives. And this past Tuesday, we found out that in just that week, her cancer had progressed so far that there was really nothing to do but put her out of her misery. And then rr and I came home and ate a bunch of cookies and cried. That took a few days to bounce back from. And this past weekend, I ran around like crazy trying to do all the stuff I haven’t done in a month or two.
So that’s what’s going on with me. But hopefully, soon, I’ll be back around. I hope that you’ve all written interesting stuff so I have something good to read!
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Now, I should clarify that it’s not that I hate people who act pro se--people who represent themselves in lawsuits. I actually think it’s great that people who can’t afford an attorney will not let that fact stop them from standing up for their rights. And I love that we have a system of justice that allows for that.
But the thing about law school is, it teaches us attorneys to speak the same language. Pro se litigants, however, unless they are attorneys or went to law school, do not have the benefit of that common background. And these people, though sometimes they make great arguments, often they make arguments I can't respond to.
I’m not exactly sure how to explain it to you without getting into the boring details of my job, so I’ll make up a non-law example. Say that I want to go see a movie, but before I can do that, I need to get approval. The rule is that before I can go see the movie, I must present my proposal to an independent arbiter at a hearing, and then a hypothetical movie-seeing approval board (hereinafter “the board”) gets an opportunity to object to the proposal, and then I have to respond to its objections.
So I say, “I want to go see Dan in Real Life this weekend.” The board might say, “if you go, you can only go to the matinee because, according to your bank balance, you are broke,” or it might say, “You cannot go see that movie because your dad hates Steve Carell.” To those arguments I can respond, “my bank balance lies, and here, I have evidence of that, and also, I have a credit card, and I have evidence of that,” or “my dad doesn’t care if I go see that movie so long as I let him tell me how much he hates Steve Carell, and here’s my dad to testify to that fact.” I can deal with these arguments.
Now suppose that instead, the board says, “You can’t go see that movie because the sky is yellow, and because Britney Spears is a man! One, Two, Three, Four, Twelve, Twenty-Two! Eepples and Benenes!”
What do I do with that? My initial reactions are “oooookaaaay”, “how is that relevant,” and “huh?” How do I respond? I can’t just say, “in the what now?” The arbiter is sitting there, waiting to see what my responses are. So I’m sort of stuck trying to make sense of nonsense.
I really want to go see that movie, but I’m not sure I’m ever going to make it out of the hearing. And that's my day today, y'all.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Take into consideration:
- the mocha is very yummy
- the mocha is not cheap
- the woman did not cover her mouth.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
And now you know.
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
If only I were the type of person that had no qualms about calling her secretary and saying, “Lois, please bring me the Maschenheimer file.” [note: my secretary’s name isn’t Lois, and I don’t have a file on anyone or anything named Maschenheimer] But I’m not. I can’t bring myself to call my secretary and ask her to bring me anything because that would be just lazy (and it’s not part of her job to bring me stuff, so also I’d be kind of a jerk). I am lazy, obviously (and not a jerk, usually), but my coworkers don’t need to be talking about it, so I’m not giving anyone any ammo. Soooooo . . . yep, just sitting here.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Monday, October 22, 2007
Today I walked into the break room, and lo and behold, there was a pot of coffee, sitting on the burner/warmer. In a new twist, the burner was not on. So the coffee sat there and got cold. And a lot of the coffee was gone from the pot. So several people had come in, poured themselves some coffee, and declined to pour the coffee into the carafe. This despite the fact that at some point, it must have been obvious that the coffee was not “piping hot,” as it is when it’s freshly brewed, and in an office of (supposedly) intelligent people, the deduction that the coffee would continue to cool even more should have been an obvious one to make. So although the coffee would not, thankfully, reach the gray, chewy stage, it would require reheating. Reheated coffee is not always that good in the best of circumstances. When what you have to reheat it in is a Styrofoam cup, well, the yummy factor is especially low for that particular cup of joe.
So why the change in the behavior pattern? Trying to shake things up? Did someone at work find my blog and decide to mess with me? This mystery requires some thought (and possibly, as rr suggested in my last post on the topic, a stake out).
p.s. You will not be surprised to hear that I poured out the last of the cold coffee and made a new pot.
Friday, October 19, 2007
And today, I look like it.
And also, I recently had my teeth bleached at the dentist. Did I already write about that? Well, I got my teeth bleached, but I’m not crazy about the results. And now part of my teeth look more or less clear. Is that ok? I don’t think that’s supposed to happen. Right? I don’t know, I’ve never done this before. But it’s not helping me feel confident about my appearance today.
It doesn’t help that I recently had my hair cut by yet another stylist. And he is yet another stylist who does not understand the concept of “sweepy bangs.” What I need to do, I guess, is look my next stylist in the eyes and say “I have a big forehead, so I need bangs, but I don’t look good with bangs. So I need longish bangs that sweep across my forehead, hiding said forehead without making me look 12. But I need the bangs to not be the kind that start on the far side of my forehead and sweep all the way across, because I can’t pull that off. So I need bangs that start just to the left of my center part and sweep to the right. But that leaves part of my forehead exposed, so I need actual bangs–the non-sweeping kind–there. And this will look fine, and I know this because my former stylist always made it work.” But that takes too long, so I always just say, with accompanying hand gestures, “sweepy bangs. You know? I just want them to sweep across. But part of it, I want actual bangs, so it goes across, you know?” And they do not know, apparently. They say they know, but they don’t. And so I get bad bangs.
Also, I specifically told him that my old stylist used to give me one long layer, but since she left, I’ve had a number of stylists who didn’t do it right, including the last one who made the top layer way too short. He said he understood. And then he proceeded to give me the exact same haircut. Grr. Do not want!
And, finally, what is with “The Office” being an hour long these days? I love the show, but it’s funnier at half an hour. And why has the CW stopped putting full episodes of ANTM on their site?
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
I should say at the outset that I know that this is not something I should get worked up about. And I didn't, at first, but this has been going on for about a year. What, you ask? A silent battle between me and someone whose identity I have not yet established. Possibly more than one person. And I don't dwell on it, really, but when it happens, it temporarily gets my blood pressure up until I get distracted by work things and forget about it. What, you ask (again)? I'm getting to it.
We have a pretty simple coffee system here at work. We have one of those industrial-type coffee makers that’s always plugged in and thus always ready to go. All you have to do is put the grounds in the little cup thing and pour the water in, and it will start making coffee. No buttons need pressing, no switches need flipping. Just pour in the water.
Now, it’s possible, even probable, that all the freshly-brewed coffee in the pot won’t get nabbed immediately and could go cold sitting there. That’s why there’s a warmer. The warmer is not on continuously–it must be turned on. For that purpose, there’s a little switch to turn it on, helpfully labeled “warmer.” But letting the coffee sit on the warmer is not so much in the category of “good idea.” You know what happens when you let coffee sit on a warmer, right? It thickens and turns gray and gross. And for that reason, we have a coffee thermos/carafe thing that we pour the coffee in when it’s done. It’s right next to the coffee pot. Convenient, no?
No, obviously not, not for some people. At least once a week, I go into the break room to discover the pot just sitting there on the warmer. This bugs me for a number of reasons.
First, don’t be so lazy that you’re willing to make the coffee but not pour it into the carafe. And I’d say that someone just started the coffee brewing, turned the warmer on, and left (which also bothers me) (what, that’s supposed to be doing us a favor? Do it right or don’t do it at all!), but there is often coffee gone from the pot, so someone was willing to pick up the pot and pour a cup of coffee but not to take the extra step of pouring the rest into the carafe so that the rest of us wouldn’t have to chew our coffee.
But it also bothers me because I suspect that someone believes that you have to turn the warmer on in order to make the coffee. This despite the fact that the little switch clearly says “warmer” and not “brew” or anything like it. And so once, to be helpful, (and I think this will surprise no one), I made a little note that I stuck on the coffee maker. The note very nicely (no, really) reminded people that you didn’t need to turn the warmer on to make coffee and also, please don’t leave an empty coffee pot on the warmer because we don’t want exploding coffee pots or fires or whatnot. This note did absolutely no good. And then someone took my note down. I . . . I don’t know how to take that. Not only did it not change anyone’s behavior, but because I know the note was read but changed nothing, now I know that the bad coffee behavior is willful. It’s intentional and knowing. That’s a crime, y’all. I’m sure of it. AND “INTENTIONAL AND KNOWING” MAKES IT A FELONY. At least, in my book of things I consider criminal behavior.
And that brings me to my third problem with warmer use: the ever-present danger of fires. And exploding coffee pots. And whatnot. The coffee pot itself came with warnings--it clearly says that it should not be heated when empty, and that if it’s heated when empty it should not be used anymore, and dire consequences will result if these orders are not followed. Fires! Exploding glass! Whatnot! And this, I thought, was common knowledge for coffee drinkers. It’s in the great collective unconscious, right? And everyone has at some point been told that you don’t put an empty glass container on a heat source. Right?
Not everyone, though, apparently. Grr. Is someone doing this on purpose just to annoy me? Seriously, how many times do I have to walk down the hall with a stanky, smoking, burned-up coffee pot, looking for our custodian so I can show her the pot and ask her (a) can it be saved and (b) if not, do we have any more, and to talk about how lucky we were that the whole building didn’t burn down? And I wrote about it on my note, to no avail. Willful, y’all. Willful bad behavior. All this coffee ado does not put me in the proper mindset to get work done. What’s a woman to do? I’m out of ideas. I already left a note.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
When the mother called 911, a police officer showed up at the scene. When she went into the house, she slipped on a puddle of water, presumably created when the mother took the child inside. The police officer hurt her knee and went on disability for a few months. The city's insurer, in addition to paying her disability pay, paid for her medical treatment.
The police officer is now suing the boy’s family for negligence.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
That’s an excerpt from a Slate article (“Fark Founder Flattens Fourth Estate”) about Drew Curtis’s book It's Not News, It's Fark: How Mass Media Tries To Pass Off Crap As News. The article itself is amusing, and so is fark.com (to which I have been meaning to link ever since I found it recently) (and credit where credit is due–heather already does link to it). Fark provides links to news articles. The articles that it links to are fark (news that’s really not “news”) , so I don’t recommend the articles for their news-worthiness. But they are, how to say this, “easy reading.” So if you want to read something besides TwoP or EW but don’t want to read anything that’s actually news, this is your website.
And the blurbs that describe the articles are often hilarious. Example: “Duct work collapses in school gym. If only there was a tape of some sort to keep this from happening.”
That's solid gold, baby.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Pushing Daisies premiered last night. Y’all it was great. It’s not going to appeal to everyone, but it was my kind of show. Chi McBride’s character Emerson Cod is my new favorite fictional person I wish I could hang out with. Unfortunately, ABC doesn’t have it on their list of shows that you can watch full episodes of, and Warner Bros has made YouTube take down all the videos, so if you missed it last night, I don’t know what you can do about it. Maybe they’ll run it again.
My day so far:
First, guess what today’s date is? RR has already called me and asked me if I knew what the date is. She rocks.
So this morning, I think I made some guy at the gas station think I was crazy or drunk or both. If I had seen me, I would have known exactly what I was doing, but I guess he’s not like me. Anyway, here’s what happened. I was driving to the dentist, and I heard this sound, and I swear, it sounded like a cat.
Background: The other day when I was about to get in my car to go somewhere, RR told me to be sure and check under my car before I left because she’d seen a cat under my car the other day.
So here I am driving, and I hear this sound that sounds like a cat. I tried to ignore it and tell myself that it’s just my imagination, but then I heard it again, and I remembered what RR had told me the other day. So I though, ok, 'when you get to the dentist, just check.' But then I heard it again, so I wheeled into the gas station I was driving past. And this is when I got the weird looks from that man.
So, if you are in your car, and you want to look under your car, what do you do? I didn’t want to get out and lay on the ground because . . . well, that doesn’t really need a reason beyond not wanting to lay on the ground, right? I didn’t want to lay on the ground. I’d get dirty and it would hurt my knees and I don’t like the way cement feels and it’s awkward and whatever, I didn’t want to. (Ok, I have reasons). Point it: not getting on the ground. So I did what anyone else would do, or anyone but, apparently, that man at the gas station–I opened my car door and leaned way over until I was upside-down, and I looked under my car. That’s it. No big deal. Just hanging upside-down out of my car for a minute. Well, I sat back up, couldn’t be sure I’d checked very thoroughly, and did it again, but that’s it. If you saw me, wouldn’t you know that I was just trying to look under my car?
Anyway, I didn’t see anything. So I sat back up, shut my door, turned off the car and sat there for a minute. I didn’t hear anything, so I left. I didn’t hear anything else after that. Now I don’t know what to think.
Update: Pushing Daisies is now available for viewing on the ABC website. Go! Go watch! Go go go!
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
See, one of my coworkers is having a baby, and she and her husband are brokeish, and she’s having a hard time finding baby bedding that she likes that isn’t also so expensive that she’d have to, you know, trade the baby for it. And I’m thinking, sheets! How hard can it be to make sheets? And a crib dust ruffle? And, ok, that little bumper thing and the comforter could be a little harder, but still–no zippers! No button holes! How hard can it be?
Seriously. I can do that, right? And then after that . . . work clothes! I can make a suit, right?
Monday, October 01, 2007
Good stuff coming up on PBS.
First, PBS will re-air Jane Eyre on December 30, 2007 and January 6, 2008. Y’all, it’s so good. It’s the best version I’ve ever seen. And I think that if you couldn’t invest in the characters when you read the book, you’ll be pleasantly surprised by the movie. Although I loved the book when I read it, I sometimes thought that Mr. Rochester was a little, I don’t know, insensitive, maybe? I didn’t get that from the movie at all. LOVED it. Watch it.
And if that wasn’t enough . . . Don’t you just love Jane Austen? Of course you do! I said, of course you do. Well, guess what? In 2008, PBS is airing what it’s calling “The Complete Jane Austen.” And what does that include? It's a lot, y'all. They’re showing Emma, Mansfield Park (thankfully, not that sorry 1999 version), Northanger Abbey, Persuasion, Pride and Prejudice (the one with Colin Firth, yea!), and, finally, Sense and Sensibility (a version I’ve never seen or heard of). I’m so excited!
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Chuck is great. I wasn’t sure if I was going to like it or not from the previews, but I LOVED it. It’s funny and charming. If you didn’t watch the pilot, it’s still available on the NBC website (supposedly) and should be up until the next episode (although it wasn't working the other night. well it was, and then it wasn't), and after that, you can buy it on Amazon. Y'all, it's really great. Go watch it. Between The Office, 30 Rock, and this show, NBC really has my attention. They are doing great things with the funny shows.
ANTM was fabulous. Tyra dressed up in a showgirl costume and sang a song. It was so bad. And this season’s second episode, similarly crazy. I just love how that show defies my expectations every week. Every week, I think, “can’t be more ridiculous than last week,” but every week, it is. At least “Miss J” looks like he got a haircut.
I’ll just quote you a line from the season premiere: “And while I eventually puked my guts out, I never puked my heart out. And I am very proud of that.” Man I love this show. I'm so glad it's back. The summer was just too long to be away from it.
I’m also liking Back to You. It still has some kinks to work out. But Kelsey Grammar and Patricia Heaton are fabulous in anything that they do.
What about you guys? How are you feeling about the season’s shows so far?
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Me: So, ok, so we’re a little stuffy today. What should we do about that?
Sinuses: Um. . . we’re all good, actually. No stuffiness. Nothing at all. We’re clean. You know how people say, “keep your nose clean”? Well, you’re good in that respect.
Me: Well, that’s actually an idiomatic expression, it’s not actually related to . . . anyway, if you’re “clean,” then why is my throat sore? There’s got to be some kind of drainage situation back there. And how come I can’t breathe through my nose?
Sinuses: You can never breathe through your nose. That’s normal. You’re a mouth breather, baby.
Me: No, that’s not entirely true, sometimes I can–
Sinuses: MOUTH BREATHER.
Me: . . .
Sinuses: And if I were you, I’d be more worried about the fact that your forehead is peeling again. You look like you have eyebrow dandruff.
Me: That’s not nice.
Sinuses: Breath through your mouth. Just do it.
Me: But today I can’t seem to get air in through my mouth, either.
Sinuses: That sounds like a lung problem to us.
Lungs: Don’t bring us into this.
Me: Well, I guess I could use my inhaler.
Sinuses: Yeah! Inhaler!
Lungs: Don’t you have some saline nasal spray?
Me: Yeah, I do, and that doesn’t give me the shakes. I’ll try that first.
[pause while I spray saline into my nose, grab a tissue when it all comes running out again, and cough furiously ]
Lungs: That’s harsh.
Keyboard: Did you just cough on me?
So that’s my day so far.
Also, I just want to take a minute to thank RR for being the best sister in the world. I can’t possibly thank you for everything you’ve done for me in the last week, so I’ll just pick a few. Thanks for making me Jello, buying me fruit pops, checking in the middle of the night to make sure I’m still breathing, driving me to the doctor, bringing me glasses of ice water, never flinching when I accidentally coughed on you, and giving me lots and lots of hugs, all in a fully sympathetic manner. You're just the best!
Monday, September 17, 2007
Thursday, August 30, 2007
I should have known that I really only needed to ask my brother.
Don’t get me wrong. My brother’s friend gave me perfectly competent directions. Those directions would have enabled 9 people out of 10 to get there without trouble. But my brother gave RR directions that are more appropriate for our skill level. My brother (1) has an amazing sense of direction, (2) is very observant about landmarks, and, most importantly, (3) understands that neither (1) nor (2) applies to me or rr. It’s like God took the sense of direction that three people should have and gave it all to my brother, leaving none for RR and me. Accordingly, my brother has long been the go-to guy for us.
Despite that, he almost always, very sweetly I think, overestimates us. He knows we aren’t good with directions, but he has too much confidence in our memories, specifically, in our ability to remember places we’ve been 50 times before. At least, he does at the beginning of a conversation involving directions. And then he comes back to reality. I cannot tell you how many times we’ve had a conversation that went something like this [all places and road names are made up]:
Me: Hey, how do I get to the YadaYada?
Him: You just get on the 101 and take it up to the 12 and exit Norville, it’ll be on your right.
Me: Ok, great. . . Do I know where the 101 is?
Him: You’ve been there, we went there with the family 17 years ago for lunch once. Remember, it was raining, and dad said [insert lots of details about a day I don’t remember at all]. [or worse, it might be something like, “you remember, that’s where your high school graduation was,” or “you know, the interstate you used to live right off of,” something that I really should remember but don’t]
Me: ooook, so, how do I get there?
Him: You just take Interstate 70 north.
Me: And . . . Interstate 70, that’s . . . I get there by . . . by taking . . .
Him: Interstate 40.
Me: Ok, right. Interstate 40. So, I’ll take Interstate 40. Right, ok, I know what you’re talking about now. I’ll take Interstate 40 east and then take the exit for Interstate 70, and I’ll go . . .
Me: and that’s–
Me: Right, ok, 40 to 70, go left, take that up to the 101. Exit Norville Road. And then I’ll be able to find it?
Him: Take the 101 to 12. 12 to Norville.
Me: Oh. Ok. . . So . . . then. . .
Him: Ok, tell you what. This is what you’re going to do. . .
And then he proceeds to give me directions that will take me longer to get there but are easier to follow, involving at least some streets that I know. He’ll give me landmarks and mileage and approximate wait time at stop lights and the license plates of the cars I’ll pass on the road. Ok, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration. But he gives idiot-proof directions, is my point.
Yesterday, he went straight to the idiot-proof directions, skipping over his usual nod to the intelligence the family supposes us to have. Perhaps it’s because the last time I was at my parents’ house with him, we had a conversation that went something like this:
Me [talking about what would happen if he made one of his vindictive coworkers angry]: You’ll be walking around with one of those things on your back.
Him, Mom, and Dad: ?
Me: You know, those things. [drawing desperate circles with my arms] The round things, with the red? You throw things? [mimicking throwing darts]
Him [incredulously]: . . . You mean a target?
Me [relieved]: Yes!
I wish I could have captured the looks on their faces. It was like they were all thinking, “oh, this is worse than we thought.” Like they all finally realized what I’ve been saying for years, that my brain really does only hold on to the stuff I absolutely have to remember to survive. That rr’s habit of finishing my sentences for me isn’t so much a trait that would annoy me as one that’s absolutely vital to my conveying a complete thought. So maybe, when giving directions to rr last night, my brother was thinking that we were only one step up from having to have our address pinned to our shirts. Whatever the case, he gave us good directions.
I’m only a little nervous about getting lost and having to ask for directions from some guy at a convenience store. “You know, that place, with the building, for the singing?”
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Y’all, I have a cut on my finger that is starting to look a little puffy. I am concerned because (a) I cut myself with my own fingernail, and (b) I cut myself with my own fingernail. By (a) I mean that I am concerned that I have razor-like fingernails (I knew they were strong and therefore not inclined to break; I did not know I could use them to clip coupons and shave my legs). And by (b) I mean that I am concerned because what could I have had on my fingernail that would cause a cut made by it to look all red and puffy? Don’t say fungus.
Don’t say tetanus, either.
Friday, August 24, 2007
In other news, several of my coworkers are leaving for new gigs, and I’m mostly sad about it. We all more or less learned the being-a-lawyer ropes together. We all found out we’d passed the bar together. And now we’re going in different directions, and though we’ll keep in touch, I can’t pop into someone’s office to ask for input on a sticky issue, and none of them will be calling me and beginning with, “this may be a stupid question, but” and following with a question that I also was struggling with but was sure I was the only one who didn’t know the answer. It’s just nice to work with people at the exact same point in their careers as you are. But at the same time, I’m happy for them. It’s good for them, and that’s all that really matters. The good news for me is that my Starbucks buddy is not leaving, so I still have someone to make the trip with every week. So I’ve got that going for me.
- I am not in favor of pizza crust with cheese in it. I never thought I’d say this about anything, but it’s just too much cheese.
- It is possible for Twinkies to go stale.
- One of my coworkers and I dressed almost exactly alike today, right down to our purses. Except that I looked like the unkempt version.
- And for that matter, I really should stop looking like a slob at work. This would require me getting out of bed earlier than 20 minutes before I have to leave. I do not see this happening in the foreseeable future.
- I hope everyone has a great weekend!
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Of course, it does mean that, in my quest for getting rid of things, I have taken to mailing random junk to friends. I want to send some of it to BF/R, in the hopes of getting the “[JLR], what the hell?” phone call, but I know that she’ll just politely accept it, throw it in the trash, and later, if asked, will tell me that she’s terribly sorry, she feels really bad about it, but the dog ate it. And anyway, I’d just be sending it to her because I know she’d hate whatever it was. But because I won’t be around to see her reaction, it’s just not as fun. Thus, I am sending things to other friends, those that aren’t used to receiving random, pointless “gifts” in the mail from me (that rules out Hils) ("um, thanks for the ice trays?"). And so, at brunch this past Sunday, my friend D asks me why he’s recently received in the mail a dusty, cat-hair covered, plastic jump rope (he left out the description, but it hung in the air, unspoken but heavily present). “Well,” I said with only a slight twinge of embarrassment, “you’d mentioned you were wanting a jump rope.” ‘And,’ I thought, ‘it got it out of the house.’ This is what I’ve been doing.
So, for those of you whose address I know, be on the look out. I will probably not send you something you haven’t previously mentioned off-hand that you were looking into getting for yourself, but you never know. And if you’d like to receive random junk that you’ll be too ashamed to display but feel too guilty to get rid of (‘she did mail it to me, I can’t just throw it out’), just give me your address. Junk mail will be heading your way. But not the Cow-as -Vegas-Showgirl statuette. That stays with me.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
I know that this was the first time you cut my hair. And I know I said that I wanted my hair to be layered. But I thought that you would be able to tell that I meant for it to have one layer, and a long layer at that, just enough to keep my hair from looking like Alice’s in the Dilbert comic strip (although I have much admiration for Alice, I do not admire her hair). I thought you could tell that from the way my hair was already cut, and, you know, the words coming out of my mouth. I don’t know where you got the idea that I would be ok with you giving my hair a modified shag, with significant amounts of my hair shorter than the rest, so that when my hair is curly, it looks like an inverted triangle, and when it’s dry, I look like Mrs. Brady. I appreciate that my hair can be a challenge and maybe a bit overwhelming, but you should have noticed at some point before it was too late that it just wasn’t going to work. It’s not cool, and I’m not pleased.
Thanks ever so.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
On her 10 or so unsuccessful trips to the workroom, here are some of the obstacles in her path, in her words:
- someone's using it.
- or started the process of emptying it and left the container sitting outside.
- or is standing in front of it sorting their stuff for the copier.
- or is sitting in front of it to use one of the typewriters.
Of course, we never make fun of each other on topics that we are actually sensitive about, unless it’s completely ridiculous. Hils can’t get to the shredder? I’ll be mocking her frustration. But if she’s stressed about finals, or about finding an apartment, that’s something I’ll only be supportive about. Likewise, if I am having job problems, she’ll support me. But the fact that I use the word “dude” frequently, the fact that once in college, I ate so much peanut butter that my half of my face swelled up? Fair game.
[That’s probably why I like reading reading Ems’ blog and hearing from her so much. She’s so sweet and encouraging, yet she is not afraid to snicker at my problems. But she’s not mean.]
I guess the moral of this story is, if you're my friend, that means you've figured out what problems I have that I’m not sensitive about (hint: is it something that I have already made fun of myself for?). . . and you make fun of me for them. And you remember that turnabout is fair play. And then happily have conversations with me about the correct pronunciation of the word we just made up.
Monday, July 23, 2007
I’m thinking the odds of this happening are somewhere between laughable and fired-for-even-asking. But that doesn’t stop me from dreaming about it.
BTW, I apologize for the still infrequent posting lately. I don’t know why I’m so tired lately, but I just can’t seem to do anything that involves thinking, and considering that’s pretty much all that my job entails, I have to use all my energy on that. I have considered posting “to do” lists for the sake of having something recent posted, but that just seems silly. Then again, maybe that way I’d actually remember to do the things I write down.
Also, does anyone know how to get rid of gnats? We seem to be having a problem with them in our kitchen. It’s not so much that we have a lot of them, we just seem to always have one or two. We keep everything sealed and always wash our dishes and wipe down counters, so we can’t figure out where they’re coming from or how to get rid of them. We’re getting tired of having to cover everything, and I mean everything–I can’t even leave a slice of bread on a plate while making a sandwich, I have to cover it with a paper towel or something to keep it gnat-free while I scoop the peanut butter out of the jar. Last night one had the effrontery to fly directly into the bag of bread while I was making my lunch for today, so rr and I felt compelled to throw out the whole loaf. This was after I dropped my dinner on the floor. It was not a good night for me, food-wise.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Well, I do have something, but I’m working on it at home, so for now, nothing.
Let’s see. Think, think, think, as Pooh would say. Think, think, think. Thiiiink, think, think.
Oh! We bought a new vacuum. Eureka Optima. It’s very light for a vacuum and fairly effective. Emptying the cannister and cleaning the filter, though, is a-noooooy-ing. We also bought a compact carpet cleaner, but the verdict is still out on that one. It does seem to be getting the carpet clean, but I’m not sure it’s having much effect on the spots we’re trying to remove. And it’s a compact cleaner, so it only cleans the carpet one small circle at a time. So we’ve got spot, surrounded by circle of clean, surrounded by dirty carpet. Attractive! So helpful for notifying the landlord that yes, that stain was not there when we moved in!
Um, what else. I’m in the market for a (very inexpensive yet not a piece of junk) new car. My parents are making me go test drive cars, which I guess is a good thing, but it kind of annoys me. I don’t want to drive around with a salesman. It will be an uncomfortable experience, literally, because I’ll have to bite my tongue the whole time to keep from saying, “could you please not say another word for the rest of the drive but make it seem like a natural silence.” I’ll have to be all polite and semi-friendly because it’s not the salesman’s fault that I don’t want him there.
So that’s all that’s going on with me. Stimulating reading, no?
Sunday, July 01, 2007
The Lanana Creek Trail is a community trail open to the public for walking and cycling. Part of the trail crosses SFA’s campus, and the university has granted an easement to the City of Nacogdoches for this use. Diane Flynn was riding her bike on the trail, crossing the SFA campus, when she was hit by a stream of water from an oscillating sprinkler. The force of the water knocked her off her bike, causing her injury. The sprinkler was part of an in-ground irrigation system on SFA’s campus, and this particular sprinkler head was on SFA’s shot-put field about four feet from the trail.
What kind of freaky sprinklers do they have down there?
Friday, June 29, 2007
Ok, we may have licked the frosting just off of one side. In any event, Spiderman makes me think of my big brother.
So happy b’day to the best big brother ever! We love you!
So, anyway, I’m trying to cut back and eet ees keelling me. I cannot remember the last time I had a good night’s sleep due to (a) rr’s constant coughing all through the night, which I can hear very clearly from her room, (b) one of my cats taking to getting on my dresser around 3 in the morning and knocking my stuff off, (c) the cats taking turns being ill, (d) various loud, unidentifiable noises coming from outside in the middle of the night, (e) one of the cats chewing on shoes and an old backpack in an attempt to wake me up, annoy the hell out of me enough to get me out of bed, and cause me to feed her to get her to stop (she’s crafty), and (f) storms. The only one I don’t mind is rr’s coughing, because I want to wake up in case she accidentally, you know, coughs up a lung, because that’s how bad her coughing sounds, like that might actually happen, and I’ll need to drive her to the hospital.
So poor sleep plus less coffee equals this particular chicky extremully* nonproductive at work. But hey, I work for the government, so that’s ok, right? Your tax dollars at work! Hahahahahahaha!
No, but seriously, I need a pick-me-up. This nonproductivity is sure to get noticed at some point. My boss and the senior staff person in our work group give me serious eye-rollings when I say that I’m behind, but I’m looking at the list of stuff they are working on, and I look at the list of what I’m working on, and it’s at least twice as long. And ok, technickully, we don’t have deadlines, so it’s not like I’m going to get yelled at. But everyone knows when you aren’t getting as much done as everyone else, and even though you don’t get in trouble for not getting stuff done by a certain time, you don’t want that reputation as a slacker. And if you have the longest list of unfinished business, people definitely notice. So I am beeehind.
And you’ll notice that right now, instead of working, I’m posting on my blog.
But that’s because I need help! Help, y’all! Tips for productivity! And I am already having trouble fitting into my clothes, so skip any suggestions of A-I-S food.**
In other news, this website cracks me up.*
p.s. I am a rocking girl blogger! I will ‘splain later.
*I can tell that I am tired because I am amusing myself by making up words and spelling things incorrectly. And things that I would normally find just mildly amusing are now uproarious.
**A-I-S stands for “a**-in-seat” and comes from “Everybody loves Raymond.” Or at least, that’s where we got it from. RR and I use the term “A-I-S food” to mean snacks and the like that we eat while we’re studying or working on a project, food that keeps us sitting down. My theory is that the brain activity necessary for eating occupies that part of my brain that would otherwise be distracting me. Like why I draw all over the church bulletin during the sermon. It helps me pay attention. Also, I really like food, so it keeps me happy.
Friday, June 22, 2007
I . . . I just don’t know what to say.
Oh, wait, yes, I do.
I have to say that part of me is excited. Don’t get me wrong, I could not stand them the first time around. In fact, I thought they were a joke. Kind of like my initial reaction to crocs. When I found out it wasn’t a joke, I still couldn’t accept them. I spent the rest of the time they were around asking, “really? I mean, really? People like them? Really?” And when they broke up, I thought, “Thank God!” The only thing even related to them that I remember fondly is that a local radio station in my college town had this advertisement making fun of the pop songs that were popular at the time, and the premise was that these would be the songs we’d be listening to in the old folks’ home, so there was this sound clip of an old man, who sounded a little like Grandpa Simpson, singing, “So tell ME what you want, what you really, really want, I’ll tell YOU what I want, what I really, really want” (although the premise was funnier when Margaret Cho did it –“Put on ‘Hungry Like the Wolf!’”). RR and I still break out into that sometimes. His version of “mmm-bop” was also humorous, but we don’t sing that one. Anyway, I couldn’t stand them, is my point, and I’m not excited about being subjected to a new round of their music.
And also, I think their time has passed. Their whole theme, I just don’t know if it would work now. (But then again, I couldn’t believe that it worked then)
That said, why am I so excited that they might get back together? Nostalgia? The potential for an easy target? What is it?
And why do I bring this up? Because for some reason, the theme song [about 55 seconds into the clip] popped into my head this morning. I don’t mind the music, but it’s stuck in there good and proper, and that’s making me want to watch t.v., which they frown on you doing at work.
But I did take the time to verify that you can finally find some of the episodes online, including one of my all-time favorite sketches, “Choking.”
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
I see from your blog that you are currently reading Anna Kareninininina. I have the suspicion, which I cannot shake, that you are reading this book because Oprah suggested it. Please tell me that it’s not so.
Hopefully, I remain
Bad: Starving by the time I got to work.
Good: For once having money in my wallet for the vending machine.
Bad: Nothing even close to healthy in the machine. (Pork rinds, anyone?)
Good: Having an excuse to eat powdered donuts.
Bad: The elevator stopping at almost every floor, both on the way down to the vending machine, and on the way back.
Good: Coffee is already made when I got to work, even though the woman who usually makes it is out of the office today.
Bad: Realizing, after drinking some of it, that the coffee is actually left over from yesterday.
Good: Getting to have lunch with a bunch of other lawyers at a restaurant I’ve been wanting to try.
Bad: Realizing that I have a gigantic run in my pantyhose.
Good: Remembering that I have an extra pair of pantyhose in my desk drawer.
Bad: Discovering that it’s actually just a pair of knee highs (??!!!!!??).
Good: Today is technically a holiday, so I’m earning comp time by being here.
Bad: A coworker in my “pod” is out today, and I have to cover for her, and I hate her job so much that it makes me feel a little nauseated.
I guess you could say that I’m having a pretty balanced day so far.
Monday, June 18, 2007
I was reading a case out of a Texas court of appeals handed down back in 2004. Here’s what happened: this couple buys a house, right? They buy it “as is.” Bad idea. ALWAYS a bad idea. This is a perfect example of why. The buyers wanted to have a handicap accessible shower put in down in the basement. The contractor comes in, makes a hole in the wall to do the installation, and finds another room. Actually, he finds two bathrooms, a hallway, and half of a living room, all walled off in the basement. Extra space! That’s good, right? Wrong! See, these rooms were not empty. Nope. They were filled with “garbage, junk, and contaminated refuse, including a trash heap measuring more than six feet in height.” Yep, a trash heap more than six feet in height. The junk stored there included “rusty plumbing fixtures, bathtubs, sinks, commodes, boards, pipes, rocks, and used building materials. The trash was damp and contaminated with mold.”
Hidden room. Filled with trash.
I can’t get past this. I can’t get past the idea of a person who would, rather than deal with having to get rid of all this stuff, just put a wall in front of it. Someone would rather lose two bathrooms and half a living room rather than throw their damn stuff out. These people are out there.
This is a life lesson, y’all. You need to figure out who in your life will build a wall around the problems in their life so that they can pretend the problems don’t exist, rather than deal with them. Find these people, and cut them out of your life before you get stuck with all their trash.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
That being said, I did notice that my face looks heavier than it usually does in pictures. That’s a sure sign of weight gain, when you start to see it in your face. Those pictures have therefore strengthened my resolve to do SOMETHING before I go up another size and have to buy all new clothes.
I just wish that I’d seen them before I ate two (stale) mini butterfingers.
(what? I was starving!)
I do have to say that I feel just the weensiest bit of trepidation about it, though, because I’m getting my hair cut by someone who’s never cut it before. That’s right, one of the things we women live in fear of has come to pass—my hair stylist up and left me, y’all. That is so not cool. I loved my hair stylist. She was the best. She could actually do things with my hair that made it look good, something none of the hair stylists I'd been to before could do with regularity. She was also cool and sweet, and once I even wrote her a thank you card telling her how great she was and begging her to let me know if she ever left the salon so that I could follow her to wherever she went.
And did I get a phone call or an email? NO, I did not, because she is not going to a new salon, she’s just leaving the work force altogether. I know staying home with her kids is important, good for her, and really, I think it’s probably the best for her situation. So while I applaud her decision for her sake, inside there’s a little voice screaming “nooooooooooooooooooooooo[infinity].” I’m so screwed, y’all.
Or I guess I should say, I'm so (potentially) screwed. Surely I can find one that can actually wrestle my hair into an (armed) truce? And if the woman cutting my hair on Saturday isn’t as good as my former stylist, and least it’s a haircut. So maybe Saturday won’t be as good as it could have been, but it will at least be a better hair day than today. It has to be, right?
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Today the words on the non-dairy creamer container
nearly made me choke on my coffee remainders.
It seems the primary ingredient is corn syrup solids
which, surprisingly, does not make it olid
The second ingredient wasn’t much better.
I was dismayed to see those thirty-three letters–
Yes, my plans to be healthy were unfortunately foiled
by partially hydrogenated vegetable oil.
I don’t drink coffee black, so I guess I’m stuck
using a substance that’s basically muck.
And from here on out I, I hereby resolve
to not discover problems that I cannot solve.
But sometimes, sometimes, it seems that inanimate objects must be alive, because otherwise, how do you explain the fact that objects that are supposedly without life are not without spite? If you don’t want to call it spite, then you gotta admit that they have, at the least, a good dollop of schadenfreude.
I say this because sometimes it strikes me that when some object does something annoying, that It’s Doing It On Purpose.
You know what I mean. You yourself think the same thing when your computer just lays down in the road and refuses to do what you need it to do. Nope, I am not going to print, nor will I let you click on anything. Yeah, you’ve yelled at the computer, and you didn’t feel silly yelling at some plastic and metal non-sentient being, because you knew it was fully conscious and deliberately taunting you.
But I don’t think it’s limited to computers. No, it’s all things, all things out there in one giant inside joke, one great big conspiracy to bring frustration into my otherwise zen-like existence. At least, it feels personal when things are making my life just a weensy bit more difficult.
Can’t get the desk drawer to open? Or to close? Sometimes, no matter how irrational, I believe that the desk is doing it on purpose. Open my car door, reach over to the passenger seat to grab my stuff, turn around only to have the car door slam shut now that my hands are full? Ooooon purpose. Magazine that will not stay open to the page I want while I’m on the elliptical? Stack of things that won’t stay stacked? Stapler that is not jammed and is not out of staples but will not staple together two thin little sheets of paper? Absolutely deliberate.
What about you? I want to hear about what out there in the world is Out To Get You.
And now, the thought for the day, brought to you by the Surrealist Compliment Generator:
Your legs are like threads of cotton, though much thicker, and filled with weevils.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Friday, May 25, 2007
So we get to the hotel room, and the hallway is very twisty and small and smells like smoke. Right outside our room, the wallpaper is peeling and one of the wall panels is loose. Let me just say that we’ve stayed in this hotel many times before, and it’s always been very clean (as far as hotels go) and presentable. So this seediness was unexpected, and it sort of laid the groundwork for a feeling of uneasiness to creep in.
We get in the room, and thankfully it does not smell like smoke. The floors looked . . . ok, but I wasn’t going to, you know, sit on them or anything. First things first, we decide to check for bed bugs, because you don’t want to wait until the hotel doesn’t have any rooms left or it’s the middle of the night before you discover you just can’t stay there (which is why we always flush the toilet as soon as we get into our hotel room).
So I pull back the covers and peer closely at the mattress. I peered closely because bed bugs are very small. But peering closely at the mattress means you see things you otherwise might not see. I saw quite a few stains, natch, but I also saw . . . stuff. A little dark brown speck of . . . I don’t know what it was. And another one. And a tan . . . something. All very, very small. None of it native to the mattress. And then, because bed bugs are brown, I had to keep looking at the specks to see if they would move. I couldn’t actually prod at them, the classic "dead or alive?" technique, because, gross (ok, I did start to prod one, but then my brain said "AAAHH, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" and my finger said, "oh, yeah, what am I doing? Good call, brain. Don't touch that."). But I did make RR come look at them.
“what’s that?” I asked, pointing.
She looked closely.
“Eeewwww,” she said, and we both felt creeped out. We kind of looked at each other, and I think we both knew that neither of us was really going to be able to relax for the rest of the trip.
That’s when I decided to stop looking so closely. I didn’t see any bed bugs. Or at least, I don’t think I saw any. But what I did see was still pretty scary. And that just reinforced my belief that the hotel maids do not actually clean the rooms as throughly as I would like, and that mattress you are sleeping on is harboring fugitives from the vacuum, unauthorized passengers, stowaways. The previous guests have literally left little pieces of themselves behind, with which you may unwittingly come in contact.
And I think that’s why, spending the next night in my parents' hotel room, I fell into convulsions of hysterical laughter upon discovering the hairs on the sheets of the sofa bed. The mattress had been quite stained, but I didn’t look too closely for any ride-alongs, and just kept telling myself that it would be ok, the sheets would cover the mattress (and I refused to consider the possibility that the sheets weren’t clean or that anything from the mattress could somehow work its way through the sheets). So when I saw the hairs, it was just too much. It was if the hotel was saying to me, you will be exposed to the DNA of the former occupants of this room. Resistance is futile. And it was just so awful that it was funny. I guess.
So my recommendation to you is, look for bed bugs, but don’t look too closely.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
(2) The jeans I wore on Saturday got dirty because I wore them to clean in, and I wound up getting chemicals all over them. The jeans I wore on Sunday spent a lot of time in public restrooms (road trip), so they went straight into the dirty clothes. On Monday night, I got tomato sauce on a pair of jeans. On Tuesday night, I got mayo on a pair of jeans. I’m running out of jeans.
(3) I had disagreement with a coworker on Tuesday, and it involved us getting a little snippy with each other. Yesterday, she came into my office and asked if I was over been stressed, because she didn’t want to come into my office if I was going to be “all stressy and mean.” I really didn’t know what to say to that. I bit back the temptation to say “you have not yet seen me being mean, but you’re about to.” I always forget that to the passive-aggressive types, direct confrontation = mean.
(4) The aforementioned road trip this weekend was with my sister and parents. A good time was had by all, except that I have confirmed that the time is rapidly approaching when I will not be able to travel at all. I am so very freaked out by hotel rooms and their grossity (“grossity.” The degree to which something is gross; the grossness level of something). Responding the recent articles I’ve read on the rising incidents of bed bugs, I checked the mattress of the hotel room very closely. Mistake! I did not see any bed bugs, but I did see other things that made me want to curl up into a fetal position at the thought of touching the mattress, but unfortunately, there was no place for me to curl up on that wasn’t also grossing me out. Then the next night, rr and I slept on the sofa bed in my parents’ room. As soon as I put the sheets on the bed, I noticed several hairs on the sheets. I started laughing so hard that I couldn’t tell my parents what I was laughing at. It wasn’t really funny. I think I was hysterical. I did not get a lot of sleep that night. I’m still a little skeeved by it.
(5) Seriously, y’all, hotel mattresses are disgusting.
(6) RR and I have been getting rid of a lot of stuff, but it just doesn’t seem to be helping. We are still swimming in stuff that doesn’t have a place in our teeny home. We don’t have the space. I’m kind of wishing that I’ll come home one day and find that some of my stuff is gone. Not that I wish my house would be burglarized. More like I wish my mom would sneak in one day and decide for me that I don’t need so much stuff.
That’s it for now! I have some other posts that I’m working on, but I have to finish my article first before I finish them up. I hope everyone has a great weekend!
Thursday, May 03, 2007
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
So as I’m passing the print closest to the top of the stairs, I think nothing of it as I hear a sound like something brushing against paper. I figured I walked too close to the print and brushed against it. But then the noise repeated. Repeatedly. 'Hmm, that's odd,' I thought, and I turned around to investigate. And like in any stock horror film, I timed it so that I turned around just in time to see an enormous bug descending from the print . . . right . . . onto . . . my head. In the ensuing moment of chaos, I managed to comprehend that this was one of those horrible, awful flying gigantor roach things. My reaction was not heroic (as usual).
Ok, picture that scene from Clue, the one where Mrs. Peacock thinks that maybe the cognac was poisoned and starts screaming. Now picture the later scene where
I think I did some impressive dance moves, mostly involving swiping my hand furiously over my head, waving my arms around in the air, and shifting my weight from foot to foot as I ran down the stairs. Head swipe, back swipe, head swipe, shuffle, shuffle down the stairs, head swipe, run down the stairs, head swipe, back swipe, head swipe, head swipe, head swipe, jazz hands.
Anyway, I get down the stairs and run into the kitchen, hoping to find the febreeze. Febreeze and it’s main competitor (name escapes me at the moment) are effective at killing bugs, or at least slowing them down long enough for you to stomp on them. No Febreeze in the kitchen, but I did find Downy Wrinkle Releaser. I grabbed it, set it to “stun” (i.e., “on”), and headed to the stairs.
At this point my cat Gabby settled on the landing half way down, all casual and “hey, what’s going on?” and no help at all. She watched me for a minute and then strolled downstairs, parked herself in front of a chair and proceeded to stare intently at a spot under the chair. I of course decided that It must be there. But It wasn’t. I looked, didn’t see anything, swiped at my head and back, looked again, lather, rinse, repeat.
I moved on to staring at the stairs, and after several moments of standing completely still (so as to be able to hear It), I saw It crawl out from underneath the throw rug on the landing. I began my spraying onslaught. I managed to slow It down, but that sucker would not stop moving. It was like It had some kind of super powers. And also? Huge. Finally, It crawled into where part of the rug had folded over on itself. I was glad of this, because it meant that I could stomp on the rug covering It and therefore squish It without actually having to touch It with my shoe. So I fiercely stomped stomped stomped on It. I took a peek, and that sucker was still moving. I covered It back up, stomped as hard as I could a couple of times, peeked, still moving. Barely, but still. I got a hammer and finished him off, very horror movie like.
Half an hour later, my heart was still pounding.
So here are my questions.
(1) Where the heck are all the bugs coming from? (have I mentioned before that we have been having beetles galore? Slow-moving, easy to kill beetles, but still! And one got on my arm the other day! Much screaming.)
(2) Why is rr always in class when I’m attacked by a bug?
(3) Will I ever feel safe in my own home again? Last night I spent the whole rest of the evening doing double takes thinking I’d spotted something else about to drop on me. It just might drive me actually crazy.
Right now, I’m still grossed out about it and don’t want to eat my breakfast blueberry muffin (see previous post on how easily I get grossed out). So what, exactly, should I do to defend my turf? I'm in the trenches, and I need a Maginot line, here, y’all! Only, you know, effective.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Also too big right now: my stomach. I ate too much at lunch, and then I had a brownie and a frappuccino. L'estomac, she says to me, "why do you hate me so? I lodge the protest most vehement." And in fact, the protest is loud enough to be heard by others. A loud, gurgling, acid-refluxy protest. Already I have been on the receiving end of an arched eyebrow directed at me by a coworker. And my pants are now too tight. Too much information? L'estomac, she does not care.
Recently, I noticed that the box says “72 Total Spoons.” This statement bothers me. I mean, would there ever be a case where they’d say, for example, “60 total spoons and 12 partial spoons?” Would you ever be in the situation where you are on the plasticware aisle of the grocery store, hunting for a box that contains just spoon handles, or just the end part? “Oh, but see, I don’t need 72 total spoons, I just need spoon parts. This box of total spoons does not work for me.” I know they mean that the box has a total of 72 spoons, but adding the word “total” in there just makes it weird. Simply saying “72 spoons” would get the message across. Nobody reading “72 spoons” on the box would say, “ok, but how many spoons, in all, are in the box?” They’d read “72 spoons,” and say to themselves, “this box contains 72 spoons.” Or maybe they’d say, “I need 75 spoons. I have to buy a whole other box for three extra spoons?” But they would not be unsure of how many spoons they would have after buying that box.
I don’t know if all plasticware has this type of description. This box is sold under the Kroger private brand “Nice’n Strong.” It also bothers me that it isn’t “Nice ‘n Strong.” Here, the word “nice” and the word “and” have been contracted to form “nice’n.” That’s not a word, y’all. There should be a space there. I know I’m being overly picky, but when I’m bored at work, my mind wanders, and things start to bother me. I’m feeling all “Yellow Wallpaper” over here.
Do you hear that, Kroger brand “Nice’n Strong” packaging department? You are driving some of us crazy.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Friday, April 13, 2007
Anyone who knows me or has regularly read my blog knows that I avoid places where I am likely to come in direct contact with other people’s germiness. Elevators, alas, are difficult to avoid. But not only are they germy, sometimes they smell.
I work in a public building, which is unfortunate not just because of the crazy people one inevitably encounters (just yesterday a coworker stopped me on my way back from getting coffee to tell me to go around to the side entrance because “there’s a guy with a black eye out front, talking to people,” and from her tone I interpreted her statement (correctly) to mean “crazy guy out front talking crazy to everyone and he will stop you and speak crazy directly to you”). And this building is not only a public building, it’s a courthouse, so you have people from every conceivable background and walk of life, from the seemingly well-to-do, well-educated people who inexplicably do not wash their hands after using the bathroom to the just-over-from-the-jail-for-trial criminal defendants. And they all get on the elevators.
Needless to say, the first thing I do when I get to work in the mornings is wash my hands. I try to avoid touching any of the elevator buttons but sometimes you can’t get around it. I also try not to touch anyone or anything else in the elevators. Again, unfortunately, sometimes you can’t get around it.
The worst trips are the ones where the elevator is completely full and you stop on just about every floor. I hate those crowded trips because the more people there are, the higher the odds that one of them is contagious, and with a bigger crowd, there’s less room to stand apart from the other passengers. Also, if we stop on every floor, it makes it difficult for me to hold my breath the whole ride. And sometimes there’ll be someone on the elevator who is sneezing or coughing or making some gross phlegm-related noise. That always causes me to try to shrink to the smallest possible size to maximize the space between me and the offender. Of course, if that worked, I could eat all the candy I wanted and I wouldn't have to keep buying new clothes.
I would just take the stairs, but climbing up nine floors in heels doesn’t appeal to me or my problem-plagued feet, and plus the stairs are the mini-flights, you know, maybe only 5 steps to a section, then a landing, then more stairs, and they curve, so it’s basically taking a circular staircase up nine floors. Going even one floor makes me a little sick. Then there’s the fact that the floor with the employee entrance doesn’t have access to the stairs, so to take the stairs I’d have to go in the main entrance, which would mean (a) standing in line and (b) risking having my pepper spray taken away from me by the security guards.
Usually my elevator-phobia doesn’t cause me any difficulties, but sometimes it does. The other day my boss gave me a cake for my birthday. I didn’t want to say anything to her, but I thought to myself, how am I supposed to eat that? It has the go in the elevator! The cake has to go in the elevator! Actually, two elevators, one to leave this building and one in the parking garage. And the cake was just in one of those cake boxes, which are not hermetically sealed. When I got home, I really had to talk myself out of throwing the whole thing away. I knew she’d ask me about it, and I couldn’t lie to her, so I’d have to try it. And it was good cake, once I got past the gag reflex that kicked in after the first bite. I am very suggestive when it comes to being grossed out by food (I had a really hard time eating the cherry vanilla yogurt that I love after my cruel, sadistic brain came up with the thought that how would I know if those are cherry pieces and not chopped-up bugs?).
I’m trying to think of some way to get past my feelings about elevators, but I just don’t see that happening. So obviously I'm going to have to buy some Glad Press'n Seal to keep at my desk.
This does not make me paranoid.