Only Nola

So This Is Work…

First things first. Work gets me up at o'darkfuckingthirty every morning. That right there is going to be the death of me. There, I said it. Call me spoiled. Lazy. Sedentary. Whatever. Just don't call me at 5:15 a.m. and expect to get much more than a grunt and a shoe thrown in your general direction.

Now for the rest of it.

I have my own great big desk/work area. This tickles me. I know, I know... it's a small thing, really, to most normal-thinking people. But to me? One step closer to my ultimate goal of world domination. Today the desk, tomorrow? THE KNOWN UNIVERSE!

(...)

Anyway. The people, by and large, seem really glad to see me (apparently they'd been divvying up (how the fuck does one spell 'divvying'? It's not really even a word, for crying out loud, so can't I just spell it the way I want? Like it would stop me if you said no. HA.) the receptionist/administrative assistant's duties since she left and were thoroughly sick and fucking tired of it. Gee, does that bode ill for little ol' me?), so that's always a bonus. The downside? Since chicky left the job on short notice, there's no one there to really train me, so it's a wacky roller coaster ride of learn-as-you-go-and-guess-if-you-have-to-while-worrying-about-the-fallout-later FUN. I have several people contributing to the training, but mostly?

Helloooooooooo, seat of my pants!

Not my first choice for ways to start a new job, since I'm all type-A and like my plans and organized paths and ORDER, but it'll all work out. One hopes. It'll either work out or you'll read about some woman having a psychotic break in the middle of an office in Missouri and taking out her co-workers with sporks.

Then there's the office policy on smoking. Two breaks a day. One cigarette in the morning, one in the afternoon. Ack. I'm not a chain smoker, by any means, but still... that will take SO much getting used to. Not as much as next year, when the company is apparently planning on going TOTALLY non-smoking (on the GROUNDS! Can't even smoke OUTSIDE!), but we don't even want to think about that right now. What, are they on a mission to kill me? Save me from cancer just to give me a freaking nervous breakdown?

But I digress.

There are about a kabillion people working in this office, and getting all their names, much less the accompanying extension numbers, memorized is going to give me an aneurysm to go along with the nervous breakdown. I'm giving it a shot, and doing pretty well with it, all things considered, but it's definitely not easy. I have a co-worker who sits in a cubicle on the other side of my work area that, for some reason known only to the other voices in her head, likes to fire off 'what's HIS name?' and 'who was SHE?' as people walk by. A pop quiz. I'm not kidding. She's appointed herself my animated memory tester and is applying herself to her task with fervor and utter glee.

I may have to kill her. Even if her name IS Nola. No, I'm not kidding. Irony, anyone?

I really like a lot of my co-workers, though. And the boss seems like a great guy. There's going to be a lot more to my job than I had suspected, so it's going to definitely keep me on my toes and offer some challenges. Not the least of which is understand half the people who call in on the kabillion line phone system. No, I'm not going off on a tangent about the English language thing again. NOT. (...) Must. resist. URGE.

Moving on.

I get an hour for lunch, which is nice. Time to actually go somewhere decent for food as opposed to scarfing down some inedible pile of shit from whatever place can serve me the fastest without technically poisoning me. And, really, isn't there a fine line between poison and acute gastrointestinal distress? I think there is. I hope there is. Either way, I'm spared that at this place.

And, FYI? I'm not above a little bribery in the name of goodwill and job security. I came home last night, tired and cranky after too little sleep and a high dose of nerves, and what did I do? Baked cookies. Why did I bake cookies? To take to work and cram down the throats of unsuspecting co-workers, of course. Hey, hard to take out a hit on a chick that brings you homemade cookies.

Right? RIGHT?

So, overall, I'm thrilled to be there (whether you got that from the above paragraphs or not) and am looking forward to a long and shining term of employment. Or at least being sufficiently perky and charming to ensure that they won't fire me, no matter how many files I accidentally feed into the shredder. One of those. I'm hoping to make a few friends and avoid anyone who seems to be taking an active dislike to me. I know, I know, it's hard to imagine, but it DOES happen.

Oh, and before I forget? I found a new pet peeve. Like I needed another one. Our phone system is one of those that when someone calls, first they get the automated thing that tells them to enter their party's extension at ANY TIME. Well, surprisingly enough I get an alarming number of calls that LISTEN to that message and still insist on pressing '0' for the operator (yeah, that would also be one of my functions), and then? When I answer, they tell me 'I need extension blah blah blah'.

(...)

You're fucking kidding me, right? You did NOT just deliberately pass up the opportunity to DIAL that extension just to talk to someone who is here for those people who DON'T know their party's extension and make that aforementioned someone (again, ME, people!) dial it FOR you? DID you? DID YOU? What fucking planet are you FROM? Twatopia? Fucktardolio? You know the extension, dial it your fucking SELF. It's not much harder than pressing that ZERO that you hit to get ME on the line.

I swear, some people just beg for it, you know?

Can't wait to see what tomorrow brings.

Shit, didn't get around to writing about the Volkswagen commercial thing that cracked me up. Will have to try and fit it in the next post. Assuming there is a next post.

Always the optimist.

One Eye Open

Just so everyone knows, I'm still alive. More or less. My eyes are nearly glued shut and I'm pretty sure I'll end up slumped over my desk (with a lovely puddle of drool... what humiliation would be complete without drool?) before the day is over, but I'm alive.

Not alive enough to write an actual post right now, but how much can you ask for at this ungodly hour?

I just wanted everyone to know I'll try and fill you in on all the details this evening. I will. As usual, I make no promises, but the INTENT is there. See how much that makes you feel better? Good intentions.

*wanders off while muttering about the road to hell*

Man, I’m Handy

What a weekend it's turning out to be. First off, Friday (which, for the purposes of this post, will be considered part of the weekend. Don't quibble.) I went and had myself a little pampering at the spa. Sure, technically it's money better spent elsewhere (like the lawyer bill I got that I wasn't expecting. Don't get me started on that. Really.), but a) I've been in constant neck/shoulder pain since the painting of the house/loading of all the heavy furniture (making a deep tissue massage not a want, but rather a necessity. See how that works?), and b) I'd like to go into work Monday feeling like a million bucks, rather than a dollar and change. So I went and had a facial and the massage and was happy as the proverbial clam. I just went selectively blind when signing the credit card slip at the front desk. Some things I don't need to see.

Then yesterday the REAL fun started.

Got up yesterday morning to a relatively happy husband. That's always a bonus. This state lasted, oh, about half an hour. Then, for reasons that are beyond me, my husband opted to check our home phone. Bear in mind, we never use our home phone. We only have it in case of emergency. We live on our cell phones. Some of us more than others. *coughs* Anyway... he went to check the home phone and found, wonder of wonders, that it wasn't working. Again. I don't think I shared this with you guys in earlier posts (although I could be wrong... haven't had caffeine yet to any degree), but when we first moved in we went through a week and a half of hell (and multiple service calls/tech visits) trying to get our damned cable company to fix whatever problem existed that was preventing our phone line from connecting with the outside world. Finally, this last Monday, I got someone on the phone that got me an actual DIAL TONE! I was thrilled. Little did I know, since I don't use that phone to speak of, at some point between Monday and yesterday morning?

Phone fucking quit working again.

Well, now we get to Jonathan's discovering this little factoid. Have I mentioned my husband's temper recently? It's a factor. The man was PISSED. My mellow, happy-to-be-home-after-a-week-on-the-road husband was gone, replaced instead by the now-someone-must-die-and-I-don't-much-care-who husband that I makes me want to shoot him on general principle. And, of course, this was magnified by the fact that the phone's inoperative state necessitated a call to...

Customer service.

I know I've posted about THAT before. I even mentioned the eternal hold on that post about things that irritate me. Well, if it irritates me, it positively consumes my other half. We're talking stomping, screaming, cell-phone-throwing mad. This did not bode well for my weekend. Or his phone's.

I decide, in a bald act of self-preservation, that I'd rather be anywhere but in the house right about then. So what do I choose to do?

Mow the damned yard.

Yeah, that's right. Me and the new lawn mower got to know each other on a deep and personal level. It's a self-propelled mower, by the way. Which is totally unfamiliar territory to me. I've always had regular, throw-your-back-out mowers that fight me every step of the way. Again... don't tell me it's not personal. But as I was saying. Self-propelled. This is, of course, supposed to be a great thing.

(...)

I'm sure it is, once one is used to it. But initially? Not so much. Just ask my planter on the front sidewalk. It, too, met my new self-propelled mower. Briefly. After being plowed into and left like roadkill. WHAT?!?! Damned mower was possessed and just dragging me along like so much window dressing. Is it MY fault the fucker decided to take out a hit on my planter? Sure, it could be argued that it's my fault for not remembering to let go of the little trigger thingy that activates the self-propelled function... but really, that would just be wrong. I was an innocent bystander in a wanton act of violence perpetrated by TroyBilt. And the inhabitant of said planter?

I didn't like that plant anyway.

So, industrious person that I am, I mowed not only the front yard (which is all the general public sees anyway, so...), but the back, as well. We've got a .28 acre lot, so it's not tiny. I ALSO trimmed and edged around the privacy fence, both patios, the front flower bed, the downspouts, a/c unit... you get the picture. I was a lawn working demon. (First person to chime in on THAT one is just asking for it.) Then, needless to say, there's all the sweeping of the aforementioned patios to clear them of grass and miscellaneous shit that gets thrown from hell to breakfast when one mows the yard. And FYI? Grass doesn't like to be swept off the concrete. Actively resists the process. I came close to just setting the whole mess on fire. 'Cause, you know, no mowing problems then. Let's go desert landscape. Gobi.

Then, since I am certainly a glutton for punishment, I chained myself to the kitchen for a couple of hours making spaghetti. And, in a piece of fucking IRONY... forgot my own rule after we ate. We'll now be having leftover GLUE for dinner tonight. I don't want to talk about it.

Then, last night, the final straw on the ambitious camel's back... assembling our new lawn swing thingy (the kind with the canopy and all... let me see if I can find a link to it... well, of COURSE not. Sure, it was there a couple of weeks ago, but now? When I want to share? Phhhttt.). The instructions say it should take 45 minutes for two people to put this thing together.

(...)

Is that in dog years? 'Cause, seriously? Two able bodied people (me and my, for the minute still breathing, husband... we qualify) spent the better part of, oh, about an hour and a half? Roughly? Getting that bitch together. Now, my husband would argue that it was a pointless endeavor because, honestly, who needs a fucking SWING? My husband, it goes without saying, would be WRONG. Worlds of wrong. It was so worth it. I adore that swing. It's a three-seater, full canopy, has lovely comfy cushions... what's not to like? I stretched out in it last night after all was said and done and happily rocked back and forth while staring up at imaginary stars. Overcast night, you know. Still, it was the point. Had there been stars, I could have stared at them. You really just have to get into the spirit of the thing.

Today I have some office organizing to do, a trip to Lowe's to consider, some laundry to battle into submission, and, last but not least, the first day of work to gear up for. That's tomorrow, for those of you not paying attention. Which I'm sure is none of you. You all positively hang on my every word.

Right?

That’s MISS Employed to You!

Yes, by God, I do have a job. HA! And you thought I'd be a hermit FOREVER! Nope. I now am one of the ranks of the disgruntled working class. You know what this means, right? New material! Fodder for the ever-growing garden of my bitter! Co-workers, for fuck's sake! What more could a blogger ask for?

Money!

The pay at the new job is good, but even better are the benefits. Finding a job in this day and age with good benefits is like finding a teenage girl that owns a shirt that hits below her rib cage. But I did it! The company pays 100% of my medical and dental insurance. Beat that! And? AND? NO DEDUCTIBLE. I may just have to blow someone out of sheer gratitude. 'Cause, okay... benefits. If I hear the word 'pension', well... what comes after a blow job?

JUST KIDDING, HONEY!

*ahem*

Where was I? Ah, yes. So, I start work Monday. This means, of course, that somewhere between now and Sunday night one of us (and if you guess the one that is currently typing, you're brighter than they all say you are) will be out doing a wee bit of clothes shopping. Validated clothes shopping. Totally justified shopping. Because, really, I don't want the new clothes. Please, please, NOT the new clothes! But the job? In an office? Well, simply screams for some new clothes. Completely beyond my control. I am at the mercy of the fates. Or J. Crew. Something. Hellooooooooooo, outlet mall! And shoes! I need SHOES!

My credit card is shuddering and hiding behind my social security card as we speak. YOU CAN RUN, BUT YOU CAN'T HIDE! Pussy.

Well, I just thought I'd... oh, do I detect a slight whiff of 'What the hell is your JOB?' out there? Sorry. I got distracted. Blow jobs and all that. (Again... JUST KIDDING, HONEY!) I'm the personal assistant to both the owner and the president of sales, plus the receptionist when my duties permit. Coolio. I can so do that. Apparently my sparkling personality convinced them I'd be wonderful in a position where I have public interaction and handle large amounts of customer service. *falls over* Well, how good am I that they have no idea what a bitter bitch I really am? Can I get an Oscar for that? Seriously, though, I'm excellent with customer service and the whole meet and greet thing. It's only when their back is turned and our business is concluded that they have to keep one eye peeled and check the status on their life insurance.

"Who dat behind dat tree?"

Heh.

Tag… I’m It

I've been officially tagged. This, in and of itself, wouldn't normally be a problem, since I'm the queen of ignoring any and all emails/posts that require me to submit to any form of lists/questionnaires/actual effort, but in this case? I've been tagged by someone that I can't ignore, for her wrath is mighty and her insanity rivaled only by my own. Hence...

Twenty things that irritate me... (oh, this should be interesting. Limit me, why don't you)

(in no particular order... would you ask me to choose my favorite child?):

1) Apres-Cheeto finger. You know, the condition that develops when the orange pseudo-cheese funk from a Cheeto clings to your fingertips, rendering you both digitally lame (what can you touch with that shit on your fingers without causing serious blechitude? Another Cheeto. That's it.) and hideously unattractive. Sure, you have the option of sucking it off of your fingers, but then? Apres-Cheeto TOOTH. We won't even go there.

2) Commando cat litter. That shit (no pun intended) lurks everywhere. It hides in the crevices of your cats' paws and then insidiously dislodges itself in strategic places (where you would LEAST want it) all around the house. Like, oh... your BED, your kitchen floor, the dining room TABLE (where the little fuckers weren't supposed to be ANYWAY, but when you're not there, they're totally having a party on your table. I'm. not. KIDDING.)... the list is endless. Soon I'm sure I'll be finding it in my box of Cap'n Crunch. Litter... it's what's for breakfast.

3) Mullets. Just... mullets.

4) The eternal 'hold'. Call into random utility company to speak to a customer service rep in order to discuss, in detail, just how much their company sucks, and get subjected to an indefinite (and possibly seizure inducing) barrage of Muzak and 'helpful hints', while the customer service reps, I feel sure, are all pointing at the blinking lights on the phones and snickering. At me. Don't tell ME it's not personal.

5) Clasps on necklaces that require a magnifying glass, blowtorch, and Tinkerbell to get done and undone. Who the fuck DESIGNS these things? Call me strange, but I actually expect to be able to work the latch on the necklace WITHOUT the help of an act of GOD. Is that so much to ask?

6) Pencil thin eyebrows. Because, really? Did that ever look good on anyone?

7) The penis-afflicted people on the interstates/highways that drive like they're narcoleptic UNTIL you start to pass them, then suddenly turn into Mario Freaking Andredi. See, this is why rocket launchers should be legal.

8) Packages you get at the grocery store that say 'tear here to open'... and then DON'T. Sure, I have scissors, but that's not the point, now IS IT? That's okay, though... nothing spells 'open' like running over the fucker with. my. CAR.

9) Hearing that lovely, metallic, rattling noise while vacuuming that lets me know, a WEE bit too late, that the cats have once again knocked one of my earrings off into the carpet. And one guess as to which one of us is NOT spending an evening rooting through the vacuum cleaner bag in order to liberate said earring? Lazy... wasteful... blah blah blah. It's a bag of DIRT, people. I can always buy new earrings. Right after I kill the cats.

10) The fact that I can't operate the call-waiting on my new cell phone without losing both parties that are trying to talk to me. It hates me. Seriously. It's taunting me.

11) Mail in rebates. Otherwise known as 'you'll get your money back when HELL FREEZES OVER'. They act like they're these benevolent Gods of commerce, really, really concerned for your financial well-being, willing to give you the very SHIRTS off their BACKS... but the truth is that they're the same money-grubbing assbags that they've always been and will fight you tooth and nail to avoid paying out that ever-so-slightly unobtainable rebate. It's always something hiding in the fine print that allows them to bend you over and make you squeal like a pig. You know the fine print in that contract that Willy Wonka (the original, not that fucked up remake) made those kids sign? The print that a GNAT couldn't read? Same shit.

12) Eating a hamburger (or a chicken nugget, for that matter... it varies) from a fast food place and biting into the mysterious little crunchy (like concrete) bit. What the fuck IS that? Nevermind. I don't want to know.

13) The way that a waiter/waitress is genetically programmed to approach your table at the very minute you've stuffed a large bite into your mouth and are unable to talk. Especially since you really, really needed something but have now been rendered unable to tell them so, which means you'll have to wait, yet again, until their next drive by... which could be roughly the same time you qualify for social freaking SECURITY.

14) Twelve pens in my computer desk drawer... two of them work.

15) The fact that my odds of running into either a) someone I know, or b) someone exceptionally good looking, when I crawl out of my cave to go get gas and milk at the gas station are directly proportionate to how hideous I look at that particular moment.

16) Going anywhere, in the United States, and needing an interpreter. Call me crazy, but I don't want to have to go take classes in Spanish to get my damned happy meal. And that blank stare I get is going to cause me to create an international incident one of these days.

17) People. I can count people as 'things', right?

18) The three most recent Star Wars movies. You know how some women are said to 'get by on their tits'? The latest in the Star Wars series are the film equivalent, only getting by on their special effects instead. Should have left well enough alone. There, I said it. Bite me.

19) When someone eats the last of something and doesn't tell me. I go in, totally craving my Little Debbie cakes. I reach for the box... hello, what's this? NO CAKES? That's it... someone's going DOWN.

20) Fleas. Sneaky bastards. They jump on you, bite you, flip you off and bounce off to God knows where... all at the speed of light. Try to catch one. Go ahead... try. Smug little fuckers are laughing at you. Taunting you. Most likely drinking your scotch and running up your phone bill when you're not looking, too. And the worst part? Even if you do catch one, they almost always get away since they're almost impossible to smoosh. They don't even have the decency to do THAT right. Noooooooo... you have to either set their sorry asses on FIRE, pull them apart with fingernails (collective 'ewwwwwwwwwwww', anyone?), or flush them to the eternal toilet hell to get rid of them. And the fire thing? Really not an effective option. They're too fast and you'll most likely end up burning your house down before you kill a single flea. At which point they'll break out the marshmallows and make plans to follow you to the insane asylum.

God, this post wasn't good for me. Now I'm pissed off over things I'm not even dealing with at the moment.

Gee, THANKS, Holly.

Might As Well Go Naked

So I'm at the mall today for my daily dose of frustration. Actually, the frustration started the day before yesterday... I should back up and go through this in as brief a fashion as possible. Yeah, right. Anyway. Two days ago I went out to get in the Blazer to make the LAST trip to the house, right? Stick the key in the ignition (can't get far without that). Turn the aforementioned key.

And we ALL know what's coming...

Instead of the lovely sound of a motor turning over, I got nothing but a series of loud and blood pressure boosting clicks. Clickclickclickclickclickclick... repeat indefinitely until the key is turned back. I sit there, already roasting in the non-airconditioned (due to the nonrunningness) vehicle, pondering just what ELSE can go wrong. The long and short of it was (because this part of the story is just background, and we really don't all need to hear the ins and outs of my trip to the mechanic) that my battery had decided, between the night before and early that morning, to die. And to do it at as inconvenient a time as was possible. Batteries? Totally have penis... penises... peni... God, I hate that word.

Anyhoo. This feeds into my day today because, lo and behold, the anti-theft device that some brainiac (I'm SURE with a penis... not a doubt in my mind) designed and installed in my Blazer's stereo system? Locks up if/when the power ever goes out. Like, oh, say... when a battery goes belly fucking UP. That, astoundingly enough, qualifies as loss of power. Which means that my stereo not only won't play tunes, it also won't display the time. Why? I guess because a criminal who can see what time it is becomes somehow much more of a threat. Sees it's approaching 6:00 and he hasn't hit his quota of caps in asses for the day and randomly shoots someone or something. I don't know. Don't ask me. I don't have a penis.

There is, of course, a way to fix this. A secret double-knot-spy code that one can input and free up the stereo from the evil 'LOC' that is permanently glaring at one from the dashboard now. The trick to this? One must have the code before one can use the code. I called my husband and told him what had happened. I called GM to see what I could do. They said see a dealer. Fees would be involved. Blah blah blah.

So yesterday I was busy doing unpacking and more painting and whatnot and didn't get to it. This morning I went to the dealership and was surprised (almost to the point of heart attack) to find myself both a)dealt with quickly (was in and out of there in FIVE minutes) and b)dealing with a person who is obviously unfamiliar with the mechanics' code that states clearly that a mechanic must, at all times, rip off any and all clients possible by charging them insane amounts of money. He fixed my radio and did NOT charge me. I think I may love him.

So then it was off to the T-Mobile store to trade in my phone that fell apart. Long story. NOT my fault. They don't even MAKE this phone anymore, it's so not my fault. Defective piece of shit, I tell you. So I'm now the proud owner of some super-mondo, technologically advanced (meaning I won't be able to do shit with it), obviously unnecessary cell phone upgrade. And by the way? I now, much to my dismay, know what Bluetooth is and fell victim to its marketing charms. Bastards.

THEN, finally, it was off to the mall. (I'm feeling now like I should have split this into two or three separate posts. Hindsight, people... the bane of my existence) I had to pick up some things for me, some shoes for Monkey Butt (a.k.a. Connor... picky, picky), a Strawberry Julius (okay, so that wasn't really so much a need, but... it's all according to perspective, now isn't it?)... you know, the usual.

I decided to, once again, look for some work appropriate clothing to buy. I wanted The Limited. I had been told that it was closed merely for remodeling. They said it would reopen the second week of August.

(...)

LIARS!

I went into Express (which is a sister store to The Limited, FYI) to ask random fish-lipped employee-type female when the Limited would reopen. I was informed that, so far as she knew, it was NOT, in fact, reopening at all. Closing permanently. I wanted to weep. Weep, I tell you. I'm standing there in the middle of a sea of sequins and satin and spandex ('cause the world doesn't see nearly enough camel toes. Really.), dreading the possibility of seeing, up close and personal, the softer side of Sears. Then Miss Fish Lips says 'We DO have The Work Zone' (I swear to GOD, you could HEAR the capital letters when she said it. Like it was the second coming or something. I think she needs medication and an intervention. She actually said, to a male employee we passed on our way back to The Work Zone (I'm making myself ill even repeating the term, for fuck's sake), 'Hey, will you watch MY ZONE for me?', since apparently walking me to the back of the store was tantamount to abandoning one's post and punishable by immediate immersion in polyester. I swear, Express is starting to terrify me.) and waved her hand to point at the back of the store. So back we went.

At first glance, it didn't seem bad. Wasn't exactly what I wanted, but could have been worse. I then see a button up shirt that bears investigating. I approach said shirt. I ooh and ahhh over the texture. It's so soft. It's a nice sedate pinstripe. Not a sequin in sight. Good basic colors (woohoo! No fuchsia!). The price is high, but bordering bearable. Then it happens...

I'd made the mistake of sliding my hand up inside the shirt to test the weight of the material and see how it drapes. My attention was grabbed by an immediate problem. I'm generally not used to being in an office, ANY office, and seeing through people's shirts. I'm pretty sure I'd have noticed. Something about the random appearance of strange nipples that tends to burn itself into one's retinas. It's not just me. Ask anyone. Especially if they have a penis. See through shirts? Make a statement. The statement is usually 'You need a DATE?', but a statement nonetheless.

This shirt had narrow bands, about every other QUARTER INCH, of a sheer material. This is, remember, back in 'The WORK Zone'. Work WHERE? Tramp Depot? Sluts-a-Million? Ewhore?

I have nothing against the shirt per se. Great shirt. In your free (or possibly just heavily discounted) time. In the workplace? Unless you're planning on blowing your way to the top, think coverage. My problem here isn't in the shirt, it's in its placement. In 'The WORK Zone'. And they say that with A STRAIGHT FACE. And fish lips.

The best part (from a personal validation viewpoint) was when I scanned the rest of The Work Zone to see the other offerings. My personal favorite? The fuchsia satin, sleeveless, deep V necked shirt with these sequined band thingies running diagonal under each breast... like an empire waist that was in a tragic sewing accident. I took one look at that and pretty much decided that I have, officially, lost all hope for the generation coming up behind me.

I'm waiting for them to next come up with the suit update... you know, the sequined thong with matching bolero jacket and briefcase. For the CEO on the go with a great bikini wax...

God help us all.

I’m NOT Crazy, Dammit!

You know how you walk into your kitchen sometimes (generally because you're hungry... it's funny how that works) and could swear there's nothing to eat? Maybe a can of lima beans and a half empty box of stale croutons? (Which, by the way, do NOT go well together. Trust me on this one.) I have the solution to this problem.

Just act like you're packing up to move.

Suddenly, you'll find yourself with enough food to stuff an entire starving horde of Marines. (Assuming you don't have any other uses for them. I'm not naming any names here or anything *coughs*Holly*coughs*, but I might know some women who'd find new and fascinating ways to feed Marines that have nothing whatsoever to do with actual groceries...)

When we started gearing up for the move, I was confident it would take minimal effort to pack up my kitchen. I was overdue for a trip to the store, so things were a little bare (which works well for me in this particular situation. One can't move groceries if one doesn't have groceries. See the logic?) and I was figuring it would take maybe half an hour... two or three boxes, tops.

(...)

I was off. Off by a lot. Can we say 'exponentially? But it's totally not my fault. Seriously. Pay attention, people. I'm about to broaden your mind. Expand your horizons. Make you get a restraining order. Um... Where was I?

Apparently I am the proud owner of magic green beans. I had maybe three or four cans the other day. Max. When it came time to pack the kitchen? Eleven, count them, ELEVEN cans of green beans. ELEVEN, for fuck's sake. What do I look like, the Jolly Green GIANT? Who in God's name needs ELEVEN cans of green beans? The same thing happened with my soup supply (nine, count them, NINE cans of beef broth... FOR THE LOVE OF GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD!), my boxed pasta mixes (don't ask), my cornbread mixes (yeah, I cheat and use a mix... BITE ME); the list is endless. I can't prove it, but I have a theory that I think holds water...

There's a portal in the back of my cabinets. It leads to an alternate universe peopled by beings that use canned and boxed grocery items as weapons of mass destruction. They're busily back there pelting me with suspicious amounts of soggy canned vegetables, which would, at first glance, seem like an amazingly helpful and generous thing to do. BUT. Knowing (like I do) that these things are actually deadly in their world, I am able to see these actions for what they are.

Fuckers are trying to kill me.

It appears that the bad luck and constant stream of drama that I have enjoyed in my life can no longer sustain itself on the meager resources of our planet and has been forced to recruit... legume and starch wielding aliens. For backup. And just to completely fuck with my head.

It was only a matter of time.

Outside the Box

There may not be a single one of you who will care for this little departure of mine, but what the heck. I felt like putting up something I wrote not long ago, so here it is. Those of you who feel an immediate desire to throw up or run screaming into the nether regions of the internet can rest easy that this probably won't happen often.

Ready?

Thoroughly Insulated

Behind the door
safely locked
and the shades
drawn tight

I live.

My world has contracted...
slowly withered
to roughly
twelve hundred square feet.

I like it here
in the shadows...
feels like sleep.
It's safe here
in my own little bubble,
with no one piercing me
pricking me
taking pieces of me away.
No discord exists
within these walls
not like the world
the peephole shows me...

outside.

It's too loud.
The light hurts my eyes
and there are people
always people
who pack pain and disappointment
in their pockets
and give out handfulls
to all that pass too close.

Like me.

Thank you, but no.
I'll stay right here
in a tight little ball
cocooned in the dark;
leave all that messiness
risk
and misery
to the rest of you.

It's quiet here.

Well... wasn't that festive?

Cross-Eyed

Houston, we have liftoff. Sort of. I'm officially internet connected again (as of last night, not SATURDAY like it was ORIGINALLY INTENDED... does nothing in my life go according to plan? Not if the cable company has anything to say about it. Bastards.). Anywaaaaaaaaaaaay. Most of the moving is done (most meaning 'we won't count the two or three trips I still have to make with the car to get that miscellaneous bullshit that, somehow? Is ALWAYS left over at the end of a move. What the FUCK? I have a theory about that which involves portals and alien life forms, but I won't get into that now. No time.), at least as far as the heavy shit and major appliances, but... well, you know, a move is never really done. I'm sure I'll be finding that 'ONE more box that needs to be unpacked' when I'm freaking NINETY.

I have, officially, had the longest, most exhausting week imaginable. I hurt in places I didn't even know I had. I'm also in the middle of getting ready for yet another job interview ('cause I didn't already have ENOUGH shit to do today... the unpacking, the cleaning, the let's-make-more-trips-and-just-finish-throwing-our-back-clean-the-fuck-OUT' -ing... nope, it was a slow day, so I decided an interview was just what I needed.), so I don't have time to write about all that's happened this weekend. I'll probably be able to write at least some of it down later. Here's a short list of things I need to be reminded to write about when I have the time:

Self-perpetuating green beans
Lawn-mowing appropriate apparel for drunks (woohoo, new home = new neighbor stories!)
Blame the Chinese
Define Ethernet...

Yeah, I think I'll stop there. *coughs*

Fair Warning

As we all know, due to my recent posts, I'm in the middle of hellpreparations for moving. Today, at some point (good luck on pinning down an exact time), my cable/internet will be disconnected here and turned on at the new place. This is relevant to YOU only because my computer/television sets are still here. We don't move the majority of our things until tomorrow afternoon. Sooooooo... I'll be out of the loop for a day (or possibly two or three... depends on how quickly I get shit unpacked/organized/set on FIRE). No email, no new posts, no Yahoo messenger. It's like freaking Survivor. Sorta. To me, anyway.

I'm getting ready to head back over to the house for more painting (I'm so excited. Really. It's like... like... oh, I wanted to say Christmas Eve but I think a root canal is more accurate.) and cleaning and whatnot. I have my bottle of Resolve, my Clorox Clean Up, and large amounts of Ibuprofen. I've got, um... all of one bedroom, three quarters of another bedroom, all the edging (and possibly a second coat on two of the walls) in a third bedroom, edging in the bathrooms, the entire hallway and entryway AND the edging in the dining room to try and finish today. Do you see this happening? No? Well, we'll just see about that. Assuming I don't have to make another trip to Lowe's, anything is possible.

Everyone cross their fingers in the hope that nothing gets dropped/mauled/battered beyond recognition during the move tomorrow. Pretty sure my heart couldn't take it. And where would you all be without me?

LOST, I tell you!