Friday, April 30, 2010

My Million-Dollar, Money Making Idea

So, two of my very dear friends are getting hitched in less than 18 hours so I want to take the opportunity to say Congratulations BD & JC!

Being involved in this wedding stuff has opened my eyes to quite possibly the best money making idea ever.


Not because they need to do this. Both sets of their parents are Amazing! Well put together, handsome, polite, socially graceful. But I began thinking about my nuptials...

It made me realize that I'm going to need to rent parents. At least until after I'm hitched and the poor sap that has agreed to spend the rest of his creation avec moi is contractually bound to me. Then I can break out my real parents.

I love my parents. I really honestly do. They both have lots of great qualities.

There is just a smidge of apprehension on my part when exposing them to the general public and a great amount of apprehension and anxiety when exposing them to a potential suitor. Hence,

I would rent parents. Their names would be Judy and George. They would be normal, hard-working people. Nothing too special. Judy would be crafty and George would play guitar.

Surely there are other people out there who would rather not inform their parents of upcoming nuptials. I'm seriously thinking of keeping mine in the dark until I'm squirting out the grandchild they're both so desperate to have.

"Hi Mom, I'm squirting out your grandchild. You may want to come and catch the placenta or something. But by no means is anyone eating it."

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

I'm going to require some serious drugs for that.

It is once again icee pop time. You guessed it, we're blogging instead of eating. Well I'm blogging instead of eating. You should eat. You should have a pimento cheese sandwich on white bread.

Enough of that.

I have discovered that I have serious control issues. Or actually probably just serious all around issues. I would venture to say I'm mildly fucked up. Oops. I meant to warn you about the f-bomb. My bad.

So here's the deal. I've spent some time recently trying to distance myself away from my mother because I found myself running her life. I always attributed this to the fact because I hear about all of her problems and naturally I feel inclined to fix them, because let's face it, I'm more in touch with reality so to speak. I love my momma but it's true.

So one day I woke up and said to myself:

"Self." (That's what I call myself when addressing myself.) "You're running everyone's else's lives because you cannot run your own."

It would be a mild understatement to say that I do mediation well, very mild. I dropped the poor thing like a hot potato. I was only speaking to her once a day and that was just to verify signs of life from both interested parties.

Long story short, that was a horrible plan. There was much aggravation and many nasty bad, bad, bad words exchanged, all in the name of trying to better myself. I realize that this was a bad tactic, easy but bad. I couldn't merely ignore my predilections for running her life by not talking to her, I had to change.

Well, here comes the fun part. I am going to try and acurately portray the visual that runs through my head when talking to my mother:

Imagine if will you a wall. Imagine a shortish girl, blonde hair, very swank, hot shoes, great features, standing next to this wall.

Now begins the phone call to her mother.

Imagine swanky girl grabbing the wall with both hands (it's really only about 36 inches wide) and bashing her face into the wall repeatedly as fast as she can. Over and over and over and over. All the while screaming. (I have this visualization quite frequently.) My other favorite one is when I am stabbing myself in the face, that area right on your cheekbone below your eye and to the left of your nose, with a double sided knife, repeatedly. No blood. Just a little light maiming and puncturing.

She tells me her problems and my gut reaction is to assume she's an idiot and not only try and convince her of this fact but instruct her as well. It just seems to me that there is so much that I could do better. Than anyone really, but it manifests itself most with my mother. I think it's because we have those reversed parental roles sometimes. Makes for an interesting life.

To get to the point I had all this self-realization about 45 minutes ago. I nearly had an apoplectic fit trying not to tell her how to run her own life. I literally popped a blood vessel in my eye; I wouldn't be surprised if I have a stroke in the next 5 minutes. I just want to reach out and shake her like you do ugly babies that won't shut up.

Upon reflection I realize that I have this response a lot. My dad has always told me:

"You get excited for a little-bitty person. You're a prime candidate for a stroke."

To which I usually replied:

So here's to trying out new strategies for not running my mother's life. She's obviously capable as she has survived this long and raised me to survive the 27 years I've been alive as well. I blame her. She always told me how smart and brilliant I was so it's only natural that I one day surpass her knowledge and abilities. See, this is HER FAULT!


I'm going to need some medication for this.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Random musings from the bathtub of Anna G. [Insert last name here]

Sorry for the ambiguity on the title but this is on the world wide interwebs and not that anyone would want to steal my identity it's always good practice to be safe.

I thought tonight's post could consist of a sampling of the random things I think about while sloshing around in the bathtub. I always think that taking a bath will be so relaxing and comforting and then I get in there and get bored. There's not a whole lot to do in the bathtub. I used to try to read but that turned out to just be soggy. I tried talking on the phone but that was bad for my phone, they don't do well being damp. All of my barbies are at mom's house so I can't really play. Hence, mostly I think in the bathtub and I get a lot of things thought because it takes me a really long time to get pruny because I have super dry skin.

Random musings:

I have hair on my big toe. On both of them really, and it's a pretty awkward amount, not enough to commit to having toe hair and not enough to be ignored. I have 9 hairs on the right and 11 on the left. Where's the symmetry in that? They're dark hairs too so they show up. I don't think you really notice them until you get close but it's still disturbing. So I shave them off. I wonder if I could do laser hair removal on my toes?

Speaking of toes, if I stick my big toe in the spout of the faucet of the bathtub it kind of looks like a hat for my toe. Or I just came out of the faucet.

I just love the smell of the ocean. I have a sea salt hair masque that does wonderful things for my hair (which is pretty brilliant to begin with, I know it's a burden I must bear) and smells like the ocean. Sea salt is a wonderful crystalline thing.

How do they make powdered sugar? It's from regular sugar that had to be granulated or crystallized at some point so maybe they just grind it up? But it seems to me that if you grind up crystals you just get smaller crystals, not powder.

How does one get a job grinding up sugar into powdered form? Also how do they make fish oil? Do you think there is an assembly line of people who do nothing but squeeze fish all day? Imagine squeezing fish for a living. That's got to be a great position to have for parties. "Hi Bob. You're a CPA? Well I squeeze fish for a living. You want to shake my hand? I'm warning you, I've got a vice death grip. It's from squeezing fish for their oils." Seriously, that would be so cool! Cool but stinky I imagine.

Do you think you could squeeze a fish so hard it's eyeballs would pop out? If I was a professional fish squeezer that would be my goal. (Say professional fish squeezer three times fast.) I'd want to squeeze fish so hard their eyeballs would pop out of their skulls from the buildup of internal pressure. Although I bet it would be difficult, especially as all of the lubrication would be leaving the fish into a little collection jar. I bet improperly lubricated eye sockets create a lot more surface tension between the eyeballs and socket which would require much more force to disrupt.

Maybe wringing the fish is a better oil retrieving strategy...professional fish wringer. Doesn't have the same ring to it does it? You could reclaim those old laundry wringers with the turn crank and handle for wringing fish. Then I suppose their eyeballs just get mushed. That would not be a good job for me as I would have no goals to aspire to. And that would be bad.

Sunday, April 25, 2010

I can't get you out of my head.

Ever since I laid eyes on you, you've been on my brain. I think about you constantly. I talk to my friends about you, I ask them how they feel about you. Whether or not it would work between us, whether or not you feel the same way about me.

I'm not a fan of objectification but I see you and get goose bumps. God you are beautiful. Gorgeous. Handsome.

Your profile is distinguished and attractive. Sleek and adult. I feel a little dirty when I think if you.

When you turn the light glints off the perfect shade of blue imbedded in your perfect, un-blemished and radiant skin.

You're just the right height. Tall but not too-gravity defying.

We'd be perfect together. You'd complement me in all the right ways. I haven't tried you on for size yet but I know you're a perfect fit.

Thankfully Steinmart is open until 9 tomorrow. I'll stop by after spin class and reward myself.

Navy-blue patent leather slingbacks, you're mine.

Saturday, April 24, 2010

An open letter.

I hope this finds you doing well. I hope this finds you alive. We aren't friends on the facebook anymore so I have no real estimation of your station in life now. Honestly I don't really care too much past wishing you well, you know, that you're alive and stuff.

I'm not thinking of you as often anymore. There are days that go by that I don't even think of you. Sometimes when I hear the Peppers on the radio I don't even think of you, not at first anyway. It's strange. I spent so much energy on you at one point in my life it's difficult filling your void. In that respect I miss you, but that's pretty much it.

I went in Hollister the other day and I think I know what it feels like to have a wipe-out or whatever your surfer lingo called it. I was okay at first, I didn't even doubt my ability to navigate the tricky waves; I wasn't paying attention and wandered into the rip tide. And then you came rushing back all at once and I was dragged under and pulled along and all I could do was panic and ride the undertow and tumble head over feet head over feet head over feet

cartwheeling along the bottom watching the repetition of light dark light dark light dark and feeling the sand grinding into my skin and tasting the grit and the salt and the sting in my eyes

And then I hit the sand and found myself breathing in air, gulping it in really. Not drowning. I did an emotional inventory and found that I was not lacking. Gulping the air. I survived. Not lacking, but whole. You may still have the ability to drag me across the reef every now and then but you no longer hold your tidal sway over me. I have revoked that from you, as it was a gift I gave you that you spurned and did not solicit. I apologize for that.

I no longer swim in your sea. You won't notice that I've left. Or maybe you will. But you're too proud. You won't turn around and watch me leave. You'll just go on as you always have. Maybe you'll whisper a good-bye to me on the horizon one day.

Yours will be waiting for you there.

Good luck.

Friday, April 23, 2010

My new dieting strategy.

So I've come up with a new dieting strategy as has been clearly elucidated by the title of this very post!

I've decided to blog whenever I am hungry at inappropriate times. I feel fully confident in this plan. Well not really, I'm never really fully confident in anything. I think that quality accompanies the wishy-washiness. I'm mostly concerned I'll run out of things to say.

Since this is a dieting type post I'll stick to dieting type things.

I wonder if I will ever quit craving fatty foods? Most people crave sweets. Not me. I will gorge myself until I practically puke on pizza, stuffing, bread, ranch dressing, french fries, red meat.

I know I'm beginning to creep people out at this point in my diet. There are only so many vegetables a person can consume before they start to resent the vegetables themselves. Even the farmers that grow them. The other day I wanted to find the nearest dairy farmer and throw myself at them for butter or even sour cream. Awesome, I just admitted that I would ho myself out for butter. That has to be a new low.

Take today for instance, I ate lunch. I was extremely satisfied with it. I had a little cup of Chef Boyardee beef ravioli (for energy and protein) and an applesauce cup (because apple sauce freaking ROCKS!) along with a Diet Coke. Then I get a phone call from the guy in the chem dept who is going to use the scope that afternoon. He proceeds to explain to me that he ran to get a quick bite to eat at McDonald's and then starts to talk about his expectations of the imaging, etc. He lost me at McDonalds.

Several thoughts ran through my head and here they are, accurately and in the proper order:

1. I hope he doesn't smell like french fries when he comes back because then I'll just die. I don't think that it's very professional to stand close to him and to sniff him repeatedly. It may creep him out.

2. Please have gotten a Big Mac. Maybe if he did, he'll still smell like the special sauce by the time he gets here.

3. Would it be rude to ask if he would bring me a Big Mac? I don't need the french fries. Just the beef and special sauce and bread part.

4. Could I ask him that without sounding like one of those creepos that does the heavy breathing on the phone?

5. Probably not.

6. I love those little cheeseburgers. They're so good!

7. Crap! I should be paying attention. I think the food talk has finished.

So here we are. Well at least I am. I'm now angry with people because they're eating what I cannot. I find myself opining for people's dinners and suppers. Strangely not their snacks though. I have sunk to a new low. It's pathetic. But I'll get up tomorrow and pack my lunch and it will include brussel sprouts or green beans (and maybe a lean pocket. I'm out of ravioli.) and I'll be happy about it. I'll put on a brave front and smile. I'll even chat myself up about how much I love brussel sprouts. I will even go so far as to use visualization techniques of me being all svelte in my new dress to convince myself that I enjoy my healthy lunch.

But on the inside my soul will be withering away into nothingness. My will to live will be sputtering out. I'll always be that little girl who just wants to be loved, to be accepted, and to swim in a giant vat of ranch dressing while eating pizza and drinking Mt. Dew by the gallon.

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

Cue the sigh of disdain.

I finally bought a dress. And it's not a solid color. Nor is it black.

I know what you're thinking. Who has abducted my brain and do they plan on giving it back?

Prints are not my thing. Not at all. If you've ever been privy to my diatribe about prints then please skip forward a paragraph or two. If not, onward!

Prints are a fickle bird. Mostly they're meant to be an accessory piece, well at least I think so. Don't get me wrong, certain people can wear prints and certain people can't. Some people wear prints and you see them and think, "How cute!" and some people wear prints and you think "That's a whole lot of print..." Fat people cannot or should not wear prints.

That being said I bought a print dress with a certain amount of apprehension. Not that I consider myself fat by any means. I am most certainly not skinny but I think that I've been shaping up quite nicely. Spin class and all.

So hopefully this dress is okay. I think it's cute. I just need shoes and a yellow scarf. It has a really nice fit, because it's a petite and all, that's why I bought it.

So next week when you see me in a print and find yourself starting to cringe, that's when you cue the sigh of disdain. I'll recognize it (I do it often.) and go run and hide away somewhere.

Yay for Tuesdays!

So...Thank goodness it's not Monday anymore. It wasn't that today was a horrible day it was mostly that it was a Monday and lots of things were marginally crappy.

I won't bore you with the details. Instead I'll ramble on about something inane and stupid that you probably don't care about either. I figure that's pretty much the way these things roll. Or at least this one.

Although, if you've made this far into the post then that must indicate some level of interest. So maybe I should come up with something to ramble on about? But then again if I start to ramble now you might lose interest and quit reading.

Oh good. You hung around. I still don't have anything to ramble on about unless you want to hear about the cool handsewn/made file holder I saw at that antique store with BGD that I just randomly thought about. No pictures though so you can't really appreciate that. I've thought that my blog has no pictures. Which is odd because I'm such a visual person. I think in pictures. I like books with pictures. Websites with pictures are especially awesome.

Maybe if I add some pictures my blog would be interesting and you would read it. And I would have to ramble less to take up room on the page. Maybe I could start doing those pictogram things. Those are hard. I was never good at them which is odd because I like pictures, but hate words. Which begs the question,

Why am I still writing?

Friday, April 16, 2010

The Icelandians are even weirder than the Canadians (Which is a feat!)

So has anyone seen the name of the volcano in Iceland that is currently exploding and covering Europe with giant clouds of ash? and pissing people in France off?

(And let me say Kudos! to that! The pissing people in France off part. Not the covered in ash part. Honestly, have you ever tried to speak French? You understand my sentiments about the French now.)

Here is the name of the exploding volcano:


Seriously? How do you even begin to say that? Is this a viking thing? I don't understand how you can make a word out of only consonants. (Those vowels are silent.) The only thing I can figure is that Iceland was colonized by Canadia. They have weird names for things. Like Canadia, for example. Who names their country Canadia? There's a town in Ontario (again?) called, are you ready for this, Ochiichagwebabigoining. Yeah okay. Saskatchewan, Skookumchuc, Nunavutand and Pickle Lake are just a few examples of strange places in Canadia.

But here is my point: If you live in Iceland on the slope of an active volcano, wouldn't you name it something easy to yell. Isn't it kind of anti-climatic to scream:

"OH MY GOD, Eyjafjallajökull is EXPLODING!"

Your neighbors would look at you and ask if you need a tissue. Wouldn't you name it something like Bob, or Volcano, or even "That giant mound of dirt." "Oh my God, That giant mound of dirt is exploding!" is pretty explanatory to me. Something has to be easier than trying to hack up the phlegm from your ash infested lungs to sound out the name of the thing that's causing your lungs to have that problem to begin with. Or maybe...

Thursday, April 15, 2010

What really gets my goat.

You know what really gets my goat? The number one thing that if I had the power to stop I would.

My parents communicating.

All of a sudden this year they're speaking to each other. After 30 years of hating each others guts and constant shit-talking they've finally grown up and are capable of speaking to one another. They couldn't have done this during my formative years when I was being imprinted with god-awful relationship ideals and subjected to horrible examples of communication, love and general life. They had a nasty divorce. They hated each other for years! They couldn't or wouldn't speak to each other until I well into college, 15 years after they divorced. I was dragged into all sorts of unimaginable shit because they couldn't get it together as adults.

And Now 30 years later my parents have begun to communicate. About the only thing they have in common, me. It wouldn't be so bad except that I always hear about it later. And I know it's still the same manipulative games they've always played. It's just that now they know I'm sensitive to it so it plays into their motives. They're still playing the "Love me MORE!" game it's just that now they're exploiting my insecurities to do it. Joy!

Seriously, If they feel the need to sit around and talk about how much I suck at life do they have to tell me? We've all known each other for 27 years now, they know what makes me tick and more importantly what makes me cry. I can't even be mad at my mother for freaking out that everyone I know is getting married and the fact that I'm further from that point than I was in high school because I know the only reason my dad told me is so I would be mad at my mom. Which does make me mad at my mom but it also makes me mad at him too. And now I just feel alienated. Now there is no one I can cry to it about it. I'm freaking 30 years old and I'm now starting to deal with the emotional trauma inflicted on me from their divorce. Or maybe it's just that years of emotional abuse, neglect and trauma have finally become too big to swallow and pretend as if it isn't there.

The sad part of all of this is that it is really my number one fear. I'm scared to death that I'll do the same thing to my kids. I'm afraid that I'm too damaged to resurrect a decent parent. I'm afraid I'm too damaged to do anything really.

I'm sorry this isn't my usual light-hearted jovial babbling. It stinks of self-loathing and self-pity and I of all people appreciate how disgusting it is. If I wasn't myself I would say "Get over it and move on." I have no patience for it. But then again if I wasn't myself this would all be moot. I wouldn't be going through it. Or it would be really irrelevant because if I wasn't myself I would be someone else which would probably indicate some kind of dissociative identity disorder and we would have different problems all together.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

Busting the bum rap of the Kraken

The other day I was on my way to work and I was pondering things as I normally do barreling down I-40 and I got to thinking about the Kraken. (I had just seen "The Clash of the Titans" the night before, so it's not like I regularly think of sea-monsters. I'm not that weird.)

Then it occurred to me that the poor Kraken gets a really bad rap and for what? Here is a mis-understood sea creature that needs to tell it's (I can do many things but I cannot sex a Kraken from far away.) side of the story.

After doing some digging on the Wikipedia, the source of all knowledge in the universe other than the NIH, I discovered the Kraken originates from Norse and Scandinavian lore. I imagine this is probably the beginnings of the Kraken's troubles. Vikings are generally not friendly people. They raped and pillaged and destroyed everything in their path. Even Hagar the Horrible is always yelling at his little friend about how he's not good enough or strong enough and he always whines about his wife, who in reality is actually very good to him. Imagine that you're a Kraken hanging out at the bottom of the ocean, where it's really dark and really cold, and you're a hip Kraken so you want to see what's out there, see what's going on in the rest of the ocean. Naturally you're going to migrate upwards toward the light.

You've arrived at the surface and you're hanging out catching some rays, (Odin knows you're pasty from being at the bottom of the ocean and totally need a tan. The lady Kraken's won't know how righteous you are if you're being overlooked for the dudes with the bitchin' tan.) and along comes a damn boat full of Norwegian crackpots out to kill anything that moves. Of course you gurgle a "Hey, watch it!" but because they've got such thick skulls and tiny brains (as anyone who's listened to Abba can attest to about Norwegians) they don't understand your gurgle. Out come the spears.

Well now you're in a predicament, you can't look like a pansy and not defend yourself. So you go slapping your tentacles all over their boat and honestly, is it really your fault they've got shoddy craftmanship? And now you're in a pickle because you'd think for a people who make their living off the sea they'd survive the blistering cold of the North sea a little better. So now you've really done it because if even one of them survives there goes your good reputation and you'll be forever labeled a sea monster. You might as well just drown them all, they multiply like rabbits and they've probably got 14 more kids at home.

But now your cover is blown and there will be no peaceful sunning from this point forward. Now you'll have to defend your territory countless times, all because some Viking with a lame name like Agnar or Hjorvarth decided that he needed to account for his diminutive manhood and kill a Kraken. Of course all of the other Kraken's have enough sense to stay in Kraken-ville at the bottom of the ocean. They're all content living their Kraken lives and raising their Kraken babies with their Kraken spouses! This is just another way that they're ostracizing you because you can't get it together and find a spouse. Ever since that incident with the Royal Jelly and the Kraken down the cleft, people are crossing the trench to avoid talking to you.

"Damnit! I'm not going to take it anymore! I'm not standing for this! If they want to judge me then let them judge me! I'm who I am and I'm not changing for some Kraken who can't decide whom they'd rather be with! At least I have the normal number of tentacles (which is 10 for those of you who don't know). So what if my beak is smaller and I'm a little paler than desired. I've just killed a boatload of Vikings. And for fun I think I'll eat them. How hardcore is that?"

It's not that the Kraken really ever has a choice. The oppressive nature of Kraken society and exclusivity of Kraken culture drives him to make bad choices. If only his mother would have loved him more as a juvenile cephalopod he wouldn't be dragging the Norwegians to their death.

Poor, poor Norwegians.

Remember it pays to be nice.

Monday, April 12, 2010

A list of things that irked and/or pissed me off today:

1. I've somehow been charged with with having to tape pull off pads on a blue-million PhD posters. Tomorrow I get to fold them and put them in envelopes. Oh boy!

2. The dumb bitch in the parking deck that started to pull out without looking. I was paying attention since she wasn't and was nice and let her pull on out.

3. The dumb bitch in the parking deck that pulled out in front of me and obviously had the time to go 5 miles an hour down the whole deck and let everyone she saw out. I'm so grateful she has excess free time because I most certainly do not. I made it to spin class on time in spite of her idiocy.

4. People on facebook that are having a tragic life and feel like they need to share just enough to garner the necessary attention from the creep-o-zoids they know. They don't share enough to keep anyone in the loop but do share just enough so that their self-esteem is improved by every awkward single man commenting on their status that he "wouldn't treat them that way." Really? I hate to say it but even desperation has levels of desperation. Posting a status to elicit a response is only cute if it's an inside joke. Otherwise it stinks of self-aggrandizement and desperation. It's obvious and it's not attractive.

5. That my Mt. Dew is already gone. ::sigh::

I've taped my degree in the frame crooked and why that is exemplary of my existence.

I've just noticed that I've taped my degree in the frame crooked. It's not level. Why does this not surprise me? Nothing about my life is level or normal or flush. Something is always amiss.

Take today for example, my mother called me freaking out because her GPS was speaking to her in French. Nevermind the fact that she was returning from the same place at the same beach to the same town she's lived in her whole life. I'm not really sure why she hasn't memorized how to get down there and back yet. I'm also not really sure why she thought that I would be able to solve the issue over the phone. Probably for the same reason she still calls me when she cannot find the remote, the fingernail clippers, the thermometer or any other inane household item even though I haven't lived there in years. My father does the same thing. He pulls his hernia scar and experiences shooting pains and calls me to ask what he should do.

"Hey A.G., (He calls me A.G. when it's serious.) I picked up something heavy and I felt a rip in my hernia scar and now there's an intense shooting pain. What should I do?"

"Um...Go to the emergency room?!?"

"Well I can't."

"Why not? If you go now I could go with you."

"I have to go to work tomorrow and Saturday. I'll go on Saturday night."

"Dad, don't you think if the pain was so bad that you had to leave work today you won't be able to work tomorrow? It's not going to go away. If you don't want to go tonight why don't you go to the doctor tomorrow?"

"No, I have to work."

Fast forward to the next day fifteen minutes after I've arrived at work which I've driven 35 miles to get to.

"Hey A.G., I think I need to go to the emergency room now."

Of course he does. It never ceases to amaze me the ability my parents have to drive me into a full blown tizzy. That exchange with my father caused me to lose my car in the parking deck and the parking deck is only 5 floors. It took me a solid 20 minutes to find my car. I'm not playing with a full deck to begin with so dealing with my parents some days just exacerbates the issues that are there because of them.

I think it's mostly that they both have an external locus of control and the majority of the time that locus is me, the only child. Hence I'm supposed to know where my mother leaves things along with her TV schedule (Literally. I know what shows she watches, when they come on and what channel.) I'm supposed to provide complex diagnostic medicine to both my father and his cat along with detailed pharmacology information on demand. Most of the time I feel as if there is an understood expectation that I'm somehow to blame for the bad things in their lives. Last week my mother was irate with me for going to beach, all because I went without her. Nevermind the fact that I wasn't at the beach or hadn't been nor were planning to go anytime soon. It was simply the idea that I was operating independently of her. My father is currently vexed with me because he's seen all of the DVD's that I own, because it's my job to keep the man entertained.

I suppose such is my cross to bear. Don't mis-understand me, I know it could be much worse. I'm extremely blessed to have the both of them in my life and I love them both dearly. And they both have good aspects as well. I'm just saying that I'm thankful they're divorced. And that it would be nice to be appreciated every now and again.

In retrospect I think having a crooked degree is admirable. Dealing with parents like mine is somewhat like "Riding a psychotic horse towards a burning barn." (To borrow a quote from The Birdcage.) At least I've kept it together long enough to get a degree.

Oh damn, the phone is ringing now. I wonder which one of them it could be.

Saturday, April 10, 2010

For your amusement, A story of awkwardness

Historically, I have an amazing ability to get myself into situations that are the equivalent of me sticking my foot in my mouth and while it's resting there comfortably somehow managing to get the other one in there too. It's really quite amazing. Here is an example:

First let me begin by saying that my gut reaction to any level of awkwardness is to start yammering uncontrollably. The greater the level of awkward the more I talk.

I had been employed at the college for about 5 or 6 months. We had been having repeated issues with a certain piece of equipment in the department and I had been charged with maintenance and repair of said equipment. After having ascertained that the computer was a hunk of junk (I personally replaced the hard drive three times in 6 months.) I decided I was going to ship the computer back to the bio-tech company it had just come from not two weeks before. So I needed a box.

Here is some background: In the department there is an un-named professor that is just a smidge eccentric. They're all scientists, so when they show up in clothes there is somewhat of a to-do made about them because let's face it, scientists are flighty sometimes and clothes are somewhat of a tertiary priority, but this professor is a little more eccentric than the rest of them. He kind of makes you scratch your head and mumble things like: "Okay." and "Really?"

One of my duties in the department is to deal with perishable packages if they haven't been picked up by the addressee. I open other people's packages routinely. They're okay with it.

I scrounge around the department for a box and cannot find one. I've invaded everyone's secret box stashes and no one has a box big enough for a computer tower. Lo and behold, a box of appropriate proportions is in the front office. It has been in the office in the same spot for two weeks now. You've ascertained correctly that it belongs to "The Eccentric, but creepy Professor."

We've established in earlier posts that I am not a patient person. The computer should have been out the door 15 minutes ago. I'm also of a somewhat excitable nature so I'm starting to become agitated. I'm beginning to panic.I'm now equating my job security with finding a box. I'm desperate. The urgency of finding a suitable box is quite pressing. I make a decision. (I find that it is unusually easy for me to make decisions when I'm in these moods.) I'm going to open the package and deliver the contents to "Captain Eccentric's" office and use the box.

I walk the 5 feet across the office with an air of entitlement. (It helps to have confidence in these moments, otherwise you'll chicken out and then look like a fool, even worse: A fool without a box.) I open the box and as I am removing the contents of said box guess who walks in the door? Senor Creepy Pants!

At this moment the three people in the office egging me on and aiding and abetting my decision literally run away. One leaves the front office completely and the other two hide in the supply closet. They were like rats deserting a sinking ship. They tied me to the mast and sacrificed me to the Kraken.

I immediately start to ramble. Uncontrollably. We were quickly approaching Awkward-ville at warp speed so I'm pretty sure I didn't take a breath for at least two minutes. My logic was that if I regurgitated everything I knew as fast as I could, not only would I have to think but he wouldn't have time to think because he would be too distracted by my diatribe on the value of goats in Middle Eastern nomadic cultures to be upset that I had opened his package and were in the process of stealing his box.

I'm told it was a command performance (the mutinous office staff were listening from behind the door) and to his credit Professor Eccentric wasn't too perturbed, disturbed or otherwise. The only real consequences were that I now presently feel compelled to repeat this filibustering everytime I see him. Needless to say I spend a lot of time ducking in alcoves and peeking around corners at work.

And after all of that I still didn't get box. But I do still have my job.

Thursday, April 8, 2010

An open letter to the annoying girl in my spin class:


I understand that you are new to the concept of spin class. Mostly because you showed up late, which is extremely tacky.

But here are a few things to remember:

1. Be Prompt! You cannot show up 20 minutes into class and then whine when I tell you that you still have at least another 20 minutes 5 minutes later when you ask me how much is left.

2. There are plenty of open bikes in the room. People in spin class do not sit next to each unless they: A) Know one another. or B) The room is full. Just because I look friendly does not mean you need to sit beside me. It's a lot like if we were men (which we aren't. Well I'm not. I'm assuming you aren't either because you have breasts and really ratty stringy long hair that suggests you are a woman but seriously...What self-respecting woman would let her hair look like that? Plus I don't like to assume things. It gets me in trouble.) and were in an empty bathroom and you came in and had to use the direct urinal beside mine, even though the rest of them are empty. It's creepy and weird. We space ourselves out for a reason. It gets incredibly hot. 5 people in an enclosed room riding a bike for 45 minutes generates lots of heat. Not to mention that when you sit beside me it cuts off my airflow from the fan. GO AWAY.

3. If you are able to hold a conversation you are clearly not working hard enough. You've already asked me how often I come and you now know that I come to spin class at least 4 days a week, most weeks 5 days. You know that I am clearly serious and committed to a fitness goal. This should clue you into the fact that I am working hard and cannot talk. This could also be recognized by my pained expression and inability to complete sentences. Just because you are lazy and unmotivated does not indicate that I am as well. (Whether or not I am lazy is not the subject of discussion at this moment in time.) And no I do not want to tell you which specific spin class sessions I come to because I'm afraid you'll start coming to ones I come to. And yes, I do know this is hard because we've already established that I am working hard because I'm breathing hard and sweating like a pig or a whore in church which I doubt you've ever seen the inside of because really? Who wears that to the gym? The gym is considered public! Dressing like that is probably how you got those two children that you take to kid care. This is probably the most work you've done since you obtained the gametes that were the progenitors of those children. And No! I'm not jealous that you have children and are probably pushing 20. I'M FINE WITH THE PROGRESS OF MY BIOLOGICAL CLOCK! I'M NOT BITTER AT ALL...I DO THIS FOR FUN! IT'S NOT BECAUSE I'M INCAPABLE OF HAVING A FULFILLING RELATIONSHIP AND MOST DEFINITELY NOT BECAUSE I HAVE A POOR SELF IMAGE AT TIMES AND ATTRIBUTE MY LACK OF CHILDREN AND SPOUSE TO IT! IT'S BECAUSE THIS IS FUN!


Are you going to use that workout towel? Can I wipe away the tears of my lonely and misfortunate life with it? Or at the very least can I use it to wipe the sweat that I produced from actually working hard? A concept which to you seems to be foreign.

Now that you have been well-versed please do remember not to talk to me in the future, in spin class or otherwise.

Yours truly,

Monday, April 5, 2010

Call me Xerxes for I have conquered Eurasia.

Actually I just wanted to update everyone that I've won the war with the mayonnaise jar. I finally stabbed the lid with a butcher knife (and retained all of my fingers!). It's a good thing that mayonnaise is antimicrobial.

The exact reason why I'm not allowed to check out books at the UNCG library.

So I'm not really not allowed to check out books from the UNCG library, but for a while I was. I had somehow amassed a significant amount of library fines. $20-30 worth. I refused to pay them on sheer idiocy of the policy. Actually I think it was $32.

Seriously? Library fines?

Last time I checked being a bibliophile wasn't illegal. It's not like people want to keep books. Does there really need to a program in place to ensure that people bring books back? Charging me every day I do not bring your books back does not give me incentive to bring them back. It pisses me off and similar to most angry small children it produces the opposite effect.

I think this is a public school thing. There were no fines at my expensive private school. Although as much as they charged I imagine the thought process there was that every student bought at least 3 library books off the jump. And the security guards gave you peppermints. And golf tips. Going to the library there was generally a much more pleasant experience.

Not to mention the books that I kept too long were books about work! They were science books! More specifically they were Confocal Microscopy books. I know that no one else on this campus wanted those books because I happen to be the ONLY confocal microscope technician here. So why they were pissed off that I had them for too long is beside me.

So, I finally did turn them in. And then for some extraneous reason I decided that I wanted to get more books out from the library.

Unbeknownst to me I had fines and they wouldn't let me check out books. Apparently once you get library fines they don't trust you with their precious booty anymore. They think it establishes some kind of criminal pattern. I'm surprised they still let me vote in the student government elections and carry sharp objects down the hall. They treated me like some public school felon. I wouldn't be surprised if they were cinching up the straps, readying the sponge and plugging the chair in.

The fact that I laughed at them and told them the only way they were going to get their $32 was if they pried it from my cold dead fingers probably did not help the situation.

Years pass. (Two to be exact.) I've decided that maybe I will pay their obnoxious fines but I'm not writing them a check or giving them cash; if they want their money they'll have to get it from my paycheck.

I am not a patient person. Especially when I'm trying to do something that I don't feel I should do in the first place. I call the library and inquire about how to have payroll deduct my fines from my paycheck. Of course the student at the desk has no clue and transfers me to someone in the bowels of the library bureaucracy. This lady does not answer her phone; I do not have all day so I just saunter on over to the library to talk to this woman. I prefer to do business in person anyways.

I think the library is where xenophobes must work. This woman's office was in an office within an office that was in a cul-de-sac in a corner. She was literally hiding from the sun and students. (Not that I blame her about the students part. I avoid them as well. I find that they are stupid.) I'm pretty sure that I scared the bejeezus out of her; probably because I found her and knew her name. She had that scared deer-in-the-headlights look that I've seen on people interacting with my mother. Magically, after a quick 2 minutes of conversation my library fines were erased. I like to think it's because I'm extremely persuasive and have infallible logic but I think it was because she was convinced I was going get closer to her.

I may or may not have lurched at her several times to get my point across. I really didn't want to pay those library fines. I like to make a stand on things I believe in.

I wonder if I can convince them that my current fines were incurred during the snow when the university was closed?

Saturday, April 3, 2010

I swear to God if my house is on fire, I'm going to lose my shit.

I've been having kind of a rough time lately. You may have noticed. If my incessant calling and pleading to hang out has not clued you into my spiraling state of mind then I'll just be a grown up and admit it. I'm lonely as hell. And to top this off my biological clock has become a steady tick rather than a sometime nagging reminder.

Consequently, this isn't making me any easier to get along with, which isn't normally easy to begin with. So I'm just back-sliding down the scree-filled slope of the mountain now.

Nothing is going my way today. The cup-holder on my camp chair is too small for my wine glass. I wanted to go buy jeans at my favorite store with my handy 25% off coupon; they're closed. No one is this God-forsaken town (I know it's Easter and all and this is probably a bad time to use the Lord-aligned epithets but it's all I've got. I'm avoiding the F-word.) knows where the heck they're going or how to get there. I literally had a mini-meltdown in the parking lot of the Wachovia. I had a good short cry going down the classy part of Stratford road, which would have been even more disastrous if it weren't for the one saving grace of this story. My aviators are mirrored. No one could tell!

You can't see me but I'm totally doing the double devil horns/international Rock-On sign.

I finally get over myself and are headed home on Reynolda when at the stop-light I see a giant billowing cloud of dark black smoke coming from the general direction of my apartment. And I say to myself out loud: I swear to God if my house is on fire, I'm going to lose my shit.

I'm not really sure what "losing one's shit" exactly entails but I know it would not be attractive and would probably be extremely sordid. And to make a long story short, I'm not blogging from a jail cell or a padded room. Obviously I still have my shit together. Just barely though.

By the way, What are you doing later?

Thursday, April 1, 2010

An original movie script involving Norman, a giant Isopod

I saw this creepy isopod thing on the Nat Geo News blog and it made me wonder how freaking awesome it would be to have a fishtank with one of these guys swimming around in it.

Creepy Isopod Thing

First a few details about giant isopods:

1. They are giants.
2. They are isopods.
3. They are most commonly found in the deep-sea.
4. They are a good example of deep-sea gigantism.

Now for an original movie script about a giant isopod named Norman:

Imagine if you will a little fish, probably purple, swimming around. He's enjoying his environment. Little does he know he's the product of an artificial environment, ie he lives in a fish tank. Next imagine Susie, a pretty young woman, admiring the little purple fish.

"Oh doesn't he look so happy swimming around and around?"

Cue ominous music.

Now imagine the little purple fish starting to look to his left and his right, he clearly knows something is amiss. Oh no! What is creeping out from behind the large piece of coral?

It's Norman! The creepy giant isopod!

"OH NO!" Susie screams. "Swim away little fish! Swim away!"

But alas it is too late for the little purple fish. Norman has eaten him.

End movie.