Thursday, December 29, 2011

1996. On the surface, it seems like I was boy crazy but I think my one true love at this time may have been myself.

14 year old Megs (almost 15!)

M is MC this guy I really like (I liked a boy. Shocking!). We could have an interesting relationship (maybe people didn't want to date me because I talked about 'interesting' and 'mutually satisfying' relationships? 40 year old student loan officer indeed) because neither one of us wants anything really serious (bwahahahah), but he sees me like most boys see me - as a grinny girl scout, everybody's little Gilligan (have you heard my new band Everybody's Little Gilligan?) - ever faithful, sweet, and pretty much dull and predictable. I like myself, but I wish I was alluring, mysterious, and sexy (at 14). There's nothing really alluring, mysterious, or sexy about a practical, responsible, _________ girl (1. My husband would like to point out that all those traits 14 year old me hated so much actually make me an ideal wife. 2. I have no idea what that blank was about.)At least I am not really predictable though (or coherent, apparently, wasn't I just lamenting my dull predictableness a minute ago?). I mean, some people can predict me, but not people that I am not really close to (I...okay?)The thing is, I am fairly attractive, smart and interesting (also: modest and humble) so why are guys so not interested in me? (Because 14 yo guys want boobies).I am not stupid, ugly, personality free, or dull so what is the deal? (No boobs). Boys are dumb that's the only thing I can figure out (also I had no boobs. You'd think this was a fairly simple equation for someone so smart...). Anyway, my major crush is M. He did like me once, but I had a boyfriend (except boys never liked me so...coherence: not my strong suit) and he kind of fell for my step sister a little bit (he was so in love with me he immediately transferred that love to my stepsister)but that is over now, and he broke up with his girlfriend two weeks after Valentines Day, so I think he's unattached (in my defense: he didn't actually DATE my stepsister. He just thought she was hot, basically. Also, this never went anywhere).

Damn, I spent a lot of my teenage years obsessed with boys, apparently. Also, with myself. On the other hand, I mention in an entry later about how I hate it when I obsess for weeks but I can't help it. These entries were pre-OCD diagnosis, but I can totally see it now.

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

Let's go way, way back to 1994. Wooo-woooo. That's the noise that happens when you go way way back.

Note: I feel I should say here that as far as I know Ben from the previous entry is now a productive member of society. He has a wife and 4 kids, and is presumably quite happy and law abiding. I have mixed feelings about this. Like, I always kind of assumed I "won". You know? Because despite my mockery, he was the first guy to break my heart and even though I am totally over it by now (married, in love, blah blah) I still needed the win a little bit. After all the stuff went down, he actually wrote me a letter and wanted to get back together. I was already with my husband by then, and had no desire to break up with him to take the risk on the other guy. But...I guess that also boosted the old ego and the fact that 10 years later he's not still pining over me taught me something about myself. And that is that apparently there is nothing wrong with my confidence level, because I still kind of expected him to be mourning my loss. Also, I am a spiteful bitch. I'm happy for Ben that he's managed to turn his life around. I just need all of my old boyfriends who ever hurt me to deeply regret that for the rest of their lives and pine away for me for all eternity. Also, I may have tried to facebook stalk him a little bit and he's not on facebook and his wife's page is blocked. If that wasn't embarrassing enough here are journal entries!

Dear Diary,

A few days ago N told me that J said some bad things about me. I found out today it's true. One day N asked J if he liked me. J said, "No. I hate that _____." Then he called me a bad word. (I can only assume he called me a bitch.) At first, I was so angry I was shaking, then I was hurt. I was hurt because someone I thought was my friend really truly hated me. (12 year old Megs - not a great judge of character apparently.) I guess it is a little humiliating too (I guess?!) It is going to be hard to be kind to him, but I know that is what I need to do. Because God says so and because if I were mean to him it would only make his opinion of me worse.

Dear Diary,

Today at lunch, N confronted J about that name he called me (I think my mother should have just named Pollyanna and been done with it). J said he didn't call me the name but said I was mean. To me, that is just as bad. I know I'm not always the sweetest person in the world (actually, at this point in life, I might have been one of the sweetest people in the world. At least I was shy enough and doormat-y enough that most people thought that) but I can't imagine what I've done that is that mean. I tried at one point to console myself with the fact that he likes G and she's mean (this was my current best friend. Maybe he was right...)but when I think that I am really being very cruel (okay, it probably wasn't that bad. I wasn't eating her dog or anything). I've prayed that the Lord will help me change what is mean in me so that other people won't think I'm mean (I...don't think this worked).

Just so you aren't in suspense, I later attended a Valentine's banquet with J. A Valentine's banquet is what you have when you go to Baptist school and you can't let the kids dance, but you kind of want to let them do something. Anyway, he and I were actually friends later and we still keep in touch. Even if he did call me the B-word. Gasp.

Sunday, December 18, 2011

Merry Christmas: In which I make fun of 17 year old Megs

I found old journals. So my Christmas present to you is that I will post some of the more interesting entries between now and Christmas. Because nothing says "Christ is born" like my own personal humiliation via the internet.

Let me tell you about Ben. He makes me believe in love at first sight. (Oh. Great. I'm already ready to die because now I know how this love story would have ended, and let me just say it would have involved a trailer park and starring on an episode of Cops. 17 year old me didn't date a lot.) He's adorable, but not gorgeous or anywhere close to perfect. I don't know him very well, but we have really good chemistry. (At least I didn't call it "a connection".) I know he has a really playful, goodnatured personality. (He was a pothead.) I know he just broke up with his long time girlfriend because she cheated on him several times. But they were not together last August, because he was talking to me and stopped because she lived in Dover. Where he lives. (Long time is relative at 17, I guess.) That's our main problem - 100 miles and a mountain. (He was a pothead. A meth dealing pothead. But you know, the distance and the mountain, that's the important stuff.)I really really like him so much. (Not the first pothead I really really liked so much) I know that he likes me too, but I'm afraid that Ben will let the distance stop us from having a relationship that could be very mutually satisfying.

There are so many things I could say about that last line, but I think it will be more mutually satisfying to let it speak for itself.

Friday, December 9, 2011

Bad mood totally flipped around. It's a Christmahannukwaanzica miracle.

We went to my husband's work Christmas party tonight. I did not think I would have fun. First, I put on my pantyhose and realized that at some point, someone (and by someone I am pretty sure I mean the dumb demon dog) decided that what I really needed were CROTCHLESS pantyhose. So, awesome. Then I put on the skirt I wanted to wear. It zipped, but it would be an exaggeration to say that it fit. Unless the rules of fit are different now, and a camel toe is a good thing. A camel toe in a skirt. This is basically the same story for the rest of the skirts that I put on. And 2/3 of the pants. Apparently, my ass has been sneaking around behind my back and has taken on Kardashian proportions. Too bad my boobs never get in on the fat gaining action. I might not mind being fat if I at least had a slightly more impressive rack. It doesn't even have to be impressive. Just slightly more impressive than what I have. Which wouldn't require much, since I can comfortably shop in the training bra aisle. Seriously, bras in my size almost ALL come with serious padding, like it is trying to make me feel better about my non-existent breasts. "It's okay," they seem to say, "no one has to know you don't really have boobs. Unless they bump into you and the padding leaves a bruise or something."

I finally put together some outfit that I am sure screamed "I HAVE NO CLOTHES THAT FIT!!!" But I really had no choice since I haven't tried any of these clothes on since last year.

Then my husband calls me 8 times to see where I am, and decides that maybe he needs to meet me somewhere because I sound "confused" about where I am. Which pissed me off because I knew exactly where I was. He just didn't know where I was. If you follow. So I get there. Without his help. Like a big girl who even knows how to dress herself and everything. And it's a business-y finance-y thing, and I am used to these and I never have anyone to talk to because what I understand about stocks can be summed up as, "People trying to guess what pretend thing might happen to make pretend money happen or something" and what I know about bonds can be summed up as "..." and what I know about taxes can be summed up as "we have an accountant to know that for me".

HOWEVER. Three things made this night AWESOME.

1. My husband and two co-workers killing at karaoke. You've lost that loving feeling, indeed.

2. Other non-banky people who were girls! Who were close to my age.

3. I don't have to work tomorrow because he and I are taking a 3 day weekend for his birthday. We aren't doing anything, necessarily, but we have time off. Yay!

Monday, December 5, 2011

Damn. Apparently, I am no longer following any blogs. This is what happens when blogger decides you're dead, I guess.

I have to interrupt my busy schedule of holiday spazzing, cleaning, and staring off into space and then leaping about like a maniac to share with you a new exercise I have discovered that will melt the pounds right off.

You will need:

1 overweight dog with an aversion to rain. Mine weighs approximately 30 pounds, but this is not strictly necessary.

3,000,000 gallons of rain

1 cup of a deep and abiding desire to not have all of the floors in your house ruined.

a pinch of appreciation for a house that does not smell of urine and/or dog shit.


Forget that you ever had any dignity at all. Otherwise, you'll never get through this.

Take the dog outside.

Shut the door fast before the dog realizes there is water falling from the sky and attempts to run back in.

Tell the dog "go tinkle for Mama".

Spend a second or two pondering how a dog can possibly roll it's eyes at you. They aren't really known for their sense of sarcasm.

Pick the dog up and walk out into the yard.

Set the dog down.

Chase the dog as she runs back up on the porch.

Pick the dog up and walk out into the yard.

Set the dog down.

Chase the dog as she runs back up on the porch.

Pick the dog do see where I'm going with this, right? Continue to do this until the dog actually pees or you have a screaming fit in the rain which you hope your neighbor's kid didn't hear because you really don't want to be responsible for teaching such a precious child the phrase "goatfucking fatheaded asshole".

Thursday, October 13, 2011

A Short Conversation re: Life Insurance Exam

"So, my blood pressure is 120 over 70, my pulse rate was 60 beats a minute, I'm an inch taller than I thought I was for like the last decade or so, and the results from the HIV test should be in before too long."

"Please keep me updated on that last thing. That is a fact that would interest me."


I don't have HIV.

(Anna- I can't comment on my own frakking blog, but I actually have no idea what happened. I just...didn't know how tall I was. I thought I knew, because I consider myself an intelligent person able to deal easily in simple facts. Except for that time when I didn't know how tall I was. I have no idea why the life insurance people even need to know my height.)

Tuesday, October 4, 2011

Kelly made me do it

So Kelly gave me this which I'm wondering if maybe I gave it to myself since I'm pretty sure she's me but about 1000% less Southern and also with a cat. Except I would never give myself an award about being blissful because have you met me? I am currently worried about...everything. No, really, everything, from my mother's mental health to my fat dog's weight problem to whether or not I should walk or run today to the chances the space shuttle is going to land me to whether or not I am a sociopath. But - hurray! An AWARD! A VERY IMPORTANT AWARD!

Now I have to tell you 9 things about myself that you might not know...

1. I do not own an iPhone. I do own an iPod, but it was a gift and I mostly use my Zen nano because it has lasted about 4 years now and the average lifespan my husband gets out of iPods seems to be approximately 11-13 months. Which sucks.
1a. I kind of hate Apple. Probably because I feel pressured to like it, and it's really expensive and really not better, even though people will have a hissy in the comments about how it is too better, but that's only because they dropped a shitload of money on each separate component so they kind of have to do that.
1b. Seriously, I'm a PC and I have no problem with that (except for the part where I am ACTUALLY a PERSON and not a machine...)

2. I am having a mild bout with anxiety and obsessive thoughts which you can tell by the lack of punctuation and also I'm talking really fast and loud and a lot because the loop in my head is kind of loud...

3. I do not like for people to touch my feet. I have hated this since I was a baby. I don't know why. I also don't like things to go in my navel. Maybe that's not weird. But the reason for that is because when I was very small a friend told me that my belly button was actually OPEN at the back, and if you put stuff in there (even to clean it) you could KILL YOURSELF.

4. I used to be afraid of mirrors because a girl told me if you looked in one for too long you would get sucked in and you would suffocate. I was a very gullible child.

5. I'm still pretty gullible, but since I know this about myself I overcompensate by being overly suspicious in most cases.

6. I was adopted when I was 5 days old. My biological parents already had 6 other children. They were immigrants from Sicily. I was raised by Irish people. And SOMEHOW I am still not Catholic. And that's pretty much all I will tell you about my own personal religious/spiritual beliefs. I'm not Catholic.

7. I can sing all the words to Ice, Ice Baby and also We Didn't Start the Fire.

8. The willow tree in my backyard is enormous, and now I'm afraid it died in the heatwave because all the leaves fell off and it hasn't budded at all since then. This will make me sad because its really pretty and the picture window is arranged perfectly to be able to see through the willow curtain. Also, the woodpecker lives in this tree. I hate birds, but I kind of love this woodpecker.

9. I have been known to crush on fictional characters. Notably Trent from Daria, Gilbert from Anne of Green Gables, and Donnie Darko (not Jake Gyllenhaal...Donnie Darko).

Now I am going to cheat a little and say...tag you're it! Yes, you, back there in the shirt! And you over there with no pants! Tell me in the comments if you participate and I'll link you.

Thursday, September 29, 2011

Exciting! Conclusion!!!

*standard disclaimer, blah blah blah*

"I haff not forgot how you ruin my life! I am here to ruin yours!" (1. I don't know where dude is supposed to be from, but whatever. 2. I'm not sure how killing his bitch of a wife was ruining...anything, really, except maybe her hairdo?)

"What do you mean?" asked Victor. (Super smart, this one, no?)

Everyone could tell he was frightened. (How SHAMEFUL. A man with a gun just magically appeared in his, and he is FRIGHTENED. What a pussy.)

"I am going to kill your family one by one and I'm going to make you vatch them die! Then I vill kill you!" (I was just your average little girl with pigtails and a horrible blood lust. What?)

Chorkhoff raised the gun and aimed it at Kathryn.

"Ahhhhh!" Screamed Kathryn (as one does).

Joe stepped forward, knocked the gun out of Chorkhoff's hand and kicked it across the room. Royal bent, picked it up, and aimed it at Chorkoff's head. (As you do). With hatred in his voice he said, "You killed my mother and my sister. I should kill you, Pig!" (Dude. You hated your mother. Also, didn't I start this by saying all of these people hated it each other?). Victor then stepped forward and addressed Royal. "If you kill him, you go to jail (there is a cop in the room, after all, and a lot of other cops apparently milling around...speaking did dude get in here again? The world may never know, because I don't think I thought it was important...) We don't want that."

Royal dropped the gun. As Joe Brady's second in command walked Chorkhoff Garvenski out, Garvenski turned and screamed, "You took everything from me! My home, my family, my friends! I should haff killed you vhen I had the chance!" (And I would have gotten away with it, if it weren't for those meddling kids! Oh, sorry, that's something else, isn't it?)

(Apparently I wrote two endings to this? Here is the one I scratched out:) Today, Chorkhoff is still in jail. Victor remarried and now has the happiness he deserved. Royal ended up a missionary and he even converted Chorkhoff (cough Baptistschool cough), a man he once hated. Andrew is studying to be a CPA. Kathryn got over Julietta's death (uh. huh.) and became a teacher at an elementary school. To this day, they are all happy. (I think that I rejected this ending because do you know what it is missing? BLOOD. BLOOD and DEATH. And a twist.)

(Ending I felt happy with, I guess): As Brady's men led Chorkhoff away, Joe spoke up. "Victor, I hate to be a bother (???), but I have to know, how did you ruin Cherkhoff's life?"

"Sit down, Joe (now he's Joe, not Sergeant, apparently). It's a long story." Then Victor began the story of how he and Chorkhoff had once been best friends. Then Venetia had come along. "We were both crazy about her. She chose me over Chorkhoff, though I'll never understand why. Chorkhoff became angry. He spit on me and declared that one day he would kill me (would have made more sense to do it a little earlier, I would think, but okay?)" At this point there was a gasp and Royal fell to the ground. He had been shot through the heart (and you're to blame, Darlin', you give love, a you weren't thinking it). Everyone went pale as they realized what was going on. A murdered was still loosein the castle. They were being hunted. Shot down one by one until at last there was no one else. "Oh!" wailed Kathryn (wait. I thought there was no one else?) "This is awful! We're like those wooden animals in a carnival shooting gallery!"

"It'll be alright. We'll get this guy," Joe said comfortingly. (Dude. 3 dead people. THREE. And you have BEEN THERE THE WHOLE TIME. I do not think you are going to get this guy.)

Another shot rang out. (SEE?!?! PS when Royal was shot, no noise. now shots are ringing out?)

"Uh," moaned Victor. He had been hit in the shoulder. "Andrew! My son!"

They all looked to see Andrew holding a pistol. (Dude. DUDE. Why did you wait for the cops to show up to start on the killin'? Or why not wait till they left? WTF?)

"That's right, FATHER," he said sarcastically.

"But, why?" Victor asked. It was getting harder to breathe, and black spots were appearing his eyes. (He keeps his lungs in his shoulder, y'all!)But he had to know. Had to know why his own flesh and blood would want to kill him.

"Because. You all considered me a weakling. But I'm not weak anymore. I'm more powerful than all of you. You thought I didn't have the desire to be strong. You were wrong! I'm stronger than all of you put together!" All during this speech his voice had risen so he was shouting. When he had finished he spat at his father (people like to spit on Victor).

"How?" Joe asked.

"What?!" Andrew roared.

"How did you do it," Joe repeated.

"Mother was the easiest. Everyone was upstairs and she was so caught up in her thoughts she wouldn't hav enoticed me if I was standing in front of her. I merely hit her with the gun. Royal was easy because all I had to do was reach behind him and stick the gun in his back at the place where his heart would be and pull the trigger. Julietta was not so easy. She was across the room from me. I had to shhot her without being seen. In a way, it was fun (I...I may not have been right in the head, y'all). Having all that power, taking those chances. Now it's time to kill the rest of you off."

Joe jumped Andrew from behind (he's like a ninja, that one), wrestling him to the ground and throwing the gun across the room. Kathryn snatched it up and threw it out the window. Joe snapped some handcuffs on Andrew and walked him out as Kathryn quickly called 911 for Victor (aren't they...already there?). Victor got out of the hospital the next day (...). Joe helped Kathryn through 3 years of therapy (someone should probably have helped young Megs through a few years of therapy. also? weirdly specific, considering you have no idea what these people look like, what their castle looks like, where anyone is in relation to anything, or even how freaking old these people are.) They are now married (how old were these "kids" supposed to have been???) and have blessed Victor with 7 healthy, rambunctsious grand children.


Y'all. Y'ALL. I was not right in the head.

Monday, September 26, 2011

I like to have my most asinine moments recorded for posterity. Because I live to amuse. Or something.

I just needed to say this somewhere, and I'm really not up to the Facebook responses from people I don't know. But anyway, my husband signed me up for some life insurance (note to self: sleep with one eye open) and I just did the interview which is supposed to take 10 minutes and for some reason took me an hour and ten minutes. Because I'm special, obviously. Or maybe because I had to be revived after having a conversation over the phone with a perfect stranger about what I weigh (not telling- but I will tell you that I lied my ass off while my husband rolled his eyes at me. Look if it was a guy on the other end of the phone I probably wouldn't give a shit, but the girl sounded young and cute and I just couldn't tell her the truth. Don't you judge me), if I've put on more than 10 pounds in the last year (I have, then I lost it, then I put 15 back on), and why. What the hell do you mean WHY?

So I said, "General laziness I guess?"

While my husband's eyes rolled back in his head and he was like, "You run like every day. It's not laziness."

"Well, what do you think it is then?"

"You eat more."

And she wrote all of this DOWN.


Friday, September 23, 2011

Dun Dun Dun!!!! Part Deux

My calculations reveal that I was either 10 or 12 when I wrote this. It seems a little complex for 10 year old me, but a little...not good for 12 year old me, so I'm going with 10. All spelling and punctuation is preserved. Current commentary in parantheses. Blah blah blah. P.S. Apparently this was like my opus, my epic, my master work. It is somewhat long. Is what I mean. There will be several parts.

Part the Second:

Ten minutes later there came the sound of a siren. "Hello, there, I'm Sergeant Joe Brady." said the officer at the door. (Why is he a sergeant? Because why not, that's why).

"Hello" came a chorus of nervous voices.

"I'd like to get to know all of you before we begin this investigation. Names, please. Start with you." (I watched a lot of Hunter and Dragnet at this time. You'd think I would have had a better idea of how fictional police investigations work, but I guess...not.)


(I'm sort of impressed this is the correct number of names. I had a short attention span, and I'm surprised I didn't forget there were 2 girls, 2 boys, and 1 father. Also a little impressed that I wasn't overdosing on the dialogue tags. Look, I have to find something good in this okay? That's what I found. Shut up.)

"Alright. Now I'm going to ask you some questions. Starting with, uh, Royal, isn't it?" (Joe Brady thinks Royal is a really lame name for a prince, too!)


"Alright. The coroner (!!!) has estimated the time of death as 9:00 p.m. Where were you?"


"Any witnesses?"

"Well, I think just about everyone heard me yell down, but no one actually SAW me."

"Alright. Uh," Checking the notepad on which he had been writing. "Kathryn?"

"Yes" came the smooth reply (firstly, drink every time the cop says alright. Secondly, smooth reply is the name of my pretend jazz band)

"Where were you?" (Because she didn't see this question coming)

"I was upstairs with Julietta. She hates storms, you know. (He does?) We were upstairs in her bedroom."

"Alright. (Drink!)Julietta, your sister says you are afraid of storms. Is this information correct?" (Because this is relevant. Very, very relevant).

"Yes, sir. I am afraid of storms. And yes sir, we were together, " answered a very nervous Julietta. (I think I am trying to throw in some red herrings, y'all. Very very red herrings.)

"And you, Andrew?"

"I was in the kitchen with Father."

"Victor, is this true?"

"Yes, Sergeant, it is," came the reply.

"Alright (drunk yet?) I'll need to inspect the castle." (They are royalty, remember, even if Joe Friday here is treating them like regular folk).

"Of course," said Victor. "We do want to get this solved as quickly as possible."

"You'll forgive me for saying so, but none of you seems to (sic) upset about this, "said Joe. (Sergeant was getting boring to write out).

"Well, Sergeant, my wife, uh, Venetia, was not a very shall we say, loving, woman. She didn't want children, and yet as she would say, she got stuck with them. Doesn't seem very fair does it?" said Victor drily. (???)

"Fair?" asked Sergeant Brady. "What do you mean fair?" (Exactly my question!)

"Well, some children spend their entire lives trying to have children, adopt children or what have you, and here a woman who didn't even want them got FOUR. She was so busy not wanting them that she failed to see how wonderful they really are." (said their deadbeat father...also, can you tell from this that I was adopted?)

By this time Kathryn and Julietta had tears streaming down their cheeks and Royal and Andrew had their heads bowed.

"I see," Brady said quietly. "Well, we'll try to wrap this up quickly."

"Thank you, sir, my family and I would appreciate it." King Victor stated with great dignity. this woman must have been awful to live with every day, Joe Brady thought. The old man seems sincere and all these kids! They don't look like they could be murderers. Of course, looks can be deceiving Joe thought. All of a sudden a gun shot sounded. Julietta Pauline Winthrop fell to the floor dead.

"No!" screamed Lady Kathryn. She fell to the floor, grabbed her sister, and held her.

"She's gone, Kathryn" Royal whispered. "Get up, please don't make it any harder on any one else." (What. The. Fuck. Was wrong with me?)

Kathryn got up but she was still crying. The coroner and a large burly police officer came in and carried the body out. Andrew was trying to calm her. Then a man with a gun stepped out of the shadows. "Hello, Victor." he said.

"Chorkhoff!" gasped Victor.

"Yes, it's me," Chorkhoff said calmly.


P.S I cannot comment on my own posts, apparently, but I just read through the last of this story...I was not right in the head, y'all. This shit gets weird. Er. Part 3 should be fun.

Thursday, September 15, 2011

Untitled story about royal deadbeats and murder most foul, Part 1.

I found another of my fiction masterpieces from my childhood. Since nothing interesting is currently going on, I want to share. Current commentary in parentheses.

It was a dark, stormy night. (Because of course it was).Dark clouds rumbled, and streaks of white lightning (sp) lit the sky. It was almost as bad inside the castle as it was outside. Let me stop a moment and explain. (I was really into this conceit of speaking to the reader directly for some reason). The year is 1992. The castle is a true castle where princesses and queens live and kings and princes. You see, royalty still lives there. (In case that wasn't clear when I listed all the types of royal people who live there).But this royal family is about as happy as Charles and Di were. (I...have no idea). Somebody is always jealous of somebody else. Tonight though, while the only light comes from faintly glowing candles, is the perfect time for revenge.

"Ohhh!" moaned Princess Kathryn. "Ohhh! I ache all over. Why did this stupid storm have to come just when I needed to go out?" (She aches all over, but she needs to go out at night? Where do you suppose she needs to go? I'm asking because I doubt I ever get around to explaining that. Bo.Ring.Also, the number of Hs in those Ohhhs is exact).

"Oh, Kathryn," snapped her mother. "You know the only time you ever go out is to see the doctor. And even then we have to force you to go. Unless of course it's impossible to go anywhere. THEN you want to go out. Now go back up to your room or go somewhere. Just leave me alone." (Mother of the year, right here).
"Yes, Mother," said the princess unhappily. Thunder rumbled loudly. (I clearly just discovered adverbs. You could start a drinking game with this sentence).

"Ahhh!" Came a scream. Then a form hurtled down the stairs caliding (sp) with Kathryn and knocking both to the floor. "Julietta Pauline! You get off me this instant!" snapped Kathryn.

"Sorry Kathryn but you know how I hate storms."

"Girls, you both get yourselves upstairs! I am trying to think!"

"Trying to think of what Mother?" asked Julietta anxiously.

"Never mind of what! Go upstairs!"

"Yes, ma'am," they chorused.

"Whatever shall I do with those girls?" Venetia Winthrop asked herself. You see, she wasn't really cut out to be a mother. It wasn't even what she had wanted. (You don't say).

But here she was, married to a worthless deadbeat with 2 daughters and 2 sons. How had this happened? (I was probably seriously asking, but now all I can think Sex is how this happened. Moron. Also...he is somehow a royal deadbeat, who is still married to her...I'm not sure how this works?)

All of a sudden she felt a thud and the world went black.

"Mother!" called a male voice from upstairs, "Could you get me a bagel?" (Royalty. Just like you and me).

Hearing no sharp reply, Prince Royal (Prince. Royal. Prince Royal. Good grief.)called again, "Mother?" Coming down the stairs he called, "Mother!" He passed her chair and walked into the foyer, (I'm still not sure what a foyer is), the kitchen, the great dining room. He turned and ran back to the living room. He checked her chair and there she was slumped over and very, very dead (Didn't he just walk by this chair? Do you suppose I intended these people to be functionally impaired? Also, please note the level of deadness. She is not just dead. She is very very dead. She is very most definitely dead). He screamed and everyone came running. "Father, she's de-de-dead!"

"Make some sense, Royal! Who's dead?" their father asked. (Their royal worthless deadbeat father. Who is still living there and helping care for his children).


"Venetia?" he said incredulously. (No, their other mother. Maybe I was implying something about royalty and inbreeding? Yeah, I doubt it.)

"Father, look at the gash on the back of her head!" cried Julietta. "I'm going to call the police!"


Saturday, September 10, 2011

My thoughts, I will tell you them

1. The spirit of Martha Stewart has invaded my body. I am baking bread. Like right this minute. After a day of yardwork and housecleaning. I am a little frightened of myself right now.

2. Why are people who run consignment stores always so fucking snotty? Man, you peddle used clothing. You are not better than the people who shop here. I have a friend whose theory is that people don't think they are getting a good deal if you aren't totally shitty to them. My personal thoughts on this are that if I am going to give you some of my moneys you should probably be relatively nice to me. And the more moneys I am planning to give you, the nicer you should be. Because I'm pretty sure I can find someone to take my money who will totally kiss my ass, like the whole time. Not that ass kissing is required, just, you know, better than you treating me like I walked in off the street and shit on the carpet or something (I'm assuming here - I've never actually done that. But its how I imagine I would react to someone doing that...I have never done that. Just wanted to be clear.)

3. People at 4-way stops who wave you through when its their turn to go are not actually nice. They are assholes who are messing up the whole flow of the stop. Also, they always seem to be doing it impatiently, like they are doing you a big favor and you should hurry or like they think its your turn even though they have been at the stop since before you pulled up or are clearly to the right of you or whatever. I really wish people would stop doing this. It makes me irrationally angry for extended periods of time (note to self: look into therapy). Also irritating? People who get so far up my ass while driving that I feel like I should ask them to wear a condom. Especially when I look down and see that I'm going 10 miles over the speed limit. I mean really people chill. I highly doubt you are on your way to save kittens from cancer or something.

To sum up: please call an exorcist because this domestic crap is frightening me and also drivers of the world stop being assholes. That is all.

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

This is what pure happiness looks like

My goal is to be as happy about anything as my dogs are to be awake, alive, and outside in the grass.

Also, if you could, ignore the weird outdoor carpeting. That's been ripped out since these were taken. I really don't think I can live in a world where strangers think that I think that that carpeting is okay. That is not okay.

Sunday, September 4, 2011

Like Steven Spielberg's version of the 70s, which never actually happened.

Today is 12 weeks without a cigarette or any nicotine of any kind. It gets easier all the time, but a weird thing I am noticing is how gold-tinged and happy my memories of smoking are. Like, me and a 6-foot tall cigarette holding hands and skipping barefoot through a field of daisies, heads thrown back in laughter, while cartoon birds flit about, and a Randy Newman song plays in the background. And maybe ponies or something. I know it wasn't actually like that, but that's how I remember it. I have no idea why that is.

Actually, I had a pony as a kid. That dude was a total bastard. Ponies kind of suck. Which I know is disillusioning for the non-pony people among us. So maybe there weren't ponies, is what I mean. There might have been unicorns though.

In other news, I actually have no news. I'm just trying to get back in the habit of writing more again, and I haven't actually left the house since Friday. Except maybe to go for a couple of runs. And nothing of note really happens on my runs. Well, there was the one time a truck with like 18 people crammed into the cab followed me for about half a mile and there was another time that there were black adolescents in my vicinity and a middle aged white woman felt compelled to pull over, inform me of their presence, and caution me to be careful, even though I had run by these kids like 5 minutes previously and they were perfectly polite. I think those two things only count as stories if I end up on CNN or find $100 or something.

I...went through our file cabinets today and threw out/shredded/filed a bunch of crap? Also, continued the never ending civil war against the spiders. I knock down webs, they build more webs. I never see an actual fucking spider. But I know that every day I go to open the microwave and put my hand through a fucking web. I don't know why this is happening to me, but it seems like a good reason to blog more frequently. If you don't hear from me you can assume the spiders won the war and I'm all wrapped up in one of those weird white balls they make.

I learned today that garter snakes can spray a musk at predators. I learned this because one of the dogs found a garter snake in the yard and the snake did not appreciate being found. The dog was completely unbothered by the spraying, but we already knew she was mentally challenged, so that's not really surprising. you know, or some other cliche that makes this post somewhat relevant to anything, anywhere.

Monday, August 29, 2011

Fat AND dumb, but not dead

I don't know what happened. I kept meaning to get on here and tell you guys the story about how the cashier at Wendy's mugged me. Or about the guy dragging a cross down the middle of the road (it had wheels; I'm pretty sure that's cheating). But then two out of three scales agreed that I was fucking fat (yes, they actually said the wheel flipped past all the numbers to a little text box that was all appalled at my fatness. Or something)and I started scarfing down chocolate and Garden Salsa Sun Chips until I slipped into a food coma and blacked out several weeks worth of eating my feelings. Or something. And then I was busy acting out mini-plays about my dogs' back stories (they have back stories) which sounds like a psychotic break to you guys, but just sounds like Tuesday to my husband. And what with all that going on, I haven't blogged in over a month.

So, uh, here is a trying to get back to blogging and getting over my block story: One day I went to Wendy's for lunch (no, I don't know why my weight suddenly sky rocketed. Why do you ask?) and I paid in cash with a $10 bill. The cashier gave me back the right change. I know because I double checked. But then she said, "Give me back one of those ones." And in my head I'm thinking, "That doesn't make sense; this is the correct change." (With a semicolon and everything. Because everyone thinks in punctuation, right?) But as I opened my mouth to say no, I realized that my hand had automatically reached out and given her back one of the one dollar bills. I have no explanation. She just...she had authority, y'all. I don't know. And I was so shocked at my damn self that I just drove away.

So I'm fat and dumb. At least I got that going for me.

Sunday, July 10, 2011

Nicotine Withdrawal Will Turn You Into a Monster. A Sobbing, Screaming, Snotty, Raging Monster. Like the Krakken, But More Than That.

Today marks 4 weeks since I decided to stop being nicotine's bitch, and since my family is completely unaware that I've smoked for the last decade I can't really brag about this accomplishment to them. Yes, I'm 29 years old and I still hide shit from my mother. Don't pretend you don't do it, too, and if you don't, well aren't you just a paragon of maturity and also shut up.

I quit cold turkey, which seems to be the way to go, but that third day was...special. Very, very special. The best way to describe to you how special is to say that at some point I realized I was sobbing my guts out over pancake batter, and I still don't know exactly how I got there. My husband came into the kitchen to be supportive and I immediately went from suicidal, sobbing, blackout depression to a red rage that made me want to stab everything that ever was, ever.

I decided it was a good time to get out of the kitchen. Because that's where I keep the knives.

You will be happy to hear that I am still married and I did not actually stab anything. I may have THROWN something and I may or may not have had several conniption fits that would put even the worst behaved toddler to shame, but no one's dead. I'm calling it a win.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Wanna hear about different methods of drying your lumber? Because I know some.

Today I stood on top of a lumber mill (its really hot up there), inspected a rendering plant (reinforces vegetarianism), and inspected a wood chipping plant. This has become my regular routine. Get up at an un-godly hour (seriously, why has science not done something about mornings yet?), drive around in a big truck, put on hard hat and manly boots, stomp around somewhere kind of gross, drive big truck back to office, go home. I'm feeling a little...manly. Powerful? Strong? Interesting? Yes. Feminine? No. Maybe I'll start wearing expensive lingerie under my fire retardant coverall.

Anyhow. Last week my husband came home from work and told me that one of the women in his office was really excited to meet me. When I asked why, he said he didn't know,she just said she was really excited to meet his "little wife".

She's clearly expecting to meet Donna Reed. I'm a little more...who was a wife who had a more masculine job than her husband and didn't clean the house wearing high heels? I'm drawing a blank. Jennifer Beals in Flashdance, except married and without the dancing thing, maybe.

Monday, May 23, 2011

I Actual Do Feel Kind of Sorry for Mr. Camping

I was going to live blog the rapture. Unfortunately, I had to lay around my house all day until like 5 when I realized we had to be at a graduation party at 6. So never mind. But here's how it probably would have gone:

5 pm. Waiting. I'm not sure what for. How will I know if it happens? We've already had a ton of flooding and earthquakes around here, that's probably not a reliable indicator. Who can I be on the phone with so if they disappear I'll know? I...don't think I know anyone like that.

5:15 pm. Nothing's happening here. Let's check the news for the east coast.

5:20 pm. Probably don't want to be on the road at 6...or on a plane. I bet it would be an awesome day to be a Christian magician, though. You would really disappear! Of course, you wouldn't be around to appreciate that so...maybe not.

5:22 pm. Some of these people are going to be in trouble if the end doesn't come. Some of these people gave away like all their money and stuff. Do you think they'll realize dude was wrong? Or will they think they got left behind? Maybe it will totally ruin their faith in God. This whole predicting the rapture thing seems pretty cruel, when you get right down to it.

5:23 pm. This is kind of boring me now.

5:24 pm. I wonder what happens to people's pets?

5:35 pm. Do you think I could just have someone's house or car after they're gone? I mean, is that stealing do you think? And does it really matter if I'm still here?

5:45 pm. Bored again. At least most of the tv shows I watch and musicians I listen to and authors I read will probably still be here.

6:10 pm. Life is pretty much still the same as it was before. I'm thinking there weren't as many actual Christians as people had always assumed.

Monday, May 9, 2011

29th Birthdays are Such a Cliche. Everyone Turns 29...OK, I Mean, Obviously, but...You Know What I Mean

First thing on Thursday morning (which was my 29th birthday. The first one) I received an e-mail from a friend. The e-mail contained pictures from a joint birthday party four years ago. In one photo I look like that chubby mouse in Cinderella. In another I look like a mentally challenged zombie, and in yet another I look like a pox addled donkey with a lazy eye. I think her intentions were good. On the other hand, it could be passive-aggressive shorthand for "You never call, you never write. And after all I do for you."

Cinderelly! Cinderelly!

I like to embarrass myself on my keeps me humble-ish.

My mom called to tell my happy birthday of course. We had the following conversation:

Mom: 29 years ago today I hadn't met you yet, but I got a phone call telling me you were born. I loved you before I even met you. I even loved you all those long months when you wouldn't sleep because of colic and all the years after that you refused to sleep at night or nap in the afternoon.

Me: Thanks, Mom, I love you too. And if you had let me stay up at least one night you probably never would have had trouble getting me to go to sleep again. I was thoroughly convinced you were waiting for me to go to sleep to have a lot of awesome fun.

Mom: I guess if your idea of awesome was watching Dallas and going to bed early, alone, then, yeah, it was awesome.

My mom has her issues, but sometimes you can see where I get my personality from.

My husband gave me the gift of wisdom in addition to the more important material gifts. One of which was wrapped in Christmas paper. The wisdom was this: Don't worry about it. You've been middle aged since you were 26 anyway.

It's okay. He was middle aged first. Although he likes to remind me that no matter wrinkled and craggy and gray he gets, people will describe him as rugged and/or distinguished. And no matter how awesome I look at 40, people will still describe me as old. There is a reason men have shorter life spans than women. The statement itself for one thing, but also the fact that he's probably right.

The dogs also got me a present. It is a dead bird. The pinhead caught it herself, and then they mangled it up really nicely before giving it to me. That's the fourth one this month. I think the birds are starting to give me the stink eye. If they start flinging themselves at the window and dive bombing me, I'm totally giving the dogs to them as an appeasatory sacrifice. Birds are fucking creepy y'all.

Monday, April 25, 2011

Indulge me and pretend you noticed I haven't been here, 'kay? 'Kay.

So I'm very busy running all over the state in a hard hat and steel toe boots totally bringing sexy back while ensuring the continued breathability of air in the state. I have restricted internet access for the first time in my working life, so I keep meaning to blog and then...not blogging. I realize that approximately two people actually give a shit, but I am kind of a big deal in my own mind. Might as well be, since I'm under no illusions about my big dealness outside of my own mind.

Anyway, I have nothing truly interesting to report. I'm learning a new job and helping my elderly great aunt put on a yard sale and playing with the dogs and trying to survive stormpocalypse with the tornadoes and the straight line winds and the baseball sized hail what the hell. Also I turn 29 in a couple weeks and I'm fighting the urge to buy Ben Gay while watching Murder She Wrote and reminiscing about the days when gasoline cost like 5 cents a gallon.

I have learned something in the past month or so though about myself. I thought my only superpowers were the powers of Finding Things and Finding Help in Lowe's and Best Buy. Turns out I have another one. I am...the Anti-Drama. Wherever I work interpersonal drama decreases, uh, dramatically. And when I leave that place, the drama once again rises to its previous levels. I feel I should be able to make money off of this, but no one's buying it yet.

Oh! Yeah! P.S. going back to the hard hat and the boots...I have to wear jeans most of the time now. This pisses me off. I have what is affectionately known as an athletic body. So jeans are always like way enormous in the waist, about right in the ass, and tight in the thighular area. What the fuck? I am truly not curvy at all. I am curvy like stick figures are curvy. So who the hell out there has a waist approximately the same size as their ass and bigger than their hips and thighs? What kind of crack do the people who make jeans smoke?

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Sayonara, Suckers

My cubicle is pretty much empty, I have tied up all the possible loose ends, and I have absolutely nothing to do. Do not ask me why I didn't just take a vacation day (since they don't pay for unused vacation days when I leave and I have like, 50+ hours of vacation time accrued that is basically being flushed down the toilet). I think I might be a special kind of masochist.

There are some things I will miss. For example, the family atmosphere. Even if it is one of those families where they constantly take advantage of you because "its family" and no one really ever takes you seriously because no one will ever forget that time when you were five and you bobbed for apples in the toilet.

I will miss the free soda. On the other hand, it's probably not healthy to drink 5 Diet Dr. Peppers in a day, especially when you have an anxiety disorder and tend to react to caffeine like a crack addled squirrel on a meth binge.

I will miss Super Dave, the office superhero, who saves the day through amazing feats like answering the phone. And signing for FedEx packages. I really should have gotten him a cape as a parting gift.

I will miss Mountain Man who always talks about how much pot he smoked over the weekend and the Widespread Panic shows he has seen. He was always good for a decent bitch session considering he's the only other person in the office who did not vote for George W. Bush even once (let alone twice) and who doesn't think voting for O'Bama made me an America hating commie who eats babies.

I won't miss having to answer the phone. I definitely won't miss conversations like this one:

Good Ol' Boy: Hey, honey, listen. I need you to change the language in this assessment so we don't look like we polluted the site, even though we did.

Me: No, I cannot just say that everything was fine and I didn't see any problems. There's a 2 mile oil stain on your property.

Good Ol' Boy: Well, darlin', can't you just mention that but not make a big deal out of it?


I won't miss the attitude that I must automatically be better at making copies because I have female reproductive organs.

I won't miss having my concentration broken in the middle of a big project because some of the bosses don't understand how to print their own e-mails. Or how to put a piece of paper in a file that is sitting right in front of them. Or how to add extra lines to their spreadsheets.

I'm ready to start my new job as an Air Inspector. There is something refreshingly bizarre about that title. I will be the best inspector they ever had. I will be like Inspector Gadget without the wheelie feet. I do have freakishly long arms that might serve as the go-go-gadget-arms. Do-do-do-doo-do Inspector Gadget duh duh duh duh du-duh du-duh. Whatever. I'm

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

Exciting! Adventures!! Now with TOOTHPASTE!!!

No habla English.

First thing this morning (and I mean, literally, ALMOST THE VERY FIRST THING I DID) I found myself chasing the little fat Lucifer seedlet we call our second dog down the street in my pajamas. And bare feet. With my toothbrush hanging out of my mouth.

I learned two things this morning:

1. Evil apparently gives you the power to dislocate and relocate all your bones. Or liquefy them. Or something. It is the only explanation for how a 30 pound dog with a body like a wood barrel managed to squeeze herself through an opening smaller than the width of my hand.

2. The little shithead can run. I have NEVER seen this dog run in the almost 4 years we have had her. Everyone in my house has tried to make this dog run: me, my husband, the GOOD DOG. And we all get the same reaction. She sits down (or sometimes LAYS down), cocks her head to the side, and stares with this completely baffled expression, like she can't understand what we are doing or why anyone would even WANT to. There are several reasons her nickname is 'Lurch' and that is one of them (another reason is that when she wants to wake me up she will STARE intently at me. If that doesn't work she commences CPR, but you'd be surprised how often the intense stare of intensity haw woken me at 3 a.m., only to discover the dog hovering over me and staring). This morning, as she burst through the front door, flew off the porch, and bounded almost gracefully away you could almost hear the opening chords to Born Free underneath the chorus of my cursing and my husband shouting "No! Come back!" You can tell which one of us is more useful in a crisis. On the other hand, I'm pretty sure she answers to "Shit! Fuck! Damn it!" about as well as she does to her name.

Watching my husband chase our portly, clumsy hell dog through every yard in the neighborhood in his suit and tie and fancy shoes and not being able to catch her was almost funny enough to be worth it. But probably not worth all of the neighbors seeing my in my pajamas, foaming at the mouth from toothpaste.

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Yay! And also, I'm beginning to think I need real help.

Soooooooo. Someone, and I'm not naming any names because we're semi-anonymous here (me) (semi anon because I use my real first name and general location, but seriously, Megan is one of the top names for women around my age) got a new job which pays a little more than their (my) old job and also is with an unnamed organization (government) and makes me feel like singing "The Wall". Or at least the parts that someone knows (all in all your just another brick in the wall...if you don't eat your meat you can't have any pudding! How can you have any pudding if you don't eat your meat?) Which mostly makes me sound a little twisted.

Who am I kidding? I am a little twisted. But I tricked someone into paying me more money! HA! Jokes on them.

Of course, the government thing makes me think I better just not talk about work at all (which I rarely do anyway) or partaking of illicit substances (*whistling*) (it was college okay? You are expected to try stupid things in college) (Shut up. Don't judge me)or basically anything that they might find out about and change their minds and then I'll have to come crawling back here except they would offer me even LESS than I get now because I'll be desperate and they know it and holy shit, is there a brown paper bag around here anywhere?

Yes, I even worry about good things that happen to me. Change makes me anxious.

For instance, yesterday I had a total panic attack because I don't know anybody and I'll never find people like the ones I know/love here and what if everyone hates me (note: this has never happened before. People generally like me. No, I have no idea why.) I also had a breakdown over the fact that I'm not trained yet (uh...yes. I'm aware). And I had a complete mini-attack involving scenarios in which they realize I'm horribly unqualified and decide I'm semi-retarded because I'm not learning fast enough and decide to fire me before the probation period is up and then I would get horribly depressed and have to work at Starbucks and I'd never sleep again and I'd also get depressingly fat because I eat my emotions (because I don't like to feel. I think its been established that I have a minor amount of envy for sociopaths and psychopaths) and then my husband would leave me for someone not fat and depressed and then I'd be broke and I'd have to choose between turning tricks on the street and living with my mother again and I'm not entirely sure which one of those things would be worse. Do fat hookers make any money? I don't know.

Monday, February 28, 2011


When did every one around me get so fucking entitled, y'all?

I swear to God, if it's not the guy cutting in front of me in line at the convenience store (because clearly his need for 5 cigarilloes, a cigar, and rolling papers is immensely more important than my need for gasoline to get to work...also, dude, we all know what you're doing. Which, rock on and all, but your need to wake and bake is not more important than my need to be at work on time in order to get paid in order to continue to live in the lifestyle to which I have chosen to become accustomed. You know, with the groceries and the electricity and the gasoline and the whatnot. Or maybe it is; I don't know. My point is, I was there first asshat)then it's the guy going 75 in his Datsun on the shoulder to cut around EVERY ONE else waiting to get off the interstate because clearly he has important heart surgery to perform or his girlfriend is in labor or something. Every fucking day. Like the rest of us can't possibly have anywhere we would rather be than sitting on the fucking off ramp for no good reason.

Then there's the people I talk to on the phone. I have this conversation routinely,

"I'm sorry, [my supervisor] is out of the office."

"Well, I need to talk to him."

"Would you like his voice mail? Or I can take a message (even though I'm not actually a secretary you entitled douchebag)."

"No, I really need to talk to him right now."

I mean, I'm sorry - or maybe I'm not - but the fact that you want to do a thing RIGHT NOW doesn't actually make it possible for that thing to happen RIGHT NOW. I mean, right? Did I miss the memo where they changed all the rules and wishing now makes things so? Because my check for a million dollars hasn't come in the mail yet, and maybe I need to alert the post office or the president or something. Whoever handles that kind of thing.

Actually, that would be pretty awesome for awhile, but then every one would start having conflicting wishes and then the universe would implode or something.

But seriously, people, we are not really special snowflakes, no matter what our mommies taught us. You are not more important than me, and I'm not more important than that guy over there picking his nose. I would like to believe that I'm more important than him, but I'm not. So can everyone just chill the fuck out, accept the fact that we are all in this together, and that sometimes you have to wait your fucking turn? I mean, shit, they taught us that in kindergarten didn't they?

Please make my life better by following these me-approved rules. Please do not look directly into the wormhole I have created in my own logic. You do not want to fall in there.

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Does anyone else remember Small Wonder? Man, I really wanted to be Vicki. Vicki never had to feel emotions and shit.

It's not that life hasn't been interesting; it's that I have no idea how to talk about it.

A couple of months ago I realized my OCD was beginning to seriously impact my life. My mother was seriously ill and I had to abandon routines and schedules in order to go home for a couple of days to take care of her. It occurred to me in the car on the way that I was seriously angry and incredibly anxious. Not because my mom was really sick, but because her sickness was impacting my routines. I tried to convince her that she wasn't actually throwing up every 20 minutes because...that just wasn't going to work for me. I wasn't going to be able to do the things I NEED to do in order to keep my shit together. This was a problem. I've never really had an issue with keeping my issues from seriously impacting my life, but I was definitely heading in that direction. I knew I needed to start practicing the therapy again. Where you basically just don't allow yourself to succumb to your compulsions and wait out the anxiety that brings on. That was a really fun month. The thing about OCD is that you don't cure it, you only control it. Unfortunately, sometimes the things you use to control the OCD become things that need to be controlled. In my case, exercise, eating right, and going to bed at the same time every night help me control the worst of the anxiety. Things that are helping you slowly become things that you are compelled to do, that you can't NOT do. So I had to take some time off.

Later on, fabulous tales of watching movies I pre-hated (Eat, Pray, Love) and an hour long conversation with two women in front of a RedBox Movie Rental machine. One of whom has apparently studied the Bible very, very seriously.

Monday, February 14, 2011

I am Dead Serious. Kroger is Awesome on Valentine's Day

Image courtesy of

Valentine's Day seems to be a require blog topic, so I'll tell you about mine.

Basically, my husband and I shared the most ridiculous, pun filled cards we could find (because that's the best part!) then we split a carton of chocolate covered fortune cookies while rolling our eyes at the fortunes (Never frown because you don't know who might be falling in love with your smile! Someone will love you for your constant support!)Because he's a man and I have the soul of a 13 year old boy.

(Seriously: someone will love you for your constant support. I'm immediately put in mind of serial killers and the women who love them. Also, jock straps, support hose, and really good bras. He's thinking of deadbeat dads with 13 kids by 18 women.)

Then we made VD jokes, and then I went to the grocery store. Where two cashiers almost threw down in front of the 5 customers in the store. I have no idea why. All I know is, one of them must have been pretty condescending to the other. Because she kept screaming, "Do not talk to me like I'm a child! I am NOT a child!"

No, ma'am, you most certainly are not.

I am totally calling this day a success.

Friday, February 11, 2011

I have had way too much time on my hands.

I've been snowed in and haven't been inspired to write anything here. But I just really need to say something, and this seems like the best forum.

Playtex Sport Tampons suck.

1. Does not do what it says on the tin. I ran, I biked, I did yoga. These were not any better than my preferred brand. In fact, these were worse. Do not be sucked in by the hype.

2. They are trying to boss me around. There are weird "inspirational" messages written on the wrappers. Things like "Walk like you mean it". I do not know what that even means. How do you walk like you don't mean it?

3. I am perplexed by how many ways there seem to be to engineer a piece of cotton to make it pretty much exactly the same. Advances HAVE been made in applicator technology, but the newest trend seems to be aimed at improving the tampon itself. Aside from obvious changes like making it smaller or bigger or thinner or fatter I haven't noticed any real success. Also what are these laboratories like?

I have spent 3 days contemplating this.

Please send help.

Monday, January 24, 2011


I'm in the mood to make lists, which reminds me I'm working on a post about OCD because it has occurred to me that sometimes it makes me a slightly shitty person, but until that post takes better shape I'm giving you another list (someone needs to get their perscription refilled). Some of the great* mysteries in my life:

*For certain values of great.

1. Why is Anthropology (anthropologie?) e-mailing me? I've never shopped at Anthropologie in my life. I have perused one of their e-mails enough to know that they charge a lot of money for their clothes. I don't have a lot of money. But how did they find me? Are they watching me right now?

2. What is with people honking at broken down cars? Is there some magical repair that is effected by the horn honking that will make the car go again? Because I'm under the impression that doesn't actually help.

3. My vacuum cleaner will pick up a bowling ball but will not pick up the dog hair or little pieces of dead leaves in my house. Please explain this to me.

Okay I've never actually picked up a bowling ball with the vacuum cleaner. I don't own a bowling ball and I'm perfectly willing to accept whatever the television tells me as the truth (but not the internet; I don't accept everything the internet tells me as the truth. Mostly because for everything it tells me there are 18 contradictory things it tells me at the same time. Plus, that one time it told me I have prostate cancer. Which would be really mysterious indeed considering I don't HAVE a prostate. As far as I know). But, even if the tv lied to me and the vacuum won't actually pick up a bowling ball, I still don't understand why it won't pick up the other things.

I'm beginning to believe the dog's hair is made of a magic indestructable substance and maybe we should consider insulating the house with it. Should only take about 2 days to get enough hair for the whole project. This is how much she sheds.

4. The truffle part in cheap chocolate truffles fascinates me. I'm under no delusion that this is actually TRUFFLES like that pigs root out of the ground and cost something in the vicinity of your first born child and your soul. But what is it and how can they call it truffle if it's not truffle? Like you can't call Cheez Whiz cheese its a cheese product? Does that not apply to other things?

5. Why do some animals hate water so much? I have seen one of my dogs literally walk on water to avoid getting wet, but I don't really understand what the big deal is? Like, other dogs love it. Most people don't really mind it for the most part (unless they're all dressed up to go somewhere or something, and frankly, my dog never has anything that important to do). Also she's not rabid. I assume. We pay a lot of money for those shots.

Monday, January 17, 2011

I Submit that Pima Cotton is Actually MUCH Softer than Cashmere.

I hate many, many things that other women feel certain I should enjoy. Here is a list of those things:

1. 100% Cashmere. Y'all, it is itchy. I have been assured that finding cashmere itchy is basically a fate worse than death. In fact, judging by the reaction I got from one of my husband's female co-workers, this may be a tragedy on par with Darfur.

2. Pedicures. I do not like people to even think about touching my feet. I have been this way since I was a baby. You know how at horse shows and rodeos (I assume everyone has attended one of these; I may be mistaken) where they grease up a piglet and people chase it around and try to catch it? My mom says that trying to do anything to my feet (including putting shoes and socks on them) was like that game except after you catch the pig you have to put socks on it. I also vaguely recall being completely traumatized by an episode of Magnum P.I. (...) where someone shoved bamboo under Higgins' nails. This still makes me shudder, but at the time I was practically hysterical at the thought. It made my next nail trimming session EVEN MORE SUPER PLUS FUN than normal. My mother was thrilled, to say the least. Well, first she was really fucking confused and then she was thrilled. And then I was allowed to trim my own toenails. Yes, I have had pedicures. I would rather be waterboarded. I am not exaggerating. Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating a little. Still. Pedicures = torture.

3. Weddings. I am sorry, but I don't really find weddings that romantic. Or weep inducing. Under this heading, I'm going to go ahead and lump anything that can be termed "a shower". No, not the bath. The wedding/baby/dress up and bring me a gift while only surrounded by women and wearing a toilet paper dress over the pretty dress I asked you to wear kind of shower. At 28 I don't think it is really unreasonable that I don't want to participate in pointless games that were boring even when I was 5. Also? I just don't have that much squeal in my heart, previous comparisons to piglets aside.

4. Jeans. Okay, hate might be a little strong, but I'm not in love with them the way other people seem to be. I'm not even a little in lust with them. They have a function, they make my ass look good on occassion, but they are not comfortable. They aren't even all that warm. I stay just as warm in a skirt and a couple pairs of tights. Which are also more comfortable.

5. What Not to Wear. I don't always HATE it, per se, but I generally dislike it a lot. I mean, there are some episodes I've seen where someone lost a trillion pounds or was a poor working mother and I thought, "That's a really nice thing they did for that person." But a lot of the episodes seem to be taking these really original people with their own sense of style and then dressing them like everybody else. Not to mention, I watched an episode not to long ago where they trash talked someone's sweater, talking about it being old lady wear. But when the woman later voiced an opinion that a sweater they wanted her to wear looked like something an old lady would wear, they said No! You're young, so it won't make you look old! Maybe I'm just missing the nuances here. I think the one that clinched it was the one with the witch? In Salem? And they want to change her style because a "friend" didn't invite her to her baby shower because of her clothing? And MY response would be, "Fuck that shallow bitch. One less gift for her, and it would have been an AWESOME gift." Their response? Change yourself to be more palatable to your friends! Maybe that's my real issue with the show. Because I did this in high school and I was miserable. Hmm. That's a bit more psychology than I was expecting from this little exercise.

6.Ice cream. Yeah, I said it.

7.Musicals. ALL musicals (except the Gene Wilder version of Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory...that's not really a musical though, in my opinion; it's more of an acid trip with belching), but especially the Sound of Music. If you were to call me up, all excited, and say, "Yay! The Sound of Music is on!" I would wonder why the television network hated me. It has been proposed that this indicates I am a soulless bitch even less pleasant than a combination of Cruella DeVille and the Wicked Witch of the West (yes, I even hate the Wizard of Oz).

That last one will probably cause me to lose most of my followers. You aren't allowed to hate the Wizard of Oz, after all. I mean, I'm sure there's someone else out there who finds the chirpy chipperness of Julie Andrews to be scalp-crawlingly annoying, but the Wizard of Oz is apparently holy and above reproach. Screw it, I'm feeling reckless anyway.

What do you dislike that everyone else seems to love?

Friday, January 14, 2011

I don't like change. And then they went and changed my sign.

So...did all the zodiac signs change or did they not change? Sometimes the internet says they changed. But then some people say no, the zodiac we use isn't based on the constellations, it's based on the position of the sun on the equinoxes(or something, I don't know).

This is bothering me rather a lot. I mean, yesterday I would have told you I don't even BELIEVE in astrology. I don't check my horoscope ever. But I have been a Taurus for 28 years now, and all of a sudden some people are trying to call me an Aries, and I DON'T KNOW WHO I AM ANYMORE.

P.S. You guys who recommended Persuasion so strongly? Y'all were SO RIGHT.

Thursday, January 6, 2011

I Either AM a Secretary, Or I Ain't. If I AM, You Assholes Better Not Make Me Stay Behind for the Admin Assistants Day Lunch This Year.

I am very, very grouchy this week (no, it's not hormones. yes, I'm sure, and thanks for asking because that always helps so much!). People outside of my house have discovered my special ability to find things and I am now the fucking Nancy Drew of the file room.

Here is an example of an almost verbatim request for me to find something:

"So, like 10 or 15 years ago I think we did some kind of job somewhere for somebody that I don't remember." Please note the use of the word VERBATIM above. I'm not kidding, this is all the information I get.

There are several problems with this.

1. You cannot search the database with any of those clues.
2. Even if you could search the database with those clues, it is probably not IN the database because my company did not believe in computers until sometime after the year 2003. And even then they were a little...hit or what was documented on the computer system.
3. I'm not a fucking secretary. Or at least, that's what they keep telling me right before asking me to locate files, re-file files, copy things, scan things, print things, and schedule things.
4. If it's not in the database, then it's in the warehouse. Otherwise known as The Place Where All Your Joy Dies (Now With Rabid Spiders!) Actually, the spiders are not nearly as bad as the fact that the boxes out there weight 8 tons a piece, are stacked at least 3 deep (often on shelves over my head) and are in absolutely no discernible order. Also there's no heat or air in the warehouse. One day I am going to hang a sign over the door that reads, "Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here" or maybe just "That Way Be Monsters".
5. These requests are never made by people to whom it would be appropriate to respond, "HA!Hahaahahahaahahaahaahaaa! Good luck and godspeed on your quest, there, Sparky!"

And yet, I manage to find whatever obscure document from the past every single time, which only makes it worse, because they think I'm made of magic now and they'll never stop asking. I generally try to be positive about this (Job security! At least you're employed! A lot of people would very much like to be employed doing anthing right now!). Sometimes I really do pretend I'm in a lost Nancy Drew story (Nancy Drew and the Case of the Missing Site Access Agreement!) and if I have to go out to the warehouse I pretend I'm an archeologist on an important dig (I have just uncovered evidence of primitive life! Carbon paper! Pages of paper typed on a typewriter! Dot Matrix paper!).

But today I'm grouchy and unhappy about it. I have a lot of respect for secretaries, but I didn't spend 3 years in grad school so I could be a secretary. Not to mention that more than 75% of my pissed offedness about this is directly related to answering the motherfucking phones on admin assistants day while every secretary in the office gets taken somewhere nice for a free lunch. And then being asked to file and copy things when they all get back.

Whine. Whine whine whine. Whine whine whinewhinewhinewhinewhine.

In conclusion: whine!

ETA: I just noticed in my stats that someone found my site by googling "I'm wearing boxer shorts and I know how to use them" which is awesome on so many levels I will be entertained by it FOR DAYS. Bad mood gone! Thank you, person who wanted to brag about your ability to utilize boxer shorts. I sort of love you a little bit.

Saturday, January 1, 2011

2011 Starts with Me Realizing I'm Not 13 Anymore, But I am Still a Complete Nerd.

I just finished reading Pride and Prejudice for the first time. Y'all, what was wrong with me for so long? How had I heard about this book my whole life and written it off as uninteresting?

Actually, it's because when I was 13 and going through one of my first (but not last, or even most obnoxious) "intellectual" periods I bought a copy of Northanger Abby. And read about 20 pages before nearly perishing of boredom. Then rented and tried to watch that Alicia Silverstone version of Emma or whatever it was that was out about the same time. I was bored to tears and decided Jane Austen was boring.

But Austen books are free on the Kindle, and people I respect have always said how much they love her, so I gave it another shot. Y'all she's FUNNY. Like genuinely funny.

Sadly, I'm still not into the early "feminist" literature I am so supposed to love. You know the type I mean. Kate Chopin's "The Awakening" and the suchlike. Still don't find that interesting.

What can I say? I like funny. I like Wodehouse and Gaiman (and Austen, apparently. Seriously, who knew this? Who?). Sometimes I like a little mystery (totally addicted to Sherlock Holmes stories and Allan Carr and I'm dying to read "An Instance of the Fingerpost"). Uh, generally historical mysteries because there's so much more thought involved in figuring out whodunwhat. But occassionally the modern mystery will slip in there too. I don't particularly care for a lot of melodrama. I do admit to a fondness for John Irving (although 1. what is up with the bears, John? and 2. Why did Hotel New Hampshire need to exist? V.C. Andrews pretty much exhausted the incestuous sibling love mine, I thought) and Wally Lamb. I also adore Flannery O'Connor, so apparently I also like the grotesque. I definitely like gothic. I like Wilkie Collins and Jane Eyre and Turn of the Screw and wailing ghosts and dark stormy castles and crazies hidden in the attic. Sometimes I like non-fiction. I liked "In Defense of Food" and "Fast Food Nation". I'm curious about Karen Abbot's "Sin in the Second City". (Aside to my husband: No, I still do not want to read Money Ball. But thank you for asking. Again).

But I never can seem to like things that are about anything or anyone "coming of age" or whatever. I'm halfway through Portrait of a Lady and not likely to get any further. I'm not terribly interested in biographies.

I do have some Charles Dickens to give a second shot (although, as I recall, Dickens was paid by the word and it shows, so that might take awhile or be saved for situations where there is absolutely nowhere else to go). I'm going to try Edith Wharton again. And I definitely have two more of Austen's novels to get to.
But right now I'm going in for some H.P. Lovecraft. I already know I like that.

Thank you for reading this totally pointless post about What I Like to Read. Oooh! Maybe my next post can be about "What I Did For the Summer" or "What I Want to Be When I Grow Up"!

Also, y'all feel free to get your recommendation on in the comments. I always like that. Open my mind people!