July 11th, 2009
Ah, the beach. Where my diligent monitoring of calories expended vs. consumed goes out the window. Not only is there food, wonderful food, but tons and tons of SEAFOOD. Sure, we’ve got the bay right next door back home, but it’s not quite the same.
Last night we hit what has become our traditional first night spot - Awful Arthur’s. Sure, I suppose it could be considered a tourist trap, but you could say that about every place down where between May and September. And the food is great, so, whatever. No matter what time we go, it’s always an hour wait. But that’s not so bad, because after they inform you of the wait time, the hostess says, “But you can go up to the bar and we’ll come get you when the table is ready.” Gosh, go upstairs and drink beer and have a great view of the ocean. Yes, that sucks.
So we went upstairs and knocked a few back and watched the waves and Nascar and TdF, and in a near Rainman move, my brother closed out the bar tab a mere 2 minutes before the hostess arrived to take us to our table.
I have had a craving for clams casino all week, so a half dozen of those was a given. Fresh clams, sweet peppers, butter and bacon. Tell me how that could possibly go wrong? Oh - it can’t. We were also right under one of the a/c vents so coup was a must as well. The crab and lobster bisque is awesome. It’s think and creamy and tomato-y and just spot on. And then there were hushpuppies. Don’t think you can really go wrong with fried cornmeal and butter, either.
Little bro got the soup and the crabmeat in butter. I’d say it’s a classic rookies mistake of getting two insanely rich items, but I’ve made the same error myself many times. The crab in butter was great, too. I supposed it’s a good think I have a 5 mile run this weekend.
Matt - I didn’t get the oyster shot, but there is still plenty of time.
Tonight it’s Meridian 42, which in the past has been fantastic. I’m a tad concerned it’s been basically Mediterranean influenced seafood and such, and now they’re billing themselves as “Italiano” - which could mean new owners and/or management, or someone just decided that Italiano sounded a little less intimidating somehow. I’m hoping for the latter, as the couple items on the sample menu looked to be in the same vein as years past, and I really hope they haven’t “dumbed down” the food. If nothing else, they make a killer dirty Goose martini.
July 10th, 2009
And I’m glad I do, because I wouldn’t be nearly as blown away the first time I look up at the sky every time we come down here to the beach. When your biggest source of light pollution is a near-full moon, you can see A LOT of stars. Down here I can actually pick out constellations that I can just barely see back in NoVa and certainly ones I couldn’t even hope to see back home.
Makes you realize why the ancients were a nit in awe of them - they could actually *see* them.
June 27th, 2009
I am a creature of habit. In less complimentary terms it has also been described as “predictable,” “pleasantly boring,” as well as “so ridiculously set in her ways she will never find a man that will put up with her.”
But I’m OK with it. I once asked a bartender if my consistency in ordering made me predictable or pathetic. She said, “It makes you a good customer.” She really knew how to earn her tips.
There is the rare occasion where I deviate from the norm. Not often, but it does happen. And it worries people…
This afternoon I submitted my final paper and put the lid on another class. I then picked up a non-textbook and went outside and sat in the sun and read and dreamed of world travels. It was a good, hot, sunny day and this put the idea of margaritas into my head. Had I actually had the ingredients to make a pitcher here at the house, I would have, but I didn’t, so I kept reading and drinking Gatorade for the course of the afternoon.
Hoofed it up to the pub for some “it’s Friday night/my class is done/my brain can rot for a month” socialization and libations. This is where it went a tad sideways, and eventually I got ratted out to the manager…
I still had margaritas on the brain and near had to jump the bar to keep the bartender from hitting the Guinness tap (she’s a very good bartender) to ask for a margarita.
Her answer? “NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” (With a look on her face that said I asked for Red Bull and rat poison.)
But she came through for me and the margs hit the spot head on. Then I asked for a Corona as a chaser. Because you can’t follow a margarita with a Guinness. (They simply do *not* blend well.) This is when the bartender turned to the manager and said, “Cindy’s messing us up!!!!!!!!!” This particular manager, not knowing my habits like the back of his hand, looked at her and said, “Corona is good, what’s the problem?”
My brother nailed it quite well when asked why I was going off the rails as far as my usual consistency goes. “I think she’s in beach mode.” (He’s quite smart.)
Hot sunny day, the beach is a mere two weeks away, I can let my brain rot for a little bit? Yes, I suspect I am in beach mode, which is sunshine, fruity drinks, and Coronas.
It’s not a bad mode to be in, even if it does upend the bartender occasionally.
June 26th, 2009
Not that I’m anti-thinkng, just more pro-not-having-to-actively-think. Basically I’ve just used up all my critical thinking skills for a while. Another class knocked out in my quest to be 10 years down the road with multiple degrees and waiting tables because I still don’t know what I really want to do. :)
The paper is done, hurrah. And I think it’s a bit of crap. Not that I didn’t do the research, the piles of printouts scattered about with notes scrawled in the margins and circles and arrows and exclamation points all over them prove otherwise. It’s decently written and all that, but there’s just no way you can *really* explore any subject particularly well with a 6 page limit. I really don’t like writing down to expectations.
During this paper, I discovered that apparently I’m a freak. It seems that writing papers in longhand isn’t as common as I would have thought. Guess I’m doing my part to keep PaperMate and Mead in business. All the online resources are great, but I still print everything out and take it, plus a notebook and pen and go somewhere else to actually read and write. Transcribe it into Word every now and again to keep track of how much I’ve actually written and don’t end up with a 20 page masterpiece when the absolute limit is 10 pages. Once I’ve gotten enough thoughts out of my head to satisfy the requirements and prove whatever point I want to prove, it all gets printed out, 1 paragraph to a page. Then I again retreat to somewhere else with pen in hand and the editing carnage begins. Strike, rewrite, add, rearrange. If I used a red pen it would looks like an axe murder had taken place. Add the changes to the paper, print it out again, and repeat. And repeat. I kill a lot of trees.
Best discovery during the course of the paper - the robin that lives in the porch swing has hatched her second set of babies! (And doesn’t care that the dog likes to sleep in the shade under the swing. Thank God it’s not a mockingbird, or the dog would be traumatized for life.)
June 25th, 2009
So let’s just do this and I’ll get back to killing you with beer. (And Irish Coffees.)
But, we have to submit 2000 words by Friday at midnight for our class.
I know you don’t react well without a deadline, which is why I’ve not really poked at you up until now. We’ve got the sources and the vast bulk of the writing is already bouncing about, so it’s not like we’ve procrastinated THAT badly. (We also know how quickly we can get words to paper when needed.) It’s much easier to write when you at least have the words crashing about somewhere in your subconscious.
I couldn’t help but take notice of the fact that you did recognize the impending deadline and I appreciate the 450 words you allowed to come tumbling out this evening. However, in the future if you could hold off on a page and a half of insight until I am **out** of my car, it would be greatly appreciated. (And given the impending “no texting while driving law” showing up in a week, it’s not like I can Twitter myself my thoughts while at a red light.)
However, tomorrow we have to go balls to the wall. Or, temporal and frontal lobes to the wall. We still have to churn out another 1550 words or so. It’s not going to be God’s gift to research and analysis, but given the 2K word limit, it wasn’t going to be that in the first place.
Brain, I know you’re still seriously cranky over the fact that our super-awesome-spectacular initial outline was rejected because it would end up being “too long”, but I beseech you to get over it. Now it’s just about charming the pants of the professor with our arguments, despite the fact that we are the Rainbow Brite Leftist Liberal of the class. (Which is actually quite fun, but can be an impediment to an “A” in the class.)
Tomorrow, we’ll be outside in gorgeous weather with paper and pen and no distractions other than the birds. (And the dog when he gets pissy that I’m not playing with him. He’ll get over it.) But, we both know that this is when the best writing happens. And Brain, I’m not above taking the Hemingway route to finish this paper if required. However, I don’t have any Bloody Mary mix in the house, but I do have the Grey Goose, so we may be drinking martinis at 11AM. But, I do have olives, so they’ll at least be proper dirty martinis.
Brain, if you come through for me on this one, I promise you won’t have to think again until the beginning of August at the soonest.
Deal?
Walked into the pool hall this evening and things seemed to be perfectly on par with any other night, until a gentleman at the end of the bar said, “I’d like to buy you a beer on my friend’s tab.”
There appeared to be no intimation of further discussion or any other activties, just the simple offer of a beer to a fellow pub-goer.
I shrugged and said, “Well, um, OK.”
In return I got the Obama Terrorist Fist Bump and, “That’s just how we roll.”
I can deal with that. (I did apologize for my beer of choice being an import vs. a domestic.) They also purchased my next adult beverage with no expectations of conversation or well, anything. At the end of the night, the first gentleman did say it would be great if I could “smack [his friend] on the ass and say thanks” - except his friend was then waylaid, so I offered to smack him on the backside and say thanks and call it even. He was completely OK with that, and I had no issues with it. (It’s been a while since I had someone say it was OK for me to smack them…*)
So, I easily caved and gave him a whack on the ass with a sincere thanks for the beer and all went off with silly giggles.
I then realized that I had quite possibly prostituted myself out to someone with a mild spanking fetish for two beers. Not sure what it says about me that it really didn’t bother me that much… Cause it’s not like there appeared to be any expectation of anything else.
Perhaps it’s time to rethink what my next move in life is.
* And I could only do it in exchange for money for the soda machine. But it was great to have a coworker that you could say, “I need to hit someone… I’ll buy you a Coke for it!”
June 12th, 2009
Like many people in the world, I hit happy hour more than a few times a week. The only difference is that my happy hour starts at 2330 hours rather than 1730. I simply run on a different time loop than about 90% of the DC Metro area.
Now, when one takes the late shift, there is a better than good chance that you’re going to run into someone that started their happy hour at 1730 and is still going at it full bore at 0100 hours. Can’t really judge on that one either - it is what it is. We all have bad days. However, this has given me a few insights. One of them being that most of these folks seem to be from the defense contracting sector of the beltway world. (Perhaps just a inevitable issue of living where I live…but it tends to not happen with non-govt-contractors, so I cannot help but sense a trend. Possibly a weird coincidence, but I think not.)
That all being said, I can remain quite unfazed when someone walks up and says, “I’m quite inebriated, but…” Because I could tell you were six sheets (yes, twice the traditional three sheets) to the wind even before you opened your mouth. I will certainly not be offended by the fact that alcohol may have helped you walk up to someone you don’t even know and say something complimentary. Let’s face it, alcohol is essentially liquid Xanax when consumed in sufficient amounts. (And a hell of lot easier to wean yourself off when you don’t need it anymore.)
However, there comes a point where you’ve just had one Vodka Xanax too many. And you’re describing in Cinemax-worthy detail of the ways in which you would be a GREAT boyfriend. (Or the ways in which you *think* you’d be a great boyfriend.) That is when you’ve crossed the line from “courage to talk to a stranger” to “courage to be a total freaking idiot in front of a complete stranger”… This is the point I will create an invisible super-awesome boyfriend out of whole cloth if needed. (And oh yes, I will do that if I have to. I am not above that kind of deception when required.) Or an invisible boyfriend based on a real person who I know will go along with the story if needed*… And trust me, said invisible boyfriend will be all that and a bag of chips, far and away beyond anything you think you can offer. If you’re lucky this is the point where your spectaculary more sober friend will come up and distract you with something shiny before you embarass yourself any further. (And apologize profusely for your behavior. And 5 minutes later will say, “Crap, I lost him again!”)
I will not argue that alcohol can be an excellent social lubricant. There have been countless social and pseudo-social events I have attended over the years that have been made exceptionally more tolerable with a dirty goose martini to kick things off. But really guys, you need to know where that line is - and stay on the right side of it. Or at least have friends that will keep you from speaking to any strangers when you go careening sideways over said line.
Just sayin’…
*Thank you, twas a lifesaver.
Black 47: The Reels
June 9th, 2009
But damned if I know what it is. I can say with a fair amount of confidence that Timmy isn’t stuck in a well anywhere, so that’s something.
However, given the wide range of “sitting up with paws folded” cuteness posistions can mean, I really have no idea. It can mean any of the following:
Let’s go play ball!! It’s the middle of the night and the light-up balls have disappeared in the backyard.
I’m hungry! Except that he’s gotten multiple treats since I got home.
Rub my tummy! Did that and it made no difference.
Just sit on the floor with me! Did that, too. Still getting the ‘dog imitating a meerkat’ routine.
Sat down and cuddled with him one more time, and he just gave up. He’s now on his blankie on his side of the couch looking decidedly annoyed with my ability to read his mind.
Note to self: Find the light up balls so we can play catch at night…
June 4th, 2009
So, I’ve had a head/chest/ear thing going on this week, with a lovely cough, the cough really being the most annoying of it all. I try to avoid cough/cold medicine, not because I am organic or any of that stuff, it’s because whatever they put into it that makes it work turns me into a cranky bitch.
So, I started with hot tea and lemon and honey and cough drops. Worked semi-decently. Not great, but better than nothing.
Then I decided I would beat the cough into submission with beer. This worked surprisngly well. Which makes sense when you think about it - alcohol does have mild anesthetic properties, and hence, less coughing. The only problem with this is it’s not a practical 24/7 solution - mainly due to my own shortcomings - I’ve not been a member of the beer for breakfast club for years. Also, there is the issue of your liver deciding to drunk dial your inner ear and make you walk into a wall. No solution is foolproof.
This morning I gave up and went to the store to buy cough syrup. Dammit. I get pissed when I can’t intimidate my own body into doing what I want and I have to bring in Vicks products. Of course, it’s been at least a year since I needed to get cough syrup and of course, all the formulations have changed. So I’m literally sitting on the floor in the CVS with half a dozen bottles of medication trying to find something that doesn’t have Phenylephrine or Pseudoephedrine in it, cause I have figured out that’s what makes me a very angry little person. Success! Dextromethorphan only.
This stuff doesn’t work for crap. It could be the fact that I can’t actually down an entire dose of it at once, thanks to the wonderful “berry blitz” flavor. You can’t tell me with all the scientific advances we’ve made over the years, we can’t do better than cough syrup that tastes like a wild cherry life saver that has been under the couch cushions for three months. Maybe it’s because it doesn’t have the “make me psycho” ingredients. All I know is that this stuff definitely no longer has any benefit whatsoever for me.
Not only did the beer work better, it also had the added bonus of making everyone around me more attractive.
I’m back to the hot tea and honey and cough drops. And I’ll just tell my inner ear to ignore any prank calls from my liver later tonight.
May 29th, 2009
And yet, not 100% because I am quite shallow.
This afternoon I spied a cell phone in the grass between the sidewalk and street while I was out running. While I did think about leaving it so the owner could backtrack to it, that was outweighed by the scattered rainstorms and the potential for kids deciding to play street hockey with it. So, I picked it up and took it home.
Tried to call the phone to leave a voice mail for the owner, thinking they might be checking it remotely. Great idea except that the voice mail wasn’t activated. No “Home” or “Mom” or “ICE” in the contact list. Put a found posting on Craigslist and a note at the bus stop where I found it. Sent a text message to a female contact in the recent calls list. (Dunno, just didn’t want to send a text to one of his potenially whackjob friends - mainly because I know how many whackjobs I have in my own contact list.) And waited.
The phone rang and I answered - the owner calling from a friend’s phone! He apparently parks his car right near the bus stop and dropped/kicked it out of the car. Got the address for the drop off - he said, “You can drop it off at any hour, someone will be up.” AKA, we have a house of half office workers, half restaurant industry. :) I was on my way out, no big deal to make a 1/4 block detour to drop it off.
And this is where shallow comes in. The voice was of a 6′2″ Tennessse farm boy between the ages of 22 to 35. When I dropped off the phone, I was met by a lovely Indian lady at the door (wife/girlfriend/landlady/roommate) who seemed to be aware of the situation and happily accepted the phone (or had no idea and thought, “Hey, free cell phone!”)
So the phone was returned. (Hopefully to the right address.) But dammit, I wanted to see the face that went with the voice!!
But the phone is back with it’s rightful owner (in theory) and that has to be good enough. And I can live with that.
May 28th, 2009
***Warning to all gentlemen who may think I am dateable - this may very well change your mind***
I don’t know about anyone else out there, but if I don’t dream, I don’t have a good night’s sleep. When things are going even marginally well, I dream nearly every night. (And it doesn’t matter how long I sleep, as long as I dream. 12 hours with no dreams is worse than 6 hours with dreams.) My dreams are exceptionally vivid, and about 3/4 of the time I remember the details. (Mainly if I happen to wake up near the end of the dream and make a mental note of it.) Otherwise, I do at least remember the fact that I had some kind of whacked out dream.
I’ll admit it - my subconscious mind is much smarter than my conscious mind. I lost count of how many seriously screwed up help desk tickets I figured out because my subconscious mind took over and when I woke up, I had the answer. Or, when my subconscious mind told me it was time to move on from a job that I kept hanging on to.
Such as the dream I had about physically putting out fires around the office in one job I had. Mind you, I did have practical experience with it when my boss set his trash can on fire, but still - it was a sign that things simply were not right.
There was the dream about picking up a neighbor’s key after the electrician had come and calling said neighbor to let him know I had the key. I actually had to call my neighbor the next day and ask if I’d called him in the middle of the night about the key. (This is also compounded by the fact that I have had people call me in the middle of the night and I was in such a deep sleep that I didn’t remember the conversation.) Like I said, exceptionally vivid dreams.
So dreams = good sleep. Unless they’re nightmares of some sort. And for the last 6 months or so, I’ve either not dreamed at all (which is bad) or had nightmares (not ‘getting shot and killed’ nightmares but just as disturbing in their own way and resulting in no real sleep.) They have been one of two: Either I can’t get the damn phone to stop ringing (my grandmother calling every freaking 5 minutes) or, my Mom, Dad, and/or my Grandfather showing up (all deceased) and getting into LARGE arguments about why they aren’t here to take my grandmother onto wherever ones goes when they shuffle off this mortal coil. Neither one is conducive to a decent night’s sleep, whether it’s 3 hours or 12. (I stopped asking my brother if I had ignored an early phone calls after a while - I realized he’d ask why I didn’t answer if she’d actually been calling - but that’s how stupidly real they were.)
After this last trip to Phoenix, I knew I’d be seriously wound up for a while (which I was) and adding Mother’s Day and then my parent’s birthdays into the mix (yes, same day, same year, and yes, May is slightly rough, why do you ask?) my poor little brain apparently couldn’t even begin to come up with some good action-adventure stories for me. So I haven’t even been dreaming at all. Which sucks.
It sucks on levels beyond just the fact that no dreams = crappy sleep. When my mind is allowed to really wander, I have some seriously whacked out dreams. Not scary, just off the wall and entertaining as hell. Some folks do dinner and a movie - I do sleep and a movie. I love my whacked out dreams - especially because I also tend to have lucid dreams, which makes it even more fun. You *know* you’re dreaming, so you’re ten feet tall and bulletproof and can fly and breathe underwater and any number of cool-assed things can happen.
And as I said, it’s been a good 6 months plus since I had that kind of fun at night all by myself. (And drinks/no drinks doesn’t matter. I do know if I take anything stronger than Advil before bed to kill a sleep-preventing headache/backache/whatever, I will not dream. So, I don’t self-medicate to sleep. I will just stay awake until I think I can sleep.)
When I went to Phoenix, Sharyn* assured me many times over that things weren’t as bad as I thought (I only get the bitchy negative calls from my grandmother, so I know I don’t get the whole picture) and I did get to see how my grandmother instantaneously became calmer (and nicer!) when Sharyn was around. It just didn’t really sink into the recesses of my mind until the past few days - and I *know* it has sunk in. Not only am I dreaming again, they are the really fun, cool, whacked out dreams that have nothing to do with family. (Unless someone randomly enters stage left for no reason - and if they get killed by a ninja, it’s their own damn fault for showing up.)
A quick sample from the past couple nights where it’s back to “sleep and a movie” rather than “sleep at your own risk”:
– I’m in Miami and protecting a 5 year old from a hail of gunfire and explosions. Sounds like a nightmare, but no - I had kickass ninja skills and we both emerged unscathed. (I probably should stop watching CSI: Miami, but hey, we escaped the bad guys! That and a lot of my dreams key off what I’ve seen on TV. 3 seasons of The West Wing in 4 days - I had dreams about working in the White House for 3 weeks.)
– I’m working at my old help desk job and they are cutting people left and right. Suddenly, Gabriel Byrne shows up as the employee advocate! (Oh if we’d only had a union and him as our rep back when I actually did tha for a living.) Telling management that if they force us to stay as pitifully understaffed as we were, we still needed more support and that we needed to have at LEAST one “wizard” on staff for us to all consult. (Not like a Harry Potter wizard, more like Apple’s “geniuses” - I’m not *that* much of a geek.) Of course, also a sad note on how my mind works, when I should have been seriously hitting on Mr. Byrne, I was back at the tech manager’s desk offering him a dollar for the soda machine in exchange for my being allowed to punch him. (Which we actually did when I worked there.) But, damn, GABRIEL BYRNE advocating for us help desk punks!! If that’s not a dream, I’m not sure what is.
– I’m sitting in front of a stack of papers, not sure if it’s work or classwork, but get a call from someone I am quite interested in.
“Hey, would you like to do something tonight?”
*Looking at random papers in front of me*
“I’d love to, but I have all this work I need to take care of.”
“Oh, OK.”
Hang up the phone, pause a moment. I DID NOT JUST DO THAT, DID I???? (I actually double checked my phone in the morning. I have had phone conversations that I did not remember because they were in the middle of a deep sleep. Apparently I did NOT turn anyone down by accident at 3AM.)
– I am the stunt double or some close extra for Emily Deschanel in Bones. I spent the whole time running around shooting things with David Borneaz, and he wanted to go for drinks after the shoot. Not so bad! If I can figure out how to get a repeat on that one - I may never wake up again.
So, haven taken a few minutes to analyze my subconscious for the past couple days, I see why I’m far and away more relaxed and less strung out than I was even this time last week.
Let’s all go have some fun and whacked out dreams.
*The freaking angel sent from heaven or Minnesota who looks in on my grandmother every day and keeps her on an even keel. Something I could never manage in my entire life.
May 23rd, 2009
So, last night summer was officially kicked off (at least for me) by heading up into the city and meeting Plaidy and Liss and going to see Carbon Leaf at the 9:30 club.
Now, it’s been forever and a day since I’ve done a girls night out, so I was really looking forward to this. 98% of my social interactions are with guys, which is great, cause I can spit and scratch and swear around them, but we don’t really talk about a lot of girl stuff.
In short, we had a blast - can’t remember a night where I have laughed as long and hard as I did last night. Carbon Leaf was great, Nellie’s has really good empanadas, and Duffy’s can pour a good pint. Or three.
Some of the more memorable utterances of the evening…
“Do I go towards 11th or 15th street? I just managed to walk in a circle. But I know where Ben’s Chili Bowl is now.”
“How about Nellie’s?”
“Sure.”
“It’s a gay bar.”
“Switching teams may be an improvement.”
“The entire Abercrombie and Fitch catalogue is sitting at that table.”
“It’s just like the sports pub at home. I’m not getting laid there either.”
“I’m a straight single girl sitting in a gay bar - the fact that my martini doesn’t qualify for happy hour pricing is the least of my problems.”
“The ‘nice’ filter in my brain has been switched off.”
“Twenty Two??!?!”
“I thought he was older!”
“And he was missing an arm.”
“I’m 5′11, I should be able to find guys that aren’t short.”
“I just need to find one. The harem was too hard to deal with.”
“Grab his ass. He’ll move.”
“Umm.”
“You’re straight, he’s not, he won’t take it the wrong way.”
“If it’s the 9:30 club, why do the hand stamps say 8:15?”
“The opening act went on early? This is rock and roll, it’s supposed to run late!”
“See the guy in the hat? Do you think that’s his girlfriend there?”
“I think the hat is doing very bad things for his nose.”
“I’m pretty sure the guy standing next to me is a serial killer.”
“Do you want to switch places?”
“No, it’s more an observation. If you hear about 20 hookers being slashed in 10 days, this is the guy.”
“I’m sorry, but the kitchen is closed for the evening.”
“No problem, we’re here for the ‘and pub’ aspect.”
So, it would seem that the bar has been set extremely high for the rest of the summer.
May 10th, 2009
I just saw a piece on the news about mothers that feel guilty for being “bad” (ie, not perfect) Moms.
My Mom wasn’t perfect and had no hang ups about not being perfect. If she did, I’m quite certain we’d all have been miserable.
I cannot tell you how many time she told us “go play in the traffic”… And some days I am sure she wasn’t kidding.
With my Dad in the Navy, she got to do a lot of parenting on her own, and did it spectacularly well - I feel like the answers to most any problem can be solved by asking, “OK, how would Mom would have handled this?”
You can’t ask for more than that from a Mom.
And to all my friends with kids who are fretting over getting it all right - it’s OK to tell them to go play in the traffic. Or say, “I don’t want to hear the word ‘MOOOOOOOOOOOOOM’ unless someone is bleeding.” Or just deciding that Kraft Mac & Cheese with hot dogs is going to be dinner because everyone likes it and sometimes it’s just easier to make something everyone likes that to try to be culinarily adventurous with toddlers. They’ll be fine.
And yes, I realize most of the gents reading this are thinking, “Seriously, I got the message the first go round, and I didn’t even qualify on THAT posting!” But…some still don’t get it. (Seriously, someone throw this series to neatorama or reddit or digg, so this goes viral and spreads the word. I’d like to think it would be a public service of sorts.)
But really guys, if you have previously attempted to drop trou in front of me to show me your tattoo in the middle of a very public venue, and it went spectacularly poorly, you should probably not approach me again, oh well, let’s say - EVER. It’s one of those “cut your losses” situations. Which has no negative bearing on you - it really doesn’t - we all have those moments where we realize things aren’t going as we would have liked. That is the point where you can decide to move on, or continue to embarrass yourself. I believe the technical term is, “Fish or cut bait.”
If you choose the latter course and my first words to you are, “I will put my cigarette out on your eyelid” when you approach me - that is your great big freaking neon sign to MOVE ON. If you try to apologize for previous offenses and your apology is quite graciously accepted, with a very specific “Now. Go. Away.” tone of voice (it’s quite unmistakable with me) you should once again - WALK AWAY.
At this point, most rational people would step back and say, “OK, I said I was sorry, she said OK, I’m in the clear,” and it’s time to GO…. Well, you need to - yes, you guessed it - walk away. I don’t ever expect anyone to walk away with their head held low - just walk away and move on. That’s all. But you may choose to stand your ground, and I don’t fault anyone for that, but it might not turn out the way you hope.
If your next step is to talk the ear off of one of my male friends, and they are giving me the, “Save Me!!!!!!!!!” sign, I am not going to abandon my friend. I will enlist other people to suddenly need my friend’s total undivided attention over any matter, be it the fact that the bar is out of Guinness to there the presence of a young lady who is quite interested in them - so they may escape your weirdness.
Should you decide to turn your attentions back to me once they are unavailable, –attentions that have been rebuffed previously in days past as well as within the last 30 minutes - I’ll just point out to you the fact that I do have a lovely contingent of big-brother bodyguards who would happily break you into pieces on my word… You should again take the giant, billboard-sized hint. It’s not a threat - it’s a undeserved courteous warning of potential issues should you continue to be an asshat. But hey - I’m courteous that way. Again, that is your sign to quietly retreat. No fuss, no muss, no outright, messy confrontations. You still have a dignified exit, and frankly, you should take it. And I will give you multiple exit ramps to take that route.
And as I said before, my large family of adopted big brothers is great for me - but it’s better for you. My Dad taught me a dozen ways to kill someone without leaving a mark. (Best. Dad. Ever. I was more prepared for college than any other gal I knew.) Trust me, you want them in the middle of it. They will be the ones pulling me off you once I have finally had it with you and your overinflated ego.
Believe it or not, I have actually become quite the pacifist over the years. There was a time that there would be no warning whatsoever, and you’d be looking down the barrel of a sleeper hold (again, thanks Dad!) and no one would have been the wiser.
But seriously guys, take the “get the hell away from me NOW” signals, and just walk away. (Mine are fairly blatantly obvious, and I won’t say a word if you actually just walk away.) No shame in it whatsoever. Don’t even bother yourself with hurt feelings, just MOVE ON. I’m not trying to hurt your feelings or ego - I’m just trying to get across the point that you should not attempt to approach me again. When you decide to call me out as a “psycho” (which is pretty weak to start with, cause I am way beyond psycho on my mildest of days) in front of my wonderful contingent of big brothers - and especially if you are laser-directing your comments to one of my rather devoted chevaliers, you’re not going to get a ton of sympathy for your plight. You won’t even look like the even ever-so-slightly injured party. It makes you look like a jackass that didn’t know when to fish or cut bait.
So Mr. Idiot That Didn’t Know When To Walk Away… It’s not my fault you can’t follow signals that are visible from the ISS crew. Suck it up, deal, and move on. Lord knows I’ve managed it over the years in the other direction. I’m sure you’ll find your soulmate somewhere along the way - but I can tell you with no measure of uncertainty - it’s not here and not now.
And there’s nothing wrong with that.
May 5th, 2009
Yes, it’s another great American drinking holiday - Cinco de Mayo, where we co-opt a historical day from another country so we can buy Coronas by the bucket. God Bless America.
Just a tip - if you do not normally drink for 6-12 hours straight on a regular basis, the fact that today is Cinco de Mayo is not going to suddenly enable you to accomplish said feat. Trust me, it will not end well, and the odds are good that you will wake up with a 3 day hangover on a stranger’s couch, missing a shoe and wondering when and why you thought it was a good idea to dye your hair purple.
¡Buena suerte!
Let me start this off with a disclaimer of sorts. I have a multitude of truly spectacular men in my life and I love them all and am so happy they all stumbled into my life. (And you spectacular sorts all know who you are.) But some of you gentlemen are just freaking stupid. (At which point the use of the word gentleman is very generous, and idiot might be considered an acceptable substitute.)
The vast majority of gentlemen reading this already know all these guidelines, but sometime an occasional reminder isn’t the worst thing in the world. And who knows, maybe this post will go viral and be of benefit to a larger audience. And here we go:
1. Should I take a moment to introduce myself to you at the local pub, it is because I am polite. It does not mean that I want to have sex with you, or ever want to see you again. It means that whether I’ve had 1 drink or 12, I still remember Roberts Rules of Parliamentary Procedure as well as every Emily Post and Miss Manners column I’ve ever read, and I am not a complete bitch on wheels.
2. Should you have any interest in a woman, at some point the words, “So, are you involved?” really, REALLY need to come out of your mouth. The sooner the better. And don’t tell me I should just go about spewing out that information right off the bat - I have had many lovely conversations with people that simply wanted to have a nice conversation and there was no reason to announce my relationship status right out of the gate. It also gives the lady in question a graceful out if needed. And frankly, most people I know would prefer a graceful out rather than trying to create a graceful out from whole cloth. (And dammit, I give guys the graceful out on many occasions, so there is no double standard in play.)
3. Should you decide to buy me a drink, it does not mean that I will have sex with you. (Especially should you choose to purchase said drink while I’m having a conversation with someone else about how buying drinks != sex.) It’s not that I don’t appreciate the drink, but don’t read anything beyond the point where I say, “Thank you.” Nor does it mean I will buy you a drink in return. It doesn’t mean that I hate you, it simply means that I don’t feel the need to buy you a drink in return. It’s not that I have not bought drinks for gentlemen in the past, because I have. It means that if going to the pub was required to be net-zero game, I’d simply decline your offer and pay for my own drinks like I usually do, and save myself a hell of a lot of hassle. Additionally, you are most certainly NOT allowed to be offended if you are not included in the last round that I pick up for a very few, very close, very normal, very good friends. You already think you’re getting some for buying a Guinness, I’m certainly not going to do anything to further that delusion.
4. If you have only known me for 20 minutes, other than a tap on the shoulder or a handshake, you are not allowed to touch me without invitation, other than accidentally bumping into me. (I have yet to punch anyone out for inadvertently careening into me after tripping over a shoelace. I do have a heart.) Should you come up and decide it would be cute to flick my ear “to get my attention”, especially given that I’ve “known” you for a whopping 20 minutes, you are going to get a very cold lecture on how you do NOT touch a woman without express invitation. Should you choose to be offended by this, once again, that is your problem, not mine, in any way, shape or form. Frankly, you should consider yourself lucky that you still have all your teeth.
5. I do love tattoos. I love the artwork and meaning behind them. I enjoy hearing the stories of why someone got a inked with a particular design. I am always on the lookout for good tattoo artists as I really need to man up and get my MCM tat that I promised myself for not dying after 26.2 miles. (2 years ago.) If you have an armband and are wearing a button down shirt - I do understand that you’d have to unbutton said shirt to show it. However, I have absolutely no desire to see any tattoo that requires that you remove your pants. I don’t care if you’re wearing your Jockey’s - KEEP YOUR PANTS ON. And by the by, I have several people who will instantaneously swear that the bar has a very strict pants-on rule, including the bartender.
6. I have a very large contingent of de-facto bodyguards. To be perfectly honest, they are as much for your protection as mine. Over the past couple years, I have acquired several new brothers. (Which is great, cause brothers are fun.) They are kind, and sweet and awesome - and slightly protective of me. But again, more for your protection than mine. Because, if you’re seriously bothering me, do remember the fact that I am the closest person to you, and if I am really creeped out, I will gleefully (and I do mean gleefully) go on the offensive if I feel it is warranted. Chances are my chevaliers will be preventing me from kicking out one of your kidneys rather than keeping you from bothering me any further.
So guys, just a few things to keep in mind to keep yourself from losing teeth or getting kicked in the groin by a girl.
That all being said, do say “Hi.” Cause if you don’t do anything ridiculously stupid, I’ll say “Hi” back.
April 30th, 2009
They really did.
I’ll fully admit, after dealing with that fairly awful woman last year, I was loaded for bear going in there today. Told my grandmother before we went in to get her game face on because we were NOT going to leave without getting what we needed and that she should feel free to whack someone with her cane if necessary. (That got her good and pumped up, and I’m still surprised she didn’t punch me in the face just to show she was ready to take on any branch employee.)
Went in, told them what we needed, filled out one more form and that was that. CSR Dan was nice, helpful, polite, awesome, and pretty much a complete departure in attitude from the last person I dealt with at this branch. As it turns out, Grandma did not have to physically be there, which is what I had suspected - seriously, what if she’d done the PoA years ago and broke a hip? Not like I could drag her into the branch to enact it…
By the time we were done, my hands were pretty much shaking from relief. I cannot tell you how much better I feel knowing that as things get worse for her (and unfortunately, they will), we can pick up the ball and run with it with a bare minimum of hassle.
It doesn’t seem like a lot in the big scheme of things, but just being able to take care of these two little accounts for her is going to make EVERYONE’S life so much easier.
(Oh, and Dan, if you’re reading this because you were wondering WTF kind of domain my email address comes from - I saw what you did there with the MM account. I understand completely - and thanks again.)
But if you need a bodyguard for a little old lady, I’m your gal.
Yesterday at the market, she stopped for a minute, trying to get something out of her purse. Of course, not in the most convenient place, but that’s life sometimes. I turned to the person behind us to apologize and got a nasty comment about her stopping before I could even get “I’m sorry” out of my mouth. This was the wrong thing to say to me. The VERY wrong thing to say to me. I might have said something along the lines of, “OH YEAH? LET’S SEE HOW WELL YOU’RE DOING WHEN YOU’RE 87 AND LEGALLY BLIND AND HAVE A CANE, BITCH.”
Though she drives me insane in every way possible, there is no way in hell I am letting anyone go after her.
He can’t do that to our pledges!
Only we can do that to our pledges.
April 29th, 2009
With all the practice I’ve had of late dealing with my grandmother and her various and sundry issues, you’d think I’d be a little less inept at this. But not only am I as I still as inept as ever, I’m fairly certain that I’m actually WORSE at this now. I’m still not very good at just keeping my mouth shut - when I do say something, it’s not only the wrong thing, it’s usually the VERY wrong thing. I’m really not TRYING to piss her off, I swear, I’m just naturally very good at it. It seems to be either silence or arguing and very little in between. (Doubt that will change, as Sharyn is the person she actually likes to talk to, and I am the person that does her taxes. I’m just happy she likes Sharyn and is nice to her.)
She apparently made comments to Sharyn that she was concerned that I would use the PoA to take away her house. Wow, if I didn’t feel like a schmuck before, I sure did upon hearing that. Thankfully saner heads that she trusts more than me prevailed and assured her that was NOT the point of doing the PoA. (Entirely true. I’ve long since abandoned any notion that she will be doing anything besides leaving this place feet first.)
So, I’m the anti-christ that wants to take her house away. Probably why she wasn’t super thrilled to see me when I arrived. So, that makes things a little more interesting to put it mildly.
However, cue the angels singing, we hauled up to Wells Fargo and had both PoA’s signed, notarized and witnessed. And I can only thank Sharyn & DJ for that, because without their help, I don’t know how on God’s green earth I would have gotten that done. (And the lovely lady with the notary stamp at WF, who was pleasant and kind to my grandmother despite her apparently having quite the reputation for being high maintenance. “Oh, you’re THAT Mrs. H!” *cringe*)
Tomorrow we take on Wachovia. (Damn, why couldn’t they have been completely merged with WF by now?) Get to go in and say, “You told my grandmother she needed to have a PoA from the trust to make me a signer on this account. Here she is, here is the PoA ‘from the trust’ and here I am. Now for the love of all that is good and holy, give me a pen.” (Thankfully they screwed up the money market account and didn’t designate it as a trust account, so we don’t need anything special for me to be a signer on that other than her standing there saying “Do it, dammit!” - I shouldn’t be so grateful for their idiocy, but I am on that one instance.)
Why not do it all at Wachovia today? Because I’ve yet to have anything better than a mediocre experience with them, and needed something to go right today.
Hopefully they’ll clue into the fact that once we make this happen, my grandmother will never have to set foot in the branch again for anything other than her lockbox, and it will go smoothly. (She has a bit of a reputation for being high maintenance with that financial institution as well. Yes, there is a bit of a pattern here.)
Think happy banking thoughts tomorrow.
April 28th, 2009
Arrived at the condo this morning and rang the bell to get the garage door opened.
Now, mind you, from where she was standing and the way the light was, I was completely silhouetted so it didn’t surprise me that she thought I was Sharyn until I was a bit closer. (We’re about the same height and build.)
She started with, “Oh, lordy, I don’t even know where to begin!” and then realized it was me. And in a decidedly flat and disappointed tone said, “Oh, it’s you.”
That just says it all…
April 23rd, 2009
From CNN: Five clues that you are addicted to Facebook
One day recently, Cynthia Newton’s 12-year-old daughter asked her for help with homework, but Newton didn’t want to help her, because she was too busy on Facebook. So her daughter went upstairs to her room and sent an e-mail asking her for help, but Newton didn’t see the e-mail, because, well, she was too busy on Facebook.
Yes, it’s Facebook’s fault that she seems to have abandoned parenting.
I’ve been on Facebook for about 6 months now. It’s got some great timewasters (Poker, anyone?) and yes, it can be used as a tool for avoiding real life. But it’s also been a great way to reconnect with old friends - a wonderful friend I haven’t seen in near 20 years found me on Fb and it’s been terrific to be able to catch up with her. I honestly don’t know how we would have found each other had it not been for Facebook.
Sure, I doubt that anyone really has a desperate need to know what I’m doing at any given point in the day - but Facebook Mobile was a nice little sanity saver when I was stuck in AZ at Christmas. There’s a lot to be said for being able to toss out an “I’m losing my mind” status update and get some quick support from friends. (And comments that the mind had long since gone as well.) I like being able to know what my friends are up to and how they’re doing and to be able to toss them a quick note if they need bucking up.
Facebook is also much more interactive than a regular blog, so sure, it can consume some more time than other websites. (Also why my blog feeds into the Facebook notes - not everyone knows I have a blog.) It’s a great all-in-one place for thoughts, notes, pictures and whatnot.
But, if you’re “addicted to Facebook”, it’s not Facebook’s fault. If Facebook didn’t exist, people would find other ways to avoid real life - trust me, people avoided real life and real problems long before the internet existed. If you spend an ungodly amount of time doing anything, you need to take a quick step back and look at why you’re doing it.
This particular excerpt really bugged me:
“One of my clients met up with an old boyfriend on Facebook. They started spending hours and hours into the night talking to each other on Facebook. She made some really inappropriate comments about how unhappy she was in her marriage,” Pile said. “Her cousin saw the comments and told her parents, and the parents told the husband, and now they’re in the process of getting divorced.”
Guess what? Those two were going to get divorced eventually anyway. Using Facebook didn’t cause the divorce - it just brought the underlying problems in that particular relationship to light.
Sometimes, a little avoidance of the real world isn’t the worst thing in the world. But you can’t blame Facebook for building a killer app that enables you to do it. Suck it up and face your fears and address your issues.
Just be sure to update your status when you’ve conquered them - I’ll hit the “Like” button.
April 22nd, 2009
Any dealings that involve my grandmother will send my blood pressure sky high. I realize that sounds unkind, but we have a special relationship - we really don’t like each other at all, and are now forced to deal with each other much more than either of us would ever want.
Today I have been reassuring her that yes, someone WILL contact us should she die, and it’s not like she’ll be sitting dead on the couch for a week before someone discovers it (she has someone pop in multiple times a week) and even if that happened (which it won’t) the cat wouldn’t starve because it would eat her. (She actually thought the cat comment was funny. I wasn’t exactly joking. The cat is not dumb.) She has an odd obsession with the administrative details of death. Actual death doesn’t bother her a bit, but the paperwork aspect puts her around the bend. Granted, she is 87, so I understand that death is more of an issue now, but I can’t quite convince her that once she dies, none of this will be her problem anyway, so why worry?
So, the BP has been a bit on the high side so far today. Then I had to go deal with Wachovia Bank - I will be lucky if I don’t stroke out before the night is over.
Last year when I was in Phoenix, I made the suggestion of being a signer on her accounts, as the finances were already frustrating her (legal blindness will do that) and might as well do it then rather than wait. Figured that way whenever I needed to do something for her, I could. (And I have, so it was a good idea.) Now, her accounts are in a trust - of which SHE is the trustee - a POS document that seems to have only caused more grief than it has solved in my opinion, but everyone assures me, “Oh, it’s GREAT!” I remain unconvinced.
Two of these accounts are held with Wells Fargo. (Thankfully they are her main day-to-day accounts.) We walked in, my grandmother said, “I want to make her a signer on my accounts.” They said, “Here’s a pen.” That was that. I think the most challenging part was finding a Sharpie to make the signature line extra dark so she could see it.
For the other two accounts, we headed over to Wachovia, who held true to their former identity of First Union, aka, the FU bank. As it is, they don’t like her that much because she is a high maintenance pain in the ass who doesn’t make them any money. (True.) They don’t much like me because I’ve not stuffed her in a nursing home. While there are days I’d love to do that (at least she’d know someone will call me if she dies) simply being a high maintenance pain in the ass isn’t grounds for checking her into a home. (Were that the case, most of my clients I had on help desk would have been committed.) And frankly, if you’re working at a bank in Sun City, Arizona (one of God’s Waiting Rooms, thank you Del Webb) you simply have to know that there is going to be a percentage of your customers that are cranky elderly people who will do their best to drive you insane.
Well, no can do on being a signer, even with the trustee right in front of them. Must have a Power of Attorney “from the trust”. My grandmother had a meltdown/hissy fit about having to “get an expensive lawyer” and not much else could be done except hustle her out of there before she started using her cane as a weapon. (I regret ever telling her to use the cane as a weapon if anyone gave her a hard time - there will come a day where she knocks me unconscious with it.)
After one midnight call too many from her of “I can’t read the Wachovia checkbook and I can’t tell if it’s been balanced” I broached the idea of going with the PoA (expensive lawyer be damned) so I could just take it over, get the mailing address changed, take the checkbooks (1 interest transaction per month - they cause SO much more grief than her day to day checkbook) and she doesn’t have to deal with it ever again. And I don’t get any calls at midnight when she’s trying in vain to read her own handwriting in the check register. I may have said something about having a lawyer friend that owed me a favor so it wouldn’t cost anything. (In her world anything that costs anything is BAD. I felt it was more important to get the docs done than to have her complaining about the cost and it never happening.) But, she agreed that it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.
Cue the angels singing.
So, I get the PoA’s drawn up. One for her as an individual (good for me for getting info on bills and whatnot - I’ve already checked with her various vendors and they all said, “Yep, that will be fine!”) and one “from the trust” which she will sign as trustee.
I am making a special trip to Phoenix to make this happen, for two reasons: First, I don’t know enough people there to make this easily happen remotely. Second, when you’re asking someone to essentially give you the ability to loot all their assets, it’s really best done in person. Because of this, and the issues we’ve had with good ol’ Wachovia, I took the blanks to the local WB branch to make sure they would be honored when signed - no sense in traveling 2000 miles for nothing. It seemed like a very good idea. A smart idea. A proactive idea.
I obviously forgot I was dealing with Wachovia. Now first, let me say that the lady that I talked to at my local branch about it was VERY nice and was as helpful as she could be considering that Wachovia apparently doesn’t think being proactive is a good idea. I asked that they look at the PoA and the way her accounts were titled so I would know that they worked, because if I made a special trip to PHX to have these signed and then discovered that they wouldn’t honor it, I would be curled up in the fetal position in the lobby crying. (Yes, I used those words. It got the point across. The gentleman behind me was laughing a lot - he had obviously gone through this song and dance with an elderly relative at some point. Or, I am simply hilarious.)
Well, first, one of the accounts isn’t even in the trust! Nope, the money market account they convinced her to open last year is in her plain-jane name only. (Because yes, this woman needed yet another check register to keep track of - whoever sold her on that account owes me several rounds at the local bar and an opportunity to smack them around.)
For the other account, she couldn’t tell me for sure if the PoA would be honored or not. The legal department doesn’t review unsigned documents. Nor will they speak directly with customers. (This mystifies me, I would think it would be in their interest to be able to tell someone that a particular document WON’T be sufficient BEFORE someone goes to the trouble of getting it signed, notarized and witnessed. The document is going go have to be reviewed one way or another as it is.) She *thinks* it will work, but we will have to make an in-person trip to her branch after it’s signed to enact it, and then I guess we’ll find out one way or another. (Cue grandma braining someone with a cane if it doesn’t.)
However - she did say that we could just make it a “non-trust” account and I could immediately be made a signer on it should the PoA not be sufficient. WTF? SERIOUSLY??? This option couldn’t be brought forward when we were there last year? There were a few moments before my grandmother freaked out where they could have said, “Well, here’s another option…”
So, great, I get to go to PHX, AND make a trip to the bank I hate to boot, AND not throw a stapler at anyone while there while ALSO keeping my grandmother from assaulting anyone. Which also begs the question - had my grandmother done the PoA’s 5 years ago and said, “Just put them away for when all hell breaks loose” and she broke a hip and I had to invoke it - would Wachovia turn me away because I couldn’t present my grandmother at the branch? Would I have to get her on videoconference from the hospital? Isn’t the whole point of a Power of Attorney that you DON’T have to have the principal front and center with you giving you permission to do what needs to be done? Perhaps I missed that day in my business law class.
I have a very bad feeling my return flight will have to be rescheduled as I either have documents re-written or I’m bailing my grandmother out of jail for assault with a mobility aid.
April 12th, 2009
For all the wrong reasons. (The faithful might want to keep their distance from me today to avoid lightning strikes.)
I’ve been to maybe 3 Easter services in my life, at least 1 when I was dating a Catholic. Nice service, but I expected it to be in Latin and was somewhat disappointed. (Much to the amusement of my ex, as he couldn’t fathom why I would care either way.) Not real big on organized religion and my faith in general is somewhat shaky these days, so short of founding my own religion (there will be keggers as fundraisers,) it might be a while before I find myself in a church on Easter.
Over the years, it’s just become a nice family holiday food-fest, made nicer as it’s just immediate family, no weird cousins or in-laws or any other relatives to deal with. Just OUR traditions that we’ve developed over the years and no one to look at us like we’ve lost our mind. Mimosas!! (It’s one of 3 days where I break my “don’t drink during daylight” rule - the others being Christmas Day and the Kentucky Derby.) Hashbrown casserole (cheese & potatoes), egg casserole (cheese, egg & bacon), bacon, ham & swiss puffs (new this year, and yes, I do like cheese, why do you ask?) and of course, chocolate. (I hid an Easter basket for my brother. Yes, I need children or nieces/nephews, I know.) A nice, relaxed afternoon of kicking back and eating our favorite bad-for-us foods and watching NHL hockey. (The hockey part is relatively new, thanks NBC for the Sunday broadcast, even if your commentators kind of suck.)
For those that might raise an eyebrow at the culinary carb-fest on what is a pretty holy day focusing a fair amount on Jesus taking the big hit for the team - here’s how I look at it: If you’ve been dead for three days and come wandering out, a mimosa and noshes might very well be just what the doctor ordered. Perhaps a bit like leaving a glass of wine for Elijah - we have an extra plate of brunch casseroles available. (I warned the faithful - the lightning may strike any moment.) So, if Jesus happens to show up on my doorstep, he will be well fed. (Though if he’s actually Jewish, we’re a little screwed, as none of what I have is kosher. Though I wouldn’t tell anyone if he decided to make an exception based on being dead for 3 days. But I can whip up a nice cheese omelet on no notice. Eggs & dairy are kosher, right?)
In short, I love family holidays where it’s not about appeasing anyone, just being family - and this is right up at the top with Thanksgiving for me. Yes, I have a micro-family, but it’s still MY family and it’s a great day.
Happy Easter and Passover, all. Here’s to spending it the way you want to.
March 30th, 2009
Cause it’s much cooler than a bunny with a pancake on it’s head.
March 7th, 2009
Yes, that is my dog. On my pink yoga mat. It’s really nice of him to share it with me…
Or at least, is in the very recognizable process of springing. Some of the signs so far:
Daylight Savings Time goes into effect tonight.
Preseason Padres games
World Baseball Classic
Mud
Everyone washing their car on Saturday morning. Including that guy that insists on starting at 7 AM. With the ShopVac.
Robins!
Crocuses
Assembling of new barbecue grills.
Not having to use my shirt as a kleenex when I take the dog for a walk or go for a run.
Chicken salad (It’s just not a good winter dish.)
Being able to leave the back door open so the dog can come and go as he pleases. And having to point out to him that the door is already open and he doesn’t need a personal escort.
The horror of realizing that soon you will *not* be wearing 4 layers outdoors and trying to jam yourself into a swimsuit.
You’ll have to excuse me, I need to get to the gym…
March 5th, 2009
If you exercise regularly (or even not so regularly) you may know that a really good workout can leave you in a happy-sleepy-euphoric state. (Especially if there is swimming involved, at least for me.)
Now, if it is a late evening workout, there’s nothing wrong if you decide to pop by the pub on the way home for a pint and a to-go order of wings, especially since you’re probably not feeling like whipping up a hot recovery snack when you get back to the old homestead.
Just keep in mind that no amount of happy-sleepy-post-exercise-euphoria can make your chapped lips withstand hot wings…
I’d write more, but I have to go drink a quart of milk and slather a block of lard on my lips and hope the pain stops in the next 24 hours or so.
February 26th, 2009
I’ll admit I am not exactly the last bastion of sweetness and light, but I do *try* to be somewhat positive and go with the idea of each day is a new beginning, a chance for things to be better, etc, etc.
Then there are those occasional days where I wake up and think it’s a good thing I am single, because if there was someone else in bed with me, I’d have to roll over and punch them in the face.
Today was one of those mornings. No actual reason for it, just woke up deciding the world seriously needed to be smacked around.
I HATE IT when this happens. Wanting to shank someone when you roll out of bed just doesn’t set the best tone for the rest of the day. At least I’d like to wake up with somewhat neutral feelings towards the rest of the world and they can later truly earn a sucker punch for stupidity over the course of the day.
Maybe I need more coffee. Or some chocolate, or to go re-read CuteOverload.com. But that will have to wait, as I have to go try and bean the mailman in the head with a slingshot.
Have a lovely day!
February 25th, 2009
Or Fat Tuesday. Or Skinny Tuesday. Or, “What the hell is your problem??” Tuesday. Or “Thank the gods it’s not Monday anymore!” Tuesday.
I’m not Catholic, nor have I ever lived in New Orleans, nor have I been in any Catholic-centric countries during Mardi Gras/Carnival, so the day doesn’t have a lot of deep-seated meaning for me. However, that does not stop me from engaging in alcohol-centric traditions that go with any good ol’ USA drinking holidays. (Despite the fact that Mexican Independence Day is September 16th, I am certainly not slowed down for Cinco de Mayo celebrations - I simply enjoy my 99 cent Coronas and try to educate my fellow drinkers.)
That all being said and the fact it’s quite well established that I am going to hell anyway, I went out and had a lovely Fat Tuesday. AND, I decided to go for a Lenten sacrifice (despite the fact that it apparently is not so much about the sacrifice as it is about the doing otherwise ignored good deeds, oh, and I’m not Catholic) and decided that I will give up visits to the after hours pool hall time for Lent.
I’d love to say it was all driven by some awesome moral thing…but really, I need to drop 5 pounds over the next 2 1/2 months and cutting out the pool hall time is really the path of least resistance, HOWEVER…
For those days when I have ZERO willpower, $25 goes to DonorsChoose.org. If by some miracle I don’t hit the pool hall from now til Easter…they get $200 anyway. They shouldn’t suffer should I suddenly find willpower. ;)
Happy sacrifice and/or do good stuff season!! :)
February 21st, 2009
I already get lots of “This is your last chance to lower your interest rates!” phone calls, which I hang up on. This morning I was greeted with a new scam.
I had a text message on my phone from “department@visacards.com” with the message: Important VISA CARD notice:id-FF721 SUSPICIOUS AUTHORIZATION. TOLL FREE 8882275019.
Well, how nice of them to leave me a phone number! Except that isn’t the phone number of either of my Visa card issuers, but that’s just a minor detail.
I called Chase anyway (on their actual business number) to see if anyone else had gotten this message. The rep said he’d just gotten off the phone with another customer who’d also gotten the same message, and it definitely wasn’t from them. I also called PFCU to let them know what was going on (I have a Visa debit card through them) and they said it definitely wasn’t them, either, as they don’t use text messages.
The beauty of this scam is that they’re taking advantage of the fact that many card issuers have all sorts of mobile options, so you might not think it unusual to get a text message about your credit card, and the fact that it seems that no two issuers have the same procedures when it comes to fraud detection and notification.
February 17th, 2009
For Christmas, I got my brother John Hodgman’s book, The Areas of My Expertise . As with most Christmas books, it was given with the understanding that I would get to read it as well.
I’m about 2/3 of the way through it, and it’s pretty hilarious. There are a few things in it that I do know are true, the rest of it I have absolutely no idea. It’s in tiny little sections, so it’s not one that you have to set aside big chunks of time to read.
I can’t decide if his obsession with hobos is fascinating or disturbing, though.
February 16th, 2009
“You have an important new business development shaping up.”
Sounds awesome. Except I have no known business developments on the horizon. Kinda takes the wind out of it.
I swear, every time I turn around there is yet another new version of WordPress to upgrade to. I think I make it about every 3rd release.
New theme this time around - I need a better banner for it, and then some more color tweaking, but it’s the layout that I want, which is a good start. And this theme has more pick & click options that the older ones have, so I don’t have to go diving into the stylesheets as much as I used to. (It’s not that I can’t, but it’s a pain.)
Given my track record with WP upgrades, I suspect they will have a new one out within about 48 hours. :)
Just upgraded wordpress, trying to see if it blew up or not.
February 7th, 2009
Usually I get useless ones that say something along the lines of, “You’re a shiny person!”, but tonight’s was a little different.
“Depart not from the path which fate has you assigned.”
Kinda gives me something to think about.
February 4th, 2009
Seriously, my grey matter is overwhelmed with useless minutia that despite my best imaginative efforts to think it will profit me someday, will likely never benefit me. Sure, I am a kickass team member in Trivial Pursuit, but that has no usually has cash value (beyond a winners’ six pack of beer) and I can say with great certainty that I would not screen test well enough to be on Jeopardy. (Which might actually net me some cash, or at least a year’s supply of Rice A Roni.)
This is hardly a new revelation to me by any means. However, it was once again cemented in my head this evening.
Little bro is back home from his annual Super Bowl sojourn and we headed up to the pub for a beer. (OK, he went for beer & trivia games, I went for beer & SportsCenter - we happened to have seats next to each other.) A complete aside, THE EMPTIER OF THE DISHWASHER IS BACK!
I watched the trivia games he was playing, and one of the answers to a question about kids’ programming was “Zoom.”
Upon seeing that ONE DAMN WORD, the signoff song of the Zoom program kicked off in my head - it was for those kiddos that wanted to contact the program. And it goes as follows…
“Write ZOOM, Zee-double-oh-em, Box three-five-oh, Boston, Mass, Ohh-two-one-three-four, SEND IT TO ZOOM!!”
This is a program that ended in my world in 1978. (It was resurrected in 1999, a version of which I have no knowledge - I didn’t even know it came back until I looked it up trying to figure out when it went off the air.)
I cannot find my keys 90% of the time, I will spend $40 at the market while forgetting the quart of milk I actually went there for, and yet I still know how to contact the participants of a kids telly program that ended 30+ years ago.
There is part of me that rationalizes this exceptionally well. I don’t have to remember directions, as I have Google maps. I don’t have to remember what days what bills are due, I have spreadsheets, and I have auto backup for my hard drive. I don’t have to remember phone numbers, as they are all in my phone and I also have auto-backup for that as well.
Therefore, I have a decent amount of space for useless nonsense taking up my brain.
However, I watch my grandmother’s memory sliding and I am terrified that 50 years from now I will still remember the damn Zoom song and not remember which bills are due when and will be overrunning the cell phone minutes of everyone and their brother trying to make sure that my homeowner’s insurance has been paid.
Know thyself is awesome. Seeing what’s ahead is sketchy at best. Seeing both in the same instance is scary as fucking hell.
I keep reminding myself that as much as I love the markets and finance and such, I need to REALLY crank up my other hobbies before I get… well, a bit touched in the head for lack of a better description. Because when I finally get dotty, I want for my step/pseudo/foster/whatever kids/grandkids to say, “It’s fun to go knit/crochet/draw/paint/make tinfoil hats” with Goofy Aunt Cindy!” rather than, “She’s mean and no fun and can’t even enjoy a good conspiracy theory because she thinks there is some random bill that hasn’t been paid!” (Which if they are any relation of mine, blood or otherwise, they WILL enjoy a good conspiracy theory until such point where Fox News mucks up the fun for all of us.)
It’s fun to kickass at Trivial Pursuit. (Especially if you have opponents willing to wager on it.) I just don’t want that crap to be the only thing I remember 50 years down the road. And I’ll readily admit that I am scared shitless of what year 86 has in store for me should I live that long.
I really hope that if I live that long and my mind decides to skip out on me, I hope it goes in a fun and entertaining direction. (I’ll start stockpiling the tinfoil now for alien invasion prevention.)
February 1st, 2009
And oh, about 4 hours into the pre-game show.
I have absolutely nothing against the Super Bowl. It’s fun and a great excuse to eat junk food and drink beer. (I’ve even whipped up a batch of shrimp dip, even if it’s unlikely I’ll watch much of the game.)
And given the economy being in the tank, it’s a good opportunity to take a few hours and NOT think about jobs, consumer confidence, your 401K tanking, the stock market spiraling down the drain, among other things.
But, I don’t understand quite how it rates the level of media hype that is generated. The media has been in Tampa for a week now. A five hour pre-game show? (With an interview with the President to boot. Just let him have his Super Bowl party already - the guests are probably hogging the good food while he’s stuck in the interview.)
If you’re planning on watching the Super Bowl, you know when it is. You know who is playing. You know which channel it’s on.
No need to hype it for a week, folks will still be watching.
You may (or may not) know that I spent 3 years of my life in Japan, courtesy of the US Navy sending my Dad there. It wasn’t the best place to be for grades 5-7, but it wasn’t the worst, either. We returned to true US soil in 1985, so it’s been a while to say the least, but the experience is still well rooted in parts of my brain.
Occasionally little things will pop up as reminders of our time there, and that has happened recently, and it’s one of the more slightly absurd reminders.
Let me start with saying that this reminder is of the time when we lived off-base (aka, “on the economy” - a phrase that while I knew what it meant when it was presented to me, I still can’t say I understand it’s origins) rather than in the cushy on-base housing. (Cushy being a somewhat relative term.) Our off-base housing was quite adequate from a space standpoint - it wasn’t huge, but there was more than enough room for a 4 person family. We also rented from a landlord whose daughter had lived in the US, and as a result, there were some pine trees planted in the backyard for the sole purpose of taking cuttings for Christmas wreaths and other such seasonal decorations.
The bigger issue was not with the landlord, but with the actual construction of the house itself. The house (same as all around it) had basically NO insulation whatsoever. Given that the area we lived in had weather patterns not so different from the DC Metro area, I am still shocked that there weren’t more instances of pipes freezing and bursting. Given the insanely high cost of electric heat, we had a kerosene heater in the living room and that was pretty much it. The bedrooms had electric blankets that were kicked off about 20 minutes before bed. Fall and Spring, it was LOVELY. Winter? Colder than a witches tit, especially given the lack of affordable central heating. (We moved into the house in early October - I saw no reason to move on base. Until about January.)
Which brings me to the echo. I was in an establishment this evening whose heating air ducts didn’t reach the ladies room. (Or the men’s room from what I hear.) And it’s kinda cold out. Which makes seats in a lavatory especially chilly.
Toilet seat warmers were an especially popular product in Japan. Not particularly high tech by any means, but better than having seriously chilled porcelain on your backside. The store-bought ones were usually of a nice terrycloth. (IIRC, ours were pink.) When those when in the weekly laundry, they were replaced with a pair of knee-high athletic socks from the drawer. Not particularly glamorous, but it certainly took care of the problem at hand of contact frostbite on one’s butt.
That all being said, it was all brought to mind as I was wishing for a set of pink terrycloth seat-warmers in the very cold ladies room this evening, which brought forth another musing…
If your house is well insulated enough, or your heat is affordable enough that you can keep the vents open to your bathrooms to keep them relatively warm, (or both) - and you don’t have to go shopping for seat-warmers…well, you’re in fairly decent shape. And given the fact that the economy is completely in the tank and god only knows when it will get better - being able to have a properly heated WC is a very good thing.
Don’t know about you, but I think I count a few extra blessings before I hit the rack tonight.
January 31st, 2009
I’ll admit I’m not super comfortable with public religious proselytizing, as it seems to have a rather unnerving focus on whether or not I have been “saved” and the status of my soul seems to create much too large a burden on the people inquiring. I definitely get the impression that these folks are losing sleep over all the unsaved souls out there, and that’s just too much for anyone to take on as a personal responsibility. I tend meet those who seem very sad in general that more people aren’t saved and that it is somehow their fault and that the big guy is disappointed in them. Kinda depressing, and I try to just politely avoid them altogether as to not add another unsaved soul to their already way-too-long list.
However, it isn’t always that way.
Today, I found myself over at the Lotto in Falls Church (or Fairfax, or whatever part of town that technically is) and needing chopsticks (and a couple miso bowls, and soba, and bubblegum, AND POCKY!) I pulled into the parking lot and headed in to do a bit of shopping. Near the front door was a young woman, all bundled up for the weather with a sash that said, “Love Jesus!” She was singing (I can only guess it was Korean, as it was definitely not English, and there is a decent Korean population in the area.) She had a GORGEOUS singing voice, and could have been singing, “You’re all going to hell if you’re not saved!” but she made it sound really beautiful. As I walked by, I got a big smile and a wave and a “Jesus Loves You!!!!” She wasn’t trying to stop anyone, or hand out fliers, or recruit people. Just singing and smiling and wanting people to know they were loved.
She was singing again when I exited, and at the finish of the song, did a little jump and two thumbs up and happily proclaimed, “Jesus!!” almost in the same way a rocker might holler, “Thank you, Cleveland!” at the end of a concert.
I couldn’t help but give her a thumbs up back.
I’m happy she managed to find the cool Jesus. The fun Jesus who probably kicks ass on bass guitar in Rock Band. The Jesus that just loves everyone and makes her want to sing and tell everyone they’re loved and isn’t trying to scare the crap out of her, rather than one that is keeping a list of how many souls she’s brought to the flock. I can’t help but envision a smiling Buddy Christ on the dashboard of her car. Mainly, I’m happy that her religion is making her happy and joyous instead of sad and angry.
Not such a bad thing.
January 30th, 2009
Up to the pub for beer and SportsCenter this evening. Nice time, and I come home, ready to curl up and nod off to dreamland on the couch - forget actually trekking upstairs, I’m freaking TIRED today for no good reason. Come in, let Moxley out, apologize profusely for the fact that the backyard floodlight went out sometime in the past two hours and promise that I’ll get it replaced tomorrow.
Dog back in. Dog out again. Dog back in. (We call it the in-out syndrome.) Dog out one last time. Dog back in, with what appears to be one of his stuffed animals in his mouth.
Except it’s a little on the large size for any of his toys.
Trots over to the middle of the living room while I am shutting the back door, drops it, and trots back to me, EXTREMELY proud of himself.
I get a better look at his gift to me.
A squirrel. A very dead squirrel. A very LARGE dead squirrel.
I am not horrified that he has brought me a squirrel. He’s a dog. Dogs do that. I really wish he HADN’T brought it in, but not much I can do at this point, since I didn’t even see what he had until it was too late. Given the amount of rigor and/or effects of deep freeze, I’m fairly certain the dog did not actually dispatch said squirrel himself and it had died of natural causes and fell out of a tree into the yard. (Quite possibly on his head.) Given his lifelong quest for keeping me safe from the squirrels via chasing and barking, I really do understand how pleased he is with himself over this spoil of his continuing war against Sciurus Carolinensis.
I am very rattled nonetheless, mainly because of my concern of this turning into some zombie squirrel movie where the damn thing comes back to life while I’m trying to get it out of my living room. So of course, my first move is to call my brother. Why? I don’t know, but talking to someone seemed to be the logical thing to do next. (OK, maybe not talking as much as freaking out in as even a tone as possible.) It went something along the lines of “YOUR DOG brought a dead squirrel in the house. YOU NEED TO TELL HIM NOT TO DO THAT ANYMORE.”
Needless to say at this point, I’m certainly not sleepy anymore as I look at the dog and tell him, “Take it back outside. Please. Seriously. It’s like Mom always told me, ‘Wild things need to stay wild’ and I couldn’t bring frogs in the house, so you can’t bring squirrels in the house. Take it back out, please!”
No, Mox is still sitting on the other side of the room, tail wagging, so very pleased with himself and not quite understanding why I am not as thrilled at this gift as he is.
OK, so the dog isn’t going to take the squirrel back out, and I’m not going to wait until my brother gets home because frankly, it could thaw and come back to life in that time, and the last thing I need is an undead squirrel running around the house. First, I thank the dog for his present and give him a pat on the head and ask one more time if he would please take it back outside. No need to get mad at him, cause he won’t understand anyway and he’s SO proud of himself. Sure, I’m not thrilled with him at all, but scolding him isn’t going to do anything but confuse him.
OK, time to get the late, great, and damn large squirrel out. The upside is that he appears to be near frozen solid, so there are no bits-o-squirrel scattered about the living room. Really, nothing more than a trash bag needed. But not the kitchen garbage bags. The undead squirrel will leap to life, come right through them and kill me. Nope, time for not one, but two of Costco’s super heavy duty 55 gallon contractor rated trash bags. The environmental lobby can bitch all they want about waste, I am not going to have my obituary read, “Killed by an undead squirrel.”
Get the damn HUGE critter wrapped in one bag and deposited in the other one. I know we have pretty porked out squirrels around here, but I never have been this close to one of them - my god, they are very well fed.
Out to the trash can and thanking my lucky stars that it will not get above freezing tonight, and that tomorrow is trash day. I feel ZERO guilt for any noise in getting the bin out to the curb - it **was** a low volume trash week for us and I wasn’t even going to put it out for collection, but now that there is a dead mammal in it, all bets are off.
The dog keeps walking over to where he left the squirrel and looking and me wondering where his awesome find went.
I really need to get that floodlight replaced so I can see what the dog is bringing in before he brings it in.
January 27th, 2009
It’s been a while since we had snow, I realize this. I also understand that given the transient nature of this area, any given year there are a lot of you out there that have never driven in snow before, so this is all new to you. There are also those of you that have lived here for years and are just being idiots.
I’ve been out and about on two occasions today and it’s obviously time for a refresher on dealing with snow…
If your employer allows you to telecommute during inclement weather, take them up on the offer. Even with the economy in the tank, one day less of face time with the boss won’t kill you. (And if it does end up being your undoing, you were in trouble in the first place.)
If you can reasonably avail yourself of some of our mass transit options, give it a whirl.
If you still have to get on the road, that’s OK. Just a few things to keep in mind:
Clear your windows. All of them. Don’t just have a circle of cleared glass right in front of you.
Try to get as much, if not all, the snow off the top of your car. It’s not always easy, especially if you have a car that is rather tall relative to your height - but at least give it a shot.
If you have the presence of mind, flip your windshield wipers up off the windshield if you’ll be parked for any length of time. You’ll be happy when the wipers aren’t frozen to the windshield later.
Slow down. Seriously. I’m quite certain that the building you are heading to will still be there when you arrive.
Maintain some space. What you think is a ridiculous amount of space between you and the car in front of you is probably about right.
Start breaking sooner than you normally would. (Yes, while still going slower in the first place.) Again, what you think is ridiculous will probably be spot on.
Please remember that 4-Wheel Drive does not make you invincible. You will not be able to stop on a dime. It is not any safer or more socially acceptable to run a red light with 4-Wheel Drive. Every year, I see more 4-Wheel Drive vehicles in ditches than any other type of car.
In Virginia, it is legal to make a right turn on a red light. However, as a driver you are NOT obligated to make said turn on red. Especially if there is oncoming traffic and you don’t think it’s the wisest idea to try to zip out through a big slushy mess in order to beat said oncoming traffic. This also applies to the person in front of you at the red light and if you decide that laying on the horn to get them to go is a good idea, well, you’re just a jackass.
Tomorrow they’re calling for ice pellets all day. For that, I suggest you simply call in sick.
As much as I despise winter, I LOVE snow. It’s one of the few redeeming aspects of an otherwise dreary and light deprived season. Everything is brighter and quieter.
January 22nd, 2009
In today’s White House press conference, the press decided to beat up the new press secretary a bit on it with, “Well, if he took the oath again, why didn’t he sign his first executive orders again?”
Now folks, I think we ALL know why they did the oath again. Not out of “an abundance of caution” as is the party line at the moment.
They did it to get people to STFU about the “OMG, he’s not really the president!” hollering.
He’s president. He’s been the president since the 20th. He will be for the next 4 years, goofed oath or not.
January 21st, 2009
Please be aware that you need to download form RNBW-UNC-2009 from Change.gov, fully complete the form and return it to the White House, or your local chapter of the Democratic National Committee.
Bear in mind that these are live animals and can’t just be sent out willy-nilly across the country like a slew of tax stimulus checks. There is also the issue that only so many unicorns can be fit in a standard USPS delivery truck, and trained animal handlers are still being dispatched to the regional post offices. Delivery addresses need to be confirmed as well as verification that zoning laws allow unicorns in residences in your area. If you rent your home, a note from your landlord indicating that unicorns are allowed as pets will be required as well.
Additionally, it has been brought to light that many people are planning on naming their unicorn “Hope” or “Change”… You may wish to seriously consider alternate names, as you could end up with half a dozen unicorns at your back door when you go out to call “Hope” inside for the evening.
Finally, please do not be duped by those claiming that they can “expedite” your unicorn delivery for a “small administrative fee” - these are not legitimate government officials, and often can also be found selling “marijuana farming licenses” as well as “jackalope hunting permits” Be aware!
Enjoy your unicorn, and be sure to follow the care and feeding instructions that will be provided at delivery.
January 20th, 2009
Between the DCist updates and CNBC coverage, I’d say Obamapalooza is in full swing. As of 10 AM, the Mall is at capacity. One Metro line has been shut down. Several Metro stations are holding trains because you can’t get *out* of the station. Cell phone service is spotty at best as everyone tries to send cell phone camera pictures back home.
I’d say my decision to stay home and watch from the comfort of home wasn’t the worst idea in the world, but the energy of the crowds is evident, even through the TV.
Word has it that Cheney will be attending in a wheelchair because he threw his back out trying to move things… Mr. Cheney, didn’t anyone tell you they will provide help for that? You shouldn’t be trying to move a man sized safe by yourself.
While I don’t think there is enough money in the world for me to want to be the President of the United States, there is one aspect of it all that I do envy: The moving staff.
Between the time that the Bushes and Obamas leave the White House after their morning coffee and the Obamas return back home this evening, all the old items will be packed up and moved out, and all of the new items will be moved in - AND UNPACKED. Who wouldn’t want that crew the next time they have to move?
In all seriousness, it’s a pretty nifty day today, and I am enjoying how chuffed people are about it all. It wasn’t that long ago that the idea of electing someone into our highest office who *wasn’t* a white male (and probably a somewhat older one to boot) was well, inconceivable.
I don’t expect that at 12:01 this afternoon that the world will be filled with unicorns and rainbows. President Obama will have his share of screwups. Every President does. And he’s walking into a bit of a mess to put it mildly, and trying to fix it all without at least a few missteps will be virtually impossible.
However, I’m looking forward to something different. Maybe it will be better, maybe it will be worse. But I think a new approach won’t be the worst thing for the country by any means.
Welcome to DC, Mr. President.
January 17th, 2009
But I have PLENTY of words for it, the vast majority of which are unprintable.
Weather Underground is telling me that it is 7 degrees out there, and I can’t say that I disagree. It’s not that I’ve never been through a cold snap before - hell, I’ve lived in this area for longer than I care to admit, so I know this is nothing new. However, it seemed that this year it took longer for the cold weather to kick in to begin with, so it’s all just a nasty blow to my system. (Or I was in complete denial and wearing my Tevas for much longer than I should have after the summer ended.)
The fact of the matter is that I’m a warm weather girl. Or I have the circulation of your average reptile. Either one works, but these temps SUCK.
My skin is dried out beyond belief, despite taking in ridiculous amounts of liquids. I swear that yesterday when I went out, my snot froze. Now, if you dress for the weather, it’s still cold, but it’s not TOO bad. I seriously feel for those who have to wear skirts to work during this time of year. When I ventured out today, it was with tights under my jeans, layered tops and then a coat on top of it. Which really makes me wonder - how do Alaska and Canada not have negative population growth? When you have to put on that many layers just to avoid instantaneous hypothermia, by the time you take them all off again, you’re exhausted and need a nap more than you need sex. (Or maybe I’m just not choosing my layers properly - do our fellow citizens and friends to the north have breakaway long underwear?)
I let my car run for 10 minutes before going to the market this afternoon, which according to Google maps is only a 5 minute drive from here. My need to not shiver uncontrollably while driving outweighed my need to be environmentally friendly.
In short, I want summer back. I am one of the few people that LOVES the DC metro area in August - I do not say “gosh I want snow!” on August 15th. Go out and run in 95 degree weather with 90% humidity? Sure! Even contemplate going for a walk in 20 degree weather? No way in hell.
My dog, on the other hand, is LOVING this weather. As best as we know, he’s got a good chunk of Tibetan Terrier in him (as in: hanging out in the Tibetan wilds with the Dalai Lama Tibetan) and he does have the coat for it. However, I get cold just watching him out there. He’s outside right now, and I figured he’d be smart enough to go out, do his thing and then come back in. Nope. I just looked out and he was sitting on the deck surveying his vast acreage that he has to protect against the squirrels. Seriously. I told him to either do what he needs to do or COME BACK IN.
Now he’s chasing invisible squirrels around the yard. At least it’s better than just sitting on the deck. But he is definitely enjoying being the wild dog of the frozen tundra.
At least he humors me and lets me wrap him up in a blanket for a couple minutes when he comes back in. (No he’s not spoiled rotten, why do you ask?) But the cold just pours off him, and being a good dog mom, I want him to be WARM.
And people wonder why I’ve never had any real interest in attending Inaugural events, this year or any other year. If they held them in June, the idea would probably be a lot more appealing.
Inauguration Day will be a historic day to be sure, but my plans are quite sedate. I’ll be taking in the festivities from my comfy couch, likely with a warm blanket and a hot cup of coffee. There’s a good chance that I’ll head up to the pub for a celebratory pint that evening. No parties, no big food extravaganza, just another day with a historic event in the middle of it.
However, I apparently am the only one taking that approach. I went to the market and was greeted with a sign saying that “In Order To Serve You Better On Inauguration Day, We’ll Be Opening at 4AM on January 20th.”
4 AM? I’m out in the suburbs. It’s not like our local streets will be jammed with traffic all day. Even if people are having parties, lots and lots of very large parties, I am not quite sure I see the need for the grocery store to be open at 4 in the morning.
January 13th, 2009
So, I got the newsletter from the community pool about the fun things that happened this past season and things they want to do next season. (Already done: Drains are no longer death traps, YAY!)
One of the items spoken of was a Ladies Bunco Night. Now, I have had no direct experience with this, but as best as I have been able to discern, it is a floating craps game that requires the hostess to remodel and/or redecorate every room that any of the various participants may set foot in. Also, it appears to require a catering budget that rivals some weddings.
Granted, this information came primarily from spouses of Bunco hostesses/players (who seemed to be exhausted from having to repaint the dining room) so it may be every so slightly exaggerated.
But, none of this actually answers the question of WTF is this game/pastime/obsession anyway?
If you know, please, do tell.
January 9th, 2009
If you’re brave enough to want to go into the city for the inauguration, bleacher seat tickets for the parade are going on sale today at 1PM. They’re $25 through TicketBastard, which means when all is said and done, they’ll probably be closer to $50 a pop what with all their lovely “convenience fees”.
Having seen all the various and sundry road and bridge closures that are on tap for the big day, all I can say is - if you’re in Virginia and need to be in the city on the 20th, I think you’ll need to go the day before. :) Personally, I just can’t see myself trying to go into the city for that crazy mess. I will be happily watching from my living room - no line for the bathroom, no security, snacks and climate control!
(As it is, there are reports of slumber parties being organized by Smithsonian employees who will have to be at work bright and early on the 20th.)
January 6th, 2009
I had a massage today. It was my “I survived Christmas/Arizona” gift to myself. (Grandma’s Christmas cash also contributed nicely to it.)
I should do this more often. It’s something that EVERYONE should do at least once in their life, if not multiple times. It just puts you in a nice, happy place. A happy enough place that it wasn’t undone when I couldn’t initially find my wallet when I checked out.
And I’ll admit, I went whole-hog on it today over at my neighborhood Red Door. (Kelly, I wish you were as close as they were!!) First the super awesome body scrub where basically the top layer of skin was removed from your body - that is a massage in and of itself. Sure, you can buy the nifty scrubby stuff and do it at home, but let’s face it - you’ll spend 10 minutes tops in the shower with it. When you have them do it? Well over 30 minutes. AND they get that spot in between your shoulderblades that you just can’t get to no matter what. (Unless you happen to be lucky enough to have someone you can invite into your shower. I don’t at the moment.)
After that, you’re already nice and relaxed for the actual massage, and at this point, it could very well put you in a coma. Again, I went overboard and went for the 80 minute massage and it was WORTH EVERY SINGLE PENNY. I don’t go for the sports massage, or ART, or Swedish - just the girly “make me relaxed” massage. And it was just what I needed. Two straight hours of total peace and quiet and someone else taking care of ME for a change, which I haven’t had for a while. Couldn’t have hit the spot more.
When we finished up, the massage therapist said that I had a lot of tension in my shoulders. “You DID have a rough holiday season!” Let’s see, some family stress, two painful airline flights and 8 nights of not sleeping in my own bed - yeah, that could tense you up a bit.
All I can say is I feel soooooooo relaxed. My shoulders aren’t tensed up to my ears. My toes are uncurled. My back doesn’t hurt.
Seriously, if you’ve never had a massage - GO GET ONE. If you haven’t had one in a long time - GO GET ONE. Your body and mind will thank you.
I really should go schedule my next appointment.
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