Tuesday, May 31, 2005


I am just wrapping up my last day here at work. I mean, I am just going down three floors tomorrow. But it is a whole new set of co-workers, a whole new job, and since it is a new division it is really a whole new world.

I have been here for three years, the longest I have ever worked anywhere. And, as much as I am thrilled to be going, I am a little sad.

The girls here are my friends. Yes, we are the meanest sorority in the building but we have kick ass parties and people make excellent spinach dip. Everyone here knows each other's dogs' names. That tells you what kind of people we are.

Downstairs is a little more adult. There are some really good things about that. Things that I am thrilled about. Chance for advancement, possibly less pettiness, better money. But the price is you cannot be a big goon. You can't spend ten minutes in your neighbor's cube talking about your bowel movements downstairs--it just is Not Done.

I have had a good run up here. I am choosing to only remember the good stuff because I love revisionist history. Besides, I am totally going to miss these bitches.

Monday, May 30, 2005

Bar Might Be Too High

J took me out to the softball fields to prepare me for my yearly attempt to not be the worst on my softball team. This gets harder each year as our crappy players quit. I am the last of the shitty to keep playing. But I am always the fifth woman and they need me. Even if I suck. Which I do.

But I am really trying y'all. I just run so very slow. So slow that icebergs pass me as I try to get to first. So I have to it it very far in order to get a single.

He pitched to me over and over. And he was sweet enough to not laugh at my shitty swings. I hit a few to the deeper outfield. I am almost to the point that I hit better than a fourth grader. Almost.

I just don't want to embarrass myself.

Such a lofty goal.

Saturday, May 28, 2005

Pac Man

The large hive on my thigh has faded into a bruise.

A bruise shaped like Pac Man.

I think Pac Man is trying to chomp his way to the mole by my knee.

I don't take hallucinogenic drugs.

No, really.

Tell Me I'm Pretty

When you are married (or in a long relationship) you develop some quirks together as a couple. I became really aware how annoying one of mine is today.

I have this habit of walking in to check on J, just to say hi, and when I leave I say, "Tell me I'm pretty." He is not a moron so he always answers "You're gorgeous," and smacks my ass.

The thing is this is just our shorthand, a quick way of saying I still love you, you still love me? Cool. Not romantic. And not actually shorter but whatever.

Of course if I heard this I would think what an annoying needy bitch.

The feminist inside of me thinks that I need to stop saying this before we have kids. Actually right this second because it is stupid and annoying. The rest of me is beating the shit out of that side because she really needs to lighten the fuck up.

I'll let you know how that turns out.

In the meantime, tell me I'm pretty.

Friday, May 27, 2005

Snot Nose

Today is the kind of day that makes people in Seattle melt and people from other places laugh at us. It was about ninety degrees and just awful. Actually, it was really nice outside. But it blew inside. Because no one here has air conditioning and my house, being new construction, has no tree shade.

It is after nine and it still feels like a million degrees in here.

To make it worse I think I got the head cold that J had earlier this week. Nothing too horrible, just a fever and snotty nose and sore throat. On one hand, SCORE all you can eat popsicles. On the other, BOOOO. I mean colds are awful enough when it's cold outside and you can eat soup and grilled cheese and huddle under a down blanket. But when it is hot and sunny and Mark Prior gets hit by a line drive, well, you feel like the world is ending.

I do love summer nights though. And this feels like our first one of the year. I love sleeping with the windows open and fans on. Laying in front of the TV on cool sheets. Non-stop baseball to watch. It smells like grass outside and I can hear the swarms of frogs that live in the marsh behind our house. Their ribbity cries sound like a hum and in the three years we have lived here that hum has become a lullaby for me.

It would be perfect if I could just stop dripping snot on my nice clean pillow.

Thursday, May 26, 2005

School's Out

I was just worthless at work today. I am training a new gal to do my current job and my strategy is to just make her do everything. I just kind of hung out today. Talked to my boss for hours about work and our husbands and just about everything you can think of.

I really am going to miss everyone up there.

I got to thinking about all the things that I have learned in this job. Not so much skills but how to work with people, how to handle things and how to get the hell over myself.

Since I am starting a four day weekend and I only have one more day in that office it felt like the last day of school. Except no one was signing my yearbook.

Wednesday, May 25, 2005

Well I Didn't Say Allah

One of the weird and unexpected consequences of converting to Judaism is that I am starting to feel a little wrong about my swearing habits.

It is not at all uncommon for me to scream JESUS CHRIST in frustration. I do not mean to but honestly most of the time it is better than yelling GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKER which is my phrase of choice.

I do not choose to believe in Jesus, but I do try to respect those that do, which means I should not take a deity's name in vain that I do not even believe in.

I have really tried to cut this sucker out of my speech patterns. It is not easy and I mess it up all the time. But I am making an effort. Which is how on Monday, during Everwood, when Bright kissed Hannah I ended up yelling, "THANK YOU MOSES!" at the screen.

It is a start.

Tuesday, May 24, 2005

Gang Wars

Moments ago, there was a loud crash. And thrashing. And a furry grey cat wigging the fuck out. Because Rooster was having a death match with J's alarm clock.

It started innocently enough. She was pacing on the bed. Making "step off bitch" gestures at his night stand. Apparently the blinking red numbers on the clock were not respecting her the way that useless grey cats with absolutely no street cred need respecting. And she attacked.

She pulled that thing off the night stand. Swung it around by the cord. Jumped on it. And then kicked it.

She strutted out of here like she just won a knife fight. I do not have the heart to break it to her that it is an inanimate object.

Of course our other cat, Big Kitty has joined a gang. We thought she was going to a good home. She seemed happy. But she has fallen in with a bad crowd. The four of them patrol the neighborhood. Chasing squirrels. Taunting dogs locked in their yards. Skipping around in the flower beds. Nothing but trouble.

I really hope that Rooster doesn't start flipping gang signs out the window.

Monday, May 23, 2005

Show Your Boobs

One of the things that convinces me that I will be a terrible mother is my attitude towards experiences that every teenager (or the fun ones) have and how I want my kids to have them.
Especially any daughter I might have.

I really want my daughter to not be in love the first time she has sex. I want her to do it with a friend that she trusts and cares about but not some one she sees as her first love. I was lucky enough to have sex with a friend the first time and I was never embarrassed, actually enjoyed it and I never mistook sex for love in any relationship. That was a gift in college and after when my girlfriends were beating themselves up about hooking up too fast or too slow.

And I want my kids to have a good first drunken experience.

The first time I got drunk I was with a friend of my sister. We were at her house drinking the better part of a large jug of rum with a bunch of dead beat surfers.

God I drank too much. We all did. There were way too many cigarettes and I believe I made out with a surfer or two. And yes, they were inappropriately aged but while that would have concerned my mother it shouldn't have. I believe that I ended up taking a shower that night with my friend's cat.

Yes. I showered with a cat. And yes, that went just as well as you might imagine.

I believe that I danced on her coffee table. I believe I flashed my boobs at scruffy surfers.

But I had the best time. I was supervised by people who were really looking out for me. And yes, I showed a bunch of gross men my boobs but at least they didn't go to my high school so no one was talking me Monday morning. And I learned a lot of important lessons.

1. Know your limits. If you cannot see or walk anymore without assistance you do not need another drink.

2. Do not break the seal. Once you pee you will have to pee every ten minutes until you pass out.

3. Do not ever shower with a cat. Even if you think that nasty little bastard will enjoy it.

4. Making out with boys your don't know is fun. Just remember they were cute when you were drunk. Now they seem like potential statutory rapists.

5. Rum really is the work of the devil. Vodka is the nectar of the gods.

Those really are life lessons that every girl needs. And I didn't get raped, murdered, arrested or pregnant in the process.

And this was before the age of digital cameras so I am fairly certain there aren't any topless photos of me on the internet.

Sunday, May 22, 2005

News Director Can Fuck Himself

I really want to fuck up a news director from Kiro News here in Seattle right now. I Ti-Fauxed CSI from Thursday and finally got the guts to watch it since I knew it was a gruesome episode. Halfway through I am fast forwarding through the commercials when a news headline flashes on the screen. About Sarah Yarborough, a friend of my sister, who was murdered fourteen years ago. Her picture was on screen. I rewound the clip over and over. Fucking commercial was from Thursday night. I couldn't find it online.

I was frantic. Poor J couldn't figure out what was wrong with me. But I could not find anything about it online anywhere. Not on their site. Not on the Seattle Times. Obviously they couldn't have solved it or it would be everywhere. But did they find something? Anything? Because for fourteen years they had nothing. I thought maybe they had the DNA profile. Or a suspect.

I was in tears when I finally found it. Nothing new. Her brothers gave an interview. I am sure to get her picture on TV and maybe push for something to happen. I went to high school with one of them. They were pretty young when it happened and I imagine that it took this long for them to talk about it.

Don't get me wrong I am glad it is getting news coverage. Anything to find this guy.

But they can't fuck with people this way. Not about something like this.

Especially when the only goddamn stories on your website are about goddamn Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes.

Why Tim Burton Why?

The original freaked me out plenty. But the commercial for the new Willy Wonka movie is the stuff of nightmares.

Are they just fucking me making Johnny Depp look all scary? Don't ruin Johnny for me Tim Burton. Don't make me have really scary dreams about him chasing me around with his little Oompa Loompa minions. Dreams involving Johnny Depp should be hot and steamy and inappropriate. It is ok for me to wake up sweaty but not in fear. In lust is ok.

In lust is good y'all.

That commercial has me all jittery. How the fuck am I going to get through the entire movie?

That is a definite DVD watch. With wine. Lots of wine.

When J is not home because he is still mocking me for freaking out over the ad.

But did you see Johnny?

Pig Pen

My husband is the only man I know who takes baths. He really doesn't like showers and takes maybe one or two a month. But he will spend hours in the bathroom, lying on the floor with steam from a bath making him sweat. And he will soak in the tub while reading comic books and magazines.

Funny thing is that sometimes he really doesn't get that clean. Lots of times he doesn't wash his hair. Which I understand. As some one with thick hair I know that washing your hair every day is a very stupid idea. And since he doesn't comb his hair he will often just wet it down before he leaves in the morning. Still, its a weird feeling to touch some one's hair as they get out of the bath and have it be straight up greasy. He just forgets more than anything else. He isn't dirty or anything. But a little too Pig Pen for anyone's taste.

Especially since he doesn't always put on clean clothes.


I don't actually understand it at all. Because I love taking showers (I can't really take baths because of my low blood pressure--I get dizzy). I love the feeling of clean hair and scrubbed up skin. That is why I like to shower at night, I just hate to immediately put crap in my hair and on my skin after getting it clean.

I do feel bad though. I have said "didn't you just take a bath?" way too many times.

Saturday, May 21, 2005


I am completely and crazily addicted to Web Boggle. I am not linking it here again because I am trying to protect y'all. It is the crack cocaine of internet time wasters. I have never played Boggle in real life. I am not even good at it. But I cannot stop.

It is a disease. Perhaps I should be on A&E's Intervention. Of course they will have to pry my fingers off the keyboard.

Well it is not quite that bad.


Just Because They All Begin With A

Confidential to the girl in front of me on the escalator who, while talking about her date last night to her friend said, "He was Armenian or Arabian or Aryan. Whichever."

Just so you know, those are not interchangeable.

Friday, May 20, 2005

I Believe The Word You Are Looking For Is Whore

I took an early bus home from work today. Most bizarre bus ride ever.

I was waiting at the stop when a very large sort of clumsy man came up to me. I had been reading a magazine while waiting and he said, "I was standing next to you, didn't you see me? I saw your book, you too busy to see me?"

He was a little wobbly and I figured he was drunk or drugged or both. When we got on I carefully chose a seat far from him. I have a habit of attracting weirdos on buses. I was really not in the mood to deal with it. I spent the ride home reading Us Magazine.

And then some fuckhead wack off driver cuts the bus off. Poor driver has to slam on the breaks. Hard. People fly around inside the bus. Nobody falls out of their seats but people flail about and their stuff slides around on the floor.

But everyone is chuckling. Because we all know that we are lucky that the driver was able to stop. People pull that shit in Seattle traffic all the time. Buses don't speed in the carpool lane so people will do anything to get in front of them.

We get moving again and everything is fine. Until the same weird possibly drunk guy starts screaming.

"Miss. MISS. Miss you need to call your supervisor to meet us at the Park and Ride! You better call him right now! I am going to get your fired. I have an injury."

I don't think the driver understood what he wanted. Actually, none of us really understood what he expected her to do. There was no accident. She can't pull of the freeway. She can't do anything.

So we stop at the Park and Ride, of course the supervisor wasn't there. There is no office at that Park and Ride so some one would have to fight traffic to get there.

But the guy was pissed. After we get back on the freeway he comes stomping up the aisle. Screeching about his foot was hurt (how he was running around on it with an injury I do not know). He got in her face, called her a hooker (side note: hooker? Is he too civil to swear but not too civil to scream in her face?). Said she disrespected him. Called her a crazy ass driver.

I have to tell you I was freaked out. I honestly thought that man was going to slap the driver. I have never seen anyone yell at another person like that. Especially not a service person. I was impressed by the driver, she was very calm even though she had to be afraid. She called the supervisor. And arranged for an aide car.

When we all got off I found the driver and offered to be a witness on her behalf. I wrote a statement about how she really was not at fault for anything that happened. Meanwhile that guy was getting into an ambulance. For no reason at all. I cannot imagine how he can claim he was hurt in an accident that didn't even happen.

I thought all the loons rode the city lines and not the commuter routes. DAMN IT.

Thursday, May 19, 2005

What Am I Going To Wear?

Had a horrible realization today.

I have worked in the lowest profile division of my company for three years now. None of the big muckety mucks come up to our floor. We fly under the radar. And even though we are a fashion company we are much more relaxed and casual than other areas.

We wear jeans. I mean they are really fucking expensive jeans that I am embarrassed to tell my mother how much they were and I wear them with blazers and high heels but they are jeans. And I wear them a couple of times a week.

Uh. Can't do that in my new job.

Problem is. I don't actually have enough nice outfits for five days a week. Not at a place where you can't wear the same outfit too many times.


I mean I can work my black pants and black tops as well as the next girl. But I am not sure that I can pull it off for long. I am going to have to come up with something creative.

How is it that I can get the fancy new job and still not afford the fancy new clothes?

Do you think anyone will notice if I just wear my pretty blue trenchcoat as a dress every day?

Tuesday, May 17, 2005

That Hilary Swank Bitch Better Watch Out

It is really hard to work as hard as you can during your last days on the job. You can't help but not care about long term plans. You want the department to do well but . . . it really doesn't have much to do with you any more.

Add benedryl to that and you have a zombie walking around the office.

Somehow I just need to fake being the perfect employee another week though.

I deserve an Oscar for this.

Monday, May 16, 2005

On the Bright Side

Remember that game that you used to play in elementary school Grosser Than Gross? You know started by saying, "You know what is gross? A booger." And it escalates until some one says a booger covered in mold shoved up an ass that you have to lick out. Its just as weird and schoolkid fun as you are imagining.

Know what's grosser than gross?

Bee sting hives with puss in them.

Y'all. Hives. Filled. With. Puss.

Sad thing? I was typing an email to J trying to describe this and I spelled it pussy. Is it puss-ey? Pusy?

Easily distracted much?

So. More drugs that will make me sleepy.

But the 2005 Year of the Suck has not returned,

Because I did not die from the bee sting.

Positive attitude.

Sunday, May 15, 2005


My hives are worse today so I am starting with the oral anti-histamine. Which means I am in an impenetrable fog.

Its a day of baseball games and afternoon naps for me.

Perhaps this is the secret to getting out of bleaching my shower.

Saturday, May 14, 2005

Itchy and Scratchy

For the love of GOD. Some one please stop me from playing Boggle. I am not even good at it and it just consumes me.

Apparently I am a tad bit allergic to bees. Because I have hives everywhere. It is all I can do not to scratch my skin clear off.

Why don't they make Benadryl IVs?

Friday, May 13, 2005

Not Exactly the Bees' Knees

When I was a toddler my sister and I had a baby pool on the patio in the summer. It had about an inch of water in it but we would splash around for the afternoon. One day my sister convinced me to step on a bee--she told me it was just like a fly.

I am sure we all know how that turned out.

I had a meltdown and a freak out as you can imagine. And I cannot even tell you how that bee sting felt. I remember it as a searing pain not unlike having your foot cut off with a steak knife.

When I was about seven my mother left my dad in charge of us for an afternoon. I was climbing a fence in the neighbors' yard when I put my hand throw a wasps' nest. Fourteen stings in my hand, arm and face. With a black eye. Scrubbed clean by my daddy who was not gentle about it like my mom would be. I remember that feeling like a cheese grater ripping off my skin layer by layer.

These two events have left me an almost pathological avoidance of bees and wasps and yellowjackets. I have no desire to feel their stings ever again.

Today I went tanning. And when I was getting dressed when I felt a sharp pain on my leg. I pulled up my pant leg and saw a small red welt. And then another, even sharper pain high on my thigh. I checked that too and then noticed the remains of two bees on the carpet.

I had put on my pants with two fucking bees inside of them.

The rest of my afternoon involves a rotary fan, the Cubs' game, an ice pack and a large tube of Benedryl.

Thursday, May 12, 2005

Long Live Target

Just when I was feeling good about things this has to happen.

The entire mother fucking world needs to stop using the word Nazi. Nazi does not mean jerk or something that you do not like. It is not the guy who cut you off on the freeway, its not your boss who won't let you take vacation.

People are forgetting what happened in those camps. They are forgetting what that was about.

I hate Walmart before but this makes certain that I will not spend a dime in one of their stores ever.

You are selling cheaply made goods for low prices based on shitty working conditions and substandard service. You are not being opressed for your religion. You are not being censored. You are being prevented from taking over the goddamn world. And even if I had a single sympathy for your situation you just took a shit on it.

Long live Target.

2005--The Year of Less Suckage

The year of the suck is OVAH!

The promotion I have been wanting for a long time came through today. A little more money, chance for more and a great shot at my dream job within a year.

Let the shrieking begin!

Wednesday, May 11, 2005

Yes, I Know I Am An Asshole

I am not a child. But I do have a hard time dealing with realities that even children can accept.

I still get pissed that life isn't fair.

Obviously, I know that it isn't. No one who has ever lost their job for doing it too well has ever entertained the idea that things are fair. But I cannot get past the idea that they should be. Or at least at times give the illusion of fair.

There are people you meet that things just seem to work out for. They live nice middle class lives, with few problems and get great jobs, marry nice people and things just progress naturally. And there are people who just live under a black cloud. Things never go right for them no matter how hard they work.

After Gladys died I couldn't wrap my arms around her being gone when so many other people were still alive. I mean even Ted Bundy lived to forty-three. There is something so fundamentally wrong with some one who had never hurt a fly. Who was living a life of purpose, dying so young when people who do evil live much longer.

A friend of mine has survived breast cancer. Her long-time boyfriend is in kidney failure. They are two of the most positive and happy people I have ever met. She is positive and strong and amazing. And she has another lump in her breast.

There are couples out there who would be amazing parents. Who long for children and go through invasive and horrifying medical procedures to get them who are still childless. And we have people like the parents of Precious Doe, who fatally injured their child and then refused to take her to the hospital. Letting her die over three days on their living room floor because they had outstanding warrants and might be arrested. Then they cut up their child with a kitchen knife and threw her body away. Those people were able to have a child, and I feel fairly confident that they did not need extreme medical intervention to do so.

This is where the idea of God having a plan loses me. I respect that some people may believe that. But I just cannot. A God like that would be cruel. And I just cannot believe in that. I cannot imagine that God would ever put a child into a home with parents who would murder her. And when you stop believing some ultimate plan you realize how little control any of us have over the things that happen in our lives.

All we can control is how we treat one another.

So why exactly, does it feel like those that have the most to be thankful for are the biggest assholes?

Don't worry, I include myself in that one.

Tuesday, May 10, 2005

Just Don't Shit Your Pants

I fear white pants.

This fears stems from That Girl, the one that is at every junior high/summer camp/party that wore white pants and got her period. That episode didn't just stain her pants but also her permanent teen record because everyone knows about it. That Girl who was still being embarrassed by that story in high school, college and possibly her first job interview.

Its a hefty fear.

Add to that being a slob and worrying about spilling and also having an ass big enough that white is a risky venture.

But I had a meeting today. One where I needed to look cute and professional. But of course women in my office don't wear suits unless they want to look stuffy and uptight. We have to wear separates that are suit-like but more fashion forward and therefore more of a pain in the ass.

And I have a cute ass pair of white pants. They are wide legged and pin striped and they look fucking awesome with my black jacket. So I had to wear them, knowing that my body loves to betray me and I am risking a karmic ass explosion.

I am unreasonably afraid of shitting my pants considering that I have never actually done that.

Here are my rules for the Wearing of White Pants:

1. Be tall and thin (shoot I break this one every time).

2. If you do not have long and skinny legs wear white pants that are too long, never cropped (if you have legs like my mom's you can wear capri length, if I wore those I would look like an obese dwarf nurse in the least PC situational comedy ever).

3. Wear the highest heels you can stand in. No a little higher than those.

4. If you have a big ass wear a three-quarter length coat.

5. Do not wipe your hands on your pants (very very important).

and finally and most importantly


Monday, May 09, 2005

Mama's Whiney Baby

Darla was just asleep on the bed next to me, having what must have been a delightful and possibly violent dream. She was growling and twitchy and having seizures during this dream. Given her personality I think she was dreaming about ripping a frog in two. She was flopping around so much that she fell of the bed with a sickening thump.

I love that she looked up at me before she started crying.

My little girl knows there is no point being a big whiney baby if no one is going to pick you up and coddle you.

Who Do They Think I Am?

Today was my first day working with my new, less challenging, boring as fuck department. I celebrated by yelling at Monica over my cube wall. Sadly, now that I have time to read blogs at work I have a desk that has my computer hopelessly exposed.


Its like they want me to work for my hourly wage.

Sunday, May 08, 2005

Pancakes Would Be Good

One of the things that women obsess over before they get married is whether or not you eventually run out of things to talk about with your husband. Men freak out constantly about sex frequency (ok I did too) which is bizarre to me because from what I hear none of the women I know have sex when they are dating so what these guys are worried about I have no idea. Besides, everyone knows that kids are what kills sex in a marriage.

But the talking. I was afraid that would be over once we got married. I mean, it is a lot of work to get rid of him now. Divorce is not quite as simple to obtain as you might think and murder is a risky. Besides, when that is over you still have to go through the trouble of breaking another man in. So there really is no motive for the husband to make any effort at all once you are married. You aren't going to get rid of him over that.

And it turns out I was right.

We have been married for more than four years and are officially out of Things To Talk About.

I have heard every damn story that he has about the Navy. He knows all of my stupid college crap. We talk about baseball more than is healthy for two bar buddies let alone married people. We agree on politics too much to spend on that. And we are far beyond the early days in a relationship--the ones when it is still cute to talk about how you have always dreamt about playing hockey using a turtle as the puck.

After four years shit like that gets your dick cut off.

I don't mean to suggest that we don't talk or have a communication problem. We talk about work, our families, the temple. Those are just updates though. We are at that old married couple stage where we can tell what stories the other one is going to whip out by the way conversations are going. We can just jump in before we have to listen to it one more time.

Small talk is over.

Part of that is wonderful. Obviously I am really not so clever and not having to pretend to be once I am home is a relief. It is also comforting to know that I do not have to listen to every word he is saying--just every third so I can fill in the blanks and respond appropriately.

The bad part is there too. We still love each other, we still enjoy each other, we still laugh. But we really get by on the Cliff's Notes at this point. No need to go too in depth since there is such familiarity on the subject.

I suppose this means I am going to have to start paying attention when he rambles about his sci-fi crap isn't it?

You would think for all this trouble he would at least cook me breakfast.

Saturday, May 07, 2005

I'm Not Sure I Am Allowed Back

I went tanning today (yes I am going to die of skin cancer, but I will be brown and pretty so shut up) and fell asleep.

Its pathetic but I almost always fall asleep when I go tanning. There is something about that fluorescent lit coffin that knocks me out.

I was sleeping peacefully until the lights turned themselves off for the end of my session. It scared me out of sleep and I immediately sat up. And smacked the shit out of my head. For future reference, open the stupid lid of a tanning booth before you sit up.

When I smacked my head it made this huge cracking noise that reverberated and echoed. And I could hear everyone in the lobby stop. The radio turned off and no one was talking. So I do something incredibly stupid. I decide to just wait it out so that no one would be staring at me when I came out. After about five minutes I figure that no one will be paying any attention to me and I get all my stuff together to leave.

This is when I hear the two teenage girls that run the tanning place standing outside the door debating whether they should unlock the door or just go ahead and call the ambulance.

So I rush out of the room. Smacking one of those girls in the face with the door.

I think I need a new tanning place.

Thursday, May 05, 2005

Two Popsicle Night

Today was a very long day. I turned over the last bits of my old job. To some one that thinks its beneath her. A person who treats me with contempt. A person that will not do the job as well as I did.

I am pretty much over it at this stage. I can't make things go back and I am not sure I would want to.

I wish people would stop telling me I should quit and making me defend this crap.

I had a migraine all day and by the time I got into the car on the way home was near tears. Fortunately, my husband is awesome and let me have a moment and then got me home and full of pain killers and popsicles. It was definitely a two popsicle night.

Tomorrow I am sleeping in and doing nothing all day. I have earned it.

Wednesday, May 04, 2005


I was sitting on the pot peeing at work when I noticed something a little odd in the next stall. The person was using it, and their feet . . .facing the wrong way.

Dude. That is a MAN.

I walk out and find this tiny little old man. Obviously embarassed. A little confused.


I did not know how to react. To be honest I just didn't want to look at him at all. My grandpa has been caught in the ladies room more than once because he got confused and I wouldn't want anyone to embarass him.

So I just told him how to get out of the office and smiled and tried to look understanding. And watched him BOOK out of there.

Tuesday, May 03, 2005

I Know, And No We Do Not Want One

I don't drink coffee. Which is considered a criminal act here in Seattle. We released Starbucks into the world and as penance we are obligated to mainline their coffee using at least thirty percent of our annual salaries. But I don't. Not because I do not like coffee. I lurv coffee. I want to kill of my husband and marry coffee. I miss it in a way that is not healthy and entirely proves my point of not drinking it. I have no self control, am pathetic and used to suck that shit down like there was no tomorrow.

In college there were only two of us in my suite that drank coffee. How that is even fucking possible I can't tell you. When we got care packages the nice little old ladies sent us all kinds of gormet deliciousness and the two of us gorged ourselves. Several pots a day. All day every day.

Did you know that much caffeine with make your heart irregular? And prevent you from sleeping? And turn you into a raving lunatic?

So, with much regret, I gave up coffee cold turkey (dear GOD I am OLD) seven years ago. Children born that year are second graders sweet JESUS.

This is how when I went with the girls to Starbucks this morning I get mocked by the entire place for ordering a tall milk.

"I'd like a tall milk please."

"Steamed or warmed?"




"You mean a latte?"

"No, milk."

". . ."

And then the indignity of them shouting out, "TALL MILK?" when putting it out on the counter and having every single person in the place turn and look at the freak who doesn't drink coffee what is wrong with her maybe if she drank coffee she wouldn't have such a fucking fat ass and I just want a cigarette . . .

Can you see why we don't even own a coffee pot?

Monday, May 02, 2005

I Can't Help It, I Hate Her

Monster-In-Law might be the only Jennifer Lopez movie I would ever voluntarily see. But only if I have a signed affidavit from Robert Lukedic that Jane Fonda eats her at the end.

I would pay non-matinee prices for that shit.

If Only They Were Office Appropriate

It is a sad sad fact that for a woman that works in fashion I spend a lot of time thinking about sweatpants. While at work I am all about heels and cute black pants and ridiculously expensive jeans. But the second I am at home I am put on something knit. And cushy.

In fact I start thinking about my sweatpants at about 4:00 each afternoon. I think which pair is clean? Do I have a wife beater without a stain on it? Do I care since all I am going to do is sit around with my laptop? I daydream about running into the house. I let the dogs out, pee (we commute an hour give me a break) and then find my sweatpants. Its happiness knit in China.

I have my favorites of course. My Adidas track pants, so I can pretend I might work out. My faux Juicy velour sweatsuit. Chanandaler has this one too and we both agree that if we had to wear one thing until we died that would be it. But I just purchased what may become my new favorite. Lightweight cotton yoga pants for about ten bucks. Cheap. Stretchy. Room to be bloated. It doesn't get much better than that.

Unless I could wear them to work.

Sunday, May 01, 2005

Yet Another Thing to Discuss in Therapy

It is my experience that white guys who listen to Bob Marley fall into two categories. Stoners and assholes.

Stoners cannot help their attraction to Marley. Something in pot calls them to his records and I swear to GOD they all listen to him for hours and hours. Usually while eating bags of Doritos and jars of peanut butter. They are every goddamn Spicolli cliche come true.

The rest are just lumped together as assholes for convenience. It is perfectly fine for white guys to like Bob Marley. His music is good. But far too many of them are re-living their frat days when they sat around drinking with other privilege white guys and talked about tits and ass. Another category is the guy who thinks he is liberal and empathizes with Marley. I believe it is fucking impossible for white people to empathize with Marley. And we should just stop trying for crying outloud. So anyway. Assholes. Not bad people. Not murderers or even jay-walkers. Just assholes*.

So imagine how I feel about my new neighbor across the street who spent the whole fucking afternoon cleaning his garage with Bob Marley playing full blast. Singing along. LOUDLY. Dancing with his fucking broom. Not even stoned. Because stoners have to do the Bob Marley dance. They cannot help themselves. This guy is cleaning his nice middle class garage in his nice middle class neighborhood in his nice middle class life**.

I already sort of hated him. He is weird and goofy. He seems like the kind of guy who was in a frat to bring up the chapter grade point average. Who is always the designated driver. Who tries just way too hard to be cool. He is in no way cool***.

He and his wife moved in last month. I have never seen her and only know that she exists because of the big cheesy sign on the front of their house reading "The Schmucks, George and Carlene****."

He just bugs for some reason. I can't put my finger on it. I am sure he will be nice at the neighborhood barbecues this summer. He just totally seems like the type that will file complaints with the HOA. And freaks out if some one uses his driveway to turn around. And will trim each blade of grass in his yard to the same length.

I just want to run him down with my car.

*I actually like Bob Marley. But I know I am an asshole so its a lesser crime.
**There is nothing wrong with being middle class of course. But if you are doing the stoner dance and singing meaningfully Bob Marley songs when you are middle class then you deserve to have some one shoot at your feet with a pellet gun.
***He looks like Eugene from Grease y'all.
****Obviously not their real names, but not so far off. And their last name rhymes with a euphemism for male genitals that I just KNOW that I am going to blurt out at one point.