Brown Pants in Australia

ARGH! So mad. My car is wheezing and gasping on its last legs, and my perfect gift for my gun totin' nevvys is looking dead in the water.

When I sympathize with the kids over their terrible days, I usually end it with "some days are like that" and Miss Priss knows to follow THAT up with "Even in Australia."

The schmucks at CQBCITY could still step up and make things right for me, and Big O has a party to go to tonight, so maybe the day can be salvaged, but my car? Probably imagining all the green in my refund check getting sucked under it's hood as we speak.

Bring me my brown pants!!!!!!

To Conquer Paris with an Apple!

My Favorite

The Honey's Favorite


So on Saturday we went to the DeYoung in San Francisco to see the 1st of 2 shows on impressionism.

I'll never get my kids to Paris. They are going to have to do that on their own, unfortunately. When I went to London with my folks, my dad insisted that we go to the National Gallery. Um, okay, sure. It was interesting, but what blew me away was seeing Monet's Water Lillies. It was a huge canvas and looked like nothing up close. I was across the room when it slammed into focus. AFTER we got home I took an art history class and was aghast at how many of those pictures I had seen but not appreciated.

So the Honey valiantly went to the library for me and checked out everything he could find on impressionist art for kids. Little O soaked it up like a sponge, and was primed for the trip. Big O leafed through a book on the drive to the bay. What Miss Priss really wants is to see starry night, but THE starry night is not a Musee D'Orsay property, so is not included in this show. They WILL however, have A starry night from that series, and she's very excited about that.

So I didn't get the audio tour for all of us, because Big O insisted he did not want one, and I really thought it would be overwhelming for Miss Priss, and I didn't want to HAVE the audio tour and then not be able to LISTEN to the audio tour. I got one for her, and one for the Honey, and off we went.

Claustrophobia, thy name is Jennifer. Jeez, maybe it's whatever a fear of crowds is that I'm too lazy to google. I HATED not being able to turn around--and that was WITH metered entry into the exhibit. I can't imagine the madness of regular admission. LIttle O and the Honey didn't even notice, they were thoroughly immersed in teh audio tour. The Honey said he didn't even notice other people until someone bumped into him or stepped in front as he was trying to look at a picture.

Big O was bored like only a fifteen year old boy on a family outing can be. sigh. He's a big boy and I'm fine with him wandering off, but I was really starting to get antsy because he hadn't resurfaced in a while, and then, lo and behold, there he is marching towards me.

With a three foot high angry japanese lady in a museum uniform. OH sweet Jeebus, no. Did he Touch a painting? WAS IT DAMAGED? My life and future earnings flashed before my eyes as they made it through the crowds. Apparently the gift shop was straight ahead, and while we were told that there would be no re-entry to the exhibit, there is no rope or anything signifying the end of the exhibit. There's a no re-entry notice painted on the side wall in the doorway, above eye level.

So all she wanted was proof that he had a ticket as he had wandered into the gift shop and then went back to find me. Whew!

So we had brought an elegant picnic of PBJ and oranges, and sat on a bench in Golden Gate park while we chowed. Little O starts to laugh, and we all look, and there is a squirrel clutching her leg from under the bench. My girl is DRAMA, and I would expect her to be traumatized--maybe if it had been her bare leg she would have been, but she had her jeans on and was enchanted with the squirrel. I would have screamed and kicked my leg out, but she just wanted him to do it again. There was an artist selling paintings in the park, and he told Little O that if she had any nuts, the squirrel would be her friend all day. She took her daddy's cell phone and went off to take pictures of her new furry friend. I still need to pull those from the camera...

Big O has NO interest in seeing part 2, which opens mid-September, but Little O and, surprisingly, the Honey, are very excited to go back. I'm all in, but this time WITH the audio tour--and maybe a tazer--and maybe on a week day.

Wrestling may be the end of my sanity.

It's possible that Big O got the haircut from hell from his wrestling coach at the tournament on the Weds before thanksgiving. We're looking into a Jack sponsorship deal.

It's also possible that I advised my son that his stepfather would have kittens if Big O knocked a tooth loose because he was not wearing the mouth guard I got for him (after his father was going to cover "all" the costs and we bought it all). It's further possible that I then clarified that while kittens sound cute, it would in fact be full grown hellcats emerging from the Honey's ass to consume us all. Which got the adorable grin I was looking for while still getting my point across that my boy had better WEAR his damned safety gear.

If he loses a tooth on top of the *cough* modified bowl haircut, he's not going to get to talk to a girl until college.

How do you choose which hurts you hold onto?

I find that I am drawn to two kinds of people in my life...Brainy smarts and wild flamboyance. The brainy smarts, well, I loves me a big brain. The sparks that fly from big brains are what make life worthwhile for me. But my own big brain gets me into trouble and I over think things and start feeding my own insecurities, which leads me to the other recurring character in my life, the loud flamboyant one who shows no fear. I have said before on this blog, I am at times paralyzingly shy. Completely socially retarded. I assume that people forget me as soon as they meet me, and that they are not talking to me. So when I make an outgoing friend, I am fascinated by them, and enjoy their ability to force me out of my shell. Sadly, the other trait of flamboyance is a certain carelessness. They make off the cuff remarks and promises that don't pan out, and it's no big deal.

In general one of my best traits is that I don't stress over things, I am the one that sucks it up and moves on. But I have to say, sometimes it feels like I can hold a grudge like a muthafucka.*

I shake things off and move on, but I soak it into my big brain and start analyzing it, and over analyzing it, and get all butt hurt. The Honey is a Master of Butt Hurt. The people who have stood me up or inadvertently hurt my feelings are banished forever in his mind, and he sneers when their names are mentioned. Which is kind of nice that it's on my behalf, but ultimately it gets exhausting. Sometimes it's people I love and adore, sometimes it's people I am still genuinely fond of. I can't function while in butt hurt mode. I have to be able to put it away and move on with my day. The Honey likes to buff and shine his grudges and set them out where he can see them. Mine are hidden away in a cupboard in my brain, and I only bring them out for a polish when I get my feelings hurt.

I got my feelings hurt today and I so don't want to add it to my dark little cupboard to trot out the next time someone disappoints me. I wish they were at least righteous grudges that I could be proud to hold onto, you know? Then I could call them up and say "Fuck you for killing my dog, ruining my career, or re-electing Dubya after he'd clearly fucked it all up (Hey, wait a minute, I could be onto something..)" But how do you call someone after fifteen years and say "Fuck you for giving me a pencil cup for Christmas when I gave you a full set of towels because I THOUGHT about you and what you needed. And while we're at it, fuck you for casting me as Mare Winningham in the "Who would play you in the movie" game! Because you, lady, are no Sharon Stone." See? They aren't even GOOD grudges and hurts. They are petty and small. It is my sincere hope that by typing this out, I get it out of my system, so that whatever dark gremlin made me just google a picture of Ms. Winningham--who is a fine character actress, don't get me wrong--will crawl back into the cupboard for a while.


*Greg Beck, wherever you are, I still miss your posts.

Sigh.

A nice cozy Sunday listening to my seven year old tunelessly singing along to her new Disney sing-it for the wii.

It's kind of my definition of a perfect Sunday except for the Honey being stuck at work and no Big O.

I am a fairly laid back parent. I don't do hysteria and drama. So my reaction caught me of guard when the Ex told me he was at the Urgent Care with Big O. He's got the flu. Yeah, the Dr. at the clinic says it's probably THE Flu. The Ex said he may as well keep him there to keep it away from Miss Priss and the Elder contingent on our side (Mrs. G & Mama Dina). I appreciate that. But. My boy is sick.


I want him here, logic be damned. The blogosphere is full of horrifying H1N1 stories. Feel better, Bubby. I'm busting the door down if your dad says you're still sick Monday.

I like to fix things. How do you fix *ssholes?

Last night, Mrs G was back in France, 1944.


She was hiding with her 3 month old son in the woods, not because the soldiers were after HER specifically, but because that was what you did when the soldiers came to town, you made sure you stayed out of sight.

She woke up in the hospital, having been knocked unconscious when the bombs hit. No one could tell her where her son was.

The man to her left was dead, and they were trying to amputate the leg of the man to her right. Then the next bomb hit the hospital. She dropped her burning robe and leaped from the second floor.

She wandered the eight miles to her home in a daze, naked except for one slipper.

She was 21.

When she got home, her neighbors had found her infant son in the woods but had not been able to find her. He was fine.

*********************

Saturday afternoon Mrs G called the Honey and told him maybe a stroke?

By the time I made it next door, her speech was gone, except for one word, the name of that son safe at the neighbor's home so long ago. I called 911 and the last few days we've been visiting her in the hospital.

Her daughter, who lives a few hours away drives in every other day, making preparations to move into her mom's home for a while, until her mom is feeling better.

Mrs G had lost her speech but was still able to write, so she has not been completely locked into her own mind. She is still sharp as a tack. But last night her speech came flooding back to her and she told me the tale she says she has never shared with her children.

The son from that story, the story that drew huge wracking sobs from her, lives in town and still has not been to see his mother, has not called to inquire.

I would like to hunt him down, but Karma or the deity of his choosing will see that he gets his. My role in this is just to make sure that her cats get fed and that she knows that we love her. But it's hard. I'd like to do more.

Mexican food is trying to kill me.

Remember the habanero eye?

Now I have Posole Thumb.

At the Brother in law's last night, fishing in a pot that was, I kid you not, three feet tall, sitting on top of the stove, using a ladle that was about ten inches long. Terrified I was going to pull up a snout or a big hairy ear.

I'm scooping up hominy, and fire engine red broth, hominy and broth. Getting full, looking for a way to set the ladle down on my left without spilling the soup in my left hand. Turns out, I don't need to work about it, because the stupid styrofoam bowl folded in half, and scalding posole starts running steadily over my thumb, down my palm, and back into the pot. It's nice to be efficient. I kept thinking it was over, because the bowl would stabilize, but then it would cave in again.

I stand out at these family affairs no matter what, but I stood there torn, because while I really wanted to scream and just drop the bowl, my sister in law spent all frigging day cleaning her kitchen to a spotless--sterile--environment. That shit, in addition to never ever coming out of my clothes, would be all OVER her kitchen.

If I dropped the bowl into the soup, the soup was hot enough that I could envision it melting away before I got it back out, thereby ruining the SIL's pot of soup large enough to feed many third world countries, and the entire menu for her par-tay. So in the end, I very carefully poured the hominy back into the pot and ran cold water over my hand. Which felt delicious, until it occurred to me that I really couldn't stand at the sink all night. As soon as I stopped the water, my thumb was throbbing again. I am proud that I didn't cry, even when I went to the bathroom so I could run water over it some more in private. Today I have a lovely blister/callus that runs from the tip of my thumb to the first knuckle, covering about a quarter of the surface of the thumb. Under the thumbnail is kinda tender, too.

Last night was kind of a sucky throbbing thumb, but I did find someone to play Scrabble with at the other sister in law's house (where fucking posole was also served).

How was your New Year's Eve?

***warning** this is a three page pity party. Proceed at your own risk.

I want a vacation. I want out of my own skin.

I am clinging to my computer these days, desperately sending everyone to bed so I can have five minutes of "me" time.

Everybody wants a little piece of me.

The kids are HOME all day. When I get home they are all over me. The Honey wants my attention once he gets home. My sweet elderly landlady flagged me down as I was late to work the other day, had me park and get out and come inside her house--I thought she had some sort of emergency--no, just a present for the Honey. The Honey's family has us going over two or three nights a week for Big O to practice for the Quinceanera, and it lasts ALL NIGHT. We need to take the MIL out on weekends. I can't even hide in the bathroom, Little O will just talk thru the door.

Work is playing a big part in my restlessness. My boon fishbowl companion, Bre, has gotten the lateral job change she has pined for (because she really doesn't like customers, which is rough for a customer service rep). New girl came in, and took her spot.

I am socially retarded on my good days. I can get along with anyone, but finding someone that gets me is rare. Bre was one of those people, and now she's gone to the back office. Kim was another and she moved away (Yay, Kim!), and this is not the first time Bre has gone to a different part of the office. I know that playing the "She's not Bre" game is a losing prospect.

I'll adjust. I will.

However.

You know that sensation of just not connecting? Like you're playing catch, lobbing the silly playground ball back and forth, and all of a sudden you see that giant leather medicine ball coming for you, and you just watch it hit the ground, and rather than picking it up you both just blink and watch it as the uncomfortable silence grows? That's a lot of my day. Oh, except that I'm training new girl, we're short staffed, and several of the jobs that I used to marvel at Bre doing have been *ahem* gifted to me. Due to various IT issues, I am the only one in the office that can do things that are normally available to any CSR, so those are getting dropped in my in box. I'm waiting for the lecture about my cluttered desk. With a new girl parked right next to me? I'm always ON. Sigh.

And Bre is gone. And both of the new girls have more motherfucking internet access than me.

Blogher is this weekend. Several of my bloggy idols are there. It would be fun.

And yet...

The folks I adore and would love to meet? Not gonna be there. None of them have even mentioned Blogher, and aren't really the folks who would. My own lack of social skills would have me lurking behind potted plants the whole time, afraid to move. I am painfully, pathologically shy in situations like that.

But it won't be this close to me again for a long time. I adore the bloggy community as a whole, a group based on words and humor (and frequently their kids). These are all things that are vital and interesting to me. Most of the folks at work or in my life would just blink at me like I'd just dropped a big medicine ball in the middle of the room if I said the word blog. (Except for my brother, who totally ratted me out on the whole ice cream maker thing--thanks, Jeffro!)

Sweet Jeebus, if I weren't playing Scrabulous with my best Jen, I'd have gone postal weeks ago. Did I mention that everyone is going on vacation? yeah, that's why we're short at work. My daddi-o even left for FIJI this morning to go build a church--three weeks of slave labor in exchange for a fourth week of glorious snorkeling, and it's tax deductable! I just wanna go to my mom's for a four day weekend, man, but gas prices suck ass too.

What would the flying spaghetti monster say? Maybe I'll entertain myself tomorrow by trying to throw in a few pirate phrases on the phone. The problem is when I start thinking in pirate speak, I sort of wander into some weird leprechaun on crack accent. Like the lucky charms guy after a three day bender. What can I say? It's a gift...

Avast, me hearties...(Central Valley style?)Odale, vatos!

If you know me in real life, try not to stare.

I'm not recreating my hilarious turn as the pirate of Big Dog, I've got motherfucking Habanero Eye.

What, you ask, is Habanero eye?

It's when you rub your tender, delicate, optical type area with the hand that only for the briefest moment touched the unbroken skin of the hottest member of the chile family. Because my homemade chicken noodle soup is not hot enough for the Honey, and I was going to beat him if he added tabasco again. You want hot? I'll give you hot!

Turns out I gave myself hot, too.

Hopefully I won't be squinting like a pirate by monday. Or I could put a corn cob pipe in my mouth and be Popeye. I like spinach...

Yesterday sucked Donkey.

We've had no heat since we moved in. It hasn't been an issue until oh, say , mid November, when things got a little chilly. Jumped through a few hoops for my sweet elderly landlady, and was waiting yesterday for a heater guy.

Work called and said they really needed me like, twenty minutes ago. craaaap.

So called and cancelled the heater guy and went to work. Since I was gone half the morning and NEED money, decided to take my paycheck to the bank AFTER work.

Did I mention that Kmart only loves the po' so much, and all lay aways must be retrieved by Saturday?

Which of course means that I left my paycheck sitting on my desk as I drove at warp speed to the bank yesterday. Tried to call work and my cell phone was dead. So now my paycheck is locked up all weekend, my lay-away is going to be reshelved, and our cars?

yeah. on E.

I guess we have food and lights, so it's not all bad, right? And a seven foot Chrismas tree. And sweet sweet DSL.

Okay, Seriously

blah blah blah, another country with civil unrest...blah blah blah.

 

Okay, wait a minute.  The president of Pakistan has ordered the arrrest of all the lawyers?  ALL of them?  Judges thrown into jail?  So basically ANYONE who knows what the rights of the people are, and what the responsibilities of the government are, is suddenly a criminal? 

 

Holy Shit.  No, seriously--can you even imagine that happening here? 

 

Shall we throw in the fact that they have nukes?  That they are probably currently hosting our al-quaida friends?

 

Chuck, you are my expert on all things terrifying, is this as scary as it seems?

 

 

WTF Wedsnesday is Back with a Vengance

My landlord rented my tiny two bedroom house out from under me, while I was scraping together the deposit.

MotherfuckerMotherfuckerMotherfuckerMotherfucker. 

I am back to square one.

How did I find out?  The landlord called to see if I could get out two days early.

I said no problem, since I was renting another house from them, just waiting to get the deposit together. 

Really?  Which house? 

Blah de blah blah way... No, that's already been rented. 

Yeah, to ME. 

No, someone is moving in as we speak.

 

My moving problems were solved, mentally I was already planning Little O's birthday celebration in October.

 

Whining self-pity ahead.

the scandal of the starving baby
Originally uploaded by Djuliet.

Another suck ass day in the house hunt.

I think the Honey genuinely doesn't realize how much this is sucking for me. He lived on the East Side of town before we were together, and I would live there if we had no kids. But I have a son going into junior high, not fantastically socialized for THIS side of town. I could just dress him in Target bags on the East Side.

My yammering insensitive clod Ex called me to see if he could show my house, because the owner is selling it a full forty thousand dollars below market value, just to unload it, and am I SURE I couldn't find the money to buy it? FUCK OFF you lackwit. If I could buy a house, I would already have been out the door (but man, it IS going for CHEAP!). Ex's sister was a little distant at Big O's party, and that stung. Maybe it's just that we aren't close like we used to be, but I felt a chill and it made me sad. I named the Ex "Uncle Ex" to Little O because he's always going to be in our lives, which makes him more than some guy to her, but if Ex tries to chide her for her behavior again, I WILL put my foot so far up his ass He will be my new left shoe. I don't care if she is the spawn of Beelzebub himself, shut your pie hole.

(Little O is doing the exorcist thing again, channeling a demon child that bears little to no resemblance to my sunny brown eyed girl. I may have to call a priest.)

I am acutely aware of all the things I want for my kids that I cannot give them. A study came out that said that sharing a room helps kids learn people skills and how to compromise, and I can totally buy into that. But cramming a twelve year old boy and a soon to be five year old girl into a room that will require bunk beds to open the door seems to be asking a bit much of them. Can I get them a pet to make up for it? Can I afford to feed a pet? Can we tame/train the rats and call them pets?

I bought Big O new tennies for school and almost cried when he turned his nose up at the forty dollar shoes I showed him and picked up the 23.99 plain white sneaks and said "Now THAT's a Shoe!" I have a feeling my luck won't run that way with his sister.

I know we'll make it through and part of my angst is that I feel so low when I know we are so fortunate for all that we DO have.

Fucking print this post and show it to every kid you know who thinks they can afford to take a semester off. THIS is what happens when you step away from school for a "break" --Shit job, no money, wondering if the kid at In-N-Out makes more than I do.

...And We're Back.

the scandal of the starving baby
Originally uploaded by Djuliet.

Fabulous vacation, surgery went okay, sucktastick return, a sixty day notice stuck on the door and realtor bringing someone through TODAY. UGH. More later.

But Ash had her bebe, and she looks adorable! Go see!

Did I mention the invisible ink?

Create your own Scratch Ticket


I've obviously done something wrong.

I am Dorkk, hear me sigh.

**************
Oohhh! It worked! The text didn't show in the preview!! SQUEEEEEEE!

In honor of Kim finally posting...

Oh, wait, that's right, she's "Busy" with her "Real Life" (What-ev-aaar).
Okay, how many people just went to check her blog?

bwahahaha!

I'm kidding, and Kimmy knows that I could not be happier that she is too busy up there in the Emerald City(ish) to Return emails AND post. As long as she still writes back...

So ANYWAY, long overdue...

Does every college town have a bar called the Graduate? I loved the one in Chico. The Grad here is, well, I guess they are each appropriate to the towns they are in... sigh.

So this is the way the night went...

There was beer.

 

And it was good.


There were several iced teas of the long island variety.

 

And Baby, they were good.

There were funny stories and rude jokes about the folks who could not make it.

 

And they were fuckin' hilarious.


And then we cried.

 

And my final picture demonstrates why Designated Drivers are such a good idea, because most of my recollections of that night look like this in my head:

 

<

Here's one for ya...

the scandal of the starving baby
Originally uploaded by Djuliet.

File this under super-dorkfession, agonizing admission of my own idiocy, or AW CRAP. (Okay that may have been funnier with the original typo of aw carp)

Several months ago the link on my blog to Locus Magazine, the alpha and omega of sci-fi book news, geek central, was advertising for an administrative assistant. You must understand that books used to be my life. My life's work. I quit school because working in the bookstore was so much fun. I was lured away from books by filthy lucre (and not much, at that), and I have pined for books ever since. To have even a slight chance to work at a magazine dealing with (presumably) articulate and thinking beings, and have a job that did not involve a panic button and a plexiglass spit shield was too much to pass up. I did not care that it involved a commute to the bay area and, by extension, less money than I make now (how is that possible without a paper hat and a nametag?). They asked for a cover letter describing your interest in sci-fi. I think I tasted honey.

I agonized over that cover letter. It couldn't just be a list of books, but how to narrow it down? Who did they want me to like? What if I mentioned the author they hated? Should I 'fess up that I couldn't guarantee that I wouldn't geek out if Raymond Feist or George R. R. Martin called? I finally got my letter down to the basic loves of my sci fi reading. I confessed, not my fear of hyperventilation faced with certain authors, but rather my absolute disinterest in Manga or old-school hard sci-fi. I thought they should know. If they hired me, it would become evident that certain names made my eyes roll back in my head.

I fretted over e-mailing it to them, worrying that I'd screw it up somehow, and reveal my dorkiness. I bit the bullet and I pressed the send button, and gave them every one of my e-mails so they could choose where to reply. Can you see it coming?

I got brave and told my mother that I had taken this huge daring step (for me) in applying for a dream job. I know I tell you all how close my mom and I are, and how I adore my parents and we have this perfect relationship. Let me now reveal that she is still my mother, and we have a very real relationship. Her response was, and I quote,

"Jenny, that's just stupid. Why would you apply for a job in the bay area. It can't pay very much, and you think you could commute?" blah blah blah. Fill in with more of the same. Thanks, mama-san. sigh.

But I faithfully checked my email accounts, and listened to the crickets chirp. I used the canned air on my keyboard so I would be ready to reply. In my cover letter I acknowledged that I might be too far away to commute, but that I'd like to discuss the possibility--damn! I shot myself down! I would like to thank Bre for listening patiently while I agonized back and forth about what I might have done wrong. She's very patient anyway, but that stuff HAD to get old.

Then it happened. The ad was taken down. My dream was over.

Life goes on. At least until you remember a thing called the answering machine, something gathering dust in the corner because it's always full of mortgage re-fi pitches that chap my renter's hide. Every once in a while I clear out the messages to make room for more re-fi con men, but it's a pain in the ass because you have to listen to each message. There are also a ton from my ex, telling Big O to pick up. Annoying to listen to him in person, let alone in memorex. Oh, and a message from Locus Magazine asking me to give them a call.

They called. I never checked my machine, it never occurred to me that they would CALL, when everything had been via computer up to that point. They.Called.Me.
And they hired someone else, without ever knowing that I was the one they really wanted and needed.

There is my deep dark Saturday Dorkfession. I will be a little old lady rocking myself in a corner, slapping my forehead, saying "Check your messages." Maybe I'll get the golden trash can award for a life's work in garbage. Maybe I'll snap and threaten to dump MY garbage on THEIR porch if they don't shut the hell up and listen to me. Locus Magazine called me and I was too dorky to check my messages. LOCUS MAGAZINE. Worst part? I can't tell my mom they called, 'cause then I'd have to fess up the rest.

I'm off to beat the concept into my children that they WILL go to college, they WILL NOT quit for a shite paycheck in a fun retail job.

You are a Flippin' Idiot, Charlie Brown

Charlie Brown
Originally uploaded by Avid Maxfan.

Seriously, WHO waits until the last minute to file their taxes?
I bought the damned Turbo Tax program in JANUARY.
Now, oddly, the lines are jammed, and I cannot file electronically. I've never put it off this late (I am usually jonesin' for money, oh, about January third) since the advent of Turbo Tax.

They owe me money, so I guess they won't really mind waiting until 2 am when all the suckas have finished and the losers are still limping across the finish line.

Right?

right?

*******

Yay! eleven fifty-one, and the last one finally went through! Life as a procrastinator with craptastic dial up just keeps chugging along. Stay tuned for my fatfession, sponsored by Mert. I will lose this weight, and Mert is going to be my inspiration/partner. I think this means my beloved fried foods are gone...sob!

I went back to work today.

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.


the scandal of the starving baby
Originally uploaded by Djuliet.

Had a customer complain to my manager about my bad attitude before I even got my first cup of coffee.

Pay yer freaking BILL, and the late notices will stop. It's a pretty straightforward system.

Silly me, I forgot that diplomacy is more important than truth. A glorious week of saying the FIRST thing that popped into my head was obviously NOT conducive to dealing with the great unwashed.

AAAAH HA!

Ads for the movie "Shooter" have been driving me crazy. I kept thinking it sounded like a Stephen Hunter book, but Shooter was not the title. Point of Impact. Had to google it.
mmmm, books....
I know I've said it before, but Greg Rucka writes a great story. I can never remember which one comes first--I think it's Keeper, the second one was Finder, and I always thought they should be reversed. The hero is a bodyguard named Atticus Kodiak. Rucka writes graphic novels, too, but if you read things like Shooter, I highly recommend Keeper. Ooooh, and Sleeping Dogs by Thomas Perry. It's hard to find the first one, Butcher's Boy (unless they are re-printing it by now), but Sleeping Dogs is another one of those books.

I remember books...lovely grey pages, cracking the spine, mmmmm...

I can have books again when my house is cleaner. Please note that I did not say clean. My house is never clean. I AM the crazy old lady with forty years worth of crap piled up. I was on Oprah recently. Okay, not ME, but my psychic twin (no, not CRSE, I apparently have another). Except that SHE works at a container store, and makes a living organizing other people. I'm not quite THAT hypocritical(?). Whatever that is...No, I have my papers at work in piles, and my house is the same. But higher. And with random crap thrown in. I have achieved in thirty-six years what it took my grandmother sixty-three years to do.
It's our first rental inspection tomorrow. Something new for our fair city, and my part of town is in the first wave. My co-worker is convinced that someone called and complained about me, and that is why I have been chosen. Since I saw tags on several other rental units in my neighborhood, I don't think that it's for that. We are pest free and pet free, so I am not sweating that so much, but it lurks in the back of my mind. It's the clothes that are killing me. I have more clothes in this house than we will ever need. I need to start throwing two away for each new item that I bring into the house.
Gah. What a way to spend a vacation. CLEANING. ugh.