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

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.

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.

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...

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...

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Where the fuck is all my stuff?

Now I've lost a bottle of Resolve carpet cleaner. Seriously, how does that shit go missing??? I'm going crazy, perhaps.

Soma Holiday

I'm back on the rock for now. The 10th prescription sleep-aid I've tried in three years seems to make me too tired to function the next day. I'm waiting for it to kick in, while blogging. That is dangerous territory, as some of you may know. If you receive any bizarre e-mails later, blame it on the rock. The rock is a crazy thing. It likes to pick out crazy outfits for work, fashion cocktail dresses to M.O.M., send congratulatory e-cards to the ex-boyfriend that used the true "rock," e-mail other exboyfriends, etc. The latest disaster involved shearing off my bangs. Luckily, it wasn't too bad. Some bar ho's in DW even complimented me on it and later referred to me as the "cute hair girl." That was nice, since, really, that's my thing. Cute. Not pretty, not sexy, not enchanting, just cute. I'm ok with that, although I'm considerably less cute then I was just a few years ago. I think the whole lawyering thing has aged me (as opposed to time and smoking). Well, I guess I don't really look old, I just don't look cute. Perhaps it's the bitterness that's taken away the cuteness. Losing two jobs in seven months will do that to you. So will 2 bar exams, five moves, four cities, and four jobs in 3 years. Add four animals to that mix, include the death of my social life, and it's a recipe for chaos. The only thing I mourn is the passing of my social life. Deadwood was so fun last weekend but I realized something on the ride home. It wasn't entirely different than a typical KU weekend. Too much to drink, packed bars, dancing, waiting in line to get into the bar, etc. Granted, there were no parades or gambling, but there was the occasional dirty trip to the Outhouse. Back to the chaos issue. It's my only constant. My desk, my office, my car, my finances, my apartment. All chaos. Love it or hate it, it's part of what defines me. If I didn't have chaos, I would be my sister. And, though she's thinner, younger, owns a home and lives like a real adult, she's kind of a grumpy bitch. And, she's settling for a douche bag. Don't get me wrong, I've dated my fair share of douche bags. I just never got the opportunity to make the piss poor decision to marry them. My fucking soma holiday has yet to kick in and I'm getting irritated. Seriously, i need sleep!!!!! This insomnia thing was ok for the first seven years. Mostly because I always had a companion of some sort that was up when I was up. However, I've come to tolerate it less over the last four years. It's me and three sleeping animals right now. That scenario isn't likely to change anytime soon. The Sheriff is supposedly coming out here the last week of the month. I'd be willing to start a pool and bet against the fact that he shows up.

Onto another note, L.A. Weightloss is stalking me. I haven't been there since December 26th, when they told me i lost 12 inches. I didn't believe them, since I was up 3 lbs, hadn't worked out, and I just thought it was a trick they used to show you "progress." That's what really sealed the deal with my disdain for them. And, I lost my "food diary." It's probably hiding with my last bottle of ambien and Bamboo's bracelet. I got a postcard in the mail today offering to give me my "lost weeks" for free and $10 off any product. We'll see. I mean, I'm obviously going to be fat in Hawaii. I can deal with it. My mom won't be able to. Actually, I won't be able to deal with it because my mom won't be able to deal with it. Not sure I can take the "looks" that she'll be shooting me all week. I'm actually wishing I wasn't going. Nothing worse than being the fat one on the beach with your family and they're thinking you're the fat one on the beach, too. What I really want is for Summer, Dawn and Collin to come with me so we can be the atypical people (not 16 with uber minis) hanging out together not giving a fuck about what other people look like or think about what we look like. Still no soma holiday. Regardless, I'll end the stream of conciousness here.

Let me know what you think of my Valentine's Day cards, once you receive them. If you didn't get one, let me know. I may have had a bad address for some of you. All were mailed today or yesterday.

Good night all, wishing you a restful slumber.

Black Wednesday

Happy V-D everyone! I hope your day was eventful or, at the very least, not disappointing. I slept in this a.m., as I've come down with something I can only describe as Deadwooditis. I think my bronchitis is making a comeback and I'm exhausted. Anyway, managed to drag myself into the office for a few hours, sue someone, buy groceries, buy cigarettes, and tan for my upcoming trip to hell.

The rest of the evening was spent shampooing my carpets. That's right, folks. I spent Valentine's Day in my pajamas and flip-flops shampooing my living room and hallway. HLC was kind enough to lend me the steam vac to clean up Huxley's messes at Bamboo's house, so I then decided I'd get a head start on getting my security deposit back. It's fabulous, except it doesn't remove stains left by a dumped over ashtray. Hmmmm.

I've topped off the evening by throwing my suits into the dryer ala Dryell. After that, it's off to bed with a three-legged cat and a balls-licking dog. His "zipper" seems to be healing fine after the neutering, despite his frequent licking. I put him in the elizabethan cone for about a day and he was so pathetic i took it off.

Night all. If anything exciting happened for you on V-D, let me know.

Deadwood

Made me Dead Tired. The annual Mardi Gras bash was held where Wild Bill Hickock gasped his last breath. About 21 of us headed on over for the two-day soiree. I have to say it was pretty fabulous, in part because of the above-freezing weather. It was probably about 20 degrees at night which, for us, meant no-jacket weather. Woo-hoo! By the way, I realize Fat Tuesday isn't for another 1.5 weeks, and I'm not entirely sure why it was this weekend.

Deb got a kiss from Captain Morgan, or his older brother, anyway. I got a kiss from a **ugh** soldier. Then, I got propositioned for sex while playing 3-card poker in my pajamas after far too much gin and not enough juice (or food). I not-so-politely declined the offer from the 23 year old man boy. I have no idea how much money I lost playing 3-card poker that night, nor did I have any idea how to play. I sat down at the table because I thought it was blackjack. Nope. Some nice guy from, of course, Kansas helped me out. He was a shitty card player. Needless to say, I won no money. I then managed to piss away some more money playing blackjack and slots.

Our hotel rooms were awesome. Like, third-world awesome. The two-bed rooms were equipeed with a single bed and a full-size bed (labeled as a "queen"). Deb and I could peek into HLC's bathroom, and vice versa, through a vent. We could also hear the dinging from slot machines on the floor below. I apparently slept through a sex session at about 8 a.m. from another room (HLC and her boyfriend, Jerry Bartz, swear it wasn't them). The boys stayed in a hotel across the street and, for an extra $20, they had chocolates on their pillows, turndown service, slippers and robes, and plasma tvs. I hate them.

And, finally, to make it a true sour girl weekend, I fell. Todd and I were dancing and, according to him, I tripped over a bar stool at the edge of the floor. According to me, he flung me into the band's sound board. As my mom would say, "it's a horse apiece." Actually, I have no idea if that's what she'd say because I don't know when it's appropriate to apply. It's like, "begging the question." I'm never sure when that applies. In any event, I was "awesome." Deb was awesome, too.

Overall, I'd give Deadwood 14 out of 15 paws. Next year, when I'm enjoying my turn-down service, I'll likely give it 15 out of 15 paws.