Monday, December 31, 2007
And a Happy New Year....
Yup, it's like last year. I'm in sick and in my pajamas. I'm home this time, though, not in Glenburn playing Scattergories. It's OK. I just had a ridiculously expensive meal that made me ill. Totally wasn't worth it, either. So, I'm blogging in the new year. Woo hoo. Hope all of you are alive and well and reading this well into tomorrow, if not later (because, if you were to read this right now, you'd be just as lame as me). Tschuss!
To the jackass typing in spanish
Get the fuck off my blog. That's why I deleted "The 'Burbs" post (I couldn't delete just the comment.) Any-hoo, I apologize for the word verification added to the blog, but Juan Carlos made it necessary. I know, using Juan Carlos probably isn't very p.c. But, if it was in German, I'd use fritz helmut. Seriously.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Merry Christmas!
How was your holiday? Mine was rather uneventful, aside from the animal farm frenzy. I decided it would be a good idea to take cram my jeep full of four suitcases, three cats, two brothers and one dog for the 225 mile trip (had to swing through the hometown to get brother no. 2).
I made it all the way to the hometown (45 miles into the trip) before anyone in the car shat themselves. Luckily, Esme managed to wait to relieve herself on the leather seats until I pulled into my parents' driveway. After a quick cleanup with some paper towels and windex (hey, the water was shut off, I didn't know what else to do), we added a litterbox to the mix and headed north. Brother no. 2 drove so I could sit in back and do some animal control.
At about mile 90, I reached over to pet Oscar and discovered some crust on his fur. Crust. A/k/a dried poop. Yes, Oscar regaled us with a dump of his own in his cat bed and ever so discreetly hid by laying atop of it. We pulled over so I could clean him up with some water and some more paper towels and Brothers 1 and 2 could get some fresh air. I rinsed off my hands with some bottled water and waited to put my hands near my face until I could wash my hands at the nearest gas station (only 45 minutes away).
Esme slept in the litter box most of the way, but the animals managed to control their bowels for the rest of the trip.
The next day, Ruby threw up in the hallway at the cabin. While she was galloping, apparently. I deduce this because her puke was spread out in a three-foot streak.
We then went for a solid two days without incident. Or, at least without a mess. Huxley spent a good part of each night barking at my brother's bedroom door while I slept blissfully unaware of his attempts to "warn" me of the intruder. Other than that, he relieved himself outside like a champ over the four days we were there.
Finally, it's Christmas Day and time to go home. As I was packing, I noticed that one of the cats had thrown up all over the back of the sofa in the family room. I quietly cleaned up the mess and left. Interestingly, neither of my brothers accepted a ride home with me.
We traveled 180 miles peacefully. And, after we got home, Huxley promptly threw up on the rug.
I'm pretty sure all five of us will not be invited back next year. They may only accept two of us. And, if it comes to a vote, I think I'll lose out to Oscar and Ruby. Yes, it'll be a pity vote and a beauty contest. Me, shitty cat and Barksalot will be at home spinning the dreidel with Tiki.
I made it all the way to the hometown (45 miles into the trip) before anyone in the car shat themselves. Luckily, Esme managed to wait to relieve herself on the leather seats until I pulled into my parents' driveway. After a quick cleanup with some paper towels and windex (hey, the water was shut off, I didn't know what else to do), we added a litterbox to the mix and headed north. Brother no. 2 drove so I could sit in back and do some animal control.
At about mile 90, I reached over to pet Oscar and discovered some crust on his fur. Crust. A/k/a dried poop. Yes, Oscar regaled us with a dump of his own in his cat bed and ever so discreetly hid by laying atop of it. We pulled over so I could clean him up with some water and some more paper towels and Brothers 1 and 2 could get some fresh air. I rinsed off my hands with some bottled water and waited to put my hands near my face until I could wash my hands at the nearest gas station (only 45 minutes away).
Esme slept in the litter box most of the way, but the animals managed to control their bowels for the rest of the trip.
The next day, Ruby threw up in the hallway at the cabin. While she was galloping, apparently. I deduce this because her puke was spread out in a three-foot streak.
We then went for a solid two days without incident. Or, at least without a mess. Huxley spent a good part of each night barking at my brother's bedroom door while I slept blissfully unaware of his attempts to "warn" me of the intruder. Other than that, he relieved himself outside like a champ over the four days we were there.
Finally, it's Christmas Day and time to go home. As I was packing, I noticed that one of the cats had thrown up all over the back of the sofa in the family room. I quietly cleaned up the mess and left. Interestingly, neither of my brothers accepted a ride home with me.
We traveled 180 miles peacefully. And, after we got home, Huxley promptly threw up on the rug.
I'm pretty sure all five of us will not be invited back next year. They may only accept two of us. And, if it comes to a vote, I think I'll lose out to Oscar and Ruby. Yes, it'll be a pity vote and a beauty contest. Me, shitty cat and Barksalot will be at home spinning the dreidel with Tiki.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Relevance
So, I met my new doctor today re: the craziness in my head.
First of all, let me say that it was an odd situation, since we met at a juvenile lock-down facility. To back up about 18 months, my doctor in the Magic City was a child psychiatrist, but all the other doctors were full for months and she took people under 30 on occasion. We met, I liked her, I think she was relieved to talk about something other than ADHD and detention, and we had a successful relationship. When I jumped ship and moved on down the road, I asked for a referral. She referred me to a fellow doctor who practiced in the Capitol City. I didn't even think about it but, of course, her familiarity with doctors in other towns is related to her line of work. So, my new shrink is a child psychiatrist, too, and her office is in juvie hall. Nice.
That being said, she was reviewing my medical records and announced that I had an anxiety disorder. Of course, I knew I used to have anxiety (before the dolls), but it never occurred to my that I had an actual anxiety disorder. I mean, it's not like I had panic attacks or OCD. I mean, the fact that terror would clutch my heart at the thought of driving in traffic in a city of 3 million people didn't seem all that abnormal, even after it went away.
So, it turns out I have the full trifecta of craziness: depression, insomnia and anxiety. And that made me anxious. OK, it didn't, but it'd be funny if it did.
So, after my appointment, I remembered a card I received from my high school science teacher for graduation. It was a full-blown disaster scenario of the graduation ceremony, as predicted by the graduate. I believe it started with a small stumble and ended up with the graduate in the orchestra pit and the ceremony ruined.
The point is, after six years with this teacher [I went to a small school where we had some of the same teachers in junior high and high school, smart asses, and I took at least five science classes over grades 7-12 from him, even though you wouldn't know by from talking to me. I probably still have the award for taking that many science classes in my garage. I'm pretty sure even he is glad I'm not a doctor, after witnessing my inability to grasp anything related to physics. We were building rockets one day in class and he asked me to explain how we would measure the exponential trajectory component (ok, i made that part up). I got to about step three and was stumped. He prodded me for further explanation and I said, "what do I look like, a rocket scientist?" It's probably the only time I'd seen joy in his face, as he was a stone-faced, cynical teacher tired of putting up with shit from snot-nosed kids. It was also the only time that phrase was a relevant part of my lexicon. Anyway, this was a huge tangent. I know it's really distracting...]
Where was I? Oh, the long and the short of it is that he recognized my irrational murphy's law attitude towards life and all things related. It was funny at the time. It's apropos now. And still funny.
First of all, let me say that it was an odd situation, since we met at a juvenile lock-down facility. To back up about 18 months, my doctor in the Magic City was a child psychiatrist, but all the other doctors were full for months and she took people under 30 on occasion. We met, I liked her, I think she was relieved to talk about something other than ADHD and detention, and we had a successful relationship. When I jumped ship and moved on down the road, I asked for a referral. She referred me to a fellow doctor who practiced in the Capitol City. I didn't even think about it but, of course, her familiarity with doctors in other towns is related to her line of work. So, my new shrink is a child psychiatrist, too, and her office is in juvie hall. Nice.
That being said, she was reviewing my medical records and announced that I had an anxiety disorder. Of course, I knew I used to have anxiety (before the dolls), but it never occurred to my that I had an actual anxiety disorder. I mean, it's not like I had panic attacks or OCD. I mean, the fact that terror would clutch my heart at the thought of driving in traffic in a city of 3 million people didn't seem all that abnormal, even after it went away.
So, it turns out I have the full trifecta of craziness: depression, insomnia and anxiety. And that made me anxious. OK, it didn't, but it'd be funny if it did.
So, after my appointment, I remembered a card I received from my high school science teacher for graduation. It was a full-blown disaster scenario of the graduation ceremony, as predicted by the graduate. I believe it started with a small stumble and ended up with the graduate in the orchestra pit and the ceremony ruined.
The point is, after six years with this teacher [I went to a small school where we had some of the same teachers in junior high and high school, smart asses, and I took at least five science classes over grades 7-12 from him, even though you wouldn't know by from talking to me. I probably still have the award for taking that many science classes in my garage. I'm pretty sure even he is glad I'm not a doctor, after witnessing my inability to grasp anything related to physics. We were building rockets one day in class and he asked me to explain how we would measure the exponential trajectory component (ok, i made that part up). I got to about step three and was stumped. He prodded me for further explanation and I said, "what do I look like, a rocket scientist?" It's probably the only time I'd seen joy in his face, as he was a stone-faced, cynical teacher tired of putting up with shit from snot-nosed kids. It was also the only time that phrase was a relevant part of my lexicon. Anyway, this was a huge tangent. I know it's really distracting...]
Where was I? Oh, the long and the short of it is that he recognized my irrational murphy's law attitude towards life and all things related. It was funny at the time. It's apropos now. And still funny.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
I'm so happy.....and so sad......and happy... and so on and so forth....
So, today has been a fabulous/horrible day. It kicked off this a.m. with some searing, stabbing jaw pain. I expected this. The dentist warned me yesterday that I would need at least two fillings, if not two root canals. So, I popped 800 mg of Advil and slunk into work, waiting for the edge to get knocked off of my jaw pain.
I soon was distracted, as I heard that raises and bonuses were coming down the pipe at the M. So distracted that I forgot to call the endodontist to schedule a consult for my throbbing jaw pain right quick this a.m.
I have to admit, I wasn't expecting a raise or a bonus because, well, I'm me. I don't get raises. I get fired. Or laid off. Or have to leave my job unexpectedly due to extenuating circumstances. Plus, I'm on at least one person's "watch list," a word I'd hoped to never have to use in my jaded post-AOL world.
Still, I found myself bitterly disappointed when the other two associates got the good news and it didn't appear anyone would be knock-knock-knocking on my office door to spread the holiday cheer.
When it appeared all was lost, the managing partner popped into my office for a closed-door meeting. This, I have to say, was the only time I have ever welcomed a closed-door meeting. I mean, what are the odds that they'd fire me midday on a Tuesday? I've been laid off first thing in the morning on a Monday, and summarily fired after 5 on a Wednesday. But, that's neither here nor there.
The managing partner shared the excellent news that I was, in fact, getting a raise!!!! And the heavens opened up, angels sang, and a bright light shone down so brightly that my eyes teared up from the glare. I love the M!!!!!!
After practically skipping outside to have a celebratory smoke and telephone my 'rents to share the good news, I became aware of my swollen right lower jaw once again. And then I got down to business. The endodontist scheduled me for a consult at 3 p.m., warning me that they would require full payment for the $95 consult fee up front. No problem. I just got a raise. Wink wink.
After a brief consult and a look at some x-rays, they narrowed the problem down to one tooth. The other tooth did not, in fact, need to be filled, much less root canaled. (See, HLC, I told you your dentist overtreats. Nine cavities, my ass.)
He then offered to book me for mid-January or immediately. I thought about delaying it to January, and then pictured myself sitting round the electric fireplace at the cabin in the woods, surrounded by my irritating family with a pain so excruciating that I'd murder just about anyone if it meant I'd have a little relief. I opted for immediately. Then I asked how much it would cost.
Only $1200 and I could make two payments a few weeks apart, if I needed to. Great, thanks. You're right. I don't have $1200 available right now, but I'm sure I'll have the full amount at my disposal in two weeks' time. That will give me time to rifle through my couch cushions for loose change and cash in that CD I've been meaning to get to for the last few months.
Nonetheless, I went for it. And immediately had buyer's remorse. I left the office after 1.5 hours with one less root in my mouth and far less money in my bank account. After doing some quick fuzzy math, I realized that I had to do the unthinkable. I telephoned my mother and asked her to return my "big" christmas gift and asked, instead, that my parents pay for one-half of my root canal. She declined. And that was it. Oh, wait, she did ask when I was getting a crown. What? I can't afford a crown! I just spent $1200!
Next, I telephoned my father. Not to ask for money, just to get some sympathy (and maybe have him come up with the idea of returning my gift for some dental money). I got no satisfaction. His comment? "That's life." I wasn't necessarily disappointed, since this is a lot nicer than I usually get when I bemoan my financial state. Never complain about money problems to a banker. Unless he's not your father. In that case, he'd be happy to help you.
Then, I headed to Tiki's shop to let her know the bad news. I could not pay her my remaining balance on the bang-up framing job for my diplomas. And then, the jaws of hell opened up, demons screamed, and the flames of eternal damnation raged so wildly that that my eyes teared up from the heat.
And then I got a hug. Thanks, Tiki. Maybe I can trade you some food stamps for the work? Or, I could get pregnant and give you my WIC vouchers. OK, it's not nice to make fun of poor people or public assistance. I'm sorry, Santa.
I got home and did some more math. Apparently, I'm not as destitute as I initially thought. It'll be a tight squeeze for the next month or two, but I'll probably survive. And I didn't get fired. Yea!!!!!
I soon was distracted, as I heard that raises and bonuses were coming down the pipe at the M. So distracted that I forgot to call the endodontist to schedule a consult for my throbbing jaw pain right quick this a.m.
I have to admit, I wasn't expecting a raise or a bonus because, well, I'm me. I don't get raises. I get fired. Or laid off. Or have to leave my job unexpectedly due to extenuating circumstances. Plus, I'm on at least one person's "watch list," a word I'd hoped to never have to use in my jaded post-AOL world.
Still, I found myself bitterly disappointed when the other two associates got the good news and it didn't appear anyone would be knock-knock-knocking on my office door to spread the holiday cheer.
When it appeared all was lost, the managing partner popped into my office for a closed-door meeting. This, I have to say, was the only time I have ever welcomed a closed-door meeting. I mean, what are the odds that they'd fire me midday on a Tuesday? I've been laid off first thing in the morning on a Monday, and summarily fired after 5 on a Wednesday. But, that's neither here nor there.
The managing partner shared the excellent news that I was, in fact, getting a raise!!!! And the heavens opened up, angels sang, and a bright light shone down so brightly that my eyes teared up from the glare. I love the M!!!!!!
After practically skipping outside to have a celebratory smoke and telephone my 'rents to share the good news, I became aware of my swollen right lower jaw once again. And then I got down to business. The endodontist scheduled me for a consult at 3 p.m., warning me that they would require full payment for the $95 consult fee up front. No problem. I just got a raise. Wink wink.
After a brief consult and a look at some x-rays, they narrowed the problem down to one tooth. The other tooth did not, in fact, need to be filled, much less root canaled. (See, HLC, I told you your dentist overtreats. Nine cavities, my ass.)
He then offered to book me for mid-January or immediately. I thought about delaying it to January, and then pictured myself sitting round the electric fireplace at the cabin in the woods, surrounded by my irritating family with a pain so excruciating that I'd murder just about anyone if it meant I'd have a little relief. I opted for immediately. Then I asked how much it would cost.
Only $1200 and I could make two payments a few weeks apart, if I needed to. Great, thanks. You're right. I don't have $1200 available right now, but I'm sure I'll have the full amount at my disposal in two weeks' time. That will give me time to rifle through my couch cushions for loose change and cash in that CD I've been meaning to get to for the last few months.
Nonetheless, I went for it. And immediately had buyer's remorse. I left the office after 1.5 hours with one less root in my mouth and far less money in my bank account. After doing some quick fuzzy math, I realized that I had to do the unthinkable. I telephoned my mother and asked her to return my "big" christmas gift and asked, instead, that my parents pay for one-half of my root canal. She declined. And that was it. Oh, wait, she did ask when I was getting a crown. What? I can't afford a crown! I just spent $1200!
Next, I telephoned my father. Not to ask for money, just to get some sympathy (and maybe have him come up with the idea of returning my gift for some dental money). I got no satisfaction. His comment? "That's life." I wasn't necessarily disappointed, since this is a lot nicer than I usually get when I bemoan my financial state. Never complain about money problems to a banker. Unless he's not your father. In that case, he'd be happy to help you.
Then, I headed to Tiki's shop to let her know the bad news. I could not pay her my remaining balance on the bang-up framing job for my diplomas. And then, the jaws of hell opened up, demons screamed, and the flames of eternal damnation raged so wildly that that my eyes teared up from the heat.
And then I got a hug. Thanks, Tiki. Maybe I can trade you some food stamps for the work? Or, I could get pregnant and give you my WIC vouchers. OK, it's not nice to make fun of poor people or public assistance. I'm sorry, Santa.
I got home and did some more math. Apparently, I'm not as destitute as I initially thought. It'll be a tight squeeze for the next month or two, but I'll probably survive. And I didn't get fired. Yea!!!!!
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Fargo: Friday Edition
So, I leave the office at noon to head out to the Windy City for the M's holiday party. I have to pack, get the dog to the kennel, go to the bank, fill gas, drive 190 miles, shower, iron and get to the holiday party before 6 p.m. So, I hop into my Jeep, turn the key and....nothing happens. Damnit. Damnit. Damnit.
After my phone calls were ignored by my dad, brother-in-law, and sister, I was able to reach my friend Brandon. He promptly showed up with jumper cables and a good attitude about the situation. After nearly freezing to death in the 20-30 minutes it took to get the car started, we decided I should get a new battery from the dealership so I wouldn't die of exposure on the highway. We made it three blocks before the Jeep decided it didn't want to run again. It died in the middle of the street. DAMNIT!
Well, 2.5 hours, a police officer, some near-frostbite, a tow truck, a new battery, $210 and raging headache later, I was finally on the road. I drove 90 m.p.h. and popped four excedrin. It was 10 below when I rolled into Fargo at 5:30 p.m. and, admittedly, I was a little sick and jittery from the excedrin. I didn't get to the party until 6:45, but I managed to roll in with about five other people and no one noticed.
As a testament to how much Fargo sucks, let me tell you how cold it was there. It was so cold that, when I spilled a diet coke in my jeep, it froze instantly. The air temp was ten below before 6 p.m. I managed to ply myself with enough alcohol that I walked the four blocks back to the hotel with only a jacket (no hat, gloves, or scarf) and even smoked outside with no coat. It wasn't until 2:30 a.m., after I flipped on the television, that I realized it was about 30 below with the windchill. Hmmmm, it didn't seem that bad, despite the fact that my necklace was so cold it made my chest ache. Fargo sucks. That's a fact.
After my phone calls were ignored by my dad, brother-in-law, and sister, I was able to reach my friend Brandon. He promptly showed up with jumper cables and a good attitude about the situation. After nearly freezing to death in the 20-30 minutes it took to get the car started, we decided I should get a new battery from the dealership so I wouldn't die of exposure on the highway. We made it three blocks before the Jeep decided it didn't want to run again. It died in the middle of the street. DAMNIT!
Well, 2.5 hours, a police officer, some near-frostbite, a tow truck, a new battery, $210 and raging headache later, I was finally on the road. I drove 90 m.p.h. and popped four excedrin. It was 10 below when I rolled into Fargo at 5:30 p.m. and, admittedly, I was a little sick and jittery from the excedrin. I didn't get to the party until 6:45, but I managed to roll in with about five other people and no one noticed.
As a testament to how much Fargo sucks, let me tell you how cold it was there. It was so cold that, when I spilled a diet coke in my jeep, it froze instantly. The air temp was ten below before 6 p.m. I managed to ply myself with enough alcohol that I walked the four blocks back to the hotel with only a jacket (no hat, gloves, or scarf) and even smoked outside with no coat. It wasn't until 2:30 a.m., after I flipped on the television, that I realized it was about 30 below with the windchill. Hmmmm, it didn't seem that bad, despite the fact that my necklace was so cold it made my chest ache. Fargo sucks. That's a fact.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Der, Die or Das
I thought about that tonight, as I gazed into my fridge. When you think of bachelors, you think of a fridge that's empty, except for empty pizza boxes and a six pack of beer. You think of laundry strewn about and dirty dishes in the sink. You think of late nights watching premium cable channels in nothing but sweats. That's a bachelor.
So, what are you supposed to picture when you think, "bachelorette?" That word isn't even used, unless it's referring to someone who's hardly a bachelorette, or will only be so for a week or two. No one ever says, "yeah, my friend Molly, she's a bachelorette." Not that I like the term, but there's no good word in the English language to describe a single female adult. I mean, the word "spinster" hardly suffices as a feminine form of bachelor. Spinster has negative connotations, whereas bachelor is merely descriptive, if not being synonymous with freedom (although I'm starting to see it as synonymous with being gay now that I've moved back to god's country, where there are lots of bachelor elderly farmers yet no gay men for miles around, but that's neither here nor there). Yes, a single man is free, while a single woman is burdened with the fact that she is single.
OK, so that's a weird tangent that still brings me to my point. My point is, after looking in my fridge, I realized that I'm a female bachelor. My fridge is empty, except for empty diet coke boxes and a six-pack of low-fat yogurt. And I have laundry strewn about and dirty dishes in the sink. And I spend late nights watching cable in nothing but my sweats.
I'm not a spinster, because it's not a bad thing that I'm single. It's one less albatross for me to carry around. I'm a female bachelor. Not the gay kind; the single kind. I'd call myself a bachelorette, but I'm not getting married next week or wearing condoms as accessories. And, I wouldn't want the burden myself with such a scary label.
So, what are you supposed to picture when you think, "bachelorette?" That word isn't even used, unless it's referring to someone who's hardly a bachelorette, or will only be so for a week or two. No one ever says, "yeah, my friend Molly, she's a bachelorette." Not that I like the term, but there's no good word in the English language to describe a single female adult. I mean, the word "spinster" hardly suffices as a feminine form of bachelor. Spinster has negative connotations, whereas bachelor is merely descriptive, if not being synonymous with freedom (although I'm starting to see it as synonymous with being gay now that I've moved back to god's country, where there are lots of bachelor elderly farmers yet no gay men for miles around, but that's neither here nor there). Yes, a single man is free, while a single woman is burdened with the fact that she is single.
OK, so that's a weird tangent that still brings me to my point. My point is, after looking in my fridge, I realized that I'm a female bachelor. My fridge is empty, except for empty diet coke boxes and a six-pack of low-fat yogurt. And I have laundry strewn about and dirty dishes in the sink. And I spend late nights watching cable in nothing but my sweats.
I'm not a spinster, because it's not a bad thing that I'm single. It's one less albatross for me to carry around. I'm a female bachelor. Not the gay kind; the single kind. I'd call myself a bachelorette, but I'm not getting married next week or wearing condoms as accessories. And, I wouldn't want the burden myself with such a scary label.
Monday, December 3, 2007
Smelly Squash: August Rush
I've decided to start a movie review. HLC and I saw August Rush tonight. As a backdrop, I'd like to thanks HLC's boyfriend, Jerry Bartz, for the free movie tickets.
However, this was a truly awful movie. Keri Russel was great, as she always is, and I'm not even a Felicity fan. However, the kid, with his sensory perception disorder (it's the new adhd, according to msnbc.com), isn't cute, and his prodigality (?) is truly unbelievable. The worst part of the movie, however, was the lead male role, played by Jonathan Rhys Meyers. He's pretty to look at, but, unfortunately, you can't turn down the volume at the movie theater. Dreadful is the only way to describe his performance. He plays an Irish musician. And, despite the fact that he is from Ireland, he seemed unconvincing as being Irish, in comparison with the other Irish actors. I don't know what it was. Maybe he just shouldn't speak.
The only funny part of the evening: HLC and I had to fill out surveys reviewing the movie. When I referred to Mr. Meyers, I wrote his name as, "Trevor Rhys Jones" a/k/a Princess Diana's bodyguard and sole survivor of the Paris car crash.
Overall, I give this flick 1 out of 15 paws.
However, this was a truly awful movie. Keri Russel was great, as she always is, and I'm not even a Felicity fan. However, the kid, with his sensory perception disorder (it's the new adhd, according to msnbc.com), isn't cute, and his prodigality (?) is truly unbelievable. The worst part of the movie, however, was the lead male role, played by Jonathan Rhys Meyers. He's pretty to look at, but, unfortunately, you can't turn down the volume at the movie theater. Dreadful is the only way to describe his performance. He plays an Irish musician. And, despite the fact that he is from Ireland, he seemed unconvincing as being Irish, in comparison with the other Irish actors. I don't know what it was. Maybe he just shouldn't speak.
The only funny part of the evening: HLC and I had to fill out surveys reviewing the movie. When I referred to Mr. Meyers, I wrote his name as, "Trevor Rhys Jones" a/k/a Princess Diana's bodyguard and sole survivor of the Paris car crash.
Overall, I give this flick 1 out of 15 paws.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
There's No Place Like Home
Well, I'm back, and have the tips of my ears and all my digits. I can't find any hats, though. I know I have at least 4, but yet they continue to elude me.
Tally for the evening:
16 gallons of gas = $48.00
1 bottle of Heet = $2.07
Hearing "Stay warm" instead of "have a nice evening" = priceless
It's officially winter here in Lower Manitoba, as that fun phrase has replaced, "Don't get blown away [by the wind]" as a standard good-bye.
Tally for the evening:
16 gallons of gas = $48.00
1 bottle of Heet = $2.07
Hearing "Stay warm" instead of "have a nice evening" = priceless
It's officially winter here in Lower Manitoba, as that fun phrase has replaced, "Don't get blown away [by the wind]" as a standard good-bye.
It's a Clipper! It's a Clipper! It's a Clipper.....
I am snuggled in my semi-warm home, in my pajamas at 11:15 p.m. However, after laying on the couch for a couple hours, I realized that I might have a problem. My Jeep only has 1/8 tank of gas in it. And it's at least 10 below right now. And it's parked on the street.
So, I've roused myself from my prostrate position, and am gearing up to fill my gas guzzler with overpriced gasoline so my gas lines don't freeze in the arctic temperatures overnight.
If I could click my heals three times and have my car gassed up, I'd be so happy. Actually, if I could do that, I could probably make it not cold. That's the thing about wishing for super powers. No one ever uses them to the fullest extent possible. It's always, "if I could go back in time, I'd kill Hitler." Well, if you could do that, you could prevent his parents from ever meeting, thereby preventing his birth. Or, you could go back even further, and stop his whole family lineage from ever developing. And so on and so forth.
OK, I'll quit stalling. I'm off. If I'm not back in 20 minutes, wait longer.
Alberta Clipper + SUV = Awesome.
So, I've roused myself from my prostrate position, and am gearing up to fill my gas guzzler with overpriced gasoline so my gas lines don't freeze in the arctic temperatures overnight.
If I could click my heals three times and have my car gassed up, I'd be so happy. Actually, if I could do that, I could probably make it not cold. That's the thing about wishing for super powers. No one ever uses them to the fullest extent possible. It's always, "if I could go back in time, I'd kill Hitler." Well, if you could do that, you could prevent his parents from ever meeting, thereby preventing his birth. Or, you could go back even further, and stop his whole family lineage from ever developing. And so on and so forth.
OK, I'll quit stalling. I'm off. If I'm not back in 20 minutes, wait longer.
Alberta Clipper + SUV = Awesome.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Loaded For Bear
I have cramps. It's 11 degrees outside. I have to drive to the Windy City tomorrow (Fargo, not Chicago). And back. After spending god knows how long in a meeting that doesn't start until 4:30 p.m. My Jeep is overflowing with 8 boxes of crap containing my "memories" from my childhood that I have to unload before I go to the Windy City so I get at least 13 m.p.g. I ruined Christmas for someone today. I haven't billed as much as I should this week and tomorrow's a lost cause (because I'm spending at least 6 hours in the car). I have brain zaps because I forgot to take my medicine this morning. My sinuses ache. And my lips are chapped.
AUGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.
It's too bad I don't have court tomorrow. I could really use it to take out some of my pent-up frustration.
AUGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.
It's too bad I don't have court tomorrow. I could really use it to take out some of my pent-up frustration.
Monday, November 26, 2007
I hate my neighbor
Not like I hate the cold. Not like I hate shrill teenage girls. Not like I hate the Replay Lounge. Not like I hate clowns. Those things, I can tolerate. I hate her like I hate doing dishes that have been dirty for months. Like I hate over-billing. Like I hate Lindsay Frykman. Like I hate my old boss, David. Like, I truly loathe her. And I don't even know what she looks like.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Sugar High
So, my new firm, the M, had its annual health screening day. Flu shots and cholestrol checks for everyone. I got my flu shot, after I signed a thermisol waiver (don't want to develop autism). And, I got the cholesterol test, blood sugar test, and my blood pressure checked.
The results were mostly good, with one alarming thing, which I'll get to in a minute.
1. Blood pressure results: 104/78. Suck it, Jesus! I smoke a pack a day and my bp is superb.
2. Cholesterol: 202. Not quite a "suck it, jesus" moment, but it's only 2 points higher than "desirable." Again, surprising given the fact that I eat crap.
3. Glucose level: 122. I'm sorry, Jesus. I am pre-diabetic, and only 4 points away from being diabetic. Granted, it's one test, and it takes at least two taken on two separate days to diagnose actual diabetes, but what if it was just especially low, and I'm already diabetic? Looks like my sugar cravings have caught up to me. I can't explain the sugar cravings, only that they started after I graduated from law school, and it's like nothing I've ever had before. Except smoking. And crack. Anyway, yikes. I got to slack up on the juice. And work out, of course. It totally sucks. However, as HLC pointed out today, I now have 2 co-morbidity factors that would qualify me for gastric lap band surgery. As we discussed last night, I have a BMI below 40 (I know, right?!) and, last I read, you had to have 2 co-morbidity factors to qualify for surgery if your BMI was below 40 (40 is morbidly obese). Well, I already have arthritis. And now pre-diabetes.
I'd like to revisit the arthritis issue. It's obviously aggravated by the fact that I'm, well, not thin. But, it's only in my right ankle (and maybe my knee, which is not relevant to this story). Anyway, I was skiing down a hill in Montana thirteen years ago this week, minding my own business (with my ski boots unbuckled because they were so tight they made my feet numb), when boom, I hit a mogul (that I didn't see because I was too cool to wear my glasses and ski goggles when I skiied) and had a yard sale. When I'd managed to compose my self, I realized that I didn't feel so good in the ankle area. So, I skiied, mostly on one leg, down the rest of the hill to the lodge and, with the assistance of my mother, yanked my boot off to discover swelling around the size of a large egg on the outer side of my right ankle. And, with that, my ski trip was over and I was on the couch watching infomercials for the topsy-tail for the next three days and write a "controversial" school paper on STDs.
It just wasn't feeling better, so I went to a podiatrist, Dr. Aaron Olson. Ah, Dr. Olson. I'd like to express my sincere gratitude to him for all of those cortisone shots he gave me in my 'sprained' ankle. Yes, for at least three months, I received almost weekly cortisone shots to help my 'sprain.' No crutches, no vicodin, no physical therapy, no air cast. Just cortisone shots to numb the pain and allow me to walk on my ankle, creating even more damage.
Now, this doesn't seem so bad until you consider the fact that it was actually BROKEN. I first learned that my ankle was BROKEN about a month ago (twelve years and eleven months after injuring myself). I fell down some stairs moving out of my apartment in the Magic City (no need to worry, the box I was carrying broke my fall) and sprained my ankle. Anyway, I went in to get it checked out and the LPN (not even a real doctor), after reviewing my X-ray, asked me how old I was when I broke my ankle. Um, what? Yeah, right there, plain as day (to a person familiar with reading x-rays), was a healed fracture in my ankle, right where I "sprained" it.
And, as a result of that ankle "sprain" I basically destroyed my ligaments and tendons in my ankle (compensating back and forth, depending on where it hurt, to the point where I developed some nasty tendonitis on the opposite side of the ankle "sprain"). This I already knew - that I had no working tendons or ligaments. What I didn't realize is that my ankle joint was really, really, really loose. Which is why I fall down a lot. So, it wasn't just the booze all those times. OK, it was the booze for most of them. But it also explains why I did a face plant in a cemetary a few months ago (unsteady ground, high heels) and grass-stained my suit.
So, I'm an arthritic pre-diabetic.
I'm out.
The results were mostly good, with one alarming thing, which I'll get to in a minute.
1. Blood pressure results: 104/78. Suck it, Jesus! I smoke a pack a day and my bp is superb.
2. Cholesterol: 202. Not quite a "suck it, jesus" moment, but it's only 2 points higher than "desirable." Again, surprising given the fact that I eat crap.
3. Glucose level: 122. I'm sorry, Jesus. I am pre-diabetic, and only 4 points away from being diabetic. Granted, it's one test, and it takes at least two taken on two separate days to diagnose actual diabetes, but what if it was just especially low, and I'm already diabetic? Looks like my sugar cravings have caught up to me. I can't explain the sugar cravings, only that they started after I graduated from law school, and it's like nothing I've ever had before. Except smoking. And crack. Anyway, yikes. I got to slack up on the juice. And work out, of course. It totally sucks. However, as HLC pointed out today, I now have 2 co-morbidity factors that would qualify me for gastric lap band surgery. As we discussed last night, I have a BMI below 40 (I know, right?!) and, last I read, you had to have 2 co-morbidity factors to qualify for surgery if your BMI was below 40 (40 is morbidly obese). Well, I already have arthritis. And now pre-diabetes.
I'd like to revisit the arthritis issue. It's obviously aggravated by the fact that I'm, well, not thin. But, it's only in my right ankle (and maybe my knee, which is not relevant to this story). Anyway, I was skiing down a hill in Montana thirteen years ago this week, minding my own business (with my ski boots unbuckled because they were so tight they made my feet numb), when boom, I hit a mogul (that I didn't see because I was too cool to wear my glasses and ski goggles when I skiied) and had a yard sale. When I'd managed to compose my self, I realized that I didn't feel so good in the ankle area. So, I skiied, mostly on one leg, down the rest of the hill to the lodge and, with the assistance of my mother, yanked my boot off to discover swelling around the size of a large egg on the outer side of my right ankle. And, with that, my ski trip was over and I was on the couch watching infomercials for the topsy-tail for the next three days and write a "controversial" school paper on STDs.
It just wasn't feeling better, so I went to a podiatrist, Dr. Aaron Olson. Ah, Dr. Olson. I'd like to express my sincere gratitude to him for all of those cortisone shots he gave me in my 'sprained' ankle. Yes, for at least three months, I received almost weekly cortisone shots to help my 'sprain.' No crutches, no vicodin, no physical therapy, no air cast. Just cortisone shots to numb the pain and allow me to walk on my ankle, creating even more damage.
Now, this doesn't seem so bad until you consider the fact that it was actually BROKEN. I first learned that my ankle was BROKEN about a month ago (twelve years and eleven months after injuring myself). I fell down some stairs moving out of my apartment in the Magic City (no need to worry, the box I was carrying broke my fall) and sprained my ankle. Anyway, I went in to get it checked out and the LPN (not even a real doctor), after reviewing my X-ray, asked me how old I was when I broke my ankle. Um, what? Yeah, right there, plain as day (to a person familiar with reading x-rays), was a healed fracture in my ankle, right where I "sprained" it.
And, as a result of that ankle "sprain" I basically destroyed my ligaments and tendons in my ankle (compensating back and forth, depending on where it hurt, to the point where I developed some nasty tendonitis on the opposite side of the ankle "sprain"). This I already knew - that I had no working tendons or ligaments. What I didn't realize is that my ankle joint was really, really, really loose. Which is why I fall down a lot. So, it wasn't just the booze all those times. OK, it was the booze for most of them. But it also explains why I did a face plant in a cemetary a few months ago (unsteady ground, high heels) and grass-stained my suit.
So, I'm an arthritic pre-diabetic.
I'm out.
Friday, November 9, 2007
Motion to Strike Earlier Post
Sour Girl, by and through herself, attorney at law, hereby moves the Court to strike her November 8, 2007, blog post entitled "Double Dog Dare."
Last night was a bad night, as indicated by Attorney Sour Girl's now-redacted post. Sour Girl submits she ingested legally-prescribed ambien, known generically as zolpidem, as per usual, and settled in to watch some People's Court and pass out on her couch. A review of the evidence shows Attorney Sour Girl, in her impaired state, decided it was a good idea to update her blog. Attorney Sour Girl recalls only the first version of said post, which wasn't nearly as bad as the final result. Girl posted it and believes she then fell asleep, or was in a near-sleep state.
As indicated by phone records, Attorney Girl's parents telephoned just after midnight to announce their return from a business trip. Attorney Girl has little recollection of this phone call, due to the debilitating effects of the ambien. In fact, Sour Girl's recollection was only refreshed after a strange telephone call with her mother. Sour Girl declare to her mother this afternoon that she needed to have her hair cut and colored, at which point Sour Girl's mother stated she would only be able to color Sour Girl's hair late Saturday afternoon. Based on the evidence, Sour Girl deduced she had requested her mother color her hair the previous evening while in an ambien-induced state. However, Sour Girl never presented her conclusion to her mother, as she was afraid of embarassing herself and having her mother believe she was addicted to prescription drugs and/or heroin. Sour Girl's mother, most probably out of politeness and/or fear and denial that her daughter was addicted to prescription drugs and/or heroin, did not otherwise mention the early morning phone call.
Alternatively, Sour Girl believes she may have either announced to her mother, during the early morning phone conversation, that she was on ambien, and that is why her mother did not bring it up. Or, that her mother was drunk.
In any event, Sour Girl notes that, while ambien may be debilitating, it is reasonable to assume it may be helpful as a negotiation aid. Case in point: Sour Girl has approached her mother to color her hair on a regular basis for the last eleven (11) years; each time, Sour Girl's mother refused. Sour Girl does not intend to utilize ambien as means of achieving settlement in the future, although she cannot rule it out. The heart wants what it wants.
Drawing all reasonable inferences from the evidence at hand, Sour Girl believes that phone call is the proximate cause of the resulting offensive post. The situation deteriorated rapidly after said phone call. In a more alert yet considerably altered state, Sour Girl became a walking nightmare. She became convinced her post was in need of revision. Based upon a review of the post, Sour Girl substantially altered the original post.
Within one hour of receiving the phone call from her parents, Sour Girl recalls receiving a frantic phone call from her friend, [Redacted]. Sour Girl recalls only the following from the conversation with [Redacted]: [Redacted] expressed concern over the post, inquiring about it's nature and whether there was need to be alarmed. Sour Girl then asked [Redacted] whether she should apply for a disciplinary committee position that had recently been opened. To her benefit, Sour Girl followed [Redacted]'s advice an did not apply. This was beneficial in several ways: (1) the opening was not for Sour Girls' district, thus making her ineligible for the appointment, (2) Sour Girl should not make impaired contact with anyone regarding anything with the word "disciplinary" in it, and (3) Sour Girl's former boss [Redacted 2], a former Supreme Court justice, would have been the person receiving the application. [Redacted 2] has been a dutiful job reference on Sour Girl's behalf on at least four separate occasions, as evidenced by Sour Girl's four different positions since she was employed by [Redacted 2].
Attorney Sour Girl expresses her deepest gratitude and apologies to [Redacted]. Sour Girl also submits that the Court grant her motion to strike her earlier post due to it's unduly prejudicial nature and unintentional publishing. Sour Girl did not have the requisite intent and/or judgment to knowingly publish such a post.
Attorney Sour Girl hereby certifies that she is not currently on ambien or any other controlled substance at this time. She is merely high on life. And excedrin.
In the future, Sour Girl requests the Court to review her posts for obvious signs of DUI (drafting while intoxicated) before publishing the same. Sour Girl offers the Court the following guidelines for determination of whether said post was written by ambien: Ambien doesn't know how to spell.
Respectfully submitted on this 8th day of November, 2007.
Sour Girl, Bar No 12345
Attorney at Law
Last night was a bad night, as indicated by Attorney Sour Girl's now-redacted post. Sour Girl submits she ingested legally-prescribed ambien, known generically as zolpidem, as per usual, and settled in to watch some People's Court and pass out on her couch. A review of the evidence shows Attorney Sour Girl, in her impaired state, decided it was a good idea to update her blog. Attorney Sour Girl recalls only the first version of said post, which wasn't nearly as bad as the final result. Girl posted it and believes she then fell asleep, or was in a near-sleep state.
As indicated by phone records, Attorney Girl's parents telephoned just after midnight to announce their return from a business trip. Attorney Girl has little recollection of this phone call, due to the debilitating effects of the ambien. In fact, Sour Girl's recollection was only refreshed after a strange telephone call with her mother. Sour Girl declare to her mother this afternoon that she needed to have her hair cut and colored, at which point Sour Girl's mother stated she would only be able to color Sour Girl's hair late Saturday afternoon. Based on the evidence, Sour Girl deduced she had requested her mother color her hair the previous evening while in an ambien-induced state. However, Sour Girl never presented her conclusion to her mother, as she was afraid of embarassing herself and having her mother believe she was addicted to prescription drugs and/or heroin. Sour Girl's mother, most probably out of politeness and/or fear and denial that her daughter was addicted to prescription drugs and/or heroin, did not otherwise mention the early morning phone call.
Alternatively, Sour Girl believes she may have either announced to her mother, during the early morning phone conversation, that she was on ambien, and that is why her mother did not bring it up. Or, that her mother was drunk.
In any event, Sour Girl notes that, while ambien may be debilitating, it is reasonable to assume it may be helpful as a negotiation aid. Case in point: Sour Girl has approached her mother to color her hair on a regular basis for the last eleven (11) years; each time, Sour Girl's mother refused. Sour Girl does not intend to utilize ambien as means of achieving settlement in the future, although she cannot rule it out. The heart wants what it wants.
Drawing all reasonable inferences from the evidence at hand, Sour Girl believes that phone call is the proximate cause of the resulting offensive post. The situation deteriorated rapidly after said phone call. In a more alert yet considerably altered state, Sour Girl became a walking nightmare. She became convinced her post was in need of revision. Based upon a review of the post, Sour Girl substantially altered the original post.
Within one hour of receiving the phone call from her parents, Sour Girl recalls receiving a frantic phone call from her friend, [Redacted]. Sour Girl recalls only the following from the conversation with [Redacted]: [Redacted] expressed concern over the post, inquiring about it's nature and whether there was need to be alarmed. Sour Girl then asked [Redacted] whether she should apply for a disciplinary committee position that had recently been opened. To her benefit, Sour Girl followed [Redacted]'s advice an did not apply. This was beneficial in several ways: (1) the opening was not for Sour Girls' district, thus making her ineligible for the appointment, (2) Sour Girl should not make impaired contact with anyone regarding anything with the word "disciplinary" in it, and (3) Sour Girl's former boss [Redacted 2], a former Supreme Court justice, would have been the person receiving the application. [Redacted 2] has been a dutiful job reference on Sour Girl's behalf on at least four separate occasions, as evidenced by Sour Girl's four different positions since she was employed by [Redacted 2].
Attorney Sour Girl expresses her deepest gratitude and apologies to [Redacted]. Sour Girl also submits that the Court grant her motion to strike her earlier post due to it's unduly prejudicial nature and unintentional publishing. Sour Girl did not have the requisite intent and/or judgment to knowingly publish such a post.
Attorney Sour Girl hereby certifies that she is not currently on ambien or any other controlled substance at this time. She is merely high on life. And excedrin.
In the future, Sour Girl requests the Court to review her posts for obvious signs of DUI (drafting while intoxicated) before publishing the same. Sour Girl offers the Court the following guidelines for determination of whether said post was written by ambien: Ambien doesn't know how to spell.
Respectfully submitted on this 8th day of November, 2007.
Sour Girl, Bar No 12345
Attorney at Law
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Friday, November 2, 2007
I'm Baaa'aaack.
That's right, hockey fans, I'm back. I haven't blogged since the summer, but, frankly, I had more important shit to deal with. And I started a myspace page.
I'm now in the Capital City. Or is it Capitol City? Irregardless, I'm in a new city [sic], with a new job (that would be Job #5 in precisely 4 years and 2 months), new business cards, and a new pad. I traded up, without a doubt.
However, it wasn't without some hesitation. Yes, I did the noble thing and eased on down the high road. But, I miss my old firm. I miss wearing my socks around the office. I miss taking my dog to work. I miss coming in at 10:30 a.m. I miss using the f-word with my boss. I miss yelling from my office to the secretary to tell her a funny joke. I miss the intimacy, I guess. I mean, it was my most successful relationship to date. 16 months, with only three of those months being bad? That's history-making stuff.
Oh, well, no regrets, I guess. It needed to be done. And, now I can say I've quit a job, in addition to being laid off and fired. I'm not saying the worst has happened, but unless my new firm is involved with the mafia, I'm probably going to be ok.
So, with that behind me, I'm looking back at settling into life. Which includes getting back down to my fighting weight. I'm hoping to actually have a relationship by my 30th birthday. OK, that's not true. I'm hoping to be thinner and have longer hair by my birthday. And be ready to quit smoking. If there's a relationship between now and then, it's a bonus. It's rare that I'm lonely, but it does happen. It's been at least 4 years since I was gut-wrenchingly attached to someone, it's probably time to get back on that horse, put another dog in that fight, toss my hat into the ring, or whatever cliche fits.
So, my goal is to drop 50 pounds by my birthday. I won't be thin. I'll be high school fat. Or, summer of sin fat (I think, I was opposed to scales then). But that's better than Magic City fat.
I also have a work-out buddy, Deva. Deva and I are on a mission together, which is better than flying solo. We'll see what happens.
My mom is still trying to encourage me to go back to LA Weightloss. I'm not sure I can bring myself to do it.
Anyway, I hope all of you have been well in my absence (OK, I've talked to most of you in the meantime).
Later, Skater.
I'm now in the Capital City. Or is it Capitol City? Irregardless, I'm in a new city [sic], with a new job (that would be Job #5 in precisely 4 years and 2 months), new business cards, and a new pad. I traded up, without a doubt.
However, it wasn't without some hesitation. Yes, I did the noble thing and eased on down the high road. But, I miss my old firm. I miss wearing my socks around the office. I miss taking my dog to work. I miss coming in at 10:30 a.m. I miss using the f-word with my boss. I miss yelling from my office to the secretary to tell her a funny joke. I miss the intimacy, I guess. I mean, it was my most successful relationship to date. 16 months, with only three of those months being bad? That's history-making stuff.
Oh, well, no regrets, I guess. It needed to be done. And, now I can say I've quit a job, in addition to being laid off and fired. I'm not saying the worst has happened, but unless my new firm is involved with the mafia, I'm probably going to be ok.
So, with that behind me, I'm looking back at settling into life. Which includes getting back down to my fighting weight. I'm hoping to actually have a relationship by my 30th birthday. OK, that's not true. I'm hoping to be thinner and have longer hair by my birthday. And be ready to quit smoking. If there's a relationship between now and then, it's a bonus. It's rare that I'm lonely, but it does happen. It's been at least 4 years since I was gut-wrenchingly attached to someone, it's probably time to get back on that horse, put another dog in that fight, toss my hat into the ring, or whatever cliche fits.
So, my goal is to drop 50 pounds by my birthday. I won't be thin. I'll be high school fat. Or, summer of sin fat (I think, I was opposed to scales then). But that's better than Magic City fat.
I also have a work-out buddy, Deva. Deva and I are on a mission together, which is better than flying solo. We'll see what happens.
My mom is still trying to encourage me to go back to LA Weightloss. I'm not sure I can bring myself to do it.
Anyway, I hope all of you have been well in my absence (OK, I've talked to most of you in the meantime).
Later, Skater.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Fast Cars and Fred Phelps
Fast Cars and Fred Phelps
One. There's some kind of auto race in town tonight and I can hear those goddamn cars racing around the track as I sit in my apartment and try to watch a documentary on the nuclear bombing of Japan during World War II. Shut the fuck up, rednecks.
Two. I applied for an appellate attorney position with the DA's office in Sedgwick County. I received a rejection letter today. Not a big deal, I didn't want to prosecute anyway. However, when I pull the letter from the envelope, I see that it's addressed to a Mr. Phelps of Kansas. Phelps. Kansas. Lawyer. Nice.
I'm assuming Mr. Phelps has my letter. And, put into the wrong hands, that letter could effectively out my job hunt to my boss. Well, technically, so could this posting, but you're all sworn to secrecy based on the silent oath you took when you accepted me as your "friend." But, I digress. The odds of a letter addressed to me, accidentally sent to someone in Kansas winding up back in the Magic City to bite me in the ass is slim. Irregardless, it's still unprofessional.
One. There's some kind of auto race in town tonight and I can hear those goddamn cars racing around the track as I sit in my apartment and try to watch a documentary on the nuclear bombing of Japan during World War II. Shut the fuck up, rednecks.
Two. I applied for an appellate attorney position with the DA's office in Sedgwick County. I received a rejection letter today. Not a big deal, I didn't want to prosecute anyway. However, when I pull the letter from the envelope, I see that it's addressed to a Mr. Phelps of Kansas. Phelps. Kansas. Lawyer. Nice.
I'm assuming Mr. Phelps has my letter. And, put into the wrong hands, that letter could effectively out my job hunt to my boss. Well, technically, so could this posting, but you're all sworn to secrecy based on the silent oath you took when you accepted me as your "friend." But, I digress. The odds of a letter addressed to me, accidentally sent to someone in Kansas winding up back in the Magic City to bite me in the ass is slim. Irregardless, it's still unprofessional.
Monday, July 9, 2007
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Jeepers
So, I have another date next week with another guy. Here's the hang up, though. When discussing my "Lloyd Christmas" haircut over the phone, he said, "Well, Jeepers, it's still sexy though, right?"
Um, "jeepers?" Who says that? And who uses that in a sentence with the word "sexy?" He uses it other times, too, so it wasn't an isolated incident. I'm not sure I can date a guy who uses the word "jeepers." Am I wrong, here?
Um, "jeepers?" Who says that? And who uses that in a sentence with the word "sexy?" He uses it other times, too, so it wasn't an isolated incident. I'm not sure I can date a guy who uses the word "jeepers." Am I wrong, here?
Friday, July 6, 2007
Razor's Edge
So, I cut my hair last weekend. With a disposable bikini zone razor. Yeah, that's right, I did it. And I don't have to explain myself to anyone.
So, after a week, I decided I couldn't live with it anymore. I drove all the way to Bismarck today (had the afternoon off) to have it professionally fixed.
The results: I look like Lloyd Christmas from "Dumb & Dumber." OK, it's not that bad. But it's still pretty bad. And butch. I'm going to have to skip the glasses and wear makeup until it grows out.
It was actually better post-self-inflicted hair cut, pre-professionally fixed.
What a great week.
So, after a week, I decided I couldn't live with it anymore. I drove all the way to Bismarck today (had the afternoon off) to have it professionally fixed.
The results: I look like Lloyd Christmas from "Dumb & Dumber." OK, it's not that bad. But it's still pretty bad. And butch. I'm going to have to skip the glasses and wear makeup until it grows out.
It was actually better post-self-inflicted hair cut, pre-professionally fixed.
What a great week.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
An Orwellian Uprising
June 25: Huxley dug up (destroyed) HLC's carpet in her spare bedroom.
July 1: Oscar bit my hand. Within 8 hours, my hand was swollen, red and achy, a/k/a infected. Tetanus shot and a round of antibiotics should clear it right up.
July 3: Huxley locked himself in my running jeep while I was at the gas station. I had to have the dealership cut a new key and bring it to me across town, while I waited in the gas station parking lot.
July 5: So far, it's quiet. Everyone is sleeping, no doubt dreaming of ways to destroy me.
July 1: Oscar bit my hand. Within 8 hours, my hand was swollen, red and achy, a/k/a infected. Tetanus shot and a round of antibiotics should clear it right up.
July 3: Huxley locked himself in my running jeep while I was at the gas station. I had to have the dealership cut a new key and bring it to me across town, while I waited in the gas station parking lot.
July 5: So far, it's quiet. Everyone is sleeping, no doubt dreaming of ways to destroy me.
Sunday, July 1, 2007
HLC's Carpet: An Elegy
Oh, how I mourn thee, Orange Shag Carpet of the spare bedroom.
Your time on this earth, too long to be fashionable, has come to an abrupt end.
Your demise has been bittersweet for HLC, although only bitter for me.
Huxley hath destroyed you, ripped out your heart at the threshold of the room.
Huxley doth suffer, too, albeit not near as terrible as you.
For I look upon his scarlet face and his tender paws, and, alas, he too mourns.
He mourns as I mourn, for my face also scarlet upon the hearing the news.
And my paws, too, will be tender, as I remove thee from the scene of tragedy and give rise to a floor anew.
While pergo shall replace thee, I shall never forget thee.
For HLC shall never allow me.
Your time on this earth, too long to be fashionable, has come to an abrupt end.
Your demise has been bittersweet for HLC, although only bitter for me.
Huxley hath destroyed you, ripped out your heart at the threshold of the room.
Huxley doth suffer, too, albeit not near as terrible as you.
For I look upon his scarlet face and his tender paws, and, alas, he too mourns.
He mourns as I mourn, for my face also scarlet upon the hearing the news.
And my paws, too, will be tender, as I remove thee from the scene of tragedy and give rise to a floor anew.
While pergo shall replace thee, I shall never forget thee.
For HLC shall never allow me.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Instant Karma
Can karma really exist? And, if it does, is it possible that it's spread over multiple lifetimes? Cuz, I can't remember any heinous acts that I've committed since the late 70s and I'm being beaten with the Karma Billy Club. I must have been a slave owner or bore Hitler in a previous life. OK, maybe not that bad, but I probably was a klan member or textile mill owner. That's the only logical explanation. If I were 10 years younger, I could bust out a philosophical proof just to show you. But you'll just have to take my word because I'm not as smart as I used to be.
Go-Gos
"Vacation
All I ever wanted
Vacation
Had to get away
Vacation
Meant to be spent alone"
Seriously need a vacation. I used to think of that song as my theme song in law school. At least when we were at the Red Lyon because it was in the jukebox and I played it everytime we went there. Along with Raspberry Beret.
At the Jet Lag I always played Bittersweet by Big Head Todd (OK, I played that at every bar that had it, including Louise's) and Tangerine by Led Zepplin.
Then, at the Ranch I always requested "Just what I do" by Trick Pony and
sometimes "I love a rainy night" by Eddie Rabbit.
And, at the Sandbar, I always played "dancing queen," "east bound and down", "Brown Eyed Girl, "car wash," "son of a preacher man" and sometimes "Waterloo" and "Brand New Key". If it was a bad night, i'd play "knowing me, knowing you." And, above the jukebox, there's a crazy picture of Jimmy Buffet that I mistakenly took for Scott Bakula (yes, of Quantum Leap fame) one night.
And, that concludes my jukebox bar tour of Lawrence, Kansas.
All I ever wanted
Vacation
Had to get away
Vacation
Meant to be spent alone"
Seriously need a vacation. I used to think of that song as my theme song in law school. At least when we were at the Red Lyon because it was in the jukebox and I played it everytime we went there. Along with Raspberry Beret.
At the Jet Lag I always played Bittersweet by Big Head Todd (OK, I played that at every bar that had it, including Louise's) and Tangerine by Led Zepplin.
Then, at the Ranch I always requested "Just what I do" by Trick Pony and
sometimes "I love a rainy night" by Eddie Rabbit.
And, at the Sandbar, I always played "dancing queen," "east bound and down", "Brown Eyed Girl, "car wash," "son of a preacher man" and sometimes "Waterloo" and "Brand New Key". If it was a bad night, i'd play "knowing me, knowing you." And, above the jukebox, there's a crazy picture of Jimmy Buffet that I mistakenly took for Scott Bakula (yes, of Quantum Leap fame) one night.
And, that concludes my jukebox bar tour of Lawrence, Kansas.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Nesting mission complete. Dishes not included.
I bought a new jade plant and a new cactus (the last two met their fate last year by way of the toxic twosome, Esme Jules and Ruby Claire). Esme actually chews on the cactus. She is a strange, strange animal.
That led me to re-pot my umbrella plant and Jenny Thomas, my amarylis. Yes, Summer, the original pot has been placed in storage, traded in favor of a red pot to go with the living room decor. I will save it, however, and put one of Jenny's future children in it.
To my horror, after I introduced Cactus Jr. and Jade Jr. to my slumpartment, my amarylis Jenny Thomas was found unconcious and de-potted on the floor three days in a row. The plant stands were no match for le femme nikittens. I purchased a sturdy console table to act as an arboretum. It blocks my a/c vents, but it's big enough for plants and cats to co-exist. Harmony prevails.
I bought some new picture frames, rotating and adding pictures for display. I finally displayed on my of my favorite pictures, though I'm not sure why it's a favorite: Max patiently reading the newspaper during March Madness 2002 at BW3s.
I then realized I could no longer stare at the boxes of my bookshelves. They've been harbored in my apartment since Christmas 2005. I've run out of excuses to put them up, knowing I would most likely be in the slumpartment for more than a few months. Red Beard stopped by and, within the hour, my living room shrunk by the shear massiveness of the shelves. But, I did clear two bins of books I've been avoiding in the cats' bedroom. (Hey, I'm a single female in a two bedroom. It's only reasonable they get a room of their own).
As a final touch, I added a Martha Stewart Tiffany-Style floor lamp to the living room. My previous $15 lamp with the dented metal shade has been relegated to the kitchen.
Plants: $25.00
Pots: $20.00
Table: $100.00
Lamp: $40.00
Bookshelves: $0
Cluttered Living Room in Magic City Slum: Priceless.
That led me to re-pot my umbrella plant and Jenny Thomas, my amarylis. Yes, Summer, the original pot has been placed in storage, traded in favor of a red pot to go with the living room decor. I will save it, however, and put one of Jenny's future children in it.
To my horror, after I introduced Cactus Jr. and Jade Jr. to my slumpartment, my amarylis Jenny Thomas was found unconcious and de-potted on the floor three days in a row. The plant stands were no match for le femme nikittens. I purchased a sturdy console table to act as an arboretum. It blocks my a/c vents, but it's big enough for plants and cats to co-exist. Harmony prevails.
I bought some new picture frames, rotating and adding pictures for display. I finally displayed on my of my favorite pictures, though I'm not sure why it's a favorite: Max patiently reading the newspaper during March Madness 2002 at BW3s.
I then realized I could no longer stare at the boxes of my bookshelves. They've been harbored in my apartment since Christmas 2005. I've run out of excuses to put them up, knowing I would most likely be in the slumpartment for more than a few months. Red Beard stopped by and, within the hour, my living room shrunk by the shear massiveness of the shelves. But, I did clear two bins of books I've been avoiding in the cats' bedroom. (Hey, I'm a single female in a two bedroom. It's only reasonable they get a room of their own).
As a final touch, I added a Martha Stewart Tiffany-Style floor lamp to the living room. My previous $15 lamp with the dented metal shade has been relegated to the kitchen.
Plants: $25.00
Pots: $20.00
Table: $100.00
Lamp: $40.00
Bookshelves: $0
Cluttered Living Room in Magic City Slum: Priceless.
Date 2007
My first date of this year is scheduled for Monday.
It was actually scheduled for Thursday but I was struck down by the plague and had to cancel.
Yikes.
It was actually scheduled for Thursday but I was struck down by the plague and had to cancel.
Yikes.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Talk Me Down
Today is the 1st anniversary at my job. Yea!!!! But, there's a problem. You guys, I'm restless. Like, "needing to move" restless. I'm feeling the dull ache of the need go somewhere new and also feeling slightly suffocated. I don't feel like I need to leave tomorrow, but the thought of being here in 3-5 years is, well, quite disenchanting. I've grown bored of Minot (OK, I've never gotten above the boredom), but now it seems as though it will be perpetual. I mean, can Tivo really sustain a person? Can dining at Applebee's and going to bars with men in tapered-leg jeans and Nascar t-shirts really be good for the soul?
Maybe it's a balance. I've spent more time in my apartment in the last year (ok, 4, with the exception of the "jason" period) than I did in 7 years of college/law school. I've also spent more time alone during that time period, too. So, over the last 10 years, I've probaly spent a normal amount of time in my own residence. Truth be told, I get restless, no matter what. I want to meet new people. But people like me. And I don't think they live here. If I can't have new friends, I want my old ones back.
So, this is the plan. All of you will quit your jobs and move to Minot by September 15. If you do not do so, I will imprison you at my summer bash and you will miss out on your last 6 weeks of civilization. You can bring your loved ones and your pets. Hell, you can bring strangers, as long as they're misfit toyland types. We will take over at least one bar in this town and populate it with our own kind. We will spawn children and, in 6 generations, we will have eradicated the ills of this town. Long after we're dead, the Magic City will be filled with bright, unmotivated binge-drinkers that laugh at obscure humor and feel bad if they lose at a game of trivial pursuit.
If you fail to follow my plan, you will be forced to listen to me complain and/or move to a town near year, only to load up my unpacked boxes and head off to the next town after a few years. By then, I should be able to waive my bar admission into most states and I'm coming after you. And, just maybe, the law firm of Oxford Goetz Williams & Henderson, P.C. will exist in Texarkana (TX or AK, we're not sure yet). OK, Williams never agreed to that, but someone's gotta do the work. Someday. Someday.
Maybe it's a balance. I've spent more time in my apartment in the last year (ok, 4, with the exception of the "jason" period) than I did in 7 years of college/law school. I've also spent more time alone during that time period, too. So, over the last 10 years, I've probaly spent a normal amount of time in my own residence. Truth be told, I get restless, no matter what. I want to meet new people. But people like me. And I don't think they live here. If I can't have new friends, I want my old ones back.
So, this is the plan. All of you will quit your jobs and move to Minot by September 15. If you do not do so, I will imprison you at my summer bash and you will miss out on your last 6 weeks of civilization. You can bring your loved ones and your pets. Hell, you can bring strangers, as long as they're misfit toyland types. We will take over at least one bar in this town and populate it with our own kind. We will spawn children and, in 6 generations, we will have eradicated the ills of this town. Long after we're dead, the Magic City will be filled with bright, unmotivated binge-drinkers that laugh at obscure humor and feel bad if they lose at a game of trivial pursuit.
If you fail to follow my plan, you will be forced to listen to me complain and/or move to a town near year, only to load up my unpacked boxes and head off to the next town after a few years. By then, I should be able to waive my bar admission into most states and I'm coming after you. And, just maybe, the law firm of Oxford Goetz Williams & Henderson, P.C. will exist in Texarkana (TX or AK, we're not sure yet). OK, Williams never agreed to that, but someone's gotta do the work. Someday. Someday.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Balance
So, I just spent the last 3 hours (plus atleast 3 hours last week) balancing my check book. For the first time in at least a decade. I'm almost positive the last time I tried my hand at it, I was a 20 year old college junior taking an accounting class from a Ms. Jean Hartman, or something like that. The only thing I learned in that class is that it was a bad idea to open a grocery store in the 1970s. Seriously. That's it. "Hard times. Hard to pay yourself. Hard to pay your employees."
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Sunday, May 6, 2007
The End of the Line
It's OVER!!!!! The wedding, that is. Aside from some blips and bitchings here and there, it went relatively smoothly. And that even takes into account the fact that, in the middle of pictures, my sister's seamstress decided my top needed to be redone, so she took it home and resewed it.
I'm tired but I'm alive and I haven't been excised from the family trust. Not yet, anyway. The reception/dance was lots of fun and a few of my even friends went the distance (literally) and came up for it. P-Funk, Jerry Bartz, the federalis, and my friend J were all there, which was awesome. The federalis even decorated my hotel room in streamers and a "sweet sixteen" birthday banner, which was a nice surprise after spending 16 hours primping, posing, standing, drinking, dancing and, worst of all, smiling. My friend J and I even attempted to hook up our younger siblings. We'll see how that goes, cross your fingers.
My parents must have felt guilty about the wedding on my birthday thing because I made a haul this year. Diamond neclace, a suit, and tulips.
Oh, and I got on the stage and led the crowd to David Johanning's choreography for "Car Wash."
And now I'm at work, a little hung over and a lot unmotivated.
I'm tired but I'm alive and I haven't been excised from the family trust. Not yet, anyway. The reception/dance was lots of fun and a few of my even friends went the distance (literally) and came up for it. P-Funk, Jerry Bartz, the federalis, and my friend J were all there, which was awesome. The federalis even decorated my hotel room in streamers and a "sweet sixteen" birthday banner, which was a nice surprise after spending 16 hours primping, posing, standing, drinking, dancing and, worst of all, smiling. My friend J and I even attempted to hook up our younger siblings. We'll see how that goes, cross your fingers.
My parents must have felt guilty about the wedding on my birthday thing because I made a haul this year. Diamond neclace, a suit, and tulips.
Oh, and I got on the stage and led the crowd to David Johanning's choreography for "Car Wash."
And now I'm at work, a little hung over and a lot unmotivated.
Monday, April 16, 2007
I'm a mess
I know, I know, you're all shocked. I've always known I'm a mess, but I think I've become almost philosophical about it or, for lack of a better explanation, resigned to it and yet removed from it. I'm not upset, I'm not sad, I'm not anything. It just is what it is.
The reality of my life hasn't changed since I traveled into the valley of the dolls (the anti-depressant kind) three years ago. In a lot of ways, it's worse. I'm living in the middle of nowhere with more animals than friends within a 100-mile radius. What has changed is my perception. You'd think a change in perception would lead to a change in reality, a/k/a making better choices and so on and so forth. Nope, same bad choices, more ambivalence. I only make fewer bad choices, because there are less things within my reach with which I can harm myself (friends, men, booze, etc.). It's a per capita decrease, so to speak, and there's no statistical significance. I'm probably more pleasant to be around, yet there are fewer people to be around.
Logically speaking, I know it's worse. But it doesn't feel worse. It feels better. And that can't be right, can it?
What it comes down to is this: I'd trade my best day in the Magic City for a night of crying over a crack smoking ex-boyfriend on the bathroom floor of the Red Lyon while Summer wipes my eyes with one-ply toilet paper and hands me my beer.
But, I am thankful that I'm not Geraldo. As further evidence of his inaility or lack of integrity as a journalist, which has been displayed ad nauseum since the Al Capone incident, he actually interviewed Mark Fuhrman about the school shooting today. And, the subtext of his "coverage" included the nationality of the Virginia Tech shooter. Too soon.
By the way, HLC, notice the lack of typos. No hypnotic dolls.
The reality of my life hasn't changed since I traveled into the valley of the dolls (the anti-depressant kind) three years ago. In a lot of ways, it's worse. I'm living in the middle of nowhere with more animals than friends within a 100-mile radius. What has changed is my perception. You'd think a change in perception would lead to a change in reality, a/k/a making better choices and so on and so forth. Nope, same bad choices, more ambivalence. I only make fewer bad choices, because there are less things within my reach with which I can harm myself (friends, men, booze, etc.). It's a per capita decrease, so to speak, and there's no statistical significance. I'm probably more pleasant to be around, yet there are fewer people to be around.
Logically speaking, I know it's worse. But it doesn't feel worse. It feels better. And that can't be right, can it?
What it comes down to is this: I'd trade my best day in the Magic City for a night of crying over a crack smoking ex-boyfriend on the bathroom floor of the Red Lyon while Summer wipes my eyes with one-ply toilet paper and hands me my beer.
But, I am thankful that I'm not Geraldo. As further evidence of his inaility or lack of integrity as a journalist, which has been displayed ad nauseum since the Al Capone incident, he actually interviewed Mark Fuhrman about the school shooting today. And, the subtext of his "coverage" included the nationality of the Virginia Tech shooter. Too soon.
By the way, HLC, notice the lack of typos. No hypnotic dolls.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Why Some Words Hurt More Than Others
I love free speech. I really do. You can rummage through my wallet to find my ACLU card next time you see me, if you want proof. I love words, too. I even have favorite words. That's how much of a geek I am. Plethora, penumbra, and superfluous, to name a few. However, even I have my limits. Nazis can march in Skokie. Flags can burn in Texas. Phelps can protest military funerals. I can still hate those people though. I can still pity them for their ignorance. I can still feel for the victims of their invectives. I still believe that, just because they can do it doesn't mean they should do it. And that's what it's really about. Can and should are two different things. By the way, if you're looking for a NAMBLA endorsement here, you won't find one. And, no, that doesn't make me a hypocrite. But that's a different issue for a different day.
This whole Don Imus thing got me thinking. I'm not going to talk about it, but it did spin off a whole other flurry of thoughts. There are two words in the English language that I can't bring myself to say out loud (three if one is used as a slur and not as a description of someone's faith or ethnicity: that's the "J word".) They are the "N word" and the "R word. I can't say them. I can't even type them. I can barely stand to hear them without a visceral reaction. By the way, the "C word" doesn't bother me at all. I use it against Bridezilla all the time. Wrong, I know. Back to the topic at hand...
The "R word." Like so many others, I used to laugh and think it was funny to hurl as an insult. Until I was about 10, anyway. Then, my older brother, who is developmentally impaired (I guess that's the latest "p.c." phrase), came home from school one day and used it against me in an argument. And that's when I realized that the other kids at school had said it to his face. And meant it. It shamed me and broke my heart at the same time.
It's only been in the last six or seven years that I could admit to anyone who didn't know my family already that my brother has special needs. It wasn't that I was ashamed of him. I just didn't want them to judge him. Or laugh at him. Or pity him. Or talk about him. If they heard that without knowing him, he would exist in their minds only as a disability, the "R word," even. I have ex-boyfriends who don't know about my brother. I interviewed for Harvard and, when asked about each of my siblings, I couldn't even then bring myself to talk about my brother.
Maybe I was ashamed. Maybe I just didn't want to talk about it. Maybe I didn't know how to talk about it. It's hard knowing that your a big sister to your older brother. It's painful to hear him talk fondly of schoolmates who were nothing but evil to him. I don't believe in Hell, but, if there is one, there's a special place for those people. It's suffocating to realize that his whole life has so many limitations that can't be changed, so many problems that can't be solved. I know I shouldn't pity him or feel sorry for him, but I can't help myself sometimes.
I purposefully excluded him from my class reunion last summer, even though I was organizing it. I was torn. Afterall, his whole childhood was one of exclusion. But, I didn't want him to be, yet again, the entertainment for the dim-witted, sophomoric assholes we grew up with. Oddly enough, Bridezilla's fiance helped me decide whether I would bring my brother to the reunion. He asked, "Can they be respectful of him?" I realized that I didn't know the answer to that question. That was enough for me know. It wasn't worth the risk.
Anyway, what's this post about? I came across a pledge on the web. By signing it, you pledge to never again use the "R word" in an insulting manner. I don't expect you to sign it, and I won't judge you if you don't. However, as a favor to me, I would ask that you don't send a dagger into my heart by using it around me. I know it's not intentional and, in fact, I usually don't correct it when I'm around my friends because I know they'll feel like a huge asshole if I do bring it up. I'm not here to shame. I just want a better lexicon. For a better world? Maybe.
http://new.petitiononline.com/words/petition.html
This whole Don Imus thing got me thinking. I'm not going to talk about it, but it did spin off a whole other flurry of thoughts. There are two words in the English language that I can't bring myself to say out loud (three if one is used as a slur and not as a description of someone's faith or ethnicity: that's the "J word".) They are the "N word" and the "R word. I can't say them. I can't even type them. I can barely stand to hear them without a visceral reaction. By the way, the "C word" doesn't bother me at all. I use it against Bridezilla all the time. Wrong, I know. Back to the topic at hand...
The "R word." Like so many others, I used to laugh and think it was funny to hurl as an insult. Until I was about 10, anyway. Then, my older brother, who is developmentally impaired (I guess that's the latest "p.c." phrase), came home from school one day and used it against me in an argument. And that's when I realized that the other kids at school had said it to his face. And meant it. It shamed me and broke my heart at the same time.
It's only been in the last six or seven years that I could admit to anyone who didn't know my family already that my brother has special needs. It wasn't that I was ashamed of him. I just didn't want them to judge him. Or laugh at him. Or pity him. Or talk about him. If they heard that without knowing him, he would exist in their minds only as a disability, the "R word," even. I have ex-boyfriends who don't know about my brother. I interviewed for Harvard and, when asked about each of my siblings, I couldn't even then bring myself to talk about my brother.
Maybe I was ashamed. Maybe I just didn't want to talk about it. Maybe I didn't know how to talk about it. It's hard knowing that your a big sister to your older brother. It's painful to hear him talk fondly of schoolmates who were nothing but evil to him. I don't believe in Hell, but, if there is one, there's a special place for those people. It's suffocating to realize that his whole life has so many limitations that can't be changed, so many problems that can't be solved. I know I shouldn't pity him or feel sorry for him, but I can't help myself sometimes.
I purposefully excluded him from my class reunion last summer, even though I was organizing it. I was torn. Afterall, his whole childhood was one of exclusion. But, I didn't want him to be, yet again, the entertainment for the dim-witted, sophomoric assholes we grew up with. Oddly enough, Bridezilla's fiance helped me decide whether I would bring my brother to the reunion. He asked, "Can they be respectful of him?" I realized that I didn't know the answer to that question. That was enough for me know. It wasn't worth the risk.
Anyway, what's this post about? I came across a pledge on the web. By signing it, you pledge to never again use the "R word" in an insulting manner. I don't expect you to sign it, and I won't judge you if you don't. However, as a favor to me, I would ask that you don't send a dagger into my heart by using it around me. I know it's not intentional and, in fact, I usually don't correct it when I'm around my friends because I know they'll feel like a huge asshole if I do bring it up. I'm not here to shame. I just want a better lexicon. For a better world? Maybe.
http://new.petitiononline.com/words/petition.html
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Tanya, look!
Look what I found! Yes, that's me to the left of the bride (my good friend Tanya of "Mike & Tanya's World" see the link to her blog).
That was 85 hair colors, 3 cats and a dog ago. Before I skidded down a sidewalk while screaming I'm awesome or understood what real humidity felt like. Long before I was ever fired. Before my first apartment or my first car. Before I smoked in my own place. Back when I enjoyed my sister, Bridezilla, and felt more like her than different from her. Before the dolls. Back when I loved John Keats and Upton Sinclair, discussing literature and political theories instead of statutes and retainers.
Ah, to be young and (a different kind of) miserable again.
The Other Shoe Drops
I think I confused Lolly with this shoe. Let me know if you prefer this one to the others. Unfortunately, I have to link it instead of putting up the picture. Something's strange with the home computer (aside from the missing "c" button).
Candidate 6: Kyrisma by Steve Madden
Likes: Cosmonauts, Strutting
Dislikes: unpedicured feet, St. Louis crack alleys
http://a1216.g.akamai.net/f/1216/955/6h/images2.nordstrom.com/ImageGallery/store/Product/Gigantic/9/_5367429.jpg
Candidate 6: Kyrisma by Steve Madden
Likes: Cosmonauts, Strutting
Dislikes: unpedicured feet, St. Louis crack alleys
http://a1216.g.akamai.net/f/1216/955/6h/images2.nordstrom.com/ImageGallery/store/Product/Gigantic/9/_5367429.jpg
Here Comes the Dress
As a non-gay male friend of mine pointed out, it's hard to pick the shoe if you don't know what the dress looks like. The dress is floor length and turquoise.
Monday, April 9, 2007
Shoe-lemma
I need your help. Please vote for your favorite shoe. I will be wearing the winner to my sister's wedding. The winning selection will be in silver.
Candidate 1: Witness by Richard Tyler
Likes: Short walks down the aisle, testifying at trial.
Dislikes: Gold
Candidate 2: Lolly by Steve Madden
Likes: Drinking gin in the rectory. Period. (& stripper poles)
Likes: Stepping on hems, being strewn under a buffet table.
Candidate 4: Rags to Riches by Kenneth Cole Reaction
Likes: ABBA, Slipping on the same beer that stained the front of my owner's dress
Candidate 5: Gurich by BCBGirls
Likes: Birthday parties, Molly Ringwald
Candidate 1: Witness by Richard Tyler
Likes: Short walks down the aisle, testifying at trial.
Dislikes: Gold
Candidate 2: Lolly by Steve Madden
Likes: Drinking gin in the rectory. Period. (& stripper poles)
Dislikes: Federal Prison (Get it? Steve Madden?)
Candidate 3: Rich n' Post by Kenneth Cole Reaction
Likes: Stepping on hems, being strewn under a buffet table.
Dislikes: Vaulting its owner into a sidewalk
Candidate 4: Rags to Riches by Kenneth Cole Reaction
Likes: ABBA, Slipping on the same beer that stained the front of my owner's dress
Dislikes: Overreactions
Candidate 5: Gurich by BCBGirls
Likes: Birthday parties, Molly Ringwald
Dislikes: Townies
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Irony
Jeffrey Dahmer was a Creationist. He didn't believe in evolution. It "cheapens life."
So does trying to make zombies out of unsuspecting men by drilling holes into their heads while they're still alive. And eating them. And so on and so forth...
So does trying to make zombies out of unsuspecting men by drilling holes into their heads while they're still alive. And eating them. And so on and so forth...
Updates: A Montage
1. Hell-waii was Hella Fun. Very few arguments, lots of sun, sand and ocean. Had a long trip back involving an emergency landing in Honolulu overnight and, in an unrelated note, a trip to the emergency room after arriving home. Swollen legs + paranoia = 8 hours with the Magic City's finest [sic] ER staff. No blood clot, just a firmer conviction that I will never have any major medical treatment here, if I can help it.
2. My dad caught me smoking on the beach. I was on the phone (which is what you do when on vacation in paradise), so there was no immediate discussion. I awaited the after-school special moment where we discussed how it was bad and I needed to quit. It never came, although he told me mom. She pretended to be shocked. Traitor.
3. Used the new carpet shampooer today. I love it more than the first one (since I don't go through a gallon of water every 20 minutes and spend 30 vacuuming it out of the carpets).
4. I got an arson case. Light it up!
5. Kansas lost today in the Elite Eight. Sigh. There's always next year.
6. The Sheriff has been deleted from my phone. Again.
7. Later spoke to the ex (who was with his girlfriend when I called in the middle of the night. see "Mortified" post.) Not only was he with his girlfriend, that he neglected to tell me existed, he was staying with her at a posh hotel that SHE rented for them for the night, AFTER she took him to a play and an expensive Japanese steakhouse. It was a new girlfriend, so I'm assuming she'd put out the cash to make the night "special." Me, I rented a movie and he busted a sweater out of the back of his closet (so as to fit into my "professional" world). I admonished him on her behalf since, if she was so into him that she paid $200 to get laid, she likely didn't do it. He now knows to never, under any circumstances, call an ex back at 2 a.m. after being wined and dined by a new girlfriend, while laying in bed with her. Ugh, what a pig. Actually, he's just clueless. I mean, it's not like I was going to put out for him.
8. Good book: 19 Minutes. About a fictitious school shooting, ala Columbine.
9. Huxley hasn't had any accidents since before Hell-waii. Although, unfortunately, he now prefers the puppy pads to the Great Outdoors. And, even though it was dark, I'm pretty sure that it was hardened poop that I pried from his mouth the last two nights in a row. I wanted him to pee outside. He apparently wanted a midnight snack.
10. How many scandals can one president have before the word "scandal" loses all meaning? I guess, if you're going to fuck up, do it alot so it's not even newsworthy anymore.
2. My dad caught me smoking on the beach. I was on the phone (which is what you do when on vacation in paradise), so there was no immediate discussion. I awaited the after-school special moment where we discussed how it was bad and I needed to quit. It never came, although he told me mom. She pretended to be shocked. Traitor.
3. Used the new carpet shampooer today. I love it more than the first one (since I don't go through a gallon of water every 20 minutes and spend 30 vacuuming it out of the carpets).
4. I got an arson case. Light it up!
5. Kansas lost today in the Elite Eight. Sigh. There's always next year.
6. The Sheriff has been deleted from my phone. Again.
7. Later spoke to the ex (who was with his girlfriend when I called in the middle of the night. see "Mortified" post.) Not only was he with his girlfriend, that he neglected to tell me existed, he was staying with her at a posh hotel that SHE rented for them for the night, AFTER she took him to a play and an expensive Japanese steakhouse. It was a new girlfriend, so I'm assuming she'd put out the cash to make the night "special." Me, I rented a movie and he busted a sweater out of the back of his closet (so as to fit into my "professional" world). I admonished him on her behalf since, if she was so into him that she paid $200 to get laid, she likely didn't do it. He now knows to never, under any circumstances, call an ex back at 2 a.m. after being wined and dined by a new girlfriend, while laying in bed with her. Ugh, what a pig. Actually, he's just clueless. I mean, it's not like I was going to put out for him.
8. Good book: 19 Minutes. About a fictitious school shooting, ala Columbine.
9. Huxley hasn't had any accidents since before Hell-waii. Although, unfortunately, he now prefers the puppy pads to the Great Outdoors. And, even though it was dark, I'm pretty sure that it was hardened poop that I pried from his mouth the last two nights in a row. I wanted him to pee outside. He apparently wanted a midnight snack.
10. How many scandals can one president have before the word "scandal" loses all meaning? I guess, if you're going to fuck up, do it alot so it's not even newsworthy anymore.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Need your Input ASAP!!!
So, Cat and I are trying to come up with a theme for t-shirts for Sis's bachelorette party. This is what I've come up with.
As a little background, the wedding is in North Dakota, mere minutes away from the International Peace Garden with Canada. North Dakota is the "Peace Garden State."
So, ala Urban Outfitters, this is my idea:
Outline of North Dakota, with this slogan, "Last Chance for a Peace of This Garden." Perhaps the following subtext will be added, "Sis's Bachelorette Party April 20, 2007."
The bachelorette party will also be held in ND.
As a little background, the wedding is in North Dakota, mere minutes away from the International Peace Garden with Canada. North Dakota is the "Peace Garden State."
So, ala Urban Outfitters, this is my idea:
Outline of North Dakota, with this slogan, "Last Chance for a Peace of This Garden." Perhaps the following subtext will be added, "Sis's Bachelorette Party April 20, 2007."
The bachelorette party will also be held in ND.
Saturday, March 3, 2007
Mortified
So, I have 5 hours to kill this morning at the airport in Minneapolis, so I'm placing late-night calls to see if anyone wants to go to breakfast at 6:30 a.m. The Sheriff: No answer. Bob: No answer. Orion: too late to call. The plumber: Answered. He sounded funny, so I casually asked him what he was up to. He told me he was with his girlfriend. So, I said, "well, I have a long layover and wanted to see if you wanted to have breakfast but you'll probably be busy so it's ok" and then didn't really give him a chance to answer and got off the phone quickly.
That was not mentioned in the "you were the best girlfriend I've ever had" conversation yesterday, despite my sharing with him that I'd originally planned to have drinks with the Sheriff but he hadn't gotten back to me so I could probably swing drinks with the plumber during my 8-hour layover. I explained the history of me and the Sheriff. Perfect time for him to jump in with the fact that he has a girlfriend. What the fuck???
That was not mentioned in the "you were the best girlfriend I've ever had" conversation yesterday, despite my sharing with him that I'd originally planned to have drinks with the Sheriff but he hadn't gotten back to me so I could probably swing drinks with the plumber during my 8-hour layover. I explained the history of me and the Sheriff. Perfect time for him to jump in with the fact that he has a girlfriend. What the fuck???
Less screwed...(or more, maybe)
I have, at the insistence of my mother, packed my small "carry-on" suitcase, in addition to my big one. That's a good plan because I really need to keep track of more shit. I've started packing. I have 2 full suitcases and two loads of laundry that aren't done yet. Hmmmm.
I've also packed 10 pairs of shoes. Yes, 10. It's been a long time since my favorite type of shoe has been worn (open toe kitten heels) and all of them are coming with me. I also realized that, for the amount of purses that I've bought over the last 5 years, most of them suck. Well, truth be told, I can't remember where I packed most of them. But the accessible ones are ugly. And I'm most disturbed by the absences of my small black banana republic clutch. I found the coral one. Which is great because it matches so many things...I'm also trying to figure out what I want to wear on the plane. Pants? Skirt? I really want to wear pajamas but that won't go over well at all. Plus I'll look awesome at the Magic City airport wearing a skirt and no coat (no room to pack the columbia).
Now I'm tryin to track down all the small shit I need to remember. camera, iPod stuff, phone charger, etc. I hate myself right now.
I've also packed 10 pairs of shoes. Yes, 10. It's been a long time since my favorite type of shoe has been worn (open toe kitten heels) and all of them are coming with me. I also realized that, for the amount of purses that I've bought over the last 5 years, most of them suck. Well, truth be told, I can't remember where I packed most of them. But the accessible ones are ugly. And I'm most disturbed by the absences of my small black banana republic clutch. I found the coral one. Which is great because it matches so many things...I'm also trying to figure out what I want to wear on the plane. Pants? Skirt? I really want to wear pajamas but that won't go over well at all. Plus I'll look awesome at the Magic City airport wearing a skirt and no coat (no room to pack the columbia).
Now I'm tryin to track down all the small shit I need to remember. camera, iPod stuff, phone charger, etc. I hate myself right now.
Friday, March 2, 2007
Fuck...
It's almost 11 p.m., I haven't started packing, the place is a mess, and I'm tired. I have to be at the airport at 4 a.m.-ish.
I took some time out of my day to get a pedicure, using the gift certificate my sister gave me for christmas. So, I anticipated I'd be gone for an hour. Nope. TWO AND A HALF HOURS. And I didn't even get a foot/leg massage. What took so long? I'm not really sure, except it took her at lesat 20 minutes to paint the nails because she "slopped it on" as she put it, and then cleaned it off with a really sharp stick. It wasn't relaxing, especially when I realized I was going to miss a phone conference with a client. Fuck.
Then, I had to take Hux to the kennel on icy roads 15 miles north of town. That turned out to be another hour. I finally left work at 8:50 p.m., just in time to swing by the pharmacy to pick up my dollies.
I'm on my 2nd load of laundry, and I have one more to go. Luckily, I think I know where everything else is. I just have to get it in the suitcase, track down about 4 pairs of shoes, clean the litter box, take out the trash and water the close to dead plants. And, I have no idea how I'm getting to the airport. It's really only like 6 blocks away, so I could walk. But, I don't want to treck across the four lane highway at 4 a.m., nor do I want to trudge through our foot of snow. I had to use my four-wheel drive to get out of my alley and even go up and down my street. Awesome. I cannot WAIT to get the hell out of here.
The cats are very excited that the doggie isn't here. They'll be super-bummed when he comes home in 10 days.
If I don't talk to you before I leave, Aloha. I'm gone until the 11th, but that'll be longer if I'm not able to bond out after I'm arrested for assault.
I took some time out of my day to get a pedicure, using the gift certificate my sister gave me for christmas. So, I anticipated I'd be gone for an hour. Nope. TWO AND A HALF HOURS. And I didn't even get a foot/leg massage. What took so long? I'm not really sure, except it took her at lesat 20 minutes to paint the nails because she "slopped it on" as she put it, and then cleaned it off with a really sharp stick. It wasn't relaxing, especially when I realized I was going to miss a phone conference with a client. Fuck.
Then, I had to take Hux to the kennel on icy roads 15 miles north of town. That turned out to be another hour. I finally left work at 8:50 p.m., just in time to swing by the pharmacy to pick up my dollies.
I'm on my 2nd load of laundry, and I have one more to go. Luckily, I think I know where everything else is. I just have to get it in the suitcase, track down about 4 pairs of shoes, clean the litter box, take out the trash and water the close to dead plants. And, I have no idea how I'm getting to the airport. It's really only like 6 blocks away, so I could walk. But, I don't want to treck across the four lane highway at 4 a.m., nor do I want to trudge through our foot of snow. I had to use my four-wheel drive to get out of my alley and even go up and down my street. Awesome. I cannot WAIT to get the hell out of here.
The cats are very excited that the doggie isn't here. They'll be super-bummed when he comes home in 10 days.
If I don't talk to you before I leave, Aloha. I'm gone until the 11th, but that'll be longer if I'm not able to bond out after I'm arrested for assault.
Vacations are like finals...
The week before is always the most horrendous experience ever. I power shopped for 4 hours tonight, trying on at least 15 swimsuits. Only to come home and find that my existing suit looks better than any of the others I found. UGH!!! I also found some dresses at Target, of all places, but they'll only be OK if I can find my "special" underwear. And, by "special," I mean the sucking in, up to my bra line kind. Not the date kind.
I also tried on at least 15 tops and 10 skirts at another store. I had the sales lady at my disposal for an hour. She heard emergency and hawaii and thought it'd probably be a good chance at a decent commission. The gamble paid off for her. Only one skirt but at least 6 tops.
I have no idea how much laundry needs to be done, I have a billion things to do at work tomorrow, I need an eyebrow wax, I have to get Huxley to the kennel 10 miles north of town, partially on gravel, in this snowstorm, and I have no idea what I'm packing, or when. I have until 3:30 a.m. Saturday morning to take care of business. We'll see... It does stress me out less to know that this is a big part of who I am and I always manage to make things work. I mean, come one, did anyone, including myself, expect me to be packed and ready to go more than 2 hours before the plane left? I am me, and I accept my limitations.
To make the day weird, I got a phone call from an ex-boyfriend, the plumber. The most normal relationship I've ever had. Probably because I knew I wasn't going to marry him so his flaws didn't really bother me. We talked for an hour and he kept bringing up how much he liked dating me and what a good girlfriend I was. He even brought up how I'd been the best girlfriend re: buying him gifts, etc. Then we openly discussed the man neclace issue and the fact that he went to WEEZER without me. Still bitter. I honestly couldn't remember if it was Cake or Weezer but, when he disclosed it was Weezer, I was angry all over again. He thought the man neclace was the last straw. I pointed out that the dam broke around the time of the Weezer incident, about a week prior.
At the end of the conversation, he asked if I had a layover in Minneapolis and told me he really wanted to take me out for a drink. That's more than I can say for the Sheriff, so I guess he wins. Plus, he's a sure thing, if that's what I'm in the mood for. I warned him that I'd be crabby and tired during the layover, after a long, long flight and he reminded me that I was like that the entire time we dated. Touche.
Huxley hasn't caused any exploding tails or hysterical hair loss amongst my pussy posse today. It's the first time that's happened since, well, ever. Of course, the night's not over yet. Not for me, the raging insomniac. I called up my doc and made her give me the sleep meds that make me fat, but not insane, for the Hawaiian vacation. I mean, I'm going to gain weight while I'm there anyway, what's an extra boost going to hurt. It's a vacation-only thing, though. Then, I'm off to trying new meds that I can't locate within a 100 mile radius of the Magic City.
I also tried on at least 15 tops and 10 skirts at another store. I had the sales lady at my disposal for an hour. She heard emergency and hawaii and thought it'd probably be a good chance at a decent commission. The gamble paid off for her. Only one skirt but at least 6 tops.
I have no idea how much laundry needs to be done, I have a billion things to do at work tomorrow, I need an eyebrow wax, I have to get Huxley to the kennel 10 miles north of town, partially on gravel, in this snowstorm, and I have no idea what I'm packing, or when. I have until 3:30 a.m. Saturday morning to take care of business. We'll see... It does stress me out less to know that this is a big part of who I am and I always manage to make things work. I mean, come one, did anyone, including myself, expect me to be packed and ready to go more than 2 hours before the plane left? I am me, and I accept my limitations.
To make the day weird, I got a phone call from an ex-boyfriend, the plumber. The most normal relationship I've ever had. Probably because I knew I wasn't going to marry him so his flaws didn't really bother me. We talked for an hour and he kept bringing up how much he liked dating me and what a good girlfriend I was. He even brought up how I'd been the best girlfriend re: buying him gifts, etc. Then we openly discussed the man neclace issue and the fact that he went to WEEZER without me. Still bitter. I honestly couldn't remember if it was Cake or Weezer but, when he disclosed it was Weezer, I was angry all over again. He thought the man neclace was the last straw. I pointed out that the dam broke around the time of the Weezer incident, about a week prior.
At the end of the conversation, he asked if I had a layover in Minneapolis and told me he really wanted to take me out for a drink. That's more than I can say for the Sheriff, so I guess he wins. Plus, he's a sure thing, if that's what I'm in the mood for. I warned him that I'd be crabby and tired during the layover, after a long, long flight and he reminded me that I was like that the entire time we dated. Touche.
Huxley hasn't caused any exploding tails or hysterical hair loss amongst my pussy posse today. It's the first time that's happened since, well, ever. Of course, the night's not over yet. Not for me, the raging insomniac. I called up my doc and made her give me the sleep meds that make me fat, but not insane, for the Hawaiian vacation. I mean, I'm going to gain weight while I'm there anyway, what's an extra boost going to hurt. It's a vacation-only thing, though. Then, I'm off to trying new meds that I can't locate within a 100 mile radius of the Magic City.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Snips and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails...
Hoover Steam Vac with Clean Surge, born to Sour Girl at 9:30 p.m., February 27, 2007.Delivering Physician: eBay
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice...
Hoover Steam Vac with Clean Surge, born to HLC at 4:30 p.m., February 27, 2007.Delivering Physician: eBay
How Much Am I Worth?
I can honestly say I don't have an answer to that question. Some people seem to think I'm worth my hourly rate. So far, at least, that's been the case. However, I got an interesting question today.
I took a cold-call today from a person seeking family law representation. This is a snippet of the awkward conversation:
Me: [price quote, retainer, hourly rate, etc.]
Caller: So, what do I get for that?
Me: [thinking: um, legal representation] [silence . . . still thinking of an appropriate response.]
Caller: I mean, what I'm asking is, if I give you all that money, how hard are you going to work for me?
Me: [long pause] I work very hard for all my clients. I charge my clients all the same hourly rate and they all seem to be satisfied with my representation.
Caller: Well, I mean, what's your win/loss record?
Me: There aren't really winners and losers in family law. It's not that simple. Everyone wants something different so what's a win for some isn't a win for others.
Caller: You know, I know lawyers sometimes charge for things that didn't cost nearly as much as they're charging. I know a lot about the law. [meaning you won't get away with that shit if you try to pull it over on me.]
Me: Oh, really? [couldn't think of an appropriate response without sounding adversarial]
Caller: Yeah, I know a lot about the law. I've had lots of tangles with it, so I know.
What I really wanted to say:
1. There aren't winners in family law. Only losers. Some just lose less than others.
2. I'm sure your law degree from the University of JAIL is quite distinguished.
3. Please don't hire me.
4. Do you think I honestly work harder for some clients and not others, based on how much they pay? That's not true, fair, or ethical. And, how the fuck am I supposed to answer that question to your satisfaction? If I lie and say, yes, I'll work harder, then I'm selling myself and my other clients out, in addition to lying. And, if I say the same as all other cases, they'll think they're not special and not getting their money's worth. There's no good answer.
5. If you don't think I'm worth the money, find someone else you're comfortable with and we'll both be happier for it.
The bottom line: Don't take a client you know you can't make happy, no matter what you try to do to please them or how many rulings you think you might get in their favor. Especially in family law. It's a bad enough situation, lawyers aside.
And this is why I maintain the fact that, some days I'd rather deal with a sex offender on a bad day (on a professional level, of course) than a pissed off parent seeking a divorce on a good day.
I took a cold-call today from a person seeking family law representation. This is a snippet of the awkward conversation:
Me: [price quote, retainer, hourly rate, etc.]
Caller: So, what do I get for that?
Me: [thinking: um, legal representation] [silence . . . still thinking of an appropriate response.]
Caller: I mean, what I'm asking is, if I give you all that money, how hard are you going to work for me?
Me: [long pause] I work very hard for all my clients. I charge my clients all the same hourly rate and they all seem to be satisfied with my representation.
Caller: Well, I mean, what's your win/loss record?
Me: There aren't really winners and losers in family law. It's not that simple. Everyone wants something different so what's a win for some isn't a win for others.
Caller: You know, I know lawyers sometimes charge for things that didn't cost nearly as much as they're charging. I know a lot about the law. [meaning you won't get away with that shit if you try to pull it over on me.]
Me: Oh, really? [couldn't think of an appropriate response without sounding adversarial]
Caller: Yeah, I know a lot about the law. I've had lots of tangles with it, so I know.
What I really wanted to say:
1. There aren't winners in family law. Only losers. Some just lose less than others.
2. I'm sure your law degree from the University of JAIL is quite distinguished.
3. Please don't hire me.
4. Do you think I honestly work harder for some clients and not others, based on how much they pay? That's not true, fair, or ethical. And, how the fuck am I supposed to answer that question to your satisfaction? If I lie and say, yes, I'll work harder, then I'm selling myself and my other clients out, in addition to lying. And, if I say the same as all other cases, they'll think they're not special and not getting their money's worth. There's no good answer.
5. If you don't think I'm worth the money, find someone else you're comfortable with and we'll both be happier for it.
The bottom line: Don't take a client you know you can't make happy, no matter what you try to do to please them or how many rulings you think you might get in their favor. Especially in family law. It's a bad enough situation, lawyers aside.
And this is why I maintain the fact that, some days I'd rather deal with a sex offender on a bad day (on a professional level, of course) than a pissed off parent seeking a divorce on a good day.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Valley of the Dolls
If you know me, then you know I have insomnia. The self-diagnosed kind for years and, since 2004, the truly diagnosed kind. What's the difference? Nothing, really, except validation from someone with a medical degree.
The key, of course, is to get to the root of the problem. My doctor attempted to do that in November. Unfortunately, the aging population of the Magic City has convinced those at the hospital's sleep lab that the only thing that ails ye is sleep apnea round these parts. I won't relive the sordid details, except to say that both my completed 12-page questionairre and my doctor's request indicated I had sleep-onset insomnia, which means I can't fall asleep. Even if I did have sleep apnea, that wouldn't prevent me from FALLING asleep.
From the moment I showed up in my PJs with my temperpedic pillow, the only chatter I received from the nurse involved sleep apnea. The monitors under my nose were to test sleep apnea. The informational DVD was on sleep apnea. The reason I had to sleep on my back (not a normal position that promotes sleep for me) was to more quickly detect sleep apnea. Etc., etc., etc....
So, after laying awake in my sleep study bed for an hour, a nurse barged in with a flashlight and, with more than a hint of irritation in her voice, told me, "you're not sleeping!." No shit. If I was, I wouldn't fucking need to be here. So, she actually ordered that I take my sleeping pills. I protested and asked why it would be useful, "Well, so we can watch you sleep to find out what your sleep problems are." FUCK. Again, if you WERE watching me sleep, I wouldn't need to be here! Whatever, I gave up and took the dolly I so adored with me to my bed.
After I lay back down, my frustration subsided as the coziness of the doll began to take over. Within the next hour, I drifted off to sleep, despite the electrodes glued to my head, face, chest, neck, stomach, and ankles.
I was awoken by a new nurse. As she walked me out the door, she asked me if I remembered grinding me teeth, or if my dentist had ever noticed. Negative, and negative. Then, she proudly mentioned that I did not, in fact, have sleep apnea. What? No! Really? Of course not, dip shit. Thanks for wasting my evening.
My doctor and I met after the sleep study results were computed. Actually, we met the first time they were suppoed to be available. I gave her a heads' up about the sleep apnea issue. Then, we met later to review the study. It wasn't so much of a review as, as she put it, "a complete waste of time." And, she again confimred that I did not have sleep apnea.
So, the list of the dolls......
1. Trazadone: aweful
2. Ambien: my favorite dolly, used on and off since 2004.
3. Elavil: okay, not enough of a kick to put me into sleep land, resltess leg syndrome
4. Remeron: my second-favorite dolly. Until I found out it was likely a main cause for my 40# weight explosion. The ther 40# was me, i have no doubts.
5. Lunesta: didn't work
6. Sonata: nothing
7. Buspar: slightly weird feeling (anti-anxiety med) but didn't help sleep, just feel creepy.
8. Ambien CR: crazy emails, shopping, etc. take too many pills (which I can't even get into right now - only HLC knows the extent) In comparison, Ambien is far less crazy-making)
9. Imbotrol ( compo of a benzo and elavil - together, 2 hard of sleep, apart, not effective)
10. Rameltom : Nothing (even though it's a benzo)
11. Prosom:Cross your fingers!!!!!!
12. ???
I will almost panic if we get down to this one on the list and have nothing appropriate for my sleep problem. I'd rather me mildly crazy on ambien than I would strung out off ambien.
So, the point is this: There must be a valley of the dolls, a valley more deep than 12 sleep aids. Or I need to pitch a "Night Court." here in the Magic City. Loved that show when I was a kid, I could totally do it.
Well, better go, Ambien's kicked in. Please offer any advice, preferabaly presecription drug advice.
And, just so you don't irritate me in the way my family does, please don't suggest that I should just through all my pills away and go to bed earlier. Nor should you say that, If I got some counseling, I'd be able to sleep without any assistance. And, then I could get rid of my antidepressants, too, is where that load's reading.
The key, of course, is to get to the root of the problem. My doctor attempted to do that in November. Unfortunately, the aging population of the Magic City has convinced those at the hospital's sleep lab that the only thing that ails ye is sleep apnea round these parts. I won't relive the sordid details, except to say that both my completed 12-page questionairre and my doctor's request indicated I had sleep-onset insomnia, which means I can't fall asleep. Even if I did have sleep apnea, that wouldn't prevent me from FALLING asleep.
From the moment I showed up in my PJs with my temperpedic pillow, the only chatter I received from the nurse involved sleep apnea. The monitors under my nose were to test sleep apnea. The informational DVD was on sleep apnea. The reason I had to sleep on my back (not a normal position that promotes sleep for me) was to more quickly detect sleep apnea. Etc., etc., etc....
So, after laying awake in my sleep study bed for an hour, a nurse barged in with a flashlight and, with more than a hint of irritation in her voice, told me, "you're not sleeping!." No shit. If I was, I wouldn't fucking need to be here. So, she actually ordered that I take my sleeping pills. I protested and asked why it would be useful, "Well, so we can watch you sleep to find out what your sleep problems are." FUCK. Again, if you WERE watching me sleep, I wouldn't need to be here! Whatever, I gave up and took the dolly I so adored with me to my bed.
After I lay back down, my frustration subsided as the coziness of the doll began to take over. Within the next hour, I drifted off to sleep, despite the electrodes glued to my head, face, chest, neck, stomach, and ankles.
I was awoken by a new nurse. As she walked me out the door, she asked me if I remembered grinding me teeth, or if my dentist had ever noticed. Negative, and negative. Then, she proudly mentioned that I did not, in fact, have sleep apnea. What? No! Really? Of course not, dip shit. Thanks for wasting my evening.
My doctor and I met after the sleep study results were computed. Actually, we met the first time they were suppoed to be available. I gave her a heads' up about the sleep apnea issue. Then, we met later to review the study. It wasn't so much of a review as, as she put it, "a complete waste of time." And, she again confimred that I did not have sleep apnea.
So, the list of the dolls......
1. Trazadone: aweful
2. Ambien: my favorite dolly, used on and off since 2004.
3. Elavil: okay, not enough of a kick to put me into sleep land, resltess leg syndrome
4. Remeron: my second-favorite dolly. Until I found out it was likely a main cause for my 40# weight explosion. The ther 40# was me, i have no doubts.
5. Lunesta: didn't work
6. Sonata: nothing
7. Buspar: slightly weird feeling (anti-anxiety med) but didn't help sleep, just feel creepy.
8. Ambien CR: crazy emails, shopping, etc. take too many pills (which I can't even get into right now - only HLC knows the extent) In comparison, Ambien is far less crazy-making)
9. Imbotrol ( compo of a benzo and elavil - together, 2 hard of sleep, apart, not effective)
10. Rameltom : Nothing (even though it's a benzo)
11. Prosom:Cross your fingers!!!!!!
12. ???
I will almost panic if we get down to this one on the list and have nothing appropriate for my sleep problem. I'd rather me mildly crazy on ambien than I would strung out off ambien.
So, the point is this: There must be a valley of the dolls, a valley more deep than 12 sleep aids. Or I need to pitch a "Night Court." here in the Magic City. Loved that show when I was a kid, I could totally do it.
Well, better go, Ambien's kicked in. Please offer any advice, preferabaly presecription drug advice.
And, just so you don't irritate me in the way my family does, please don't suggest that I should just through all my pills away and go to bed earlier. Nor should you say that, If I got some counseling, I'd be able to sleep without any assistance. And, then I could get rid of my antidepressants, too, is where that load's reading.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Ah, Brackets...
So, I'm excited that it's almost March. Why? Brackets!!! I'm more excited about March Madness than going to Hell-waii. I just realized I'll get back just in time to get the annual bracket pool up and running. And I'm bound and determined not to finish last again. F-ing Jayhawks...
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Friend and Foe (and poop and MAD)
I actually did something that's the ideal for the legal profession, but rarely the reality unless you were friends first. I had drinks tonight with opposing counsel from my supreme court oral argument. If you can't sit down and have a beer afterwards, what's the point? We commiserated, laughed at ourselves, and complimented one another on Wednesday's battle. In addition to drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. It was actually fun and she seemed as eager as I am to start a regular happy hour. Neither of us are part of the "in" crowd amongst legal professionals in the Magic City, mostly because we aren't middle-aged white men. It'd be nice to have another friend. The last friend I made in this town pisses on my carpet for no apparent reason.
Actually, I'm quite proud of young Aldous. He hasn't peed on anything aside from the puppy pads in at least 4 days and, for the previous several days, he had only peed on the carpet (or rug on top of the carpet - it was time to bust out my area rugs) when he overshot the puppy pad.
He had a runny poop incident while I was in Deadwood, which I suspect was caused by stress. And then, when I got back, I stupidly switched his food so he continued to have some "soft stools," which, while not good, were always on the puppy pad, sometimes a little of it would be on the rug next to the puppy pad. And, he pooped like four times a day, I'm sure because he couldn't help it. He never willfully plopped down in the middle of a room and crapped, though, which is appreciated. His poop is now solid and he's back to going once a day, in the evenings, and best of all, outside.
Totally gross and lame that I'm writing about D.H.O.G.'s bowel movements, but I live in a wasteland. And I'm the crazy animal lady. And the Sheriff had to cancel due to a UTI (and the $600 last-minute plane ticket, I'm sure). Luckily, he is scheduled to get between 12-18 inches of snow over the weekend. And I'll be crying on Waikiki Beach by myself after a blow out with my sister in 9 days.
When I get the energy and/or inclination, I'll tell you about our all-out war on Tuesday. We completely disregarded the military concept of MAD (mutually assured destruction). I launched the first shot, knowing I'd receive an equally crippling blow right back, with both of us completely devastated at the end. That knowledge, despite common logic, wasn't enough to keep my nukes in check. I freaked out. She freaked out. I cried. She cried. I was happy that she cried.
She called me for legal advice on behalf of a friend an hour later, as though nothing happened. And I gave it to her. The fight was not mentioned, despite the fact that my eyes were still puffy. We're that kind of family. I'm hoping we're the kind of family that doesn't punch each other in the face while on vacation. But, I can forsee a freak out at the airport when she won't let me leave to have a cigarette, I kick a sign, and neither of us speak during the 8 hour flight, with one of us crying most of the way home. That's a special shout out to my homies. You know who you are...
Actually, I'm quite proud of young Aldous. He hasn't peed on anything aside from the puppy pads in at least 4 days and, for the previous several days, he had only peed on the carpet (or rug on top of the carpet - it was time to bust out my area rugs) when he overshot the puppy pad.
He had a runny poop incident while I was in Deadwood, which I suspect was caused by stress. And then, when I got back, I stupidly switched his food so he continued to have some "soft stools," which, while not good, were always on the puppy pad, sometimes a little of it would be on the rug next to the puppy pad. And, he pooped like four times a day, I'm sure because he couldn't help it. He never willfully plopped down in the middle of a room and crapped, though, which is appreciated. His poop is now solid and he's back to going once a day, in the evenings, and best of all, outside.
Totally gross and lame that I'm writing about D.H.O.G.'s bowel movements, but I live in a wasteland. And I'm the crazy animal lady. And the Sheriff had to cancel due to a UTI (and the $600 last-minute plane ticket, I'm sure). Luckily, he is scheduled to get between 12-18 inches of snow over the weekend. And I'll be crying on Waikiki Beach by myself after a blow out with my sister in 9 days.
When I get the energy and/or inclination, I'll tell you about our all-out war on Tuesday. We completely disregarded the military concept of MAD (mutually assured destruction). I launched the first shot, knowing I'd receive an equally crippling blow right back, with both of us completely devastated at the end. That knowledge, despite common logic, wasn't enough to keep my nukes in check. I freaked out. She freaked out. I cried. She cried. I was happy that she cried.
She called me for legal advice on behalf of a friend an hour later, as though nothing happened. And I gave it to her. The fight was not mentioned, despite the fact that my eyes were still puffy. We're that kind of family. I'm hoping we're the kind of family that doesn't punch each other in the face while on vacation. But, I can forsee a freak out at the airport when she won't let me leave to have a cigarette, I kick a sign, and neither of us speak during the 8 hour flight, with one of us crying most of the way home. That's a special shout out to my homies. You know who you are...
Thursday, February 22, 2007
In Loving Memory...
(September 12, 2004 - February 21, 2007)May you always have
the sun upon your face,
the wind beneath your wings,
the Earth below,
and the Lord above.
-Unknown
1128
That's the minimum number of people my sister invited to the wedding. She sent out 564 invitations, and each invitation includes a minimum of two people. Some include five. I'm pretty sure that's more people than my graduating class at college. Or close to it.
And, that doesn't include the people that will come after the "dance open to everyone" announcement is published in the local newspaper. You wouldn't think that draws people, but I'd count on at least a hundred extras showing up to stand in my way and prevent me from getting a beer. HLC and Deb, we'll be tailgating. My sister's fiance is inviting other people, too, randomly when he runs into them.
And, that doesn't include the people that will come after the "dance open to everyone" announcement is published in the local newspaper. You wouldn't think that draws people, but I'd count on at least a hundred extras showing up to stand in my way and prevent me from getting a beer. HLC and Deb, we'll be tailgating. My sister's fiance is inviting other people, too, randomly when he runs into them.
An Untimely Passing . . . I'm truly sorry, HLC.
On a sad note, HLC's carpet shampooer has shampooed its last rug. I'm not sure how it happened or when, but it passed away sometime over the last week. I knew I shouldn't have pushed it so hard, and I never even got a chance to tell it how much I loved it or appreciated it or how proud I was of all it did for my carpets.
Seriously, though, it is a total bummer. HLC, I offer you my heartfelt apology on my anonymous blog, as I did earlier non-anonymously over the phone.
Because of the kind of person I am, and by that I mean the kind of person that breaks things, I promised before I even took possession to replace it if it broke. Know your limitations, people. So, at least there are no hard feelings over 'the incident.' I'll be sending HLC a replacement shortly after I return from Hell-waii. You don't want to do it too soon, grief has to run its course.
As an upside, though, it's going to be twins! I've decided I can't live without the carpet cleaner, either, and I'm obviously not allowed to borrow anything else from HLC, so it's a wise investment. Even if I were allowed to borrow it, I'd probably end up breaking and replacing that one, too, so I'd end buying two in the end, anyway. It's a mathematical certainty.
So long, Hoover Steam Vac, we hardly knew ye.
Seriously, though, it is a total bummer. HLC, I offer you my heartfelt apology on my anonymous blog, as I did earlier non-anonymously over the phone.
Because of the kind of person I am, and by that I mean the kind of person that breaks things, I promised before I even took possession to replace it if it broke. Know your limitations, people. So, at least there are no hard feelings over 'the incident.' I'll be sending HLC a replacement shortly after I return from Hell-waii. You don't want to do it too soon, grief has to run its course.
As an upside, though, it's going to be twins! I've decided I can't live without the carpet cleaner, either, and I'm obviously not allowed to borrow anything else from HLC, so it's a wise investment. Even if I were allowed to borrow it, I'd probably end up breaking and replacing that one, too, so I'd end buying two in the end, anyway. It's a mathematical certainty.
So long, Hoover Steam Vac, we hardly knew ye.
Staying Alive...
[Pay attention, there's a possible theme running through this posting, identify it and you win the prize of being a geek.]
I was a mess this morning, I'm sure my boss wanted to slap me across the face just to refocus me.
I had a good two-hour drive to work off my anxiety before I got to the Capitol City. And a good half pack of Marlboro Lights smoked by the time I got there, too. In addition to four caplets of Immodium as a preventative measure. Not to be disgusting, but coffee + cigarettes + anxiety + IBS = disaster. Additionally, we had an audience, which I was not expecting at all. A business college class came to watch the performance. And now they probably think it must be really easy to get a law degree. At least maybe they'll be encouraged to continue their education beyond their current A.A. program. I'm all about fostering an educated America. Unfortunately, education does not equate to effectively and articulately responding to questions coming from 5 different chairs. I managed to drink at least 3 glasses of water during opposing counsel's opening argument. You know, in case my biggest problem was a dry mouth.
Today's performance was, well, it was OK. I have a remarkable inability to perceive my own performance in a courtroom. And in life, maybe, too. Anyway, as I expected, I stumbled out of the gate. I hear that I recovered to an acceptable degree. HLC was kind enough to cringe along with every long pause, "you know," and "I think" during the webcast. And then tell me about it, for which I am truly grateful (even tho she didn't fire me). see earlier post.
Seriously, I hate when people are like, "no, you were fine." Fine? What the F--- does that mean? I didn't get "fine," which is a relief. "Fine" means "I didn't really pay attention," or "the truth is too brutal for you to hear." I need the honest critique because I need to know what to fix and, well, I'm definitely not going to listen to it myself to figure out what went wrong. I don't have that strong of a stomach. see IBS remark.
I also appreciated Mike's comments, too. I appreciate the fact that I didn't sound worse than any of the previous three days' worth of arguments. Also nice to know that I didn't sound like I was scared shitless, despite the fact that I was.
What's the first thing I said when I walked out of the court room? "I wanna strut." And then I did. Out to the smoking hut.
Thanks to all who came to my happy hour, including Bridezilla, who doesn't know about this blog, and it's going to stay that way, or I'll expose your real identities on this blog where almost all of you know who each other are. Paper Tiger. Correction: Electronic Tiger.
Anyway, great to have Mike and Tanya home again. And it also proves my theory that this place is a black hole. I feel like we're all reformed ex-pats. Mike, Tanya, Sour Girl, HLC, Locks. Amongst us, we've lived in such foreign lands as Chicago, Seattle, Madison, Minneapolis, St. Paul (No, they are not the same city), Omaha, and Kansas. Somehow, we were all placed back into this vast wasteland we again call home. But, some days, wastelands aren't so bad. Why is the theme from "Welcome Back, Kotter" running through my head?
I was a mess this morning, I'm sure my boss wanted to slap me across the face just to refocus me.
I had a good two-hour drive to work off my anxiety before I got to the Capitol City. And a good half pack of Marlboro Lights smoked by the time I got there, too. In addition to four caplets of Immodium as a preventative measure. Not to be disgusting, but coffee + cigarettes + anxiety + IBS = disaster. Additionally, we had an audience, which I was not expecting at all. A business college class came to watch the performance. And now they probably think it must be really easy to get a law degree. At least maybe they'll be encouraged to continue their education beyond their current A.A. program. I'm all about fostering an educated America. Unfortunately, education does not equate to effectively and articulately responding to questions coming from 5 different chairs. I managed to drink at least 3 glasses of water during opposing counsel's opening argument. You know, in case my biggest problem was a dry mouth.
Today's performance was, well, it was OK. I have a remarkable inability to perceive my own performance in a courtroom. And in life, maybe, too. Anyway, as I expected, I stumbled out of the gate. I hear that I recovered to an acceptable degree. HLC was kind enough to cringe along with every long pause, "you know," and "I think" during the webcast. And then tell me about it, for which I am truly grateful (even tho she didn't fire me). see earlier post.
Seriously, I hate when people are like, "no, you were fine." Fine? What the F--- does that mean? I didn't get "fine," which is a relief. "Fine" means "I didn't really pay attention," or "the truth is too brutal for you to hear." I need the honest critique because I need to know what to fix and, well, I'm definitely not going to listen to it myself to figure out what went wrong. I don't have that strong of a stomach. see IBS remark.
I also appreciated Mike's comments, too. I appreciate the fact that I didn't sound worse than any of the previous three days' worth of arguments. Also nice to know that I didn't sound like I was scared shitless, despite the fact that I was.
What's the first thing I said when I walked out of the court room? "I wanna strut." And then I did. Out to the smoking hut.
Thanks to all who came to my happy hour, including Bridezilla, who doesn't know about this blog, and it's going to stay that way, or I'll expose your real identities on this blog where almost all of you know who each other are. Paper Tiger. Correction: Electronic Tiger.
Anyway, great to have Mike and Tanya home again. And it also proves my theory that this place is a black hole. I feel like we're all reformed ex-pats. Mike, Tanya, Sour Girl, HLC, Locks. Amongst us, we've lived in such foreign lands as Chicago, Seattle, Madison, Minneapolis, St. Paul (No, they are not the same city), Omaha, and Kansas. Somehow, we were all placed back into this vast wasteland we again call home. But, some days, wastelands aren't so bad. Why is the theme from "Welcome Back, Kotter" running through my head?
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Yea, another holiday
Happy Ash Wednesday everyone. Lent has begun and, as per usual, I have given up going to church until Easter. Or longer, we'll see how long I can hold out.
Thirteen Hours
until my oral argument. I just finished preparing, as best I could, anyway. My boss didn't seem to think that I'd get a bye if I "accidentally" broke a leg. He did, however, offer me this sage advice: "The reed may bend but it will not break, Young Grasshopper." That's funny.
In contrast, Fuck-Face would have said, "you're fired." Or, "I steal your diet coke." Or, "you're fired." Or, "you forgot a filing fee that didnt' affect the case at all so I'm going to pull you out of a meeting with new clients to scream at you in the lobby in front of other clients and the staff and reduce you to tears." Or, "this firm is failing financially because you've been hear for 5 weeks and you aren't bringing in enough money and I have at least 10 more years of legal experience than you do, as does the other partner and I set the price on all your cases." Or, again, "you're fired."
Enough reminiscing. I've got a suit to dryell and an ambien or two to pop before my live ammunition test in the a.m. with the boss.
In contrast, Fuck-Face would have said, "you're fired." Or, "I steal your diet coke." Or, "you're fired." Or, "you forgot a filing fee that didnt' affect the case at all so I'm going to pull you out of a meeting with new clients to scream at you in the lobby in front of other clients and the staff and reduce you to tears." Or, "this firm is failing financially because you've been hear for 5 weeks and you aren't bringing in enough money and I have at least 10 more years of legal experience than you do, as does the other partner and I set the price on all your cases." Or, again, "you're fired."
Enough reminiscing. I've got a suit to dryell and an ambien or two to pop before my live ammunition test in the a.m. with the boss.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
AUGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!
I'm not very fucking grateful for anything today. Well, I am grateful I was allowed to order an expensive, comfortable office chair in June. But that's really it.
Gratitude
So, I was watching Oprah the other day (surprising, right?) and she said something very profound. I'm paraphrasing because I have a visual, not auditory, part-time photographic memory: "You should always be grateful when you get fired."
At first, I thought that was total bullshit. Then, I received by mail yet another court order from a case I had 10 months ago at my last job 500 miles away from here. The job I was fired from for, among other things, smoking too much and taking long lunch breaks. BTW, I don't even eat lunch. But that's besides the point. Anyway, in an on-going saga where my old firm has been completely inept at changing over the attorney of record, I huffed my usual angry sigh and picked up the phone. I spoke to my old law clerk/job stealer, since he's now filling my mary janes. I have to admit, it was cathartic.
Rob and I had an amiable relationship when we worked together and, while he wasn't particularly brilliant, he was a hard worker, never complained, and helped me get caught up on all 30 files that were on my desk when I arrived. He also saved my ass on my first day of court, which was also my first day on the job, because he'd actually had time to read the file before walking into the courtroom. So, I realized my bitterness about the whole situation was misplaced. It wasn't his fault that he took what was offered to him. Self-preservation, I guess.
Anyway, Rob and I chatted for a bit about life, the office and my old cases that were still lingering. He was overwhelmed and, like me at that firm, practicing only legal triage where you slapped a band-aid on almost anything for a few hundred bucks. It was a high-volume, low-income kind of practice. I mean, I think I used Westlaw only twice when I was there. Otherwise I was running from county to county, courthouse to courthouse, or appointment to appointment with potential clients, up to 5 a day. My appointment calendar was often filled up to the point where I wondered when I actually get any real work done. But, just to clarify, I did get it done since, again, my work wasn't the issue for my canning.
Anyway, at the end, I felt at peace about the whole situation. I mean, I'd still like to rip the face off the partner that canned me for bullshit reasons in order to hire Rob at a lower salary and buy a house and a dog a week after my departure. But, I also knew then, and remembered now, that I had to get out of there. It's pretty bad when even your parents are telling you to jump ship, despite the fact that you've only worked there for a few months after being laid off for two from the previous job. I mean, they were willing to risk the fact that I could end up in their basement with three cats and a bitter child.
I am grateful for that fuck-face firing me. I am grateful for getting laid off at my previous firm after the case I was working on settled. I wasn't happy at either place, yet I waited because of promises made that, if I suffered through the bad, I'd be rewarded with the good. It was kind of like that bullshit about the meek inheriting the earth and seeking their rewards in heaven. What a waste if that isn't true.
I am now in a job where I don't wait for things to get better. Things are good, as is. There aren't any invisible dangling carrots masquerading as a silk stockings firm with an office in a glass tower with real work, internet access and no bald-mullet nazi roaming the halls. I also don't have drinks bi-weekly with a partner beggin me to stay with the firm and promising me she'll buy fuck-face out and, that aside, telling me he could be embezzling from her. I don't get screamed at for forgetting a filing fee, I don't have quotas to meet, I don't have instructions to practice with a scorched earth policy. I don't have a boss digging through my mail and questioning staff in an effort to find a reason to fire me for cause. All goes to show that you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. Or put lipstick on a pig to make it look better. Or whatever other stupid saying those situations merit.
Anyway, I thank Walnut & Gambron for laying me off. I am grateful for Fuck Face & Majority-Partner-Without-Funds-or-a-Spine-Who-Thinks-Fuck-Face-Is-Embezzling-But-Won't-Hire -an-Independent-Auditor for firing me. Now, that doesn't mean I'm going to send them a card or boquet of roses. It just means I won't fantacize about sending them a pipebomb or 700Club Daily Affirmations to their e-mail accounts.
Note: I said "fantacize" with regard to the pipebomb, NSA spies. I wouldn't really do it.
Gratitude. The Oracle has spoken.
At first, I thought that was total bullshit. Then, I received by mail yet another court order from a case I had 10 months ago at my last job 500 miles away from here. The job I was fired from for, among other things, smoking too much and taking long lunch breaks. BTW, I don't even eat lunch. But that's besides the point. Anyway, in an on-going saga where my old firm has been completely inept at changing over the attorney of record, I huffed my usual angry sigh and picked up the phone. I spoke to my old law clerk/job stealer, since he's now filling my mary janes. I have to admit, it was cathartic.
Rob and I had an amiable relationship when we worked together and, while he wasn't particularly brilliant, he was a hard worker, never complained, and helped me get caught up on all 30 files that were on my desk when I arrived. He also saved my ass on my first day of court, which was also my first day on the job, because he'd actually had time to read the file before walking into the courtroom. So, I realized my bitterness about the whole situation was misplaced. It wasn't his fault that he took what was offered to him. Self-preservation, I guess.
Anyway, Rob and I chatted for a bit about life, the office and my old cases that were still lingering. He was overwhelmed and, like me at that firm, practicing only legal triage where you slapped a band-aid on almost anything for a few hundred bucks. It was a high-volume, low-income kind of practice. I mean, I think I used Westlaw only twice when I was there. Otherwise I was running from county to county, courthouse to courthouse, or appointment to appointment with potential clients, up to 5 a day. My appointment calendar was often filled up to the point where I wondered when I actually get any real work done. But, just to clarify, I did get it done since, again, my work wasn't the issue for my canning.
Anyway, at the end, I felt at peace about the whole situation. I mean, I'd still like to rip the face off the partner that canned me for bullshit reasons in order to hire Rob at a lower salary and buy a house and a dog a week after my departure. But, I also knew then, and remembered now, that I had to get out of there. It's pretty bad when even your parents are telling you to jump ship, despite the fact that you've only worked there for a few months after being laid off for two from the previous job. I mean, they were willing to risk the fact that I could end up in their basement with three cats and a bitter child.
I am grateful for that fuck-face firing me. I am grateful for getting laid off at my previous firm after the case I was working on settled. I wasn't happy at either place, yet I waited because of promises made that, if I suffered through the bad, I'd be rewarded with the good. It was kind of like that bullshit about the meek inheriting the earth and seeking their rewards in heaven. What a waste if that isn't true.
I am now in a job where I don't wait for things to get better. Things are good, as is. There aren't any invisible dangling carrots masquerading as a silk stockings firm with an office in a glass tower with real work, internet access and no bald-mullet nazi roaming the halls. I also don't have drinks bi-weekly with a partner beggin me to stay with the firm and promising me she'll buy fuck-face out and, that aside, telling me he could be embezzling from her. I don't get screamed at for forgetting a filing fee, I don't have quotas to meet, I don't have instructions to practice with a scorched earth policy. I don't have a boss digging through my mail and questioning staff in an effort to find a reason to fire me for cause. All goes to show that you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. Or put lipstick on a pig to make it look better. Or whatever other stupid saying those situations merit.
Anyway, I thank Walnut & Gambron for laying me off. I am grateful for Fuck Face & Majority-Partner-Without-Funds-or-a-Spine-Who-Thinks-Fuck-Face-Is-Embezzling-But-Won't-Hire -an-Independent-Auditor for firing me. Now, that doesn't mean I'm going to send them a card or boquet of roses. It just means I won't fantacize about sending them a pipebomb or 700Club Daily Affirmations to their e-mail accounts.
Note: I said "fantacize" with regard to the pipebomb, NSA spies. I wouldn't really do it.
Gratitude. The Oracle has spoken.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Sour Girl Does Dishes, a new episode of "Urban Legends Debunked"
Yes, I washed my dishes. So many, in fact, that I filled and emptied my dish drainer at least four times. And I didn't even stow away any cookies sheets in the oven for later. There was only one casualty this time: a corningwear dish. I tried HLC's tried and true method of simply freezing the moldy food before emptying and washing. However, this stuff wouldn't budge. I used the (dirty) pie-wedge spoon thing to pry some of that shit loose and only managed to shoot a chunk of it into my eye.
I took a smoke break, called HLC and explained my situation. HLC then gave me permission to toss the corningwear dish. Even after I explained that I'm on my like fifth one. It was OK, she assured me. After all, it's not like I wanted to be around when that nasty shit thawed. Plus, I'd already almost thrown up in the sink once today. And once is enough.
I took a smoke break, called HLC and explained my situation. HLC then gave me permission to toss the corningwear dish. Even after I explained that I'm on my like fifth one. It was OK, she assured me. After all, it's not like I wanted to be around when that nasty shit thawed. Plus, I'd already almost thrown up in the sink once today. And once is enough.
Why My Mom is a Bitch
So, the wedding drama continues. My sister called to ask for HLC's address and mentioned she was also inviting HLC's boyfriend, Jerry Bartz. I gave her the info, hung up, and then thought to myself, hmmm, wonder if I can bring a date. So, called back and got the "yeah, whatever." OK, so then I remember my mother suggesting several days ago that I book my room for the wedding so I don't have to find a ride home 15 miles up into the hills. I decide to book one for HLC, me, and my sister JJ (the non-bridezilla). I call my mom to see if she has any suggestions for which of the two hotels to stay at. When it comes up that I will be booking a separate room for JJ, my mother inquires as to why we couldn't just share. I tell her that I might bring a date. She then says, "Right, like who would you bring as a date," with utter disbelief and sarcasm in her voice. I lamely say, "i don't know, the sherrif maybe." She gives me the "well, whatever" dismissal and then we hang up.
While I'm shampooing my carpet again (yes, still obsessed), I continue to think about our conversation. And, the more I think about it, the angrier I get. Odds are I will not be bringing the Sheriff to the wedding. Odds are I won't have a date. Odds are that, if I did have a boyfriend, I wouldn't subject him to the horrible people that I'm forced to refer to as "my family." However, my mother's reaction was shitty, shitty, shitty. The wedding is in three months. It's possible that I may be so lucky as to trick some guy into dating me long enough to take him to my sister's wedding/my shitty birthday party. What a fucking bitch.
Thirteen days and counting till I'm on the express jet to hell. And I've just started tanning.
While I'm shampooing my carpet again (yes, still obsessed), I continue to think about our conversation. And, the more I think about it, the angrier I get. Odds are I will not be bringing the Sheriff to the wedding. Odds are I won't have a date. Odds are that, if I did have a boyfriend, I wouldn't subject him to the horrible people that I'm forced to refer to as "my family." However, my mother's reaction was shitty, shitty, shitty. The wedding is in three months. It's possible that I may be so lucky as to trick some guy into dating me long enough to take him to my sister's wedding/my shitty birthday party. What a fucking bitch.
Thirteen days and counting till I'm on the express jet to hell. And I've just started tanning.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Working at the Car[pet] Wash. whoa-oh-oh-oh
I've come into possession of HLC's carpet shampooer (is that even a word?) and I'm a bit obsessed with it. It all began when I had to borrow it to clean Bamboo's rug. Bamboo was gracious enough to take on a house guest (one Duke Huxley Orwell G.) for a couple days and, as of Saturday, all seemed well. However, by day two, things had taken a turn for the worse. After gambling until almost 5 a.m., I awoke at 9 a.m. to the ringing of my phone, signaling a text/pic message. Much to my surprise, I was treated to a picture of Huxley's shit, accompanied by a later text that indicated Hux and done nothing but "shit and piss all over" Bamboo's house all weekend. I was mortified and obviously apologetic but, of course, couldn't do anything about it because I was over 400 miles away.
After I finally managed to round up my passenger and hit the open road, Huxley added the final straw to the camel's back by having some runny poop on the rug and and officially wore out his welcome. He was promptly returned to my apartment Sunday afternoon to await my return. I envisioned my bedroom covered in shit after I found out he was being paroled. But, by the time I got home late Sunday evening, he seemed OK. He had a little bit of runny poop in the bedroom, but he'd used the puppy pad, so all was good. It probably helped that he didn't have any food or water while he was at my place so it allowed him to dry out a bit.
Luckily, before I went to Deadwood I'd already made alternate arrangements for Hux during my Hawaiian trip to hell. Initially, he was supposed to stay with Bamboo, but that clearly isn't an option. Plus, I didn't want the stress of finding him a home for 7 days in case Bamboo had to cancel at the last minute. HLC, you needn't worry about receiving only a few hours' notice of Hux's arrival. Hux will be staying at a nice kennel north of town here. It's pricey but worth the money, from what i hear. It would have been cheaper to pay whomever was brave enough to dog sit, but this way I won't have to worry about Hux ruining anyone's house or transport the shampooer 100 miles.
Back to the shampooer: I LOVE IT. I'll be spending the weekend cleaning furniture, the rest of the bedrooms and memorizing pin cites and transcript page numbers for my oral argument at the supremes next week. HLC will see the return of her shampooer shortly after I burst into tears and sprint out of the courtroom at the 5 minute mark into my argument. I've mentally made a note that I want a vacuum steamer for my birthday. However, if things go as they planned, I'll be saying, "I can't believe they forgot my fucking birthday." And then, after the ceremony, I'll skip the reception to sit on a glass table with my crush, Jake, and blow out candles on a birthday cake. Sounds good to me.
After I finally managed to round up my passenger and hit the open road, Huxley added the final straw to the camel's back by having some runny poop on the rug and and officially wore out his welcome. He was promptly returned to my apartment Sunday afternoon to await my return. I envisioned my bedroom covered in shit after I found out he was being paroled. But, by the time I got home late Sunday evening, he seemed OK. He had a little bit of runny poop in the bedroom, but he'd used the puppy pad, so all was good. It probably helped that he didn't have any food or water while he was at my place so it allowed him to dry out a bit.
Luckily, before I went to Deadwood I'd already made alternate arrangements for Hux during my Hawaiian trip to hell. Initially, he was supposed to stay with Bamboo, but that clearly isn't an option. Plus, I didn't want the stress of finding him a home for 7 days in case Bamboo had to cancel at the last minute. HLC, you needn't worry about receiving only a few hours' notice of Hux's arrival. Hux will be staying at a nice kennel north of town here. It's pricey but worth the money, from what i hear. It would have been cheaper to pay whomever was brave enough to dog sit, but this way I won't have to worry about Hux ruining anyone's house or transport the shampooer 100 miles.
Back to the shampooer: I LOVE IT. I'll be spending the weekend cleaning furniture, the rest of the bedrooms and memorizing pin cites and transcript page numbers for my oral argument at the supremes next week. HLC will see the return of her shampooer shortly after I burst into tears and sprint out of the courtroom at the 5 minute mark into my argument. I've mentally made a note that I want a vacuum steamer for my birthday. However, if things go as they planned, I'll be saying, "I can't believe they forgot my fucking birthday." And then, after the ceremony, I'll skip the reception to sit on a glass table with my crush, Jake, and blow out candles on a birthday cake. Sounds good to me.
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