Wrapping it up

There are many reasons for this, but suffice to say I'm resigning my online profile. Reason #1 is that I never went on it. Reasons #2 is that apparently I smell like laundry.

ANYWAY, I wasn't missing anything truly fascinating. Tragically, most of the messages I've been racking up whilst away have been normalish. Not compelling, but normal. There are a few quality screen names, like "manchld", "brownchiclets", and "SirCute" which is just kind of lame.

Also had a few quality subjects, including my personal fave "Wud luv 2 get to kno u." Here's my question, if you've already typed that much, how much more is the "w"? Maybe he just didn't have time. Let's find out!

"hey gorgeous, Wud luv 2 get to kno u. I am vet doctor, totally veg, luv animals, work with wild animals, travel around the world helping animals & people, & recently moved here. I luv 2 ride horses, travel, collect art & music, cook foodand Thai is my fav. Wud luv 2 hear from u. u can msg me at andy (dot) raman09 at gmail (dot) com."

Well, well, well andy_raman. I'm intrigued. Not only by the fact that you were clearly so lazy that you just straight up stole your message to me from your profile, but I am also totally veg and luv animals, although with a resume spelled like that, I definitely would NOT let you work with wild animals. Perhaps he is lying about his profession since generally speaking veterinarians have to be able to read? Pssh. Incidentally, he hasn't completed an essay on his profile. It's a mystery as to why.

Lots of people also prefer both the subject "hi" as well as the word "hi" in their message. Go on, Casanova, go on. Not to mention the simple "hey beautiful want 2 get 2 kno me?" No. No I do not. Also, homeless people also call me beautiful. So far I haven't slept with one. I had a gorgeous message that went thusly: "Hey beautiful, Good Morning. How r u? Like ur looks, especially ur smile. Wanna chat and know me?" Hmmmm intriguing. But chatting might involve having to read your messages and that's where it gets hairy.

But it gets better. Here is his description in his profile: "If u U need a down to earth, honest, faithful guy thats romantic and sexual aswell message me..." Well HELL silkstone123, I think I just might! Incidentally, he also likes "Titanic is my fav. movie. i love Chines and itallian food." Not really sure what Chines involves, but it sounds damn delicious. Sign me up, studly.

Is forlornity a word?

Well it darn well should be. Another day, another example of awkward encounters. Except today I have one online, as well as one offline! Squee!

Let's start online, shall we? It took me about 2 weeks to figure out that you even could turn off the chat function on my online dating profile. Oh happy day! My previous approach had been to quickly close the window every time someone chatted me and then, like a startled mouse, peer back online every 10 m or so to see if people were still trying to communicate with me. Well, before I figured that magic out, I first got messaged by Gscot57. Naturally, I immediately shut the window, and when I came back, lo and behold a delicious message was left behind!:

"good luck too ya! u kinda seem like someone that could actually hang with me but, guess will never know...."

Again, I know it seems a little lackluster in terms of crazy talk, but it's so forlorn. Like the poor guy just put all he had into the original "hey whats up" chat he sent me and I just stomped all over his heart like I was making grappa. Oh cruel Fate! Serendipity, you have forsaken me! As have thy callous brethren Grammar and Spelling!! *shakes fist at the dating heavens*

I was so intrigued by the anguished lament of this message that I was prompted to check the guy's profile out. Mind you, this was some 15 m later or so as I came out of hiding. Evidently, his profile doesn't exist. This means one of two things: either he has immediately blocked me and that's the site's way of letting me down easy ("What, him? Oh he died.") or he deleted his profile out of SORROW! Naturally, I choose the latter for dramatic intrigue.

Back to the real world, I have a coworker who I have never quite gelled with, in large part because he was an enormous butthead to me the first project I worked with him on. You know what, sir? I will, in fact, notice if you keep information from me and then treat me like an enormous idiot because I can't read your mind. Neither am I impressed by the professionalism displayed when you tug on my hair and pull my chair out from under me. (for realsies) We're in an office, not a preschool. So today Mr. BH walks over to me, cocks his head like a puppy and says, "I'm sorry, what is THAT?" *points at me*

Me: "What is what?"

BH: "THAT."

Me: "I'm sorry?"

BH: "That BLUE thing."

Me: "This?"

BH: "Yes. What is it?"

Me: "A sweater."

BH: "Really?"

Me: "I guess you could get fancy and call it a cardigan, but it's just a sweater."

BH: "But it's so long!"

Me: "That's called fashion."

BH: *wanders away*

Do we think I'll get fired if I fill his cubicle with shaving cream?

Time to jump back on the bandwagon

It’s a little unclear to me as to who reads this, but I’m going to assume only people who are really using me for my animal shelter hook-ups. Step off, yo, I don’t got no more kittens. For the moment.

At any rate, life has been a little more interesting lately from the standpoint that I have decided to date online a tad. So far I haven’t actually contacted anyone because people frighten me, evidently. But I thought to myself, “Hey, what’s the point of getting all of these awesome messages if you can’t share them with your judgmental friends?” So perhaps in the near future I will post every once in awhile about some of the ones that make me giggle. Are matters of the heart cruel? Hell yes.

I have multiple favorites, but I thought I’d start things off with sort of a short note:

From: mrdoallright232

Subject: hey

“Hi. How are ya?

I enjoyed your profile.

Keep in touch :)”

I think the question of why I would choose this one first pops up. Here’s the thing, it’s such a give-up. Online dating is hard, talking to chicks is hard, LIVING is hard. But you know what is especially hard? Responding to that with anything other than “I’m cool. ;b Don’t be a stranger!” God bless his most likely kind little heart, but you gotta try harder than that. On top of that, his interests include “bubble breaking” and “filling in nail holes”. I think those are home improvement references, but it’s difficult to tell in the face of sheer unbridled boredom.

Here’s the dirty little secret of online dating: according to some of the photos on my profile, I probably have ovaries and even a vagina. Men are universally intrigued by this, to the point of saying things like “My friends tell me I’m funny!” and outright lying about themselves. Let’s make the assumption that one or two other dudes have messaged me this week. I only have so much time on my hands. Time spent on cleaning up my pets’ vomit and getting the snot kicked out of me in contact sports. There must be a compelling message. As it is, I’m exhausted from worrying that this fine young gent will never find love because he can’t muster up the courage to be interesting even in his screen name.

Closing note: keep in touch is usually reserved for estranged relatives. Just sayin’.

This is why Easter makes my mom crazy

So my mother likes Peeps. And when I say "likes" I mean "yearns for". Anyway, being the charming daughter I am, I got her two boxes of Peeps, one of which was INVADED by ants who now live in my kitchen, searching for more Peeps. Thank, Mom. Anyway, a week after I give her the untouched box, I receive this series of text messages: 

6:27 pm April 14, 2009: 

Mom: Get more peeps. 

Me: I think you've had enough peeps.

Mom: And?

*15 minutes later*

Mom: Peeeeps. 

*5 minutes later*

Mom: Peeeps. 

Me: No more peeps now. Going to yoga. 

Mom: Nooo. Once a year. 

Me: Yoga now. 

Was that the end of it? Oh hells no. This woman is on a freaking mission. 

3:45 pm the following day:

Mom: Nutz wants peeps. 

Me: You're obsessed.

Mom: Peeps season is short.

Me: They have them all the freaking time.

Mom: R u sure?

Me: Omg yes.

Mom: Life is good. 

5:54 pm April 22, 2009:

Mom: Peeps.

Mom, I didn't teach you how to text so you could badger me about fake marshmallow that explodes in the microwave. Also, does anyone else find that link distressing from a psychosis standpoint?

OhmyGodthiswillbethebest2hoursofmylife

Unghhhhhhhhhhh:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OX6H7t1wXZI

The joy of parenthood

So everyone once in awhile I foster kittens for two reasons: 

1. It keeps Serafina on her toes. That tubby cat gets really full of herself if left to her own devices. Observe:

Serafina is the fat gray one in the back and Dante is the fat brown one in the foreground. As you can see, they lead terribly taxing lives. I think this was taken around 1 pmish.

and 2. HelLO! Kittens!! Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee KITTENS!!!!!!1111 They come from the SPCA and usually are just too tiny to get spayed or neutered, so I fatten them up for a month or so to help the SPCA with space and then give them back to be adopted by families who hopefully aren't as psychotic as I am. Or are they? 

Anyway, my latest batch has been sort of... stand offish. Not that it's particularly a good idea for them to love me FOREVER like they SHOULD. Pre complete fattitude: 

That's Jada, Nile, and Nathan. Not my names but I probably couldn't do better. You also get a bonus of a pic of my puppily Nutmeg in the background. Precious! She's a runner. Seriously, they should have named her Houdini. 

So my friend Em was visiting this past weekend (Best. Weekend. EVER.) and, as luck would have it, I came down with some sort of debilitating virus on Sunday. Sweet little Emily spent about 12 hours watching movies while I drifted in and out of consciousness on the couch a mere three feet away from her (tragically, I remember most of Sydney White). That's a ballsy woman. When I hugged her goodbye on Monday, my mom said, "Wow you touched Typhoid Mary." Thanks, Mom. 

Anywhom, through the haze I could hear this running commentary on the kittens' "goings-on" from Em. I didn't really know what she was talking about until I woke up later on Monday to see this:

Incidentally, all three are covered in glitter. 

Because I'm feeling competitive

I don't personally believe that directional comments are appropriate on a blog because it's really an online diary meant to convince myself that people care what I think. However, I've also always been subject to the whims of others and I think a tacit understanding of online forums is no reason to let that go. To whit, Matt:

1. Ah, sports. Where they throw the ...ball into the hoop and get a touchdown while scissor kicking with the thingy. Go team! Which team? I dunno. Which ones like kittens? Wait, he looks like he loves his mother. And I sort of do like blue better green. Sometimes. I suppose it depends on the shade. Like, I like kelly green more than forest green, but I like both of those way more than olive. Unless it's paired with a nice muted yellow. Do we have any more chips? I'm hungry again. Wait, why are they yelling? Did we get something? A point? Ah screw it I'm just going to go get hammered and watch hockey.

2. If you don't think this is funny, then I have no remedy for whatever ails you. And it just so happens to be the best song of all time.

3. Cashmere lounge pants are exactly what they sound like. Lounge pants made out of luxurious cashmere. I like the concept because it implies both unnecessary luxury and an impressive degree of laziness I regularly exhibit on Saturday mornings. Although now that I've discovered that play Saved by the Bell on Fox at 11 am, I have a raison d'etre again.

4. Wes does not, in fact, cheat in class. He sells his body for better grades. I'm not going to go into specifics, but if our ITOM teacher leers at him anymore while caressing his pocket protector, I'm going to say something.

5. As for the ladies, Wes and I came up with a brilliant scheme just today of how he could effectively pick up whatever teenagers happened to wander through the museum. In the meantime I'll start taking Krav Maga classes or something and give his number to whichever girl kicks my ass first. For that matter, I could probably choose one of the hotties that most recently jacked me in the face in soccer. The opportunities abound in the injury rife existence I lead.

Another classy moment

So the museum I'm interning at has an upcoming permanent exhibit opening this Fall called Your Incredible Body. To prepare for this momentous occasion, I am directed to write an article for the newsletter on the subject, which I naturally know nothing about really. Anyway, it prompted me to leave this gem of a voicemail with the Director of Exhibits:

"Hey there, it's Meg from marketing. I'm trying to pin down this article and sort of realized that I didn't really know what the exhibit was going to look like. I was just curious about who it's sort of directed at, what kind of activities there will be, etc. If you can just call me back, I'd love to get a feel for Your Incredible Body."

*pause*

Sigh.

Conversations with Mom

I suppose I got the inspiration from Leesie (shoutout!), but I can't help but recount a phone call I had with my sainted mother earlier today. If you don't know my mother, she's kind of the Master of Random, which explains a lot about my personality.

phone rings

Mom: "I'm going to see Sex and the City!"
Me: "That movie came out 2 months ago."
Mom: "I don't like to do things quickly."
Me: "Fine, but don't have a diet coke."
Mom: "I'm totally going to have a diet coke."
Me: "You'll stay up all night."
Mom: "I'm hip."
Me: "If you call me at 9 pm looking to go to Martini Park, you can forget it."
Mom: "Martini Park!"
Me: "No, Mom, I'm going out with friends tonight."
Mom: "Well, you have to go somewhere afterwards."
*awkward silence*
Mom: "I'm going to Sex and the City!"

20 minutes later, the phone rings.

Mom: "It's not playing!"
Me: "Shocking."
Mom: "Well, Dillard's is having a clearance or I GUESS I could go see Wall-E."
Me: "It seems like a movie you'd like."
*click*
Me: "Right."

Reeeeeeeeeeebouuuuuuuund

I have this theory. It is the God given right of every woman to have a hot European rebound within 6 months of breaking up with their significant other. I have been mulling this over, in three different countries no less. First of all, sometime in the near future will mark my 4 month singleversary. That leaves a scant 2 months until I have to start acting like an adult and stop trying to have a torrid affair with preferrably a person of Mediterranean descent, but I'd settle for British. Secondly, I have spent about 2-3 weeks surrounded by muscley masogynistic men who want nothing more than for me to embody their perception of a typical American slut. It was not to be, but I managed to a) pick up a Turkish boyfriend for the duration of my friend's wedding and b) have upwards of 5 Greek men stop in their vehicles, back up, and ask me if I need a ride into town on a 10 minute walk. I am so moving to that country.

Like some raging pansy, I never take these people up on their offer, but it doesn't mean that I don't think I deserve it. I think of it as a party favor of sorts. You put up with all of horomonal crap and BMS (Boy Menstrual Syndrome) that comes with dating a perfectly lovely person and in return you get to be massaged with exotic oils by an older man who wants to make you his mistress. Anyway, I imagine most of my conversations for the 8 or so weeks that we'd be together would go something like this:

Friend: "Oh, hey, Meg. How was your summer?"
Me: *removes large and expensive sunglasses* "Era un po lungho ma - oh I'm so sorry. Emilio and I have been speaking exclusively Italian together."
Friend: "It smells like olive oil and sex in here."
Me: "And eggplant."

Uhhh what?

Honestly, I can't tell if I'm so excited that I'm fair about to pee myself or if this makes me hate humanity: http://www.metacritic.com/film/titles/zombiestrippers

Pretty sure it's the former.

"The Luxe Life" or "I'm not kidding, get your hands off my waist"

I finally got to experience super sheik Dallas this past weekend. A friend of mine had her bday at a club downtown called "Dolce". I love foreign names for clubs. It's so "screw you, I'm cultured but seriously I've never left Texas before". After paying $8 for the valet to park my car and watching my friend try to bribe him with $10 to keep her car out front (he was so flabbergasted that he actually told me about it in an incredulous tone), we entered Dolce through a long industrial looking hallway with oodles of mirrors so that I could admire my awesome outfit (helLO YSL shoes) before entering the dregs of Dallas society.

Big D is an interesting place insofar in that it is a huge and amazing city with tons to do. On the flip side of the coin, we have a very active and very visible young 30-somethings community that consists of lonely 40-something men trying to sleep with ambitious 20-something girls. How, then, does one tell the difference between the cream of the crop and the knobby kernels that get stuck in your teeth? Why, income of course! For example, the table we were at was home to about 10 bottles of liquor bought by some random guy who doesn't have anything better to do with his money. He was actually very nice, not that I got to test the theory much due to some pretty impressive techno. Also, I didn't know that "Thanks for the party!" could be construed as a proposition, but I'm not a doctor. Or prostitute.

Several things noted whilst "partying".

1. There was a woman in the bathroom whose primary purpose I have to assume was to stop people from doing coke. I can see why since 2 out of 3 stalls were not vacated in the 20 minutes I spent in line.

2. The ratio of men to women was roughly 5 to 1. All looking to get laid. None doing anything more than bobbing slightly to the techno while leering at passersby.

3. Guidos come from all cultures, not just Italian. I walked into what I thought was a tight t-shirt/spiked hair contest. I lost.

Also, I waited 20 f'ing minutes for the valet to bring me my car. Best of all, I saw them drive by with it TWICE before I grabbed a pimply faced youth and said "For serial, get me my damn car." *points at car whizzing past*

Go fudge yourself, Spring 08. Seriously.

I think I am officially tired of the waffling going on in my personal life. I'm the kind of person who likes concrete answers. It's what makes me giggle with girlish enthusiasm when I get to do accounting, even though ironically I'm majoring in marketing, the least "certain" business discipline. Nothing like guessing after hours of research to really complete one's day.

The best part is that right when I've come around to the point of really beginning to believe that my realigned perceptions of the situation are correct, someone always skips right in and kicks the crap out of my sand castle.

Battle Royale

So it begins again. Spring is in full force, but in reality, Dallas simply cavorts blithely into summer as soon as possible. It was 84 degrees here today and could be called "moist". I stepped outside of my apartment this eve to go to a 10:30 pm soccer game (Lord knows why it's that late at night) and what do I find but *gasp* a spiderweb DIRECTLY ACROSS MY DOOR. I remember you, Spider (of DOOM!!), oh yes. Last year when it got warm, he was out there everyday, efficiently building his web across my pathway in what I can only assume is an homage to Arachnophobia. And not just that, but he had one of his little "friends" move into my car and BUILD A WEB IN MY CAR. I don' t know what I have to do to get this little bastard to stop creating some sort of web obstacle course that inevitably ends with me flailing my arms madly trying to remove what I'm positive is a spider the size of a burly kitten from my hair, but, by George, THIS is the spring where I figure out his weakness. It's on, Professor Spider of Doom. It's on like Donkey Kong.

Possible weaknesses:

1. Beer
2. Damsels
3. Kryptonite
4. Veganism
5. Puppies
6. Shoe sales
7. Unicorns
8. Vegan unicorn puppies
9. Windex

Other suggestions are welcome.

"That" Guy

Blogging for me is not what I would term a "regular" activity. However, sometimes a girl's just gotta write. Or dance. Whichever. The past few months have been fairly standard. IE full of classes and the occasional life-related snafu, but good nonetheless and no complaints truly. I did learn today that I need to buy smaller tomatoes, but that is more of a life lesson than snafu. Ironically, the last week has been full of drama, but I don't think a blog posted on Facebook is truly the forum in which I want to share these details. Suffice to say I've lost 2 lbs (yay!) from not eating due to stress (boo!), and thus a giant tomato is a little daunting from a culinary execution standpoint. But I've always enjoyed a challenge.

Anyway, this leads me to tonight. Shortly after being viciously attacked by a bee that my mother attempted to kill in my apartment but ultimately just royally pissed off, I headed off to a Harvard Club of Dallas Happy Hour that featured a discussion on the Psychology of Happiness. I didn't know quite what to expect, but apparently a similarly titled course has become one of the most popular in Harvard's history, massing an average of 900 students per class. Wowzers. The discussion was fairly interesting and basically talked about the concept of Optimism, or "Resilience" as the psychologist who pioneered the concept called it (Seligman). Basically, it entails "expressed gratitude". There have been studies that prove that description of a memory overrides the actual memory. So, in essence, you can make yourself happy by literally just saying positive things. Other similar studies including the effects of smiling on a chemical level have been done, so though not exact, it is an explored topic. At its core, the idea is your attitude toward both positive and negative things. A positive response to a positive event the implies permanence is optimistic (or "resilient"). A positive response to a negative event implies a unique, transitory event.

Positive example:
You receive a rose from a "secret admirer" (read: hobo)
Permanent/optimistic response: "I am the SHIT!!! EVERYONE WHO EVER LIVED LOVES ME UNCONDITIONALLY!!!"
Transitory/pessimistic response: "Woah. Someone has clearly drunk a LOT of Nyquil. Hope it doesn't wear off before we 'accidentally' hook-up."

Negative Example:
You lose a soccer match. (read: my Sunday afternoon)
Permanent/pessimistic response: "Holy crap I suck at sports."
Transitory/optimistic response: "I wonder if Jeopardy is on right now."

So the question becomes not "Are you happy?" which is both black and white as well as permanent, but rather "Do you want to be happier?" And mind you, they aren't referring to rosy, all-is-right-with-the-world attitudes. It's a person's ability to bounce back and think positively that drives both optimism, as well as performance. Because you do better when you think bad performance is a one time deal. Likewise, it's better to focus on strengths rather than weaknesses. Find a new way to be courageous or generous as opposed to wonder why you were never good at them in the first place, which can be frustrating to say the least.

On a final note, tonight was also a delicious throw-back to college because of, yes, "that" guy. You know, the one in section that always makes the most ridiculous arguments and then sits back in a satisfied way while you contemplate whether the right response is to actually point out the obvious fallacies in their argument or just throw your reading material at their face. Some 50 year old man decided to refute the argument by saying "Well what does this mean anyway? Just because they say they're happy doesn't MEAN they're happy!" and then leaned back to confirm his victory. Okay, here's the deal, yes that's true but we're making the assumption that the test subjects are telling the truth. It is not an exact science. That's why all the psychologists get swirlies and wedgies in science high school. But it doesn't make the ENTIRE argument invalid. I chose to simply say "Wow that's retarded," because I'm professional now. Professional like a CAT.

Dammit I am so tired of eating cake

What's another year without me waiting about 6-8 months to blog, right? Right. Let's see, let's see. I've started my MBA at SMU and could wax poetic about people on cellphones almost broadsiding me every day. Of course, that would be horribly hypocritical since I managed to rear end someone last Friday, cellphone free. Instead I'm going to relate this puppy right back to my MBA career search, which is considered a fourth class for us. To be fair, we are paying these people almost delicious amounts of money in order to be handed a job, or at the least, interviewing skills. I took my career search in a slightly different direction today. Instead of researching careers in Marketing and Nonprofits, etc etc, I decided to analyze the advice given to me by the heavens. That's right, my horoscope will lead my foray into the working world from now on. And by golly, I'm going to like it. I've compiled the list of best careers for Virgos and we can all go ahead and judge if we think these are best for my so-called lifestyle.

1. Tax Auditor
To be completely honest, the chapter on taxes in my accounting book gave me such a headache that I vowed to punch the first government employee I could find in the face. The desire gave out ultimately due to my need for a nap, but the hostility lies latent.

2. Nutritionist
This one I probably could swing, mostly because I have a serious love for counting calories. It's like a weird little logic game. When I was a kid I used to manipulate numbers in my head to equal the number 7 and other equally stupid things, so manipulating chicken so that I don't pork up sounds like it would be right up my alley.

3. Naturopath
Ummmmmm that sounds suspiciously like "hippie". The answer is no, sir.

4. Professional Housecleaner
I am awfully gifted at cleaning things. All things said and done, it gives me a lot of satisfaction when it's finished. It's just the sweeping, wiping, vacuuming, picking up, scrubbing, and general arraignment of things in between that I dislike.

5. Executive Assistant
I'm not going to lie, I always thought I'd be good at this. I was a dynamo at office tasks while temping, so it makes sense. Besides, it would give me an opportunity to be snide on the phone, which happens sadly little.

6. Statistician
Aha, and here we find the crux of the issue. The stars say that I would be wonderful at statistics due to my naturally detail oriented nature that I happen to share with anyone born during the month of September. I could expound here about falling asleep at least three times while reading stats last night or how whenever I say something in my class my professor looks visibly strained, but instead I will leave you with this thought: I was a liberal arts major for a reason.

7, 8, 9. Archivist, Systems Analyst, Technician
I'm grouping these together because although I have a unique ability to alphabetize and file at an astounding rate, it seems just as unlikely as the other two. Although it seems they would satisfy a long held desire for a pocket protector and pair of thick-rimmed spectacles. Also, I can stereotype all I want.

10. Welder
Ah, welding. A past time from my youth that I have sadly left behind. All of those carefree days spent binding together neighbors' belongings, afternoons welding childhood romances into trees, fusing loved ones to metal appliances. The memories are indeed vivid.

Since I'm a Leo-Virgo cusp, I wonder if I should consider Leo careers as well? I don't want to confuse my hopes and dreams of being a welder with something as frivolous as misplaced astrology. What to do, what to do.

Welcome to 2007

Yeah, I should probably detail for you what has been going on in the past few months. Especially considering quite a bit has been out and about. I promise to talk at length about my intense desire to hit every bride-to-be in Terry Costa with a sock full of quarters, but today I have a different a story for you all. A story of triumphs. A story of romance. A story of housing concerns.

As I listen to Tony Sunshine serenade Lumidee with her comparative affinity to meteorological events, I am reminded of two things. First of all, Tony Sunshine is no Timbaland. I've already made arrangements for the eventual nuptials between me and Tim (Timba?? 'Land?? What does a rap producer like to be called by? Probably just 'baby').

And moving on, it was only this past morn that I heard what I consider to be possibly the stupidest question of my March 07. I realize what an epic statement that is, especially considering I had a trainer friend of mine ask me why I was sweating after I just got off of treadmill after running for 20 minutes. It was a mystery indeed. Anyway, to give a little background, I'm not entirely sure what happened, but apparently the pipes in my duplex decided today that they had officially had enough. Apparently after 60+ yrs of existence, there was a mini rebellion and the drainage system made some sort of unholy union with my shower and watergeddon commenced. Interestingly enough, none of this actually affected me since I was on the second floor. Not so for my unlucky 50+ pilot counterpart.

I personally think this problem has been going on for awhile, but normally my showers average 5 minutes or so for two very good reasons. Firstly, I am always late because I hit the snooze alarm too much. Secondly, at some point my mother's pet plumber decided that I didn't have enough water pressure, so he removed whatever mitigating factor existed between the shower head and the water tower. As a result, my shower feels like somebody hurled a bucket of pennies at my face, and, more importantly, hot water runs out very quickly. Ironically, I took a slightly longer shower today for beauty related reasons. And while this shower was coming to a squeaky clean close, my downstairs neighbor was trying to desperately stem the tide bubbling up out of his own shower.

Anyway, to make a long story slightly longer, when I turned off my shower, I heard this continuous buzzing of the doorbell and knocking on my door. I always kind of pray desperately in those situations that whoever it is will just get the snot away from me, but the urgency of the knocking made me think otherwise. Trust me when I say no one loves answering the door soaking wet more than I, so after some impressive cursing, I managed to throw on a robe and some slippers and dripped my way down the stairs to my front door to have this conversation:

Downstairs Neighbor's Girlfriend: Hey, we're having a water problem down here.
Me: What's wrong?
GF: Well, we called your mother, but basically the drains are all backed up and the water is bubbling up into Jim's shower.
Me: Gross.
GF: Yeah I think your shower was making it worse, so don't run any water please.
Me: Sure no problem.
GF: Were you taking a shower?
Me: ... *looks down at wet robe*... What?
GF: Yeah, don't do that.
Me: Right.

I mean, I really, truly enjoy statements of the obvious. Used either ironically or just in everyday speech, I find them to kind of be hilarious. I have an odd sense of humor, but there it is. However, when problems are afoot and I would give my right arm for a towel, for some reason it just makes me surly. It's kind of like saying, "You probably got food poisoning from eating something" or "I bet you don't like bleeding profusely." It elicits a sort of "Good job, asshat" response in me that I normally try to avoid.

Well, I'm sure you're all just on the edge of your seat. Fear not, the drainage problems were caused by tree roots. I know, it totally makes sense. I hate Nature.

I'm back I think. Am I back? Oh hell, I don't know.

I write this post for several reasons. A) Brandon sassed me about not writing about whatever it is I write about, B) Liz asked nicely and C) I realized today what it must feel like to be insane.

First things first, quick recap. During the last year I have:

1. Gotten a job at a catalog company wherein I write and edit copy and manage marketing stuffs.
2. Moved into a new apartment which I'm renting from my parents. This means that my mother can scamper in there at any point in her day and she totally does. Just a few days ago I discovered two random lamps.
3. Watched a key to my apartment pass through my mother's hands and on to the plumber, AC man, two of her friends, and some guy named Rudy. It took me 3 weeks to get one from her.
4. Decided to apply to get an MBA. I'm not through yet and I'm rockin' the South. Just visited New York and though I love my peoples, I don't like dirty things.
5. Dated and dumped/been broken up with by two boys. Both lovely, attractive people, proving yet again that there IS something wrong with me. Take THAT, self-esteem!!
6. Gained a hippie hairstylist who believes that I'm naturally very intuitive. He wants to teach me how to swing dance. And read my chakras.
7. Officially become Amy's maid-of-honor, my highest goal in life. I strive to make her wedding day run smoothly and promise not to get drunk off my ass until 10 pm.
8. Bought a stocking for my pumpkin. His name is Edgar.

So that about sums that up. And I think #8 is a perfect place to start to explain my brush with insanity today. I decided today was the day I would finally get my father's birthday present, as well as gifts for my coworkers. As I'm typing this I realize I forgot one, which makes my left eye twitch a tiny bit, but I'll worry about that later. Post buying books and CDs, I moseyed on over to the café to purchase a life-affirming pumpkin spice latte and some holiday tea and encountered who I think might have been the stupidest employee I've ever met. Don't get me wrong, she was a real sweetheart and I'm not usually impatient so overall the interaction didn't bother me, but she did manage to mess up pretty much everything she could have. She also charged the girl behind for a random membership when all she wanted was mints, but I'll get to that later. As a result of her coworker having to remake everything the Blondie* had done, I had ample opportunity to stand and observe. It was a red-letter day. I tried to buy two tins of tea, she asked me if I wanted them hot (Me: "I don't get it..."). I try to buy a sandwich cold, the girl toasts it.

At some point some guy named Rick came over to correct a financial transaction Blondie had attempted (see above: mints v. membership). In that moment I was reminded of a skit on SNL I had seen with Amy Poehler where she plays a young girl with an uncle Rick (Horatio Sans). In the skit she makes this guttural scream of sorts trying to get Rick's attention, saying, "Rick! Rick! Rick! Riiiiiiiiiiiick!" I find this sketch very amusing and had an almost uncontrollable urge to mimic Amy's gut wrenching yell. I actually do it quite often, but you know, at home with my family or something. Never in public and never with a large group of strangers whom it would be impossible to explain myself to. And it wasn't the original impetus that worries me, it was the difficulty I had stopping myself. Even when I realized what it was I was doing, I almost couldn't block the sound. It was akin to being at a party and halfway through asking a woman when the baby's due, you realize she's just fat but you have to finish the statement. You know it's wrong but your mind's on autopilot. I think that must be how crazy people are, except without all the self-awareness and latte buying. To be honest, it might have been worth socially ostracizing myself for the shocked looks, but that doesn't make me insane. It makes me "eccentric". Stop judging me.

* Not a judgment, she really was blond. With lots and lots of electric blue eye shadow. Viva la 80s.

Best Phone Call Received This Month

Oh yes, my friends, all capitalized. So I rolled my ankle in soccer about a week ago and the little bastard hasn't gotten any better. I could blame the seven carafes of coffee I drink a day or the fact that my family is naturally at risk for osteoporosis or that I never really remember to take my calcium supplement. Or I could blame it on the fact that I have such delicate joints, but really that's not the point is it? The point is that I was prompted to give CVS a ring today to see whether or not they had ankle bracers. Too many times have their "medical supplies" spurned me. I don't know what they carry at that store, but I can tell you that it includes a hella amount of cough suppressants, toothpaste, and condoms. Fool proof strategy. Anyway, thought I'd check with the store before actually scampering over there to have my heart broken yet again by their version of "first aid". Aide. Whatever, you know what I mean. This conversation was short and sweet and ragingly hilarious to me, so much so that I actually told 3 other coworkers about it, all of who couldn't have cared less. So maybe you'll find it amusing:

Guy: "Hi you've reached CVS on Irving Blvd, Jason speaking."
Me: "Hey, do you carry ankle bracers?"
Jason: "Sure. What is it for?"
Me: "... ... ... Really? I mean, my ankle?"
JJ: "No no, do you want the flexible one or the one with the little sticks?"
Me: "Flexible."
J-man: "Please hold."
**a short time later**
Jay: "We have a few kinds that range in price from $18 to $18."
Me: "... Wow. Thanks for your help!"

And that was pretty much it. In other news, I am now heading up marketing for my company due to a medical leave of absence on the part of our VP of Marketing and Human Resources. Since I've never done it before and since this woman didn't write anything down, it's certainly been interesting, but for now it's not overly complicated since I've outright ignored the need for press releases and instead worked on sending out products and images for editorial "credit" (by which they mean vague acknowledgement, but to a magazine person it's like the Holy Grail). Today I got a request from a person named Mikki (pronounced "Mikey") who sounded like she was 12. I realize that Mikki/Mikey may not have seen our magazine, but she must know something about to have all of the requisite information. It was just an odd exchange because when she asked for the image, she asked for "preferably something professionally done, but I'll take a high res image".

Okay, if you are a CATALOG COMPANY you only have professional photos. Me taking my digicam out into the warehouse and shooting some dusty candelabra in an unlit corner just isn't going to cut the so-called mustard. Maybe I should offer her a high res crayon drawing done by a 6 year old, but little Billy was taken away by the feds when they found out we had been working him 15 hours a day and all of his little crayons were worn down to their stubby ends. And now I can't even remember what I was talking about.

Its like my own teeny plague

I know I haven't posted in a while, but I'm posting now out of desperation.

There is a fly in my office that is, and I'm not kidding about this, the size of a small cat. That bastard has been living in here and whizzing around my head for about a month now and I think I've finally reached the limit of my patience. He brought all of his little friends in last night and guess what? I opened up a big ol' bottle of pain with my Napa Style because it's the ugliest catalog I have ever seen and the man who owns it quotes himself. That's just ridiculous, but I digress. I thought I had gotten the ringleader too, but he's back and I think he's angry. Frankly, I'm frightened for my life and everyone is out of the office until tomorrow morning. Any suggestions on how I'm going to kill the biggest fly I've ever seen are welcome. In the meantime, I have adopted this strategy:

1. Scream like a little girl every time it comes within 5 feet of me.
2. Try to squelch screams to maintain my aura of professionalism.
3. Valiantly take a swing at it with my Napa Style, Harvest 2005 edition. Yeah, I'll "Celebrate the Flavor of Life", Michael. Jerk.
4. Return to crying softly over my lean cuisine because I have been out thought and out maneuvered by a fly for OVER A MONTH.