I love the drive from North Carolina to Virginia. Love it, love it, love it. Love the fact that the interstate is flanked by trees, love that there are wildflowers in the median, love how the mountains go from blue to green the closer you get to them. And at some point during this drive, I invariably start thinking about the blueness of the sky! And the greenness of the grass! AND THE SHININESS OF THE TRUCKS! And I grin, and I sing, and I feel very much like Tigger on Prozac. Which is a nice change because generally speaking, I'm more like Eeyore on downers. At a funeral.
But this drive is mind-blowingly excellent. And I think part of the reason I love it so much is that I spent my adolescence in the Midwest, and at some point, when you're driving through Indiana and you've got three hours behind you and three left to go and there are dried up corn fields as far as the eye can see and even the talk radio stations have faded into static, the term "dying of boredom" takes on a whole new meaning. One time, I actually considered putting the car on cruise control, popping my eyeballs out of my head, and juggling them, just so I'd have something to do.
I wish I could bottle the optimism I felt during my drive this morning so I could sip at it for the next two days.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
My Bad
I went to talk to the apartment people YET AGAIN, in the vain hope that maybe today might be the day that they will finally fix that leak in the shower.
Me: Hi, I called about a leaky shower a week ago. Do you think maintenance will be able to get out there today?
Apartment person: Uh...you're from Apt 7306, right? They came out yesterday.
Me: 7306? No...I'm from 7207.
AP: Huh. Well, it says here that it was 7306. Our guy was kind of confused because there didn't seem to be anything wrong with the shower.
Me: Oh. Yeah. Um. 7306 was our old apartment. I...must've given you the wrong number. Sorry.
And now, I feel (a) stupid because I can't ever remember our actual address, and (b) guilty for all the mean thoughts I've been thinking about the managers of our apartment complex. Oops.
Me: Hi, I called about a leaky shower a week ago. Do you think maintenance will be able to get out there today?
Apartment person: Uh...you're from Apt 7306, right? They came out yesterday.
Me: 7306? No...I'm from 7207.
AP: Huh. Well, it says here that it was 7306. Our guy was kind of confused because there didn't seem to be anything wrong with the shower.
Me: Oh. Yeah. Um. 7306 was our old apartment. I...must've given you the wrong number. Sorry.
And now, I feel (a) stupid because I can't ever remember our actual address, and (b) guilty for all the mean thoughts I've been thinking about the managers of our apartment complex. Oops.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Neuroses of a Dog
My dog will be turning 10 later this summer. And you'd think that after a decade of existing on this planet, he would understand the basics of life. And it's not like we ask that much of him, really. We don't expect him to learn how to put on a suit and deliver a power point presentation. We don't expect him to understand the intricacies of the uncertainty principle. In fact, we don't even fully expect him to obey us when we tell him to sit or stay or lie down.
We do expect him to go outside to pee. And after 10 years of trying every house training method known to man, he still doesn't always get the hang of this. He seems to think that being alone in a room is the same as being outside. So ok, we compensate for this personality flaw by making sure that for the most part, he's never alone in a room.
We also expect him not to go crazy when he hears loud noises. Thunder. The FedEx truck. Birds in the chimney. That kind of thing. And he definitely doesn't get this. He's still convinced that regardless of how scary the Loud Things are, he is ten times scarier. So he does his best impression of Cujo every time we get a package delivered. But we can anticipate this behavior, and we can pet him and tell him that the world is not coming to a fiery end every time it rains. And it's annoying, but we can live with it.
But a couple of years ago, he convinced himself that he had fleas. In his defense, he did have fleas, but he was promptly treated and they haven't come back since. Except he doesn't believe us when we tell him that. So he spent a year and a half pulling out clumps of hair and looking very bedraggled and odd. After many, many months of us telling him to STOP IT, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, JUST STOP IT, he decided to listen. Instead, he now licks the carpet. Incessantly. Loudly. All day long. And what's worse, all NIGHT long.
Maybe if I convince him he has fleas again, he'll go back to pulling out his own hair and I can get some sleep.
We do expect him to go outside to pee. And after 10 years of trying every house training method known to man, he still doesn't always get the hang of this. He seems to think that being alone in a room is the same as being outside. So ok, we compensate for this personality flaw by making sure that for the most part, he's never alone in a room.
We also expect him not to go crazy when he hears loud noises. Thunder. The FedEx truck. Birds in the chimney. That kind of thing. And he definitely doesn't get this. He's still convinced that regardless of how scary the Loud Things are, he is ten times scarier. So he does his best impression of Cujo every time we get a package delivered. But we can anticipate this behavior, and we can pet him and tell him that the world is not coming to a fiery end every time it rains. And it's annoying, but we can live with it.
But a couple of years ago, he convinced himself that he had fleas. In his defense, he did have fleas, but he was promptly treated and they haven't come back since. Except he doesn't believe us when we tell him that. So he spent a year and a half pulling out clumps of hair and looking very bedraggled and odd. After many, many months of us telling him to STOP IT, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, JUST STOP IT, he decided to listen. Instead, he now licks the carpet. Incessantly. Loudly. All day long. And what's worse, all NIGHT long.
Maybe if I convince him he has fleas again, he'll go back to pulling out his own hair and I can get some sleep.
Monday, May 26, 2008
The Olympic Shopping Event 2008
It's Memorial Day. And for me (and, I'm sure, millions of other Americans), that means it's time for Memorial Day sales. And I would like to spend the day pretending that my bank account will allow me to buy fun things--clothes, shoes, the newest battery powered cat toys. That last one is especially tempting. Instead, we will spend today looking at furniture.
In theory, this is a good thing. It's time to get rid of the card table that we use as a dining table, and that the cats use as a place to sleep. It's time to get rid of the end table from the 70's that we use as a coffee table, and that the cats use as a place to sleep. And it is definitely, without a question, time to get rid of the end table that I use as a nightstand and (can you predict the end of this sentence???) that the cats use as a place to sleep.
The reality of the matter? McMoose and I are polar opposites on most things in life, and furniture preference is no different. He likes dark woods. I like light. He likes outdoorsy looking things. I say that if I wanted to feel like I was outside, I would GO OUTSIDE. He thinks about what would be best for our bank account NOW. I think about the fact that if we buy the cheap furniture, we'll regret it in a year.
And to make it even more interesting, my dad is going to go with us. *Muahaha* I hope he's prepared because furniture shopping with me and McMoose? It could probably be considered an extreme sport.
In theory, this is a good thing. It's time to get rid of the card table that we use as a dining table, and that the cats use as a place to sleep. It's time to get rid of the end table from the 70's that we use as a coffee table, and that the cats use as a place to sleep. And it is definitely, without a question, time to get rid of the end table that I use as a nightstand and (can you predict the end of this sentence???) that the cats use as a place to sleep.
The reality of the matter? McMoose and I are polar opposites on most things in life, and furniture preference is no different. He likes dark woods. I like light. He likes outdoorsy looking things. I say that if I wanted to feel like I was outside, I would GO OUTSIDE. He thinks about what would be best for our bank account NOW. I think about the fact that if we buy the cheap furniture, we'll regret it in a year.
And to make it even more interesting, my dad is going to go with us. *Muahaha* I hope he's prepared because furniture shopping with me and McMoose? It could probably be considered an extreme sport.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Skin Things
My arms are red. And spotty. And they itch. Which is just FAN-tastic because I have an oh-so-slight phobia of skin things. By which I mean that if I have so much as a mosquito bite, I promptly hyperventilate and try to drown myself in my sink. Except that as much as I hate having skin things, I'm also fascinated by them. So I watch my arm warily. I poke at the spots with my nails. I scratch and glare and basically bother it continuously, and in the end, I make it twenty times worse than it would have been if I had just LEFT IT THE HELL ALONE.
The last time I spontaneously got a skin thing, it was because I had managed to freak myself out so much over the mere POSSIBILITY that I might get a rash that I gave myself a stress rash. Lovely. And this time? I think I'm allergic to the wedding. Because we spent all morning surrounded by lace and tulle, looking for ring bearer pillows and cake serving sets and the redness and spottiness and itchiness grew steadily worse. I told McMoose about my suspicions and he very unsympathetically informed me that if that were the case, I'd really be hating life in a week, when the wedding will actually be taking place. Thank you, McMoose. Your gift for stating the obvious remains as strong as always.
The last time I spontaneously got a skin thing, it was because I had managed to freak myself out so much over the mere POSSIBILITY that I might get a rash that I gave myself a stress rash. Lovely. And this time? I think I'm allergic to the wedding. Because we spent all morning surrounded by lace and tulle, looking for ring bearer pillows and cake serving sets and the redness and spottiness and itchiness grew steadily worse. I told McMoose about my suspicions and he very unsympathetically informed me that if that were the case, I'd really be hating life in a week, when the wedding will actually be taking place. Thank you, McMoose. Your gift for stating the obvious remains as strong as always.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Feeling Bugged
A while ago, we had a very large spider that refused to die. We washed it down the sink. It crawled back up. We tried smushing it with a paper towel. It was miraculously unharmed. We told it in no uncertain terms that its presence was not appreciated. It was unfazed. Finally, McMoose smushed it AND flushed it down the toilet. We hadn't seen it in about a week, and we spent the entire week rejoicing. It is now sitting on the wall and staring at me. Damn.
On any other day, I'd concede defeat and let the spider have this room. Today, however, I inadvertently let a bee (wasp, maybe?) into the living room. And in order to get to any of the other rooms in the apartment, I have to go through the living room. And although the spider is spooky and seemingly immortal, the bee? It can sting. So the spider, the dog and I have called a truce and have decided to share this room. Meanwhile, the cats are turning the rest of my apartment upside down in a futile attempt to catch the bee because apparently, they haven't been informed that bees can FLY and they cannot. This is not how I imagined spending my day today.
On any other day, I'd concede defeat and let the spider have this room. Today, however, I inadvertently let a bee (wasp, maybe?) into the living room. And in order to get to any of the other rooms in the apartment, I have to go through the living room. And although the spider is spooky and seemingly immortal, the bee? It can sting. So the spider, the dog and I have called a truce and have decided to share this room. Meanwhile, the cats are turning the rest of my apartment upside down in a futile attempt to catch the bee because apparently, they haven't been informed that bees can FLY and they cannot. This is not how I imagined spending my day today.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
If Only I Had a Tiger
I keep getting emails from PayPal telling me that there has been a security breach on my account and that I need to verify my information as soon as possible, the implication being that if I don't email them back that very instant, ALIENS WILL TAKE OVER THE WORLD. And they're dead serious about this too, because they send me multiple emails each day. In fact, when I logged on this morning, my email account took me aside and explained to me that I was THIS close to exceeding my storage limit and if I didn't rectify the situation immediately, it would no longer be able to be my friend.
In theory, this rash of emails sounds fantastic. It sounds like PayPal is on top of their game. It sounds like they're being cautious and conscientious and keeping their clients' best interests in mind. The only problem? I don't HAVE a PayPal account. And I'm really, really tempted to reply to one of these emails, just so I can say:
"Dear Person Who Wants to Steal My Identity,
Please take me off your mailing list, as I do not have a PayPal account. And also, the fact that you send out twenty-nine emails per day? That makes you seem slightly overzealous. It might be a tip-off to your potential victims that you are, in fact, a fake. Kindly do your research the next time you try to scam people."
The other alternative, of course, is to move to Burma and raise tigers. I'd like to see someone try and steal my identity then.
In theory, this rash of emails sounds fantastic. It sounds like PayPal is on top of their game. It sounds like they're being cautious and conscientious and keeping their clients' best interests in mind. The only problem? I don't HAVE a PayPal account. And I'm really, really tempted to reply to one of these emails, just so I can say:
"Dear Person Who Wants to Steal My Identity,
Please take me off your mailing list, as I do not have a PayPal account. And also, the fact that you send out twenty-nine emails per day? That makes you seem slightly overzealous. It might be a tip-off to your potential victims that you are, in fact, a fake. Kindly do your research the next time you try to scam people."
The other alternative, of course, is to move to Burma and raise tigers. I'd like to see someone try and steal my identity then.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
The Tell-Tale Shower
I woke up this morning to a very persistent drumming noise, and my immediate reaction was that maybe I was in an Edgar Allen Poe story. So I lay in bed for the next ten minutes thinking of how exactly a body might have gotten under my carpet. Deciding that I wouldn't be fully equipped to deal with the situation until after my morning shower, I wandered into the bathroom and noticed that the drumming got significantly louder. Right. McMoose had broken the shower.
The woman who answered the phone at the management office assured me that someone would come by to fix it as soon as possible, which I interpreted to mean "sometime next week." Which is just fantastic because running water? Possibly my least favorite sound, ever. I'm the one who's always yelling at McMoose to shut off the faucet because otherwise, we're going to use up the world's entire stock of water AND WE WILL BE SINGLE-HANDEDLY RESPONSIBLE FOR THE DOWNFALL OF HUMANITY.
By some unbelievable stroke of luck, I ran into the maintenance guy while walking the dog, and he promised he'd be here tomorrow, at the latest. Feeling much better, I returned to my apartment, only to be greeted by the Black Cat, who hissed something that sounded suspiciously like "Nevermore."
The woman who answered the phone at the management office assured me that someone would come by to fix it as soon as possible, which I interpreted to mean "sometime next week." Which is just fantastic because running water? Possibly my least favorite sound, ever. I'm the one who's always yelling at McMoose to shut off the faucet because otherwise, we're going to use up the world's entire stock of water AND WE WILL BE SINGLE-HANDEDLY RESPONSIBLE FOR THE DOWNFALL OF HUMANITY.
By some unbelievable stroke of luck, I ran into the maintenance guy while walking the dog, and he promised he'd be here tomorrow, at the latest. Feeling much better, I returned to my apartment, only to be greeted by the Black Cat, who hissed something that sounded suspiciously like "Nevermore."
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
About a Frog
There's a cop that lives in my apartment complex and I am currently fascinated by him or her for a couple of reasons. First, I'm not entirely sure if he or she exists, because although I see the cruiser in the parking lot nearly every day, I've never actually seen the cop. In fact, in the two years that I've lived in the neighborhood, I'm not sure if the cruiser has ever actually been moved.
And second, on the dashboard of the cruiser lives a very friendly looking stuffed frog. Ok, let's think about this for a second, shall we? You're a hardened criminal. You've just led the police on a high speed chase across three counties. You're finally getting tired and thinking about pulling over and turning yourself in, when you look in the rear view mirror and see a stuffed frog in the cop car behind you. I don't know about you, but at that moment, I would decide that the Canadian border might not be that unattainable after all. Because what the hell kind of criminal wants to get taken in by a cop who HAS A COMFORT OBJECT?
Don't get me wrong, I think the frog is cute. If I were to get pulled over by a cop with a stuffed animal on the dash, I would probably be slightly less grumpy about the whole getting-a-ticket thing. But given the dangers of the job, wouldn't you want to seem as tough as humanly possible? And if so, where does a stuffed frog fit in?
And second, on the dashboard of the cruiser lives a very friendly looking stuffed frog. Ok, let's think about this for a second, shall we? You're a hardened criminal. You've just led the police on a high speed chase across three counties. You're finally getting tired and thinking about pulling over and turning yourself in, when you look in the rear view mirror and see a stuffed frog in the cop car behind you. I don't know about you, but at that moment, I would decide that the Canadian border might not be that unattainable after all. Because what the hell kind of criminal wants to get taken in by a cop who HAS A COMFORT OBJECT?
Don't get me wrong, I think the frog is cute. If I were to get pulled over by a cop with a stuffed animal on the dash, I would probably be slightly less grumpy about the whole getting-a-ticket thing. But given the dangers of the job, wouldn't you want to seem as tough as humanly possible? And if so, where does a stuffed frog fit in?
Monday, May 19, 2008
Soggy Cauliflower and an Evil Cat
It's really hard to stay firmly planted in reality when you find a bag of frozen vegetables thawing on your bathroom floor. It's really easy to convince yourself that maybe someone broke into your house and rearranged the contents of your freezer just to confuse you. And that maybe they're secretly recording your reaction and putting it all over the internet.
Unfortunately, the truth behind the pitiful little bag of half-frozen veggies is that my cat can open the freezer. Ok, that's not quite right--my cat sleeps all day. McMoose's cat can open the freezer. And when she does, she always takes a bag of vegetables and leaves it someplace strange. WHY? I'm thinking maybe she's doing an experiment: How to Cause Female Humans to Lose Their Minds.
I'll keep you posted on her results.
Unfortunately, the truth behind the pitiful little bag of half-frozen veggies is that my cat can open the freezer. Ok, that's not quite right--my cat sleeps all day. McMoose's cat can open the freezer. And when she does, she always takes a bag of vegetables and leaves it someplace strange. WHY? I'm thinking maybe she's doing an experiment: How to Cause Female Humans to Lose Their Minds.
I'll keep you posted on her results.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
A Scarry Lion with Exceptionally White Teeth
You know those children's books by Richard Scarry? I think they were called "The Busy World of Richard Scarry." Remember them? And there was always the lion with the sore tooth and it would tie a huge scarf around its head? I can totally identify with that lion right now. In fact, if I had a huge scarf, I'd tie it around my head and then, I'd eat anyone who made fun of me. Because right now? It feels like a bolt of lightning jumped from the sky and directly onto my right incisor. And it's totally self-induced.
I had this superbly stupid idea that brides should have bright and shiny teeth, so I went out to the nearest Target and bought a handy-dandy tooth whitening product. Came home, put the thing in my mouth, sat there slurring my speech and drooling for thirty minutes, and as a result, my mouth feels like it houses at least 12 raw nerves. And now? It's time for the next application.
Vanity, thy name is Bride.
I had this superbly stupid idea that brides should have bright and shiny teeth, so I went out to the nearest Target and bought a handy-dandy tooth whitening product. Came home, put the thing in my mouth, sat there slurring my speech and drooling for thirty minutes, and as a result, my mouth feels like it houses at least 12 raw nerves. And now? It's time for the next application.
Vanity, thy name is Bride.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Phone-tastic
I called a restaurant to make a reservation yesterday.
Me: Hi, my name is Anisha and I need to make a reservation for forty people for two weeks from today.
Guy who answered phone: Ok.
Me: Um...do you need any other information?
Guy: Thank you, no. We will see you tonight.
Me: Wait, no, wait! It's not for tonight. It's for two weeks from today. May 30th? At 7 PM.
Guy: Ok.
Me: Do I have to do anything else?
Guy: How many people?
Me: 40.
Guy: So 40 for tonight and 40 for May 30th?
Me: No. 40 for May 30th. I don't need a reservation for tonight.
Guy: So you want to cancel a prior reservation for tonight?
Me: No, I don't HAVE a prior reservation. I'm trying to MAKE a reservation.
Guy: For tonight?
And then my ears exploded from sheer frustration. This is exactly why I hope Alexander Graham Bell is being poked by the devil right now.
Me: Hi, my name is Anisha and I need to make a reservation for forty people for two weeks from today.
Guy who answered phone: Ok.
Me: Um...do you need any other information?
Guy: Thank you, no. We will see you tonight.
Me: Wait, no, wait! It's not for tonight. It's for two weeks from today. May 30th? At 7 PM.
Guy: Ok.
Me: Do I have to do anything else?
Guy: How many people?
Me: 40.
Guy: So 40 for tonight and 40 for May 30th?
Me: No. 40 for May 30th. I don't need a reservation for tonight.
Guy: So you want to cancel a prior reservation for tonight?
Me: No, I don't HAVE a prior reservation. I'm trying to MAKE a reservation.
Guy: For tonight?
And then my ears exploded from sheer frustration. This is exactly why I hope Alexander Graham Bell is being poked by the devil right now.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Coffee and CSI
I "worked" from home today. I think it's necessary to have those quotation marks around the word worked because so far, I haven't actually gotten any work done. I have, however:
-Walked the dog. Twice. Within a two hour time period.
-Talked to a small child who was wandering around the neighborhood by herself. She wanted to come to my house to play with the dog. I said no. She pouted. I left.
-Watched an embarrassing number of episodes of CSI.
-Drank three cups of coffee, also within a two hour period.
-Stomped on all the creaky parts of the floor because the guy downstairs has his music turned up as loud as it will go and it is DRIVING ME CRAZY.
-Watched another episode of CSI.
-Spied on the mailman.
-STOMPED ON THE CREAKY PARTS OF THE FLOOR.
-Considered making a phone call that needs to be made. Decided against it. Considered writing part of my thesis proposal. Decided against it. Considered registering for classes for next semester. Very quickly decided against it.
-Calculated the cost of the flowers for my wedding. It came to $820. I never thought I'd be excited about paying that much for flowers, but I am because something possessed me to tell the florist that I was willing to spend up to $1500. (What was I thinking?)
-Laughed manically at the agreement the florist emailed me because it said half of the cost had to be paid six weeks in advance. Hoped that they would waive that requirement because we now have two weeks to go, and I haven't mastered the fine art of time travel yet.
-Had a staring contest with the dog, who didn't understand the rules and wandered off two minutes into the game.
Ok, now what?
-Walked the dog. Twice. Within a two hour time period.
-Talked to a small child who was wandering around the neighborhood by herself. She wanted to come to my house to play with the dog. I said no. She pouted. I left.
-Watched an embarrassing number of episodes of CSI.
-Drank three cups of coffee, also within a two hour period.
-Stomped on all the creaky parts of the floor because the guy downstairs has his music turned up as loud as it will go and it is DRIVING ME CRAZY.
-Watched another episode of CSI.
-Spied on the mailman.
-STOMPED ON THE CREAKY PARTS OF THE FLOOR.
-Considered making a phone call that needs to be made. Decided against it. Considered writing part of my thesis proposal. Decided against it. Considered registering for classes for next semester. Very quickly decided against it.
-Calculated the cost of the flowers for my wedding. It came to $820. I never thought I'd be excited about paying that much for flowers, but I am because something possessed me to tell the florist that I was willing to spend up to $1500. (What was I thinking?)
-Laughed manically at the agreement the florist emailed me because it said half of the cost had to be paid six weeks in advance. Hoped that they would waive that requirement because we now have two weeks to go, and I haven't mastered the fine art of time travel yet.
-Had a staring contest with the dog, who didn't understand the rules and wandered off two minutes into the game.
Ok, now what?
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Stretch Harleys
What's with the stretch SUVs? I mean, you hire a regular limo, chances are pretty good you're either rich or you're looking for attention--actually, chances are pretty good that you're both rich AND looking for attention. And ok, it probably makes people feel pretty cool and classy to ride in a glossy, black, stretch limo.
But a white, stretch Explorer? Really? What does that say about you? That you're a 16-foot-tall mountain climber who needs the extra leg room, but also needs the off-roading capabilities? Or maybe someone thought, "Hey, what are the two LEAST fuel efficient vehicles around? Let's combine them and see what happens!" Although, if that had been the case, I guess we'd be seeing stretch Hummers instead of stretch Explorers.
I'd like to go in exactly the opposite direction, I think. I'd like to ride around in a stretch Camry. Or better yet, a stretch 10-speed. In fact, maybe I should suggest to McMoose that we leave the wedding on a stretch Harley.
But a white, stretch Explorer? Really? What does that say about you? That you're a 16-foot-tall mountain climber who needs the extra leg room, but also needs the off-roading capabilities? Or maybe someone thought, "Hey, what are the two LEAST fuel efficient vehicles around? Let's combine them and see what happens!" Although, if that had been the case, I guess we'd be seeing stretch Hummers instead of stretch Explorers.
I'd like to go in exactly the opposite direction, I think. I'd like to ride around in a stretch Camry. Or better yet, a stretch 10-speed. In fact, maybe I should suggest to McMoose that we leave the wedding on a stretch Harley.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Sarcasmo the Clown
I spent no fewer than twenty-five minutes composing an email to my boss this morning. And the worst part? All I had to say was, "Please find attached Document X." Because apparently, I've lost the ability to interact with people. What? You want me to be sincere and serious and communicate like a normal human being? Sorry, no can do. If you had wanted me to be random and bitter and act like a sarcastic little porcupine, on the other hand? That I could have done.
So in Versions 1-12 of the email, I followed my two-liner with some kind of added commentary about the utter uselessness of the task I had just finished. And although this particular boss would probably have been okay with the commentary, it still isn't the kind of thing you want to include in a professional email, right? Plus, I've spent the past year cultivating the facade of helpfulness and can-do-ness, so it would be a shame to blow all that just because I was feeling a bit contrary one morning.
And so, in my victorious Version 13, I smothered the porcupine, deleted the commentary, and hit send. And then realized I forgot to attach the document.
So in Versions 1-12 of the email, I followed my two-liner with some kind of added commentary about the utter uselessness of the task I had just finished. And although this particular boss would probably have been okay with the commentary, it still isn't the kind of thing you want to include in a professional email, right? Plus, I've spent the past year cultivating the facade of helpfulness and can-do-ness, so it would be a shame to blow all that just because I was feeling a bit contrary one morning.
And so, in my victorious Version 13, I smothered the porcupine, deleted the commentary, and hit send. And then realized I forgot to attach the document.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Ode to a Toyota
About ten of my last forty-eight hours have been spent in my car. And I gotta say, I really, really love that car. In fact, I probably love it an unhealthy amount, and if that car were, say, a celebrity, I'd probably be considered a crazy stalker because of the sheer magnitude of my love for it. Plus, I totally think it loves me back.
See, my old car? My old car hated, hated, HATED me. It was moody and it exploded at inconvenient times and its hood never latched shut, so there was always the vague threat that it would fly open when I was on the interstate and freak me out so much that I would promptly crash into a concrete wall and kill myself. Whenever I asked OldCar to turn left, it replied in a snooty tone of voice, "Left? Hm...I'll take it into consideration." And then, more often than not, it kept going straight. When I asked it to go up a mountain, it slowed down to 15 miles per hour and annoyed the eighteen semi-trucks behind me into honking incessantly. And have you ever heard eighteen semis honking in harmony? It's a miracle I still have my hearing.
But my current car has nothing but positive feelings for me. It goes when I tell it to, it stops when I tell it to--albeit with some squeaking, at times--it turns the direction I tell it to. And! It turns its headlights on! ALL! BY! ITSELF! (Did I use enough exclamation points there to sufficiently convey my awe of this feature?)
Of course, now that I've written this fluffy little post about my love for my car, it'll probably break down or catch fire or be abducted by aliens tomorrow.
See, my old car? My old car hated, hated, HATED me. It was moody and it exploded at inconvenient times and its hood never latched shut, so there was always the vague threat that it would fly open when I was on the interstate and freak me out so much that I would promptly crash into a concrete wall and kill myself. Whenever I asked OldCar to turn left, it replied in a snooty tone of voice, "Left? Hm...I'll take it into consideration." And then, more often than not, it kept going straight. When I asked it to go up a mountain, it slowed down to 15 miles per hour and annoyed the eighteen semi-trucks behind me into honking incessantly. And have you ever heard eighteen semis honking in harmony? It's a miracle I still have my hearing.
But my current car has nothing but positive feelings for me. It goes when I tell it to, it stops when I tell it to--albeit with some squeaking, at times--it turns the direction I tell it to. And! It turns its headlights on! ALL! BY! ITSELF! (Did I use enough exclamation points there to sufficiently convey my awe of this feature?)
Of course, now that I've written this fluffy little post about my love for my car, it'll probably break down or catch fire or be abducted by aliens tomorrow.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Dear Hollywood, You Suck
Have you ever noticed that according to Hollywood, there are really two kinds of couples in this world? There's the mismatched couple--the businessman and the hooker, the businesswoman and the small-town vet--and the couple that had a not-so-promising beginning--the wedding planner and the groom for one of her weddings, the reporter who lies about his/her name, occupation, age, and ends up falling for the person he/she is lying to. And all this angst and drama makes for some entertaining, if somewhat predictable, movies, as long as you're willing to ignore the fact that in the real world, most of these couples would be divorced by the time they hit the 5-year mark.
But suppose you are willing to ignore that little fact-let. Suppose you're willing to take the leap of faith that somehow, these people who fell in love with each other because of their penchant for only eating M&M's of a certain color or because they supported the other person through a peculiarly bad bout of food allergies will actually stay in love? Then you're faced with the fact that the next time we hear about these people is when they have an unrealistic number of children, all of whom are blessed with uncommon cuteness, as well as the propensity to make funny, yet poignant speeches.
And then, if you're willing to continue your state of suspended reality and believe that families really do live that way, the next time you hear about these people, they're several decades older and often have Alzheimer's. Or sometimes, cancer. And their son or daughter, who is a dogwalker and belongs to a cult in Idaho falls in love with the Oncologist, and the cycle begins all over again.
So according to Hollywood, I'm going to get married, have twelve children, and then die. Yeah, I'm really looking forward to this.
But suppose you are willing to ignore that little fact-let. Suppose you're willing to take the leap of faith that somehow, these people who fell in love with each other because of their penchant for only eating M&M's of a certain color or because they supported the other person through a peculiarly bad bout of food allergies will actually stay in love? Then you're faced with the fact that the next time we hear about these people is when they have an unrealistic number of children, all of whom are blessed with uncommon cuteness, as well as the propensity to make funny, yet poignant speeches.
And then, if you're willing to continue your state of suspended reality and believe that families really do live that way, the next time you hear about these people, they're several decades older and often have Alzheimer's. Or sometimes, cancer. And their son or daughter, who is a dogwalker and belongs to a cult in Idaho falls in love with the Oncologist, and the cycle begins all over again.
So according to Hollywood, I'm going to get married, have twelve children, and then die. Yeah, I'm really looking forward to this.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Death of an Ice Cream Salesman
There's this ice cream truck that comes to our neighborhood every day. Did you know that ice cream trucks even still existed? Because I assumed they had gone the way of Model T Fords and good grammar. But I digress.
Actually, calling this particular vehicle a "truck" is probably giving it too much credit and legitimacy, because it's more of a van. A standard, white utility van. With an ear-shatteringly loud stereo. Which plays "Pop goes the weasel" in my parking lot every day. FOR TWO FREAKING HOURS.
So first of all, would you really be comfortable sending your kids to get ice cream from an unmarked white utility van? "Hey kids, go be friends with the guy who drives the same vehicle that is used in kidnappings everywhere." Seriously? Have these people never watched a horror movie in their life? And second, in what unbearably painful universe does it take two hours to sell ice cream to FIVE KIDS?
Actually, calling this particular vehicle a "truck" is probably giving it too much credit and legitimacy, because it's more of a van. A standard, white utility van. With an ear-shatteringly loud stereo. Which plays "Pop goes the weasel" in my parking lot every day. FOR TWO FREAKING HOURS.
So first of all, would you really be comfortable sending your kids to get ice cream from an unmarked white utility van? "Hey kids, go be friends with the guy who drives the same vehicle that is used in kidnappings everywhere." Seriously? Have these people never watched a horror movie in their life? And second, in what unbearably painful universe does it take two hours to sell ice cream to FIVE KIDS?
Friday, May 9, 2008
Oakleys and Mossimos
McMoose has one very cool pair of sunglasses which cost an obscene amount of money. And sometimes, when I'm thinking about buying something that I really don't need, but that I really do want--an electronic mouse for the cats to chase, a raincoat that doubles as a sleeping bag, a pen that claims to give you the perfect handwriting--I justify it by saying "Well, at least my sunglasses only cost $15."
The glaring flaw in my logic, however, is that sunglasses? Most difficult things to keep track of, EVER. My last pair is sitting in a hotel room in Charlotte. The pair before that is in a rental car in Alabama. And the ones before that? Well, let's just say they had an unfortunate encounter with the rear tire of an SUV. As a result of all this, I have owned no fewer that 23 pairs of sunglasses over the past few years. And at $15 a pop, that's waaaaay more than McMoose spent on his supercool pair.
Guess I won't be buying that raincoat anytime soon.
The glaring flaw in my logic, however, is that sunglasses? Most difficult things to keep track of, EVER. My last pair is sitting in a hotel room in Charlotte. The pair before that is in a rental car in Alabama. And the ones before that? Well, let's just say they had an unfortunate encounter with the rear tire of an SUV. As a result of all this, I have owned no fewer that 23 pairs of sunglasses over the past few years. And at $15 a pop, that's waaaaay more than McMoose spent on his supercool pair.
Guess I won't be buying that raincoat anytime soon.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Gas Trouble, Part 2
I suck at keeping secrets. And by "keeping secrets," I mean not saying every thought that goes traipsing through my head. So last night, I desperately wanted to share my gas station adventure with my fiance, who shall hereafter be called "McMoose." Not because he's Irish, nor because he's particularly fond of moose, but because he wishes to remain cool and mysterious in all things blog-related. So he is now a generic Irish moose...how much cooler can you get?
Me: I wanna tell you about what happened at the gas station today.
McMoose: So tell me.
Me: But if I tell you, you won't want to read about it on the blog tomorrow.
McMoose: So don't tell me.
Me: Fine. But when we stop communicating and the only way you have of knowing what's going on in my life is by reading my blog, just remember that it can all be traced back to this conversation.
McMoose: So tell me.
Dude, that is one unflappable Irish moose.
Me: I wanna tell you about what happened at the gas station today.
McMoose: So tell me.
Me: But if I tell you, you won't want to read about it on the blog tomorrow.
McMoose: So don't tell me.
Me: Fine. But when we stop communicating and the only way you have of knowing what's going on in my life is by reading my blog, just remember that it can all be traced back to this conversation.
McMoose: So tell me.
Dude, that is one unflappable Irish moose.
Gas Trouble
I circled a gas station for five minutes yesterday. No, not the outside of the gas station--I circled the actual gas pumps. Not because I'm a vagrant with nothing better to do, but because there were several strategically placed pumps that all had Out of Order signs on them, and as a result of the strategic placement, it was impossible to actually get within 10 feet of any of the good pumps.
A lesser human being might have given up and gone to the oh-so-wonderfully situated gas station across the street, but not me. I took it as a personal challenge. Like I was Sisyphus and this gas station was my mountain, and by god, I was going to roll that rock up once and for all! Did you know that when you circle a gas station for a full five minutes, the attendant comes out and stages an intervention? So here's the transcript of our conversation:
Attendant: Ma'am? Do you need any help?
Me: Um...I just can't get to the pumps...
A: Well, maybe you should try backing up to one.
Me: Yeah, I'm not so good with reverse.
A: You want me to do it for you?
Me (glaring): No.
A: Oh, well, here. *Wanders off to the nearest pump and pulls off the Out of Order sign.*
Me: Uh...Is that really safe?
A: Oh, yeah. There wasn't anything really wrong with it.
Wait...WHAT??? There wasn't anything really wrong with it? So does that mean that there was something kind of wrong with it? Or does it mean that he was just bored and decided to amuse himself by driving his customers to the BRINK OF INSANITY?
A lesser human being might have given up and gone to the oh-so-wonderfully situated gas station across the street, but not me. I took it as a personal challenge. Like I was Sisyphus and this gas station was my mountain, and by god, I was going to roll that rock up once and for all! Did you know that when you circle a gas station for a full five minutes, the attendant comes out and stages an intervention? So here's the transcript of our conversation:
Attendant: Ma'am? Do you need any help?
Me: Um...I just can't get to the pumps...
A: Well, maybe you should try backing up to one.
Me: Yeah, I'm not so good with reverse.
A: You want me to do it for you?
Me (glaring): No.
A: Oh, well, here. *Wanders off to the nearest pump and pulls off the Out of Order sign.*
Me: Uh...Is that really safe?
A: Oh, yeah. There wasn't anything really wrong with it.
Wait...WHAT??? There wasn't anything really wrong with it? So does that mean that there was something kind of wrong with it? Or does it mean that he was just bored and decided to amuse himself by driving his customers to the BRINK OF INSANITY?
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
TV DT's
I saw this thing the other day on CNN that informed me that we are the only household left in America who does not have cable TV. (See what I did there? No cable = no CNN = I'm a big, fat liar.) I mean, you could go into any fourth grade classroom and the ten year olds there would have a better understanding than I do of TiVO and HBO and the art of working three remote controls simultaneously.
Part of the reasoning behind not having cable was that we'd be saving huge chunks of money every month. The other part is that without 500 broadcast channels to distract us, we might actually read, or having meaningful conversations, or remember to sleep. Of course, the reality of not having cable is that we go out and buy box sets of every TV show known to man. Which means that (a) we still spend our lives watching TV and we still forget to sleep; and (b) we now spend on DVDs probably twice what we would on cable. Awesome plan.
The silver lining of our plan, or course, is that I never have to sit through ads, EVER. And that's a pretty nice bonus. The big, angry raincloud, on the other hand, is that I no longer get to watch documentaries. And the thing I have discovered over the past year or two is that life without documentaries? Not really worth living. There's something pretty spectacular about being able to watch a show about a kid born with no ears at 3 in the morning. Especially if you follow it by watching a show about the Pharoah's curse, or maybe about the knights Templar. I hope that if there's an afterlife, it involves a soft bed, a large screen, and endless documentaries.
Part of the reasoning behind not having cable was that we'd be saving huge chunks of money every month. The other part is that without 500 broadcast channels to distract us, we might actually read, or having meaningful conversations, or remember to sleep. Of course, the reality of not having cable is that we go out and buy box sets of every TV show known to man. Which means that (a) we still spend our lives watching TV and we still forget to sleep; and (b) we now spend on DVDs probably twice what we would on cable. Awesome plan.
The silver lining of our plan, or course, is that I never have to sit through ads, EVER. And that's a pretty nice bonus. The big, angry raincloud, on the other hand, is that I no longer get to watch documentaries. And the thing I have discovered over the past year or two is that life without documentaries? Not really worth living. There's something pretty spectacular about being able to watch a show about a kid born with no ears at 3 in the morning. Especially if you follow it by watching a show about the Pharoah's curse, or maybe about the knights Templar. I hope that if there's an afterlife, it involves a soft bed, a large screen, and endless documentaries.
By any other name
I'm getting married in under a month. 3 weeks and 3 days, if you want to get precise. 576 hours if you want to get really, really precise. I could count the minutes for you, but I'm not gonna. Sorry. So I should be excited, right? And I am. I'm excited about the whole being married thing--you know, the committing to share your life with someone you love and trust and respect, the having someone who is legally obligated to put up with you when you lose your shit? Yeah, super excited about that because the losing of the shit is a daily occurrence around here, figuratively speaking.
Except. There's the whole changing of the name extravaganza. And that, I'm not so happy about. Not because I have some deep connection to my existing last name--it's not a family name that stretches centuries into the past, it's not aesthetically all that pleasing, hell, it's not even on my birth certificate. So really, the changing of the name shouldn't even be on the list of Things To Freak Out About At 12:54 am. And yet.
Because no matter how many times I tell myself that a name is just a name, that changing it won't change me, I cannot help feeling that I'm about to lose myself. That somehow, I'll sign a piece of paper and cease to exist. Yes, I hear how ridiculous the thought is. Yes, I understand that in this day and age, it would be entirely appropriate for me to keep my name. Yes, I know that people get married every day and live to tell the tale. And yet.
And for purely practical reasons, of course, I know exactly which choice I'll make, because at the end of the day, when the freaking out has come to an end, I am actually somewhat capable of making practical decisions. It's just that the thought that I would be giving up the only identity I've ever held never quite made it past all the fuss and fluster of the nightmare that we affectionately call The Wedding.
And furthermore, if I am giving up my identity, shouldn't it be for a really cool reason? Like joining the CIA? Or becoming disillusioned with life and going to live on an abandoned bus in Alaska? Or witnessing a gruesome mob murder and joining the witness protection program? Maybe instead of sitting here and whining about the name thing, I should be looking up mob bosses in the yellow pages.
Except. There's the whole changing of the name extravaganza. And that, I'm not so happy about. Not because I have some deep connection to my existing last name--it's not a family name that stretches centuries into the past, it's not aesthetically all that pleasing, hell, it's not even on my birth certificate. So really, the changing of the name shouldn't even be on the list of Things To Freak Out About At 12:54 am. And yet.
Because no matter how many times I tell myself that a name is just a name, that changing it won't change me, I cannot help feeling that I'm about to lose myself. That somehow, I'll sign a piece of paper and cease to exist. Yes, I hear how ridiculous the thought is. Yes, I understand that in this day and age, it would be entirely appropriate for me to keep my name. Yes, I know that people get married every day and live to tell the tale. And yet.
And for purely practical reasons, of course, I know exactly which choice I'll make, because at the end of the day, when the freaking out has come to an end, I am actually somewhat capable of making practical decisions. It's just that the thought that I would be giving up the only identity I've ever held never quite made it past all the fuss and fluster of the nightmare that we affectionately call The Wedding.
And furthermore, if I am giving up my identity, shouldn't it be for a really cool reason? Like joining the CIA? Or becoming disillusioned with life and going to live on an abandoned bus in Alaska? Or witnessing a gruesome mob murder and joining the witness protection program? Maybe instead of sitting here and whining about the name thing, I should be looking up mob bosses in the yellow pages.
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