For reasons that shall remain private, I spent the better part of my day yesterday sitting in my house without electricity waiting for Ameren to show up and fix it. I spent nearly 10 hours in my house with no power whatsoever. A house without power is very, very quiet. And very, very boring.
Every time I would think of something to do, it required electricity in some fashion. Watch TV? No. Computer? No. Laundry? No. Eat food? No - mostly because I was determined to save the food in the freezer at least and not open the refrigerator because food stays good longer if you don't open it. Music? No - my iPod is apparently out of batteries.
But after I panicked about not being able to check my email, I had a pretty good day. I read 300 pages of a mystery I've been struggling to get through. I listened to the sounds of the neighborhood. I cleaned out my daughter's drawers and switched her to all summer clothes. I trimmed a couple of shrubs in front of the house, pulled weeds from the flower bed, and ripped out a dead shrub. That last one was a lot of fun and helped me work through my anger at myself for the whole situation, even though I did land on my ass once trying to use all of my body weight to pull out the root cluster.
I did have my cell phone available, but it was running low on charge and I needed to be able to yell at Ameren if needed as the day got later.
We are so used to electricity that being without it is strange and foreign. I can't tell you how many times I walked into a room and flipped on the light switch and was surprised when nothing happened. I reached for the remote about 10 times to turn on the TV. I glanced at the digital cable box at least 20 times to see what time it was. I literally thought, "Well, I guess I should do some laundry" too many times to count.
I worried about what would happen when the sun went down and I couldn't read anymore. I was glad it wasn't any hotter or colder than it was so I didn't suffer from lack of heat or air conditioning. I thought about whether I could force myself to take a cold shower in the morning. I worried about what my hair looked like because I couldn't use a hair dryer or curling iron.
But most of all, I thought, "People used to live like this?"
*Shudder*
I would SO not make it as a pioneer woman. My childhood dreams of being Laura Ingalls Wilder are shattered.
Showing posts with label All Me. Show all posts
Showing posts with label All Me. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
Jesus Called Me a Twat!
I have a new addiction - Facebook Quizzes. Really. I can't stop taking them and everytime one of my friends takes one, I have to take one too. Mostly, they are really silly, which is probably why I like them so much. But I have a few favorites . . . .
Which type of woman are you? Lovely Lady - "Another problem is that you don't say your opinion when it's right and important to say it." (Yeah, right.)
Which kitchen utensil reveals the true nature of your sexuality? Wooden Spoon - "Over time, you may become a little warped but will always be adored by those who know you intimately."
What personality disorder do you have? Obsessive-Compulsive - "You can actually function quite well in society, except for the fact that your personality often makes your friends, family, and coworkers want to kill you!"
Who were you in high school? The stud - "Your locker smelled like dirty jocks, breath mints, and beer."
My prison bitch name is "Lips"
Which of your Chakras is most open? The Third Eye - "You value the opinions of those around you, but you'll always have the last word."
Which Beatles song are you? Maxwell Silver Hammer - "You are the real maverick. You are extremely energetic and have a quick mind. You have a strong business sense and desire power. Avoid the tendency to become ruthless and impulsive."
Which serial killer are you? Ted Bundy - "You definitely like the ladies, and nothing will stop you, even if it means going the extra mile by wearing a fake cast, or brandishing a puppy to gain the sympathy of an unsuspecting nurturing victim. You don't mind rolling up your sleeves and getting your hands a little dirty. You leave your mark everywhere, even if it is a bite mark!"
Which drug are you? Heroin - "you are pretty fucking and will stop at nothing to get some of your junk" (Part of the draw of these quizzes is the funny spelling and grammar errors . . . .)
What does Jesus think of you? Jesus thinks you’re a selfish bitch - "He just thinks you should stop being such a twat."
And my personal favorite:
Which crazy bitch are you? Sinead O’Connor - "You are one fierce bitch. You are very independent and will take no bullshit from anyone but your personality is actually sort of quiet and shy. You are a natural beauty and you are very comfortable with your femininity. You don't feel the need to overdo it or go out of your way to fuss over your looks. You don't want to distract people from what you stand for and the talents you possess. You are very idealistic and will go to any extremes to stand up for what you believe in even if it creates controversy and people don't understand. Relationships can be hard for you sometimes because men feel threatened by you but time again they come running to you and realize that you are actually very sweet and motherly . . . until they cross you."
Which type of woman are you? Lovely Lady - "Another problem is that you don't say your opinion when it's right and important to say it." (Yeah, right.)
Which kitchen utensil reveals the true nature of your sexuality? Wooden Spoon - "Over time, you may become a little warped but will always be adored by those who know you intimately."
What personality disorder do you have? Obsessive-Compulsive - "You can actually function quite well in society, except for the fact that your personality often makes your friends, family, and coworkers want to kill you!"
Who were you in high school? The stud - "Your locker smelled like dirty jocks, breath mints, and beer."
My prison bitch name is "Lips"
Which of your Chakras is most open? The Third Eye - "You value the opinions of those around you, but you'll always have the last word."
Which Beatles song are you? Maxwell Silver Hammer - "You are the real maverick. You are extremely energetic and have a quick mind. You have a strong business sense and desire power. Avoid the tendency to become ruthless and impulsive."
Which serial killer are you? Ted Bundy - "You definitely like the ladies, and nothing will stop you, even if it means going the extra mile by wearing a fake cast, or brandishing a puppy to gain the sympathy of an unsuspecting nurturing victim. You don't mind rolling up your sleeves and getting your hands a little dirty. You leave your mark everywhere, even if it is a bite mark!"
Which drug are you? Heroin - "you are pretty fucking and will stop at nothing to get some of your junk" (Part of the draw of these quizzes is the funny spelling and grammar errors . . . .)
What does Jesus think of you? Jesus thinks you’re a selfish bitch - "He just thinks you should stop being such a twat."
And my personal favorite:
Which crazy bitch are you? Sinead O’Connor - "You are one fierce bitch. You are very independent and will take no bullshit from anyone but your personality is actually sort of quiet and shy. You are a natural beauty and you are very comfortable with your femininity. You don't feel the need to overdo it or go out of your way to fuss over your looks. You don't want to distract people from what you stand for and the talents you possess. You are very idealistic and will go to any extremes to stand up for what you believe in even if it creates controversy and people don't understand. Relationships can be hard for you sometimes because men feel threatened by you but time again they come running to you and realize that you are actually very sweet and motherly . . . until they cross you."
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Why I Will Never Be One of the Cool Kids
My dad recently sent me his first (and thus far, only) text message after getting his new iPhone two weeks ago. The message said, "Hello. Papa." It probably took him half an hour to write that. As much as I laughed at him, I’m probably a lot like him in the texting department. I don’t often use text "slang" and when someone uses it with me, I have to ask what it means.
So, my text messages are very much like my emails - fully formed sentences, punctuation, and correct grammar. I don’t even really like using contractions when I'm writing and once apologized because I texted "your" when I meant "you’re." (I KNOW - the HORROR!!)
I've gotten to know some of the more common text words like OIC and OMG and K, but if I’m writing it, I almost always write Oh, I see and Oh my god and OK. I don’t even use the words "kinda" or "wanna" or "gonna" that often. I’m a little bit uptight in that way.
A friend of mine sent me an online language dictionary so I could learn to be more cool. I reviewed the list of abbreviations and I just don’t think it is going to happen. I think there is just too much possibility of me miscommunicating using these words. Plus, it would take me so much longer to read anything that was written in such slang. For example . . . .
I think that any "abbreviation" that has five letters or more probably isn’t worth the effort, such as:
AFAIK: as far as I know
IANAL: I am not a lawyer (that one is pretty funny, I have to say . . . )
IAWTC: I agree with this comment
IFSFWI: If the shoe fits, wear it!
IMNECTHO: in my not-even-close-to-humble opinion
IMNSHO: in my not so humble opinion
LMIRL: let’s meet in real life
MMORPG: massive multiplayer online role playing game
NALOPKT: not a lot of people know that
NIAGW: not in a gay way
OMGBBQWTF: oh my god, bar-b-que, what the fuck
PLZKTHX: please, ok, thanks
WIBNI: wouldn’t it be nice if
WYSIWYG: what you see is what you get
YTMND: you’re the man now dog
Then there are several that freak me out. If I ever saw one of these, I would be glad I didn’t know what it meant. Unfortunately, I now know and would have to close that chat window immediately:
GYPO: get your pants off
IPN: I’m posting naked
IWSN: I want sex now
NIFOC: naked in front of computer (why? why would you do this? Think of the . . . stuff that would get on your desk chair!)
TDTM: talk dirty to me
WTGP: want to go private?
Finally, there are many abbreviations that could lead to huge misunderstandings because, according to the dictionary, they have multiple meanings:
FTW: for the win or fuck the world or for the world
GFY: go fuck yourself or good for you
GG: gotta go or good game
LOL: laughing out loud or lots of love
POS: parent over shoulder or piece of shit
WTF: what the fuck or where’s the food
So, I may sound like an old-fashioned fuddy-duddy when I text or chat online, but I would prefer that over the alternatives. But if you know how to use these words, GFY.
So, my text messages are very much like my emails - fully formed sentences, punctuation, and correct grammar. I don’t even really like using contractions when I'm writing and once apologized because I texted "your" when I meant "you’re." (I KNOW - the HORROR!!)
I've gotten to know some of the more common text words like OIC and OMG and K, but if I’m writing it, I almost always write Oh, I see and Oh my god and OK. I don’t even use the words "kinda" or "wanna" or "gonna" that often. I’m a little bit uptight in that way.
A friend of mine sent me an online language dictionary so I could learn to be more cool. I reviewed the list of abbreviations and I just don’t think it is going to happen. I think there is just too much possibility of me miscommunicating using these words. Plus, it would take me so much longer to read anything that was written in such slang. For example . . . .
I think that any "abbreviation" that has five letters or more probably isn’t worth the effort, such as:
AFAIK: as far as I know
IANAL: I am not a lawyer (that one is pretty funny, I have to say . . . )
IAWTC: I agree with this comment
IFSFWI: If the shoe fits, wear it!
IMNECTHO: in my not-even-close-to-humble opinion
IMNSHO: in my not so humble opinion
LMIRL: let’s meet in real life
MMORPG: massive multiplayer online role playing game
NALOPKT: not a lot of people know that
NIAGW: not in a gay way
OMGBBQWTF: oh my god, bar-b-que, what the fuck
PLZKTHX: please, ok, thanks
WIBNI: wouldn’t it be nice if
WYSIWYG: what you see is what you get
YTMND: you’re the man now dog
Then there are several that freak me out. If I ever saw one of these, I would be glad I didn’t know what it meant. Unfortunately, I now know and would have to close that chat window immediately:
GYPO: get your pants off
IPN: I’m posting naked
IWSN: I want sex now
NIFOC: naked in front of computer (why? why would you do this? Think of the . . . stuff that would get on your desk chair!)
TDTM: talk dirty to me
WTGP: want to go private?
Finally, there are many abbreviations that could lead to huge misunderstandings because, according to the dictionary, they have multiple meanings:
FTW: for the win or fuck the world or for the world
GFY: go fuck yourself or good for you
GG: gotta go or good game
LOL: laughing out loud or lots of love
POS: parent over shoulder or piece of shit
WTF: what the fuck or where’s the food
So, I may sound like an old-fashioned fuddy-duddy when I text or chat online, but I would prefer that over the alternatives. But if you know how to use these words, GFY.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Taxes
I just filed my federal and state tax returns electronically. I actually kind of enjoy doing it since online calculation and filing became the norm. It is kind of like taking one of those facebook quizzes, you answer a whole bunch of questions and at the end, you get a fun result! And getting a tax return is much more fun than knowing which literary character you are, which Sex and the City character you are, which author you are, and what color your aura is.
I can almost hear all of you collectively moaning while reading my declaration that I like doing my taxes. Sorry, but I do. Granted, I'm almost guaranteed to get a return every year and, generally speaking, my taxes are fairly easy. I don't own my own business, I'm not self-employed, I'm not married, I don't have any income other than my bi-weekly paycheck, I don't own any land or other real property other than my own home, I don't have any investments other than my retirement accounts, and I don't have outrageous medical expenses or any other expenses that aren't reimbursed to me.
It took me about two solid hours to do the online work, after I had gathered all the information I needed. Not bad at all. I've never seen the point in hiring someone to do my taxes, really. Before I went to law school, my taxes were really simple. The state where I went to law school required all law students to take an Income Tax Law class. And after that, I would feel kind of like an idiot if I didn't do my own taxes. There may come a time when my taxes are too complex for me and I might change my mind.
My only regret this year is that I didn't buy my car a week earlier, when it still would have qualified as a 2008 purchase. Oh well . . . there is always next year.
I can almost hear all of you collectively moaning while reading my declaration that I like doing my taxes. Sorry, but I do. Granted, I'm almost guaranteed to get a return every year and, generally speaking, my taxes are fairly easy. I don't own my own business, I'm not self-employed, I'm not married, I don't have any income other than my bi-weekly paycheck, I don't own any land or other real property other than my own home, I don't have any investments other than my retirement accounts, and I don't have outrageous medical expenses or any other expenses that aren't reimbursed to me.
It took me about two solid hours to do the online work, after I had gathered all the information I needed. Not bad at all. I've never seen the point in hiring someone to do my taxes, really. Before I went to law school, my taxes were really simple. The state where I went to law school required all law students to take an Income Tax Law class. And after that, I would feel kind of like an idiot if I didn't do my own taxes. There may come a time when my taxes are too complex for me and I might change my mind.
My only regret this year is that I didn't buy my car a week earlier, when it still would have qualified as a 2008 purchase. Oh well . . . there is always next year.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Something to Think About . . .
I'm on my way to a girls' weekend in Chicago - hanging with my BFF and going to another friend's "wedding." I leave you with this very scientific analysis of which aphrodisiac I am. Something to thing about, I think . . . .
You Are Chocolate |
 You make people feel euphoric and dreamy. You're very addicting. You definitely drive people to passion, lust, and even obsession. While you are quite sensual, you are also comforting. You sure know how to work your magic. It doesn't take long to get someone to love you. |
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
I'm Not, But I Kinda Wish I Was
I got the following message via Facebook today:
"Hi, I am looking for a girl I met in the year 1976 in the Faroe Islands, she competeted in swimming with Ægir, a swimming club in Klaksvik, just wondering what her life came to be, so if you are that girl I would like to hear from you."
Wow. I am so not that girl, but I kind of wish I was. Not because I want to reconnect with this guy but because I kind of want to be the type of girl who traveled to the Faroe Islands and competed in swimming clubs in the 1970s. That girl sounds so much cooler than the girl I actually was in 1976.
Of course, it would probably help if I knew where the Faroe Islands are without having to look it up on Wikipedia. And after looking it up, it's decidedly not cool that I didn't know the Faroe Islands are an autonomous province of Denmark. My Danish relatives would find it so not cool that I didn't know that. It also probably isn't cool that I didn't know Klaksvik is the second largest town in the Faroe Islands either.
Sigh . . . back to my regular boring life as an American child of the 70s. Why is it that Europeans always sound so much cooler than Americans?
"Hi, I am looking for a girl I met in the year 1976 in the Faroe Islands, she competeted in swimming with Ægir, a swimming club in Klaksvik, just wondering what her life came to be, so if you are that girl I would like to hear from you."
Wow. I am so not that girl, but I kind of wish I was. Not because I want to reconnect with this guy but because I kind of want to be the type of girl who traveled to the Faroe Islands and competed in swimming clubs in the 1970s. That girl sounds so much cooler than the girl I actually was in 1976.
Of course, it would probably help if I knew where the Faroe Islands are without having to look it up on Wikipedia. And after looking it up, it's decidedly not cool that I didn't know the Faroe Islands are an autonomous province of Denmark. My Danish relatives would find it so not cool that I didn't know that. It also probably isn't cool that I didn't know Klaksvik is the second largest town in the Faroe Islands either.
Sigh . . . back to my regular boring life as an American child of the 70s. Why is it that Europeans always sound so much cooler than Americans?
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Live Blogging from My Couch
Well, since this format seems to work so well for another blogger, I thought I would try it. Granted, I'm not covering some important media event or meeting, but I bet my live blogging will be a hell of a lot more fun. Plus, it is too damn cold to go out. Oh, yeah . . . and I'm the only adult here so I should probably stay at home.
7:56 pm - Three year old finally sung herself to sleep. Ugh.
What the fuck is up with Stacy London's gray streak? I thought Jay Leno had the corner on that market. Although, have you noticed that Jay Leno's streak used to be white in front surrounded by black and now it is black in front surrounded by gray?
7:57 pm - excuse me. Important text message
7:59 pm - switch to Tool Academy. I missed it on Sunday because of fab book club meeting. I can't figure out whether the men are really the tools or there will be a surprise ending where it is revealed that the women are really the bigger tools. Because, all of these women should be shot in the head. Or the fake boobs.
8:01 pm - Oh yeah. Right. The tools are holding each other accountable. Whatever. Oh oh - crooked nipples? I might have to pay attention now.
8:02 pm - important text message
8:03 pm - it is fucking cold in my house. Seems to be colder than usual this winter. Why is that?
8:05 pm - I'm sorry, but how can you love someone for who he is when his hair looks like a rooster who had an accident with a bleach bottle. Does that make me shallow? Hmm . . . something to think about.
8:10 pm - UGH! I can't believe Vicki Christina Barcelona won a Golden Globe. That was a shitty movie. Shitty, shitty movie written by a dirty old man about what he fantasizes young intelligent educated women are like. All it shows is that he has absolutely NO CLUE what women are like. Which is probably why he married with his daughter. Clearly, he doesn't really get women. Gross, gross, gross. I mean, when girls travel together, shouldn't they be talking about their hopes and their dreams and not flirting with overly-hairy men in foreign bars? Aside from the overly-hairy thing, I would much rather flirt than talk about my hopes and dreams over and over again while I am in Europe.
8:14 pm - OK - babe. No man can MAKE you feel beautiful. That's not his job. It is YOUR job to feel good about yourself.
8:18 pm - The Ping-Pong Personality Game. They may be tools, but they have a way with words, I'm telling you.
"It deeply upsetted me."
8:23 pm - I just remembered my daughter zipped up my hoodie all the way up while we were reading books an hour ago which is why the zipper keeps poking me in the neck. Mystery solved.
8:25 pm - text message from crazy BFF. I mean, she is always sort of crazy but in the last few weeks she has been walking on the edge of truly batshit crazy. She is obsessed with her sister's impeding divorce. While I know this is very hard for the entire family, my BFF has really taken it upon herself to do most of the freaking out for her sister. It's not healthy, I tell you. I think she needs a hobby. Or four. Or a job.
8:35 pm - I haven't talked to my parents for awhile. I wonder what is going on with them. They were in South Carolina two weekends ago and my brother was at their house this past weekend. I know this because my brother "poked" me using my dad's facebook account. I think he can't figure out how to have his own account. Which is weird because he used to be a computer nerd. But now the last thing he did with his computer was transfer all of his opera CDs to his iPod. So, maybe that still makes him a computer nerd but in a completely different way.
8:36 pm - I think trailers for horror films should only be shown after 10 pm. They freak me the shit out. Yes, even the trailers. I don't like them. Just like that Nike ad during the 2000 Summer Olympics which featured the woman being chased by a crazy masked killer and she was able to outrun him because she was wearing Nikes? I couldn't sleep for a week after that ad. I lived on the third floor and I set up traps in front of all my windows. Well, I mean . . . I set out glasses and pots and pans so I could be scared shitless 1.5 seconds before I was cut into tiny little pieces by a psychokiller.
8:39 pm - Ew ew ew ew ew ew ew!! All of the Tool Academy conjugal visits happen in the same room. There is NO way I would get busy on that bed. Ew. Ew. Eeeeeeewwwwwww.
8:41 pm - Oh no! He started talking about his moms! The shit is on.
8:53 pm - crap. got sucked into shoutbox conversation at PeoriaSpeaks. Hard to live blog in two places at the same time. I might just be woman enough to handle it, though.
8:56 pm - Is she going to go home with the Tool?? She always does. Fucking spineless twits. Oh, Celebrity/Clarence going home. He's just a complete tool.
8:57 pm - PEACE BITCH! She didn't get into the car with her boyfriend. She rocks! I have new respect for her. Wait. She spent 10 years with a guy who calls himself "Celebrity"?? It's about time she left him.
9:00 pm - What to watch next? Housewives? America's Funniest Home Videos? The Housewives are creeeeeepy. Oh, but they are in Chicago. I have to see that.
I hate these women. They are just like the Tool women, just with better boob jobs and more money.
9:05 pm - The day has finally arrived . . . "My mom has finally decided to get a facelift." Those are words I will never utter. Thank god. But I bet my mom is 10 years older than this women and looks 10 times better.
9:07 pm - Another thing they should never show on TV . . . plastic surgery. Ew.
9:08 pm - OK. It is too fucking cold on my couch to type. I need gloves or something.
9:09 pm - low flying airplane. Rattled the windows. Hope it doesn't wake anyone up.
9:12 pm - Now I have my flannel pajamas on and a down blanket over me and I'm still cold. I swear to god, these women get facials every week. What a waste of money. I like a good massage and all, but I have more important things to spend money on.
9:15 pm - I don't know why people find live blogging interesting. If I wanted a blow-by-blow of someone's life, I would hang out with them. I still think this has got to be more interesting than city council meetings, but I could be wrong. I've gotten a good laugh out of a few city council meetings, but it is more like I am laughing at them rather than with them.
9:23 pm - TV is boooooooring tonight. Maybe The Closer episode I missed this week is on On Demand.
9:26 pm - Nope. I wonder if it is online.
Damn, I can't get it to work. Of course, I'm tired and my patience is running down. I give up. It will be on at some point. They always are.
9:30 pm - Blah, blah, blah. I'm going to go read a book.
7:56 pm - Three year old finally sung herself to sleep. Ugh.
What the fuck is up with Stacy London's gray streak? I thought Jay Leno had the corner on that market. Although, have you noticed that Jay Leno's streak used to be white in front surrounded by black and now it is black in front surrounded by gray?
7:57 pm - excuse me. Important text message
7:59 pm - switch to Tool Academy. I missed it on Sunday because of fab book club meeting. I can't figure out whether the men are really the tools or there will be a surprise ending where it is revealed that the women are really the bigger tools. Because, all of these women should be shot in the head. Or the fake boobs.
8:01 pm - Oh yeah. Right. The tools are holding each other accountable. Whatever. Oh oh - crooked nipples? I might have to pay attention now.
8:02 pm - important text message
8:03 pm - it is fucking cold in my house. Seems to be colder than usual this winter. Why is that?
8:05 pm - I'm sorry, but how can you love someone for who he is when his hair looks like a rooster who had an accident with a bleach bottle. Does that make me shallow? Hmm . . . something to think about.
8:10 pm - UGH! I can't believe Vicki Christina Barcelona won a Golden Globe. That was a shitty movie. Shitty, shitty movie written by a dirty old man about what he fantasizes young intelligent educated women are like. All it shows is that he has absolutely NO CLUE what women are like. Which is probably why he married with his daughter. Clearly, he doesn't really get women. Gross, gross, gross. I mean, when girls travel together, shouldn't they be talking about their hopes and their dreams and not flirting with overly-hairy men in foreign bars? Aside from the overly-hairy thing, I would much rather flirt than talk about my hopes and dreams over and over again while I am in Europe.
8:14 pm - OK - babe. No man can MAKE you feel beautiful. That's not his job. It is YOUR job to feel good about yourself.
8:18 pm - The Ping-Pong Personality Game. They may be tools, but they have a way with words, I'm telling you.
"It deeply upsetted me."
8:23 pm - I just remembered my daughter zipped up my hoodie all the way up while we were reading books an hour ago which is why the zipper keeps poking me in the neck. Mystery solved.
8:25 pm - text message from crazy BFF. I mean, she is always sort of crazy but in the last few weeks she has been walking on the edge of truly batshit crazy. She is obsessed with her sister's impeding divorce. While I know this is very hard for the entire family, my BFF has really taken it upon herself to do most of the freaking out for her sister. It's not healthy, I tell you. I think she needs a hobby. Or four. Or a job.
8:35 pm - I haven't talked to my parents for awhile. I wonder what is going on with them. They were in South Carolina two weekends ago and my brother was at their house this past weekend. I know this because my brother "poked" me using my dad's facebook account. I think he can't figure out how to have his own account. Which is weird because he used to be a computer nerd. But now the last thing he did with his computer was transfer all of his opera CDs to his iPod. So, maybe that still makes him a computer nerd but in a completely different way.
8:36 pm - I think trailers for horror films should only be shown after 10 pm. They freak me the shit out. Yes, even the trailers. I don't like them. Just like that Nike ad during the 2000 Summer Olympics which featured the woman being chased by a crazy masked killer and she was able to outrun him because she was wearing Nikes? I couldn't sleep for a week after that ad. I lived on the third floor and I set up traps in front of all my windows. Well, I mean . . . I set out glasses and pots and pans so I could be scared shitless 1.5 seconds before I was cut into tiny little pieces by a psychokiller.
8:39 pm - Ew ew ew ew ew ew ew!! All of the Tool Academy conjugal visits happen in the same room. There is NO way I would get busy on that bed. Ew. Ew. Eeeeeeewwwwwww.
8:41 pm - Oh no! He started talking about his moms! The shit is on.
8:53 pm - crap. got sucked into shoutbox conversation at PeoriaSpeaks. Hard to live blog in two places at the same time. I might just be woman enough to handle it, though.
8:56 pm - Is she going to go home with the Tool?? She always does. Fucking spineless twits. Oh, Celebrity/Clarence going home. He's just a complete tool.
8:57 pm - PEACE BITCH! She didn't get into the car with her boyfriend. She rocks! I have new respect for her. Wait. She spent 10 years with a guy who calls himself "Celebrity"?? It's about time she left him.
9:00 pm - What to watch next? Housewives? America's Funniest Home Videos? The Housewives are creeeeeepy. Oh, but they are in Chicago. I have to see that.
I hate these women. They are just like the Tool women, just with better boob jobs and more money.
9:05 pm - The day has finally arrived . . . "My mom has finally decided to get a facelift." Those are words I will never utter. Thank god. But I bet my mom is 10 years older than this women and looks 10 times better.
9:07 pm - Another thing they should never show on TV . . . plastic surgery. Ew.
9:08 pm - OK. It is too fucking cold on my couch to type. I need gloves or something.
9:09 pm - low flying airplane. Rattled the windows. Hope it doesn't wake anyone up.
9:12 pm - Now I have my flannel pajamas on and a down blanket over me and I'm still cold. I swear to god, these women get facials every week. What a waste of money. I like a good massage and all, but I have more important things to spend money on.
9:15 pm - I don't know why people find live blogging interesting. If I wanted a blow-by-blow of someone's life, I would hang out with them. I still think this has got to be more interesting than city council meetings, but I could be wrong. I've gotten a good laugh out of a few city council meetings, but it is more like I am laughing at them rather than with them.
9:23 pm - TV is boooooooring tonight. Maybe The Closer episode I missed this week is on On Demand.
9:26 pm - Nope. I wonder if it is online.
Damn, I can't get it to work. Of course, I'm tired and my patience is running down. I give up. It will be on at some point. They always are.
9:30 pm - Blah, blah, blah. I'm going to go read a book.
Friday, January 23, 2009
My First Car
I've been thinking a lot about cars lately, most likely because I have just purchased my latest new car this month. Then I read The Rotund Reader's post about her first car and it inspired me, mostly because of the similarities between her first car and mine.
I turned 16 in August of 1987. My parents were desperate for me to get my driver's license so I could drive myself and my little brother to and from school everyday. The car that was going to be my car had been waiting for me all summer in the driveway and I had been practicing driving it, with a parent present, of course.
My grandfather gave me his 1979 Volkswagen Rabbit. It was poop-brown on the outside with tan vinyl upholstery. It was a two-door with what passed for "automatic" seatbelts in 1979: the seatbelts were attached to the door, but unlike new models, they didn't move when you shut the door. They were permanently attached to the top corner of the door. It ran on regular leaded gasoline and had only FM radio. It didn't have air-conditioning. It also didn't have power steering, which was good for the arm muscles.
I loved that car for many reasons. First, it was a gift from my grandfather who took his cars very seriously. Second, it was my ticket to coolness and freedom. Third, it was a VW. VW's have a sort of pedestaled existence in my family. My grandfather always drove one once he retired and gave my dad a baby blue VW bug for his 21st birthday. (In later years, my grandfather would give my brother a blue VW Golf when he turned 21 and my parents gave me a VW Jetta when I turned 21.)
As with most mythical creatures, the Rabbit experienced a sad end. One day in the Spring of 1988, I picked up my brother at his junior high school and we were driving home. I hated having to pick him up because he was so irritating as only little brothers can be. We were arguing about something stupid - he probably looked at me funny or some such horrible offense. I wasn't paying attention to the road and rear-ended a Cadillac.
We weren't hurt and the Cadillac wasn't damaged at all. But the front end of my Rabbit was crumpled. The headlights were destroyed and I couldn't get out of either one of the doors. And my pride was severely bruised.
My parents were not pleased, probably because they knew I had caused the accident while yelling at my brother. As punishment, they refused to buy me a replacement car for a month and didn't fix the Rabbit. Instead, they made me drive it (only during the day because there were no headlights). For a month, I had to crawl in and out of the hatchback door.
My parents always excelled at interesting and humiliating punishments. This one worked - I never totalled another car again. On the other hand, my brother totalled three cars before he turned 21 including the 1983 Toyota Corolla I got as a replacement for the Rabbit.
There is nothing like your first car. No matter how crappy, no matter the problems. It's like your first love . . . you'll always have a longing to recapture that feeling and no car will ever replace it in your memory.
I turned 16 in August of 1987. My parents were desperate for me to get my driver's license so I could drive myself and my little brother to and from school everyday. The car that was going to be my car had been waiting for me all summer in the driveway and I had been practicing driving it, with a parent present, of course.
My grandfather gave me his 1979 Volkswagen Rabbit. It was poop-brown on the outside with tan vinyl upholstery. It was a two-door with what passed for "automatic" seatbelts in 1979: the seatbelts were attached to the door, but unlike new models, they didn't move when you shut the door. They were permanently attached to the top corner of the door. It ran on regular leaded gasoline and had only FM radio. It didn't have air-conditioning. It also didn't have power steering, which was good for the arm muscles.
I loved that car for many reasons. First, it was a gift from my grandfather who took his cars very seriously. Second, it was my ticket to coolness and freedom. Third, it was a VW. VW's have a sort of pedestaled existence in my family. My grandfather always drove one once he retired and gave my dad a baby blue VW bug for his 21st birthday. (In later years, my grandfather would give my brother a blue VW Golf when he turned 21 and my parents gave me a VW Jetta when I turned 21.)
As with most mythical creatures, the Rabbit experienced a sad end. One day in the Spring of 1988, I picked up my brother at his junior high school and we were driving home. I hated having to pick him up because he was so irritating as only little brothers can be. We were arguing about something stupid - he probably looked at me funny or some such horrible offense. I wasn't paying attention to the road and rear-ended a Cadillac.
We weren't hurt and the Cadillac wasn't damaged at all. But the front end of my Rabbit was crumpled. The headlights were destroyed and I couldn't get out of either one of the doors. And my pride was severely bruised.
My parents were not pleased, probably because they knew I had caused the accident while yelling at my brother. As punishment, they refused to buy me a replacement car for a month and didn't fix the Rabbit. Instead, they made me drive it (only during the day because there were no headlights). For a month, I had to crawl in and out of the hatchback door.
My parents always excelled at interesting and humiliating punishments. This one worked - I never totalled another car again. On the other hand, my brother totalled three cars before he turned 21 including the 1983 Toyota Corolla I got as a replacement for the Rabbit.
There is nothing like your first car. No matter how crappy, no matter the problems. It's like your first love . . . you'll always have a longing to recapture that feeling and no car will ever replace it in your memory.
Friday, January 9, 2009
So, I Kinda Bought a New Car
I have got to stop saying that, primarily because said new car is sitting my driveway, the balance in my bank account is considerably lower, and the dealer took my old car. So, I really bought a new car.
I keep saying "kinda" because I wasn’t planning on buying a new car this week. I mean, I had been thinking about buying a new car for the last year or so, but I certainly wasn’t planning on buying a new car in the sense that I went car shopping, test drove several brands, evaluated them thoroughly and completely, compared prices online, etc.
But I knew at some point in the future, I was going to buy a new car. My car was a 2001 model which I had been driving for seven and a half years. It has been paid off for the last two and a half years. It was getting to that point that I knew things were going to start going wrong and going wrong in a big way. Old cars (and by old, I mean more than 5 years old) suck money. I’ve been down that road before and I did not like it and I don’t plan on doing it again.
I was happy in my 2001 car. Sure, it was a mess, but it was comfortable. I didn’t have worry about the kids getting dirt on it, the dog shedding in it, or the occasional spill, because it was already in rough shape, looks-wise. Aside from routine maintenance stuff, I hadn’t had to put a lot of money or thought into owning the car. It got me where I wanted to go with no hassle. But then, it started to be pretty loud when I started it. And it got progressively louder and louder. And then it passed 90,000 miles and it was time for a service. Plus, as everyone and my father informed me, I had a headlight out.
I dropped it off at the dealer’s service department in the morning, informed them of the problems, and went on my merry way. I may have mentioned to the shuttle driver that I was considering buying a new car in the future. Of course, he mentioned it to a salesperson, who called me at work and asked me to come talk to him when I picked up my car.
Yeah, whatever, I thought. I’m not buying a new car today, so what could it hurt? I talked to him, looked at my options, talked about money, and I even test drove one. Sure, it was nice to drive a new car, a 2009 model that is the step up from my 2001 model. But, I wasn’t sold on it.
Then, I went to the service department to pay. The service fee? $82. The estimated cost to repair the exhaust system? $1200. Right then and there, I changed my mind. This was the end for my old car. It was time to say goodbye. In my mind, either I pay $1200 to fix the old car now, knowing full well that every other month or so I will incur another unexpected expense, or I put $1200 down on a new car now, and have a set, anticipated monthly expense.
I’m not one who likes financial surprises at all, so I went with the new car.
The new car is beautiful. It is black (of course, all of my cars are black) and shiny. I went from a small 2001 sedan to a mid-sized 2009 sedan (It’s like a big girl car!) It is really comfortable. The trunk is huge. The engine is so quiet. It is soooooo pretty. I wanted to sleep in it the first night.
Plus, it comes with XM radio. In all seriousness, I don’t know how I lived this long without satellite radio, particularly given the state of radio in Peoria. I’ve heard people say that before and I thought they were crazy. They aren’t. Satellite radio is the best thing ever.
I have a little twinge of buyer’s remorse, but I think that is all about my personality rather than the speed at which I made the decision to buy this car. I mean, I still have buyer’s remorse about my house and I bought that seven years ago.
This car buying experience was vastly different than my last one. This time, I test drove one car and bought that car. Last time, I test drove at least eight cars, some more than once, kept a chart and notes on what I thought each time I drove them, and researched them online before buying. (And I still had a twinge of remorse that time too.)
This time, I didn’t have a desperate need to buy a new car. Last time, I was more than desperate and I wasn’t sure if my 1992 Volkswagen Jetta was going to make it to the dealer to trade it in. I almost felt bad for the dealership when they bought that car. I know they lost money on that deal, hands down. Suckers!
This time, I didn’t cry when I emptied the old car. When I emptied my Jetta, I cried like a baby. It was so emotional getting rid of my Jetta. The Jetta got me through the last two years of college, law school, and all the years in between. From the ages of 21 to 30, that black Jetta was a part of me, as cars often are at that age. It was the first car that was ever really mine. I put all but 12 of the miles on it. I was in the car for every pothole, door ding, hail storm, and bird bomb. I was driving it when I hit an armadillo at 2:30 a.m. in the middle of Texas.
But it was also the single worst car I have ever experienced. It had electrical problems from day one and I got a shock every time I got in it. The tires were constantly flat. I had to replace one of the headlights every three months. In the later years, the sunroof leaked (usually on my head), the car died in the middle of intersections for no apparent reason, and the tape deck stopped working without warning. I replaced every part on that car at least once. The driver’s side door was rusted out and the glove compartment stuck shut.
As they say, the bitterest break-ups are the hardest to get over. I still miss that Jetta.
But, I’m a big girl now and I have a grown-up car to prove it. And the grown-up car payments.
I keep saying "kinda" because I wasn’t planning on buying a new car this week. I mean, I had been thinking about buying a new car for the last year or so, but I certainly wasn’t planning on buying a new car in the sense that I went car shopping, test drove several brands, evaluated them thoroughly and completely, compared prices online, etc.
But I knew at some point in the future, I was going to buy a new car. My car was a 2001 model which I had been driving for seven and a half years. It has been paid off for the last two and a half years. It was getting to that point that I knew things were going to start going wrong and going wrong in a big way. Old cars (and by old, I mean more than 5 years old) suck money. I’ve been down that road before and I did not like it and I don’t plan on doing it again.
I was happy in my 2001 car. Sure, it was a mess, but it was comfortable. I didn’t have worry about the kids getting dirt on it, the dog shedding in it, or the occasional spill, because it was already in rough shape, looks-wise. Aside from routine maintenance stuff, I hadn’t had to put a lot of money or thought into owning the car. It got me where I wanted to go with no hassle. But then, it started to be pretty loud when I started it. And it got progressively louder and louder. And then it passed 90,000 miles and it was time for a service. Plus, as everyone and my father informed me, I had a headlight out.
I dropped it off at the dealer’s service department in the morning, informed them of the problems, and went on my merry way. I may have mentioned to the shuttle driver that I was considering buying a new car in the future. Of course, he mentioned it to a salesperson, who called me at work and asked me to come talk to him when I picked up my car.
Yeah, whatever, I thought. I’m not buying a new car today, so what could it hurt? I talked to him, looked at my options, talked about money, and I even test drove one. Sure, it was nice to drive a new car, a 2009 model that is the step up from my 2001 model. But, I wasn’t sold on it.
Then, I went to the service department to pay. The service fee? $82. The estimated cost to repair the exhaust system? $1200. Right then and there, I changed my mind. This was the end for my old car. It was time to say goodbye. In my mind, either I pay $1200 to fix the old car now, knowing full well that every other month or so I will incur another unexpected expense, or I put $1200 down on a new car now, and have a set, anticipated monthly expense.
I’m not one who likes financial surprises at all, so I went with the new car.
The new car is beautiful. It is black (of course, all of my cars are black) and shiny. I went from a small 2001 sedan to a mid-sized 2009 sedan (It’s like a big girl car!) It is really comfortable. The trunk is huge. The engine is so quiet. It is soooooo pretty. I wanted to sleep in it the first night.
Plus, it comes with XM radio. In all seriousness, I don’t know how I lived this long without satellite radio, particularly given the state of radio in Peoria. I’ve heard people say that before and I thought they were crazy. They aren’t. Satellite radio is the best thing ever.
I have a little twinge of buyer’s remorse, but I think that is all about my personality rather than the speed at which I made the decision to buy this car. I mean, I still have buyer’s remorse about my house and I bought that seven years ago.
This car buying experience was vastly different than my last one. This time, I test drove one car and bought that car. Last time, I test drove at least eight cars, some more than once, kept a chart and notes on what I thought each time I drove them, and researched them online before buying. (And I still had a twinge of remorse that time too.)
This time, I didn’t have a desperate need to buy a new car. Last time, I was more than desperate and I wasn’t sure if my 1992 Volkswagen Jetta was going to make it to the dealer to trade it in. I almost felt bad for the dealership when they bought that car. I know they lost money on that deal, hands down. Suckers!
This time, I didn’t cry when I emptied the old car. When I emptied my Jetta, I cried like a baby. It was so emotional getting rid of my Jetta. The Jetta got me through the last two years of college, law school, and all the years in between. From the ages of 21 to 30, that black Jetta was a part of me, as cars often are at that age. It was the first car that was ever really mine. I put all but 12 of the miles on it. I was in the car for every pothole, door ding, hail storm, and bird bomb. I was driving it when I hit an armadillo at 2:30 a.m. in the middle of Texas.
But it was also the single worst car I have ever experienced. It had electrical problems from day one and I got a shock every time I got in it. The tires were constantly flat. I had to replace one of the headlights every three months. In the later years, the sunroof leaked (usually on my head), the car died in the middle of intersections for no apparent reason, and the tape deck stopped working without warning. I replaced every part on that car at least once. The driver’s side door was rusted out and the glove compartment stuck shut.
As they say, the bitterest break-ups are the hardest to get over. I still miss that Jetta.
But, I’m a big girl now and I have a grown-up car to prove it. And the grown-up car payments.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Have You Ever?
Okay. I admit it. I've been lacking in blogging material that's coming out from the drafting stage the way I want it to. I have about six half-cooked posts sitting around that I just don't like well enough to publish. So, I'm stealing from someone. I read Lollygaggin's blog today and decided, "Hey! I want to play too!"
Plus . . . it is an easy way to write a post and I really want to beat my post number from last year.
Things I've Done
1. Started your own blog -Duh! You're reading it, silly.
2. Slept under the stars - Many times.
3. Played in a band - I played in many an orchestra and sort of in one band, but it was a bad idea from the get-go and I think my hip friends just felt sorry for the girl who could only play the violin.
4. Visited Hawaii - No, which is sad because my grandparents always wanted to take us but didn't get around to it before my grandmother died.
5. Watched a meteor shower - Yes.
6. Given more than you can afford to charity - Yes, both time and money.
7. Been to Disneyland - Yes.
8. Climbed a mountain - Well, not with like ropes and stuff, but hiked on trails, sure.
9. Held a praying mantis - No. Ew.
10. Sang a solo - Yes.
11. Bungee jumped - No.
12. Visited Paris - Yes, on my 17th birthday.
13. Watched a lightning storm at sea - The storm was at sea, I wasn't. That's dangerous.
14. Taught yourself an art from scratch - Sure, but I have no idea what this means. The art of sarcasm? Ya, you betcha!
15. Adopted a child - Not yet.
16. Had food poisoning - Yes, thank you Bennigans.
17. Walked to the top of the Statue of Liberty - Yes.
18. Grown your own vegetables - If herbs count, yes.
19. Seen the Mona Lisa in France - Yes. Booooring.
20. Slept on an overnight train - Yes.
21. Had a pillow fight - Yes. Of course. That's what girls do when they hang out together, right?
22. Hitch hiked - No.
23. Taken a sick day when you’re not ill - Well, never at my current job!
24. Built a snow fort - Yes. And I plan to again if we ever get enough snow and I have children who can actually walk in the snow.
25. Held a lamb - Like a real one? Why would I want to do that?
26. Gone skinny dipping - Yes . . . and got pulled out of the lake by the Minneapolis Police. Good times.
27. Run a Marathon - Puhlease . . . no.
28. Ridden in a gondola in Venice - No.
29. Seen a total eclipse - Yes. It was when I was in second grade.
30. Watched a sunrise or sunset - Of course.
31. Hit a home run - Yeah right. I consider it a home run if I actually hit the ball.
32. Been on a cruise - Not really, unless you count ferry rides, which I don't think you do.
33. Seen Niagara Falls in person - Yes.
34. Visited the birthplace of your ancestors - Yes. I was actually in the room where my mother was born (she was born at home in Sweden).
35. Seen an Amish community - Yes.
36. Taught yourself a new language - Not unless you count translating for my children when no one else can understand them.
37. Had enough money to be truly satisfied - Yeah, right. No.
38. Seen the Leaning Tower of Pisa in person - No.
39. Gone rock climbing - Yes. I sucked at it.
40. Seen Michelangelo's David - Not in person.
41. Sung karaoke - Yes.
42. Seen Old Faithful geyser erupt - Yes.
43. Bought a stranger a meal at a restaurant - Um, no. Why would I do that?
44. Visited Africa - No.
45. Walked on a beach by moonlight - Yes. Slept on the beach by moonlight as well.
46. Been transported in an ambulance - No.
47. Had your portrait painted - By someone other than my three year old? No.
48. Gone deep sea fishing - No.
49. Seen the Sistine Chapel in person - Not yet.
50. Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris - Yes.
51. Gone scuba diving or snorkeling - No.
52. Kissed in the rain - Yes. Wonderful.
53. Played in the mud - Yes.
54. Gone to a drive-in theater - To see a movie? No.
55. Been in a movie - Yes. And not just home movies, either. A real, wide-release movie.
56. Visited the Great Wall of China - Not yet.
57. Started a business - No.
58. Studied a martial art - If kickboxing counts, then yes.
59. Visited Russia - No.
60. Served at a soup kitchen - Yes.
61. Sold Girl Scout Cookies - Yes. I sucked at it.
62. Gone whale watching - Yes.
63. Got flowers for no reason - Yes.
64. Donated blood, platelets or plasma - Yes.
65. Gone sky diving - No.
66. Visited a Nazi concentration camp - No.
67. Bounced a check - Hasn't everyone?
68. Flown in a helicopter - Yes.
69. Saved a favorite childhood toy - Tons of them. And I won't let my kids play with some of them either.
70. Visited the Lincoln Memorial - Yes.
71. Eaten caviar - Of course. I probably will on Friday as well.
72. Pieced a quilt - Yes.
73. Stood in Times Square - No.
74. Toured the Everglades - No.
75. Been fired from a job - No.
76. Seen the Changing of the Guards in London - No.
77. Broken a bone - Yes. Well, technically, my brother broke it by pushing me backwards off a ledge, but it was my bone that was broken.
78. Been on a speeding motorcycle - No.
79. Seen the Grand Canyon in person - No.
80. Published a book - Sort of. Not by myself, but I have co-authored two books.
81. Visited the Vatican - No.
82. Bought a brand new car - Yes.
83. Walked in Jerusalem - No.
84. Had your picture in the newspaper - Yes.
85. Read the entire Bible - Not the entire bible - but I read a good portion of it for religion classes in college. It is essential reading to understanding much of the world's literature and other arts.
86. Visited the White House - No.
87. Killed and prepared an animal for eating - Ugh . . . not unless you count fish.
88. Had chickenpox - No.
89. Saved someone’s life - Literally? No.
90. Sat on a jury - No.
91. Met someone famous - Several people.
92. Joined a book club - A couple of them.
93. Lost a loved one - Yes.
94. Had a baby - Depends on your definition of "having a baby"
95. Seen the Alamo in person - Yes. Waste. Of. Fucking. Time.
96. Swam in the Great Salt Lake - No. I've seen it, never swam in it. Do they let you?
97. Been involved in a law suit - Um . . . duh. Everyday.
98. Owned a cell phone - Yes.
99. Been stung by a bee - Yes.
100. Read an entire book in one day - Yes. That was before kids.
Plus . . . it is an easy way to write a post and I really want to beat my post number from last year.
Things I've Done
1. Started your own blog -Duh! You're reading it, silly.
2. Slept under the stars - Many times.
3. Played in a band - I played in many an orchestra and sort of in one band, but it was a bad idea from the get-go and I think my hip friends just felt sorry for the girl who could only play the violin.
4. Visited Hawaii - No, which is sad because my grandparents always wanted to take us but didn't get around to it before my grandmother died.
5. Watched a meteor shower - Yes.
6. Given more than you can afford to charity - Yes, both time and money.
7. Been to Disneyland - Yes.
8. Climbed a mountain - Well, not with like ropes and stuff, but hiked on trails, sure.
9. Held a praying mantis - No. Ew.
10. Sang a solo - Yes.
11. Bungee jumped - No.
12. Visited Paris - Yes, on my 17th birthday.
13. Watched a lightning storm at sea - The storm was at sea, I wasn't. That's dangerous.
14. Taught yourself an art from scratch - Sure, but I have no idea what this means. The art of sarcasm? Ya, you betcha!
15. Adopted a child - Not yet.
16. Had food poisoning - Yes, thank you Bennigans.
17. Walked to the top of the Statue of Liberty - Yes.
18. Grown your own vegetables - If herbs count, yes.
19. Seen the Mona Lisa in France - Yes. Booooring.
20. Slept on an overnight train - Yes.
21. Had a pillow fight - Yes. Of course. That's what girls do when they hang out together, right?
22. Hitch hiked - No.
23. Taken a sick day when you’re not ill - Well, never at my current job!
24. Built a snow fort - Yes. And I plan to again if we ever get enough snow and I have children who can actually walk in the snow.
25. Held a lamb - Like a real one? Why would I want to do that?
26. Gone skinny dipping - Yes . . . and got pulled out of the lake by the Minneapolis Police. Good times.
27. Run a Marathon - Puhlease . . . no.
28. Ridden in a gondola in Venice - No.
29. Seen a total eclipse - Yes. It was when I was in second grade.
30. Watched a sunrise or sunset - Of course.
31. Hit a home run - Yeah right. I consider it a home run if I actually hit the ball.
32. Been on a cruise - Not really, unless you count ferry rides, which I don't think you do.
33. Seen Niagara Falls in person - Yes.
34. Visited the birthplace of your ancestors - Yes. I was actually in the room where my mother was born (she was born at home in Sweden).
35. Seen an Amish community - Yes.
36. Taught yourself a new language - Not unless you count translating for my children when no one else can understand them.
37. Had enough money to be truly satisfied - Yeah, right. No.
38. Seen the Leaning Tower of Pisa in person - No.
39. Gone rock climbing - Yes. I sucked at it.
40. Seen Michelangelo's David - Not in person.
41. Sung karaoke - Yes.
42. Seen Old Faithful geyser erupt - Yes.
43. Bought a stranger a meal at a restaurant - Um, no. Why would I do that?
44. Visited Africa - No.
45. Walked on a beach by moonlight - Yes. Slept on the beach by moonlight as well.
46. Been transported in an ambulance - No.
47. Had your portrait painted - By someone other than my three year old? No.
48. Gone deep sea fishing - No.
49. Seen the Sistine Chapel in person - Not yet.
50. Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris - Yes.
51. Gone scuba diving or snorkeling - No.
52. Kissed in the rain - Yes. Wonderful.
53. Played in the mud - Yes.
54. Gone to a drive-in theater - To see a movie? No.
55. Been in a movie - Yes. And not just home movies, either. A real, wide-release movie.
56. Visited the Great Wall of China - Not yet.
57. Started a business - No.
58. Studied a martial art - If kickboxing counts, then yes.
59. Visited Russia - No.
60. Served at a soup kitchen - Yes.
61. Sold Girl Scout Cookies - Yes. I sucked at it.
62. Gone whale watching - Yes.
63. Got flowers for no reason - Yes.
64. Donated blood, platelets or plasma - Yes.
65. Gone sky diving - No.
66. Visited a Nazi concentration camp - No.
67. Bounced a check - Hasn't everyone?
68. Flown in a helicopter - Yes.
69. Saved a favorite childhood toy - Tons of them. And I won't let my kids play with some of them either.
70. Visited the Lincoln Memorial - Yes.
71. Eaten caviar - Of course. I probably will on Friday as well.
72. Pieced a quilt - Yes.
73. Stood in Times Square - No.
74. Toured the Everglades - No.
75. Been fired from a job - No.
76. Seen the Changing of the Guards in London - No.
77. Broken a bone - Yes. Well, technically, my brother broke it by pushing me backwards off a ledge, but it was my bone that was broken.
78. Been on a speeding motorcycle - No.
79. Seen the Grand Canyon in person - No.
80. Published a book - Sort of. Not by myself, but I have co-authored two books.
81. Visited the Vatican - No.
82. Bought a brand new car - Yes.
83. Walked in Jerusalem - No.
84. Had your picture in the newspaper - Yes.
85. Read the entire Bible - Not the entire bible - but I read a good portion of it for religion classes in college. It is essential reading to understanding much of the world's literature and other arts.
86. Visited the White House - No.
87. Killed and prepared an animal for eating - Ugh . . . not unless you count fish.
88. Had chickenpox - No.
89. Saved someone’s life - Literally? No.
90. Sat on a jury - No.
91. Met someone famous - Several people.
92. Joined a book club - A couple of them.
93. Lost a loved one - Yes.
94. Had a baby - Depends on your definition of "having a baby"
95. Seen the Alamo in person - Yes. Waste. Of. Fucking. Time.
96. Swam in the Great Salt Lake - No. I've seen it, never swam in it. Do they let you?
97. Been involved in a law suit - Um . . . duh. Everyday.
98. Owned a cell phone - Yes.
99. Been stung by a bee - Yes.
100. Read an entire book in one day - Yes. That was before kids.
Friday, November 21, 2008
In the End . . . .
Recently, I was reading an article from the November 10, 2008, New Yorker entitled "Suffering Souls - The Search for the Roots of Psychopathy." It was a fascinating article and combines several areas of study that I have always been interested in: psychopathology and criminal behavior. But this post isn’t really about the article. You can read it for yourself if you are really interested.
Not surprisingly, the article focused on psychopaths in the prison inmate population, highlighting the work of a psychologist in the Western New Mexico Correctional Facility. What struck me about the article was a quote seen on a poster in the common room at the prison:
"I am here because there is no refuge, finally, from myself."
I have been thinking about that quote since I read it. It struck a chord in me and I can’t seem to get it out of my head. While I see the application to prison inmates, I think it applies to the broader human experience. Maybe it’s because the economy is so bad or maybe because it’s the holiday season, but lately I have been hearing a lot of people do the "woe-is-me" talk. I have sympathy for what others are experiencing, even though I think my life could stand up to anyone else’s in the crazy-shit-happening department. But there are limits to my sympathy.
Everyone has tough times. Everyone should talk to their friends about their tough times. My patience wears thin when all I hear from people is how bad their life is when they are doing absolutely nothing to change it. All of us suffer from that feeling of utter hopelessness. I have been hanging on the bottom rung several times. At those times, one wants to turn to every other possible solution to their problems - drinking, drugs, inappropriate sex with inappropriate people, excessive spending, gambling, violence . . . whatever it is.
It took me a long time to realize none of those things were helping in the long term (not that I tried all of them). I spent a good portion of my 20s and early 30s trying to fix my problems by filling them in with outside things. My solutions, whether bad or good, never helped for long. Partying was fun (and still is), but certainly didn’t do anything to make me feel whole. The wrong men were nice distractions, but usually took away more of me than was missing when I met them. Work and school were never solid enough distractions for me to forget the bad things.
All of my attempts to fix the situation were nullities. Saying, "My life will be perfect when ________" meant my life was never perfect because there was always another __________ after the first one. There was always something more that I felt I needed to make myself feel better or be better or be whole. But, in the end, there is only myself.
Self-imposed exile was my remedy for the really bad times. After my first year of law school, I went back to my crappy retail job and tried to pretend the past nine months had never happened. One day, I gave up. I unplugged my phone, took the TV into my bedroom, and spent the next two weeks in bed. I only emerged to work and then went home and back to bed. Friends thought I had lost it. Maybe I had.
But, in the end, you can’t hide from yourself in a cell, whether it is the cell you have created in your bedroom or a prison cell. You have to deal with the reality of yourself within the confines of the reality of life. No one else can do it for you. I may not be able to control everything in my life . . . but I can control my responses to everything in my life.
I am here (mentally, physically, emotionally, spiritually) because, in the end, there is no hiding from myself. And, finally . . . I like that.
Not surprisingly, the article focused on psychopaths in the prison inmate population, highlighting the work of a psychologist in the Western New Mexico Correctional Facility. What struck me about the article was a quote seen on a poster in the common room at the prison:
"I am here because there is no refuge, finally, from myself."
I have been thinking about that quote since I read it. It struck a chord in me and I can’t seem to get it out of my head. While I see the application to prison inmates, I think it applies to the broader human experience. Maybe it’s because the economy is so bad or maybe because it’s the holiday season, but lately I have been hearing a lot of people do the "woe-is-me" talk. I have sympathy for what others are experiencing, even though I think my life could stand up to anyone else’s in the crazy-shit-happening department. But there are limits to my sympathy.
Everyone has tough times. Everyone should talk to their friends about their tough times. My patience wears thin when all I hear from people is how bad their life is when they are doing absolutely nothing to change it. All of us suffer from that feeling of utter hopelessness. I have been hanging on the bottom rung several times. At those times, one wants to turn to every other possible solution to their problems - drinking, drugs, inappropriate sex with inappropriate people, excessive spending, gambling, violence . . . whatever it is.
It took me a long time to realize none of those things were helping in the long term (not that I tried all of them). I spent a good portion of my 20s and early 30s trying to fix my problems by filling them in with outside things. My solutions, whether bad or good, never helped for long. Partying was fun (and still is), but certainly didn’t do anything to make me feel whole. The wrong men were nice distractions, but usually took away more of me than was missing when I met them. Work and school were never solid enough distractions for me to forget the bad things.
All of my attempts to fix the situation were nullities. Saying, "My life will be perfect when ________" meant my life was never perfect because there was always another __________ after the first one. There was always something more that I felt I needed to make myself feel better or be better or be whole. But, in the end, there is only myself.
Self-imposed exile was my remedy for the really bad times. After my first year of law school, I went back to my crappy retail job and tried to pretend the past nine months had never happened. One day, I gave up. I unplugged my phone, took the TV into my bedroom, and spent the next two weeks in bed. I only emerged to work and then went home and back to bed. Friends thought I had lost it. Maybe I had.
But, in the end, you can’t hide from yourself in a cell, whether it is the cell you have created in your bedroom or a prison cell. You have to deal with the reality of yourself within the confines of the reality of life. No one else can do it for you. I may not be able to control everything in my life . . . but I can control my responses to everything in my life.
I am here (mentally, physically, emotionally, spiritually) because, in the end, there is no hiding from myself. And, finally . . . I like that.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
My Typical Interaction with Facebook
I joined Facebook about six months ago because my 21 year old cousin said I should. Despite the 16 year difference in our ages, she insists I should try to be cool like her. When I joined Facebook, I looked around for people I knew and asked for several of them to be my friends. I immediately saw that my parents were both friends with my cousins, so I invited my parents to be my friends. My mother accepted by invitation right away.
My dad has still not accepted my invitation. I asked him about it saying, "Why won't you be my friend on Facebook?" My dad said, "Because I'm not your friend . . . I'm your father." My dad clearly doesn't understand the way Facebook functions.
Anyway, after my initial sign-up, I haven't done a lot of searching for friends. I have looked at everyone who says they graduated from the same high school, college, or law school that I did in the same year I did. The strange thing is that I don't know half of the people who say they graduated in my classes. I really, really don't remember them. And it is not like I went to huge schools. My college class was probably the largest, with about 400 people in it. There were only about 150 in my law school graduating class, so one would think I would recognize some of these people.
So, either because my memory sucks or because people are pretending to want to be my friend just to up their friend numbers, I get a fair number of Facebook emails from people I don't recognize. I just got another one over the weekend. My reaction to this one is pretty typical.
Facebook: Jane has added you as a friend on Facebook. We need to confirm you know Jane in order for you to be friends on Facebook.
Jane: "You may not recognize my married name, but you'd know me if I said my maiden name was Smith. :) How are you Miss Smarty-Smarty Lawyer Pants?"
Me: Who the fuck is Jane? (I am able to rule out her belonging to my law school class because, as a general rule, lawyers don't address each other as "Miss Smarty-Smarty Lawyer-Pants.)
Facebook: To confirm this friend request, follow the link below.
Me: Okay . . . follow the link. Now, I am reading the friend request and it says we have one friend in common. Click on that link. I see the one friend we have in common is a friend from my pre-law school days. Really, just a drinking-partying-doing-stupid-stuff friend, but we bonded quite a few times over shots, so she and I have become friends on Facebook.
Me: So, I still have no idea who Jane is. I suppose I might as well accept her friend request. She clearly thinks she knows me. And it is driving me crazy because I can't place her from her blurry-shot-in-a-bar profile picture. Click on confirm.
Facebook: Don't you want to see how many people you know in common?
Me: No. Click on profile pictures. Scan through pictures of kid, husband, dog, house, kid, kid, kid, husband . . . the very last picture is Jane with her husband and kid and I actually recognize her. OHHHHH . . . JANE!
Me: (writing on Jane's Wall) Hey! How are you? What are you doing in PA? You have a cute kid!!
Then, I figure my Facebook obligation is over. She and I are now friends, she can look at my profile and all my pictures, comment on a few, send me a few stupid drink requests or plants or best friend awards, and the whole thing will die off soon enough.
Notsomuch.
Jane: "Hello!!! So glad to see you on fb! I've found more people that I thought I'd never see again (all good--- you included! :) ). Yes, we live in PA---and are ready to move on. We love where we live, but jobs for husband have all but dried up in this area. [The baby] is 15 months now and becoming quite a handful. She's just incredible and worth the wait, let me tell you. Looks like you've been busy reproducing as well, yes? I'm so impressed with your job--you scored! how's the family?"
Well, that was probably more information than I needed, thanks Jane. That's exactly what I tell people when they ask what I've been doing for the last 10 years . . . reproducing and lawyering. Little bit here, little bit there . . . whatever.
My dad has still not accepted my invitation. I asked him about it saying, "Why won't you be my friend on Facebook?" My dad said, "Because I'm not your friend . . . I'm your father." My dad clearly doesn't understand the way Facebook functions.
Anyway, after my initial sign-up, I haven't done a lot of searching for friends. I have looked at everyone who says they graduated from the same high school, college, or law school that I did in the same year I did. The strange thing is that I don't know half of the people who say they graduated in my classes. I really, really don't remember them. And it is not like I went to huge schools. My college class was probably the largest, with about 400 people in it. There were only about 150 in my law school graduating class, so one would think I would recognize some of these people.
So, either because my memory sucks or because people are pretending to want to be my friend just to up their friend numbers, I get a fair number of Facebook emails from people I don't recognize. I just got another one over the weekend. My reaction to this one is pretty typical.
Facebook: Jane has added you as a friend on Facebook. We need to confirm you know Jane in order for you to be friends on Facebook.
Jane: "You may not recognize my married name, but you'd know me if I said my maiden name was Smith. :) How are you Miss Smarty-Smarty Lawyer Pants?"
Me: Who the fuck is Jane? (I am able to rule out her belonging to my law school class because, as a general rule, lawyers don't address each other as "Miss Smarty-Smarty Lawyer-Pants.)
Facebook: To confirm this friend request, follow the link below.
Me: Okay . . . follow the link. Now, I am reading the friend request and it says we have one friend in common. Click on that link. I see the one friend we have in common is a friend from my pre-law school days. Really, just a drinking-partying-doing-stupid-stuff friend, but we bonded quite a few times over shots, so she and I have become friends on Facebook.
Me: So, I still have no idea who Jane is. I suppose I might as well accept her friend request. She clearly thinks she knows me. And it is driving me crazy because I can't place her from her blurry-shot-in-a-bar profile picture. Click on confirm.
Facebook: Don't you want to see how many people you know in common?
Me: No. Click on profile pictures. Scan through pictures of kid, husband, dog, house, kid, kid, kid, husband . . . the very last picture is Jane with her husband and kid and I actually recognize her. OHHHHH . . . JANE!
Me: (writing on Jane's Wall) Hey! How are you? What are you doing in PA? You have a cute kid!!
Then, I figure my Facebook obligation is over. She and I are now friends, she can look at my profile and all my pictures, comment on a few, send me a few stupid drink requests or plants or best friend awards, and the whole thing will die off soon enough.
Notsomuch.
Jane: "Hello!!! So glad to see you on fb! I've found more people that I thought I'd never see again (all good--- you included! :) ). Yes, we live in PA---and are ready to move on. We love where we live, but jobs for husband have all but dried up in this area. [The baby] is 15 months now and becoming quite a handful. She's just incredible and worth the wait, let me tell you. Looks like you've been busy reproducing as well, yes? I'm so impressed with your job--you scored! how's the family?"
Well, that was probably more information than I needed, thanks Jane. That's exactly what I tell people when they ask what I've been doing for the last 10 years . . . reproducing and lawyering. Little bit here, little bit there . . . whatever.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Dishwasher Dishwasher Dishwasher Dishwasher DISHWASHER!
After six months of dishpan hands, I finally have a new dishwasher. Or, I should say, newly installed dishwasher. The new dishwasher itself has actually been in my possession for six months. It's just been sitting in my garage because of the asshats who put the last dishwasher in my house.
Anyway, it's in and it works, even though it sticks out from the face of the cabinets by like four inches. (Ahh . . . such is the joy of an old house). Tonight, I'm going to wash EVERY SINGLE DISH in my house. I don't care if they are dirty or not. I'm going to do it because I can. And . . . I'm considering washing anything that will fit in the dishwasher tonight. I have really, really missed having a dishwasher.
Through all of this turmoil, I have learned that quite a few people either don't have or don't use dishwashers. I would like to know what is wrong with you people. Sure, I went through the apartment living too and didn't have a dishwasher in many an apartment. But I'm talking about people who own homes. When I was looking for a house, I told my realtor that my future house must have three things: (1) central air conditioning; (2) a gas stove; and (3) a dishwasher.
Even worse are the people who have dishwashers in their kitchens and don't use them. One of my good friends stores her cookies in the dishwasher. Like Oreos and Milanos. In the dishwasher. I find that very strange. Why would you not use the time saving device installed in your home?
My secretary has taken great joy in telling me that washing dishes by hand is good for me. It is not good for me. It makes me crabby. It gives me dry hands and I hate having dry hands. What I have saved in water costs, I have spent in hand lotion.
But you know what this means? It is time for another appliance to break. Bring it on.
Anyway, it's in and it works, even though it sticks out from the face of the cabinets by like four inches. (Ahh . . . such is the joy of an old house). Tonight, I'm going to wash EVERY SINGLE DISH in my house. I don't care if they are dirty or not. I'm going to do it because I can. And . . . I'm considering washing anything that will fit in the dishwasher tonight. I have really, really missed having a dishwasher.
Through all of this turmoil, I have learned that quite a few people either don't have or don't use dishwashers. I would like to know what is wrong with you people. Sure, I went through the apartment living too and didn't have a dishwasher in many an apartment. But I'm talking about people who own homes. When I was looking for a house, I told my realtor that my future house must have three things: (1) central air conditioning; (2) a gas stove; and (3) a dishwasher.
Even worse are the people who have dishwashers in their kitchens and don't use them. One of my good friends stores her cookies in the dishwasher. Like Oreos and Milanos. In the dishwasher. I find that very strange. Why would you not use the time saving device installed in your home?
My secretary has taken great joy in telling me that washing dishes by hand is good for me. It is not good for me. It makes me crabby. It gives me dry hands and I hate having dry hands. What I have saved in water costs, I have spent in hand lotion.
But you know what this means? It is time for another appliance to break. Bring it on.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
I Have a Really Good Explanation for That
I bought a new shirt on Monday. Because this new shirt is kind of sheer, it came with a coordinating camisole. As most women know, camisoles introduce a complex underwear question into the morning dressing routine - to bra or not to bra?
On Tuesday morning, I decided to wear the new shirt and camisole and decided to go with the bra option. Unfortunately, because laundry hasn’t been done by the laundry fairies recently, my bra selection was down to the few uncomfortable bras I still own. But I forged ahead and decided to wear a bra I know is very uncomfortable, thinking that perhaps I had overestimated the level of uncomfortableness of the bra.
Turns out . . . I hadn’t.
But, I hung in there almost all day with the bra. However, around 3 pm, I couldn’t take it any more . . . I had to get that thing off. So, I grabbed my keys and went to the bathroom in my office building, which is outside of our actual office walls. I grabbed my keys because to get back into the office, I have to have my keys.
After shutting myself in a stall, I removed the offensive undergarment and put the camisole and shirt back on and . . . ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh . . . breathed a sigh of relief. Comfort at last.
But now I had an even bigger problem. I am standing in a bathroom stall holding a bra, wearing an outfit without pockets, and carrying no purse or briefcase. Panic sets in. How the hell am I going to make it back to my office without revealing to everyone that I just took my bra off? I tried to squish the bra into my fist. It didn’t work. I carefully folded the straps into the bra and made it as compact as possible. However, it was still painfully obvious that I was carrying underwear in my hand.
I took a deep breath and made a mad dash to the outside door of my office. DAMN! I hadn’t thought about using my key to open the door and I had my bra in my right hand - the hand I usually use to open the door with my key. I tried to fumble the key in the lock with my left hand and failed miserably. Then I tried to keep the bra in my right hand and open the lock at the same time. DAMN! I dropped the bra in the hallway.
Totally flustered, I grabbed the bra with my left hand, opened the door with my right hand, and sprinted to my office. Relieved to have made it without being spotted, I dropped the bra in my briefcase and sat down at my desk.
Ahh, sweet relief. I could last two hours at work, go home and get rid of the bra. No one would ever know.
Well . . . somewhere between 3:15 and 5 pm, I forgot about the bra. Instead of going home for dinner after work (because the food fairies haven’t filled the fridge), I decided to take my daughter out for dinner at One World. We had a lovely dinner and then the waitress brought us the check. Knowing my three year old had limited time left in her good behavior container, I asked the waitress to wait so I could hand her my credit card right then and there.
I opened my briefcase, pulled out my wallet, and FLIP! Out came the bra . . . flying across the table and landing on the floor. Stunned, I grabbed it quickly and shoved it back into the briefcase. "What was THAT, MAMA?" yelled my daughter. Subtle, babe.
Turning to look at the waitress, I said, "I have a really good explanation for that . . . ."
The waitress said, "That’s OK . . . ." and walked away.
You know, sometimes I live in this fantasy world that I have everything under control and my life is absolutely normal. Then I am reminded that I don’t and it isn’t.
On Tuesday morning, I decided to wear the new shirt and camisole and decided to go with the bra option. Unfortunately, because laundry hasn’t been done by the laundry fairies recently, my bra selection was down to the few uncomfortable bras I still own. But I forged ahead and decided to wear a bra I know is very uncomfortable, thinking that perhaps I had overestimated the level of uncomfortableness of the bra.
Turns out . . . I hadn’t.
But, I hung in there almost all day with the bra. However, around 3 pm, I couldn’t take it any more . . . I had to get that thing off. So, I grabbed my keys and went to the bathroom in my office building, which is outside of our actual office walls. I grabbed my keys because to get back into the office, I have to have my keys.
After shutting myself in a stall, I removed the offensive undergarment and put the camisole and shirt back on and . . . ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh . . . breathed a sigh of relief. Comfort at last.
But now I had an even bigger problem. I am standing in a bathroom stall holding a bra, wearing an outfit without pockets, and carrying no purse or briefcase. Panic sets in. How the hell am I going to make it back to my office without revealing to everyone that I just took my bra off? I tried to squish the bra into my fist. It didn’t work. I carefully folded the straps into the bra and made it as compact as possible. However, it was still painfully obvious that I was carrying underwear in my hand.
I took a deep breath and made a mad dash to the outside door of my office. DAMN! I hadn’t thought about using my key to open the door and I had my bra in my right hand - the hand I usually use to open the door with my key. I tried to fumble the key in the lock with my left hand and failed miserably. Then I tried to keep the bra in my right hand and open the lock at the same time. DAMN! I dropped the bra in the hallway.
Totally flustered, I grabbed the bra with my left hand, opened the door with my right hand, and sprinted to my office. Relieved to have made it without being spotted, I dropped the bra in my briefcase and sat down at my desk.
Ahh, sweet relief. I could last two hours at work, go home and get rid of the bra. No one would ever know.
Well . . . somewhere between 3:15 and 5 pm, I forgot about the bra. Instead of going home for dinner after work (because the food fairies haven’t filled the fridge), I decided to take my daughter out for dinner at One World. We had a lovely dinner and then the waitress brought us the check. Knowing my three year old had limited time left in her good behavior container, I asked the waitress to wait so I could hand her my credit card right then and there.
I opened my briefcase, pulled out my wallet, and FLIP! Out came the bra . . . flying across the table and landing on the floor. Stunned, I grabbed it quickly and shoved it back into the briefcase. "What was THAT, MAMA?" yelled my daughter. Subtle, babe.
Turning to look at the waitress, I said, "I have a really good explanation for that . . . ."
The waitress said, "That’s OK . . . ." and walked away.
You know, sometimes I live in this fantasy world that I have everything under control and my life is absolutely normal. Then I am reminded that I don’t and it isn’t.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Damn Nature!
For my parents' 40th wedding anniversary, I decided to arrange a family get together weekend in Galena. We rented a large four bedroom house in the Galena Territory, which was beautiful. The house was perfect for the nine of us - me, my two kids, my parents, my brother and sister-in-law, and their two kids. The house was down in a valley and surrounded by trees. Oak trees, to be exact.
There were two decks and a porch. The larger deck was half screened in and half open. We grilled almost every night we were there for the grown-ups' meal. We ate in the screened in porch-dining-room. The other porch was smaller and all screened it. It contained a hammock and was on the third floor. Swinging in that hammock in the middle of the oak tree forest was like heaven. There was a slight chill in the air and I took my kids up there and rocked slowly to the beat of a nearby woodpecker. I sang them every song I could remember while we snuggled under a blanket and rocked. We listened to the oak trees drop their acorns one by one on the roof of the porch. I could have stayed there in that hammock forever.
As is par for the course for any family gathering, there were ups and downs. Any family that says they get along with each other for five straight days is lying. Real families don't work that way. We all have our own quirks and habits, our own pet peeves and annoyances, and we all have old family-battle-wounds ready to be exposed for fresh blood.
But those old wounds are the subject of another post. I'm here to speak of new wounds . . . mine, specifically.
On Tuesday late morning, we were all packed and ready to go. My kids were crabby because it was right after lunch and time for their naps. My plan was to get on the road so they could sleep all the way back to Peoria in the car. I was in a rush. I was charging around like a madwoman loading the car. I was charging around on an uneven gravel driveway . . . covered with acorns. I slipped on a bunch of acorns, heard a loud POP from my right ankle and went down.
I'm sure I screamed FUUUUUUUCK!!!! because it hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. As I lay on the ground, my son came to look at me saying, "Mama! Mama! Mama!" My daughter and my parents were right there too. The swelling in my right ankle started immediately and I couldn't put any weight on it.
God Damn Acorns!
I found some athletic tape in a first aid kit and wrapped my ankle. My parents offered to take me to the hospital in Galena or drive me home to Peoria. Both of those options sound like a colossal waste of time . . . and huge disruptions in my kids' schedule that would surely lead to screaming and fit-throwing. No. I wanted to keep on my schedule and . . . just . . . go . . . home.
The good news was I could still drive, after copious amounts of Advil. The pressure of using the gas and brake pedals was not that bad on my ankle. So I drove all the way home and then called a very good friend to come sit with my kids while I went to Prompt Care. After one look at the ankle, the doctor thought it might be broken.
But it wasn't . . . just a really, really bad sprain. So, I got a nice air/gel split, a beautiful set of crutches, and a three week supply of Vicodin. Yay Vicodin!!
The first night wasn't so bad. I took a Vicodin and thought . . . this will be fine. Sure - I'll hobble around for a few days, but it won't really slow me down.
WRONG. Having a sprained ankle sucks and sucks hard. Let me tell you the ways it sucks and sucks hard:
(1) My foot looks disgusting. It is all swollen and purple/red/green/grey/yellow. The black-purple bruises go all the way around my foot. The purpleness extends to my toes and my toes are swollen. Worse than that . . . I can't comfortably reach my toenails to paint them and the old polish looks like hell. And even worse than that . . . I can't balance long enough in the shower to shave my legs. Bottle of Nair . . . here I come!
(2) Walking on crutches is fucking HARD work. By the end of the first full day of crutches, my arms hurt worse than my ankle. So, I abandoned one crutch and am hobbling around using one as a counter balance to my gimpy foot.
(3) It takes twice as long to do anything (although that may be a side effect of the Vicodin) and certain things start to look impossible. I haven't done laundry from our trip yet because I would have to repeatedly go up and down two flights of stairs carrying laundry baskets and I'm just not able to do that while either (a) sitting on my butt and sliding down or (b) crawling up on my knees.
(4) The only shoes I can wear are Birkenstocks because my foot is so fat. This may become an issue when I have to go to court. Birks are frowned upon in court. Hell . . . exposed toes and heels are frowned upon in court.
(5) Because I can only wear Birks, my work clothing options are limited unless I want to look like an idiot. And since I already look like half an idiot limping at a snail's pace around the office, I don't feel like looking like a complete idiot.
(6) People have been so nice and helpful, but I have a really hard time accepting help. It was so hard to watch Katie wash my dishes last night while her daughter helped my daughter get ready for bed and her son pick up toys in my living room. I don't know how I will ever repay them, although I did promise to clean their house if Katie ever breaks or sprains anything.
Although some people think I am whining too much, I have actually found some bright spots in my current predicament. This injury has shown that maybe I need to take a step back from my Type A tendencies. Does it really matter that the house is not totally picked up? Does it really matter that there is undone laundry, as long as we all have clean clothes to wear? Does it really matter if we don't leave the house exactly on time in the morning? Will my children be permanently harmed by eating fast food every night for a week? No. (I really typed "yes" there first . . . I'm working on it.)
I don't know who said, "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger*" but I subscribe to that theory. Given the last year of my life, I should be really freaking strong by now.
*Here's the thing with that quote - if something doesn't kill you, it makes you stronger, right? But you won't know if something is killing you or making you stronger until you are dead. Then you will know what killed you, but it's not like you can go back and say, "Damn it - that thing really was bad enough to kill me" because you're dead. So, just assume everything makes you stronger until something kills you. If you don't die, then you know you are stronger!
There were two decks and a porch. The larger deck was half screened in and half open. We grilled almost every night we were there for the grown-ups' meal. We ate in the screened in porch-dining-room. The other porch was smaller and all screened it. It contained a hammock and was on the third floor. Swinging in that hammock in the middle of the oak tree forest was like heaven. There was a slight chill in the air and I took my kids up there and rocked slowly to the beat of a nearby woodpecker. I sang them every song I could remember while we snuggled under a blanket and rocked. We listened to the oak trees drop their acorns one by one on the roof of the porch. I could have stayed there in that hammock forever.
As is par for the course for any family gathering, there were ups and downs. Any family that says they get along with each other for five straight days is lying. Real families don't work that way. We all have our own quirks and habits, our own pet peeves and annoyances, and we all have old family-battle-wounds ready to be exposed for fresh blood.
But those old wounds are the subject of another post. I'm here to speak of new wounds . . . mine, specifically.
On Tuesday late morning, we were all packed and ready to go. My kids were crabby because it was right after lunch and time for their naps. My plan was to get on the road so they could sleep all the way back to Peoria in the car. I was in a rush. I was charging around like a madwoman loading the car. I was charging around on an uneven gravel driveway . . . covered with acorns. I slipped on a bunch of acorns, heard a loud POP from my right ankle and went down.
I'm sure I screamed FUUUUUUUCK!!!! because it hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. As I lay on the ground, my son came to look at me saying, "Mama! Mama! Mama!" My daughter and my parents were right there too. The swelling in my right ankle started immediately and I couldn't put any weight on it.
God Damn Acorns!
I found some athletic tape in a first aid kit and wrapped my ankle. My parents offered to take me to the hospital in Galena or drive me home to Peoria. Both of those options sound like a colossal waste of time . . . and huge disruptions in my kids' schedule that would surely lead to screaming and fit-throwing. No. I wanted to keep on my schedule and . . . just . . . go . . . home.
The good news was I could still drive, after copious amounts of Advil. The pressure of using the gas and brake pedals was not that bad on my ankle. So I drove all the way home and then called a very good friend to come sit with my kids while I went to Prompt Care. After one look at the ankle, the doctor thought it might be broken.
But it wasn't . . . just a really, really bad sprain. So, I got a nice air/gel split, a beautiful set of crutches, and a three week supply of Vicodin. Yay Vicodin!!
The first night wasn't so bad. I took a Vicodin and thought . . . this will be fine. Sure - I'll hobble around for a few days, but it won't really slow me down.
WRONG. Having a sprained ankle sucks and sucks hard. Let me tell you the ways it sucks and sucks hard:
(1) My foot looks disgusting. It is all swollen and purple/red/green/grey/yellow. The black-purple bruises go all the way around my foot. The purpleness extends to my toes and my toes are swollen. Worse than that . . . I can't comfortably reach my toenails to paint them and the old polish looks like hell. And even worse than that . . . I can't balance long enough in the shower to shave my legs. Bottle of Nair . . . here I come!
(2) Walking on crutches is fucking HARD work. By the end of the first full day of crutches, my arms hurt worse than my ankle. So, I abandoned one crutch and am hobbling around using one as a counter balance to my gimpy foot.
(3) It takes twice as long to do anything (although that may be a side effect of the Vicodin) and certain things start to look impossible. I haven't done laundry from our trip yet because I would have to repeatedly go up and down two flights of stairs carrying laundry baskets and I'm just not able to do that while either (a) sitting on my butt and sliding down or (b) crawling up on my knees.
(4) The only shoes I can wear are Birkenstocks because my foot is so fat. This may become an issue when I have to go to court. Birks are frowned upon in court. Hell . . . exposed toes and heels are frowned upon in court.
(5) Because I can only wear Birks, my work clothing options are limited unless I want to look like an idiot. And since I already look like half an idiot limping at a snail's pace around the office, I don't feel like looking like a complete idiot.
(6) People have been so nice and helpful, but I have a really hard time accepting help. It was so hard to watch Katie wash my dishes last night while her daughter helped my daughter get ready for bed and her son pick up toys in my living room. I don't know how I will ever repay them, although I did promise to clean their house if Katie ever breaks or sprains anything.
Although some people think I am whining too much, I have actually found some bright spots in my current predicament. This injury has shown that maybe I need to take a step back from my Type A tendencies. Does it really matter that the house is not totally picked up? Does it really matter that there is undone laundry, as long as we all have clean clothes to wear? Does it really matter if we don't leave the house exactly on time in the morning? Will my children be permanently harmed by eating fast food every night for a week? No. (I really typed "yes" there first . . . I'm working on it.)
I don't know who said, "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger*" but I subscribe to that theory. Given the last year of my life, I should be really freaking strong by now.
*Here's the thing with that quote - if something doesn't kill you, it makes you stronger, right? But you won't know if something is killing you or making you stronger until you are dead. Then you will know what killed you, but it's not like you can go back and say, "Damn it - that thing really was bad enough to kill me" because you're dead. So, just assume everything makes you stronger until something kills you. If you don't die, then you know you are stronger!
Friday, August 29, 2008
I Am the Best Attorney EVER*
If you are currently being represented by counsel, or have been represented by counsel in the past, please consider this. Would your attorney walk up 30 flights of stairs to get to her office to appear at a telephonic hearing on your behalf because the elevators were broken in her office building?
No?
Well, I did. In three inch heels. Granted, it was more motivated out of fear of being held in contempt for failing to appear at the hearing, but still . . . I did it.
And it took me less than 10 minutes and I wasn’t sore afterwards, which is pretty damn good in my book.
*Disclaimer for the ethics police: The title of my post is not intended to assert or claim that I am, in fact, the best attorney ever. I am not the best attorney ever and neither are you. The title was intended to be eye-catching and humorous. Because I know you were born without the humor gene, I am explaining this to you so I don’t have to face a complaint based on what is just a funny little blog post. Besides, if athletic ability and fortitude were a prerequisite to being a good attorney, 75% of the attorneys in Illinois would fail miserably.
No?
Well, I did. In three inch heels. Granted, it was more motivated out of fear of being held in contempt for failing to appear at the hearing, but still . . . I did it.
And it took me less than 10 minutes and I wasn’t sore afterwards, which is pretty damn good in my book.
*Disclaimer for the ethics police: The title of my post is not intended to assert or claim that I am, in fact, the best attorney ever. I am not the best attorney ever and neither are you. The title was intended to be eye-catching and humorous. Because I know you were born without the humor gene, I am explaining this to you so I don’t have to face a complaint based on what is just a funny little blog post. Besides, if athletic ability and fortitude were a prerequisite to being a good attorney, 75% of the attorneys in Illinois would fail miserably.
Friday, August 22, 2008
The Punishment Doesn’t Fit the Crime
I’ve been having a craptacular week. Just one thing after another after another. Mostly work related, but there has been some personal crap too. On Tuesday, I came home to find a yellow piece of paper stuck in my front door. It was from an animal control officer. It said, "Please contact our office no later than 8-21-08 at 5:00 regarding the following item(s). Failure to do so will result in legal action."
My crime? "Rabies vaccination and/or registration of cat. Ticket will be issued." Great.
I’ll readily admit I haven’t always gotten my cat vaccinated for rabies in a timely manner. He is an indoor only cat. He never goes outside, except for the few times he tricks a new person into leaving the front door open too long. Then he runs out and flops on the nearest driveway. And stays there until I go pick him up and carry him back to the house. The only rabid animal he is in danger of being bitten by is my dog and she always gets her yearly rabies vaccination.
It is not that I care more for my dog than I care for my cat. They irritate me equally. However, it is much easier to get the dog to the vet than it is to get the cat to the vet. The dog hops in the back seat and is happy on a leash. The cat never goes outside and would probably maim me if I put him on a leash. And, for some reason, I no longer have a cat carrier, so transporting the cat to the vet is an issue. But, I guess the rabies vaccination police don’t consider all those factors when issuing tickets.
I decided that it was probably time to get him vaccinated anyway, just to avoid any legal unpleasantness. (I mean, you never know what they'll take away your law license for these days.) I called my vet and checked to make sure I was actually late on the vaccination - just checking if the animal control people were yanking my chain. She said, "Well . . . it has been awhile. The last one he got was in October of 2005. I’m surprised they haven’t gotten you before!" OK, so I missed two vaccinations (2006 and 2007), which sounds a whole lot better than saying it has been three years since he was vaccinated.
I said, "I don’t really know how to get him there - I don’t have a carrier anymore." She replied, "Oh, just put him in a pillowcase . . . just don’t tie a knot in it."
Oh yeah, because that will make him even happier to go to the vet. I swear, I would not want to be the one taking him out of the pillowcase.
Anyway, I borrowed a cat carrier, made the appointment for this morning, went on my merry way, still having a shitty week. Then I got the ticket in the mail last night. I was assuming that, since the rabies tag fee is $12 for neutered cats, that the ticket might be two or three times that amount - like between $25 and $35. That’s not too painful, I thought. I’ll just be better about remembering next time.
The ticket was $100.
$100
Holy crap. I almost fell off my chair. And that’s only if I: (1) admit my guilt and (2) pay the fine before my court date. Otherwise, I can go to court, plead guilty, and pay $115. Or, I can proceed to a bench trial and probably get fined three times that amount for wasting the court’s time. No wonder they are going after these horrible rabies vaccination offenders. Cold hard cash.
Of course, that doesn’t count the money I have to pay to actually get him the rabies shot. There is a $12 fee to the County, a $40 fee for the well-cat exam, a $10 fee for the rabies vaccine, and $20 for the distemper vaccine. So that’s $82 in addition to the ticket. My cat cost me $182 today. I’m seriously considering taken him off Iams and switching to Meow Mix.
Then again, let’s do the math. If I was keeping up on the vaccinations, he would have cost me $82 in 2006, $82 in 2007, and $82 in 2008. That equals $246, which is obviously more than $182. So, by breaking the law, I actually saved $64. I’m not sure how much deterrence there is in this sentence. Don't tell animal control . . . .
Furthermore, almost everyone I have talked to says one or all of their animals is not up on their rabies vaccinations. My parents said they didn’t think their recently deceased cat had ever had a rabies vaccination after she came home from the shelter. My dad said he was worried that they would make him get her a rabies shot before they agreed to put her to sleep. (They didn't, but doesn't that just seem like something the government would do? Make you protect your cat from disease before having it killed?)
I'm not planning on doing the "layaway" version of feline rabies vaccinations again in the future, however. Apparently, the fine goes up upon your second offense. I bet there is even a three strikes law. For the third offense, you go to jail for life. This is a serious crime, people. You better watch yourselves.
My crime? "Rabies vaccination and/or registration of cat. Ticket will be issued." Great.
I’ll readily admit I haven’t always gotten my cat vaccinated for rabies in a timely manner. He is an indoor only cat. He never goes outside, except for the few times he tricks a new person into leaving the front door open too long. Then he runs out and flops on the nearest driveway. And stays there until I go pick him up and carry him back to the house. The only rabid animal he is in danger of being bitten by is my dog and she always gets her yearly rabies vaccination.
It is not that I care more for my dog than I care for my cat. They irritate me equally. However, it is much easier to get the dog to the vet than it is to get the cat to the vet. The dog hops in the back seat and is happy on a leash. The cat never goes outside and would probably maim me if I put him on a leash. And, for some reason, I no longer have a cat carrier, so transporting the cat to the vet is an issue. But, I guess the rabies vaccination police don’t consider all those factors when issuing tickets.
I decided that it was probably time to get him vaccinated anyway, just to avoid any legal unpleasantness. (I mean, you never know what they'll take away your law license for these days.) I called my vet and checked to make sure I was actually late on the vaccination - just checking if the animal control people were yanking my chain. She said, "Well . . . it has been awhile. The last one he got was in October of 2005. I’m surprised they haven’t gotten you before!" OK, so I missed two vaccinations (2006 and 2007), which sounds a whole lot better than saying it has been three years since he was vaccinated.
I said, "I don’t really know how to get him there - I don’t have a carrier anymore." She replied, "Oh, just put him in a pillowcase . . . just don’t tie a knot in it."
Oh yeah, because that will make him even happier to go to the vet. I swear, I would not want to be the one taking him out of the pillowcase.
Anyway, I borrowed a cat carrier, made the appointment for this morning, went on my merry way, still having a shitty week. Then I got the ticket in the mail last night. I was assuming that, since the rabies tag fee is $12 for neutered cats, that the ticket might be two or three times that amount - like between $25 and $35. That’s not too painful, I thought. I’ll just be better about remembering next time.
The ticket was $100.
$100
Holy crap. I almost fell off my chair. And that’s only if I: (1) admit my guilt and (2) pay the fine before my court date. Otherwise, I can go to court, plead guilty, and pay $115. Or, I can proceed to a bench trial and probably get fined three times that amount for wasting the court’s time. No wonder they are going after these horrible rabies vaccination offenders. Cold hard cash.
Of course, that doesn’t count the money I have to pay to actually get him the rabies shot. There is a $12 fee to the County, a $40 fee for the well-cat exam, a $10 fee for the rabies vaccine, and $20 for the distemper vaccine. So that’s $82 in addition to the ticket. My cat cost me $182 today. I’m seriously considering taken him off Iams and switching to Meow Mix.
Then again, let’s do the math. If I was keeping up on the vaccinations, he would have cost me $82 in 2006, $82 in 2007, and $82 in 2008. That equals $246, which is obviously more than $182. So, by breaking the law, I actually saved $64. I’m not sure how much deterrence there is in this sentence. Don't tell animal control . . . .
Furthermore, almost everyone I have talked to says one or all of their animals is not up on their rabies vaccinations. My parents said they didn’t think their recently deceased cat had ever had a rabies vaccination after she came home from the shelter. My dad said he was worried that they would make him get her a rabies shot before they agreed to put her to sleep. (They didn't, but doesn't that just seem like something the government would do? Make you protect your cat from disease before having it killed?)
I'm not planning on doing the "layaway" version of feline rabies vaccinations again in the future, however. Apparently, the fine goes up upon your second offense. I bet there is even a three strikes law. For the third offense, you go to jail for life. This is a serious crime, people. You better watch yourselves.
Friday, August 1, 2008
I've Been Tagged!
Rixblix tagged me to disclose six random things about myself. Here it is, Rix!
Tag Rules:
(1) Link to the person who tagged you.
(2) Post the rules on the blog.
(3) Write six random things about yourself.
(4) Tag six people at the end of your post.
(5) Let each person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
(6) Let the tagger know when your entry is up.
My six random things:
(1) I have been to every state in the United States except Florida, Alaska, and Hawaii.
(2) I took a year off between high school and college and it was one of the best decisions I have ever made.
(3) When I was a freshman in high school, I wanted to be an architect. My school counselor suggested I take a mechanical drafting class, so I signed up for it. The first day of class, I walked in and I was the only girl in the class. The teacher pulled me aside and said, "We have never had a girl take this class. Wouldn't you be happier if you took art?" I was 14 years old and I was totally intimidated so I dropped the class and took art. I'd love to go back and smack that teacher in the head.
(4) On my mother's side, I am the first generation born in the United States.
(5) When I was 9, my grandfather built for me (at my request) a set of bunk beds just like the one Arnold and Willis shared on Diff'rent Strokes, except mine had white posts instead of brown posts. (I would totally link to an episode that shows the bed, except for the fact that I can't figure out how to do it and am getting really frustrated and pissed off. If you really want to see it, go to YouTube and search for Diff'rent Strokes Movin' In Part 2.) That bed is still in my parents' basement.
(6) In 1987, my brother and I both appeared on the front page of our small town newspaper. He had won an art contest and I had been selected for the All-State Orchestra.
I'm tagging Eyebrows, Peoria Illinoisan, Reno (because he bitched on Rix's blog), Mistress of the Post, Morton Malaise, and East Bluff Barbie (because she needs a reason to post - please?).
Tag Rules:
(1) Link to the person who tagged you.
(2) Post the rules on the blog.
(3) Write six random things about yourself.
(4) Tag six people at the end of your post.
(5) Let each person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
(6) Let the tagger know when your entry is up.
My six random things:
(1) I have been to every state in the United States except Florida, Alaska, and Hawaii.
(2) I took a year off between high school and college and it was one of the best decisions I have ever made.
(3) When I was a freshman in high school, I wanted to be an architect. My school counselor suggested I take a mechanical drafting class, so I signed up for it. The first day of class, I walked in and I was the only girl in the class. The teacher pulled me aside and said, "We have never had a girl take this class. Wouldn't you be happier if you took art?" I was 14 years old and I was totally intimidated so I dropped the class and took art. I'd love to go back and smack that teacher in the head.
(4) On my mother's side, I am the first generation born in the United States.
(5) When I was 9, my grandfather built for me (at my request) a set of bunk beds just like the one Arnold and Willis shared on Diff'rent Strokes, except mine had white posts instead of brown posts. (I would totally link to an episode that shows the bed, except for the fact that I can't figure out how to do it and am getting really frustrated and pissed off. If you really want to see it, go to YouTube and search for Diff'rent Strokes Movin' In Part 2.) That bed is still in my parents' basement.
(6) In 1987, my brother and I both appeared on the front page of our small town newspaper. He had won an art contest and I had been selected for the All-State Orchestra.
I'm tagging Eyebrows, Peoria Illinoisan, Reno (because he bitched on Rix's blog), Mistress of the Post, Morton Malaise, and East Bluff Barbie (because she needs a reason to post - please?).
Thursday, July 31, 2008
The List
Whether she admits it or not, every woman carries a list around in her head - a checklist, that is, for evaluating men. I'm not talking about the is-he-marriage-material list. I'm talking about the would-I-ever-consider-dating-him list. These are two very distinct lists. Passing the preliminary pre-dating list gets a guy in the door. Passing the marriage-material list moves a guy into the house.
I'm sure every woman has her own variation on the factors on this list. But, I am willing to bet that most women have lists very similar to my own. A friend and I were recently discussing my list, and I got to thinking that it would be a good public service announcement to all men. Perhaps there are several of you out there who are not aware of the list. Well, here you go. Learn something.
(1) Age.
There is probably no specific age requirement when looking for men, but men around the same age tend to have similar interests and life experiences. Personally, I have dated older men and tend to be attracted to men who are older than I am. However, I am not looking for someone who is my father’s age. That just creeps me out a little bit. So, when I’m looking at someone’s age, I usually evaluating within the 25-45 age range.
(2) Height.
This is a big factor for me and for many women. With all due respect to short men, I just can’t see myself dating one. I’m 5’8" and I absolutely prefer someone who is taller than I am, even if just an inch or two. I think it’s sort of a girl thing - I don’t know many women who want to be perceived as bigger than their mates. Sorry, short guys . . . I just don’t want to feel like an Amazon.
(3) Hair.
This category covers a lot - hair on your head, hair on your face, eyebrows, and body hair. Of course, no uni-brows. And please - no trying to cover up baldness. If you are going bald or already bald, it’s just much sexier for you to be comfortable with it and not try to cover it up. A good haircut is a necessity. I’m not saying it has to be done by a fancy salon, but something that fits you and your face.
Facial hair also depends on the person. Some men can carry off facial hair; some can’t. Full scraggly beards scream "UNKEMPT!" Moustaches alone scream "COP!" Pencil thin line beards on men with fat faces scream, "I’M TRYING TO DEFINE MY NON-EXISTENT JAW LINE!" You are not fooling anyone, guys.
(4) Teeth.
Two basic requirements for teeth - clean and all present. If you are missing a tooth, get it fixed and come back later. If you are missing more than one tooth, I think you have other underlying problems that tell me to stay away from you. Straight teeth are also preferable, but as long as you aren’t a snaggletooth, you are probably fine. A subcategory here is good breath. If I’m evaluating you on my list, it means I might consider dating you. If I am considering dating you, I might consider kissing you. However, if you have bad breath, you are not getting through my initial evaluation.
(5) Clothes.
Price doesn’t matter. I frankly don’t care where you bought your clothes or how much you paid for them. What matters is whether they fit you well, indicate a personal style, and fit the situation we are currently in. I love a man in a well-fitted suit. However, if the suit has not been tailored to fit you specifically, you might as well be wearing a wife-beater and tighty-whities. Whatever you are wearing, it needs to fit the situation. Don’t wear dress slacks to a BBQ. Don’t wear a T-shirt to a nice restaurant. And, for god’s sake, don’t wear a tie with a short-sleeved dress shirt.
(6) Shoes.
Ah, men’s shoes. The shoes probably are the biggest factor to switch a guy from dateable to undateable. Again, they don’t need to be expensive. But they do need to be appropriate for the situation and your clothes. If you are wearing a suit, the shoes better be clean and polished. And, if you are wearing sandals, please evaluate your toes. Long toenails are really, really disgusting.
(7) Earrings and/or Tattoos.
Some guys can pull these off, some can’t. It all stems from knowing yourself. I love a well thought out and well placed tattoo. However, I’d think twice about a guy who has some other woman’s name tattooed anywhere on his body. Talk about the elephant in the room, jeez. Why not just invite the ex into bed?
Earrings are a general no-no unless you are rock-star famous. Same with other jewelry. Shiny bracelets or necklaces say "CRIMINAL" to me. Plastic watches are equally as bad - they say "I HAVEN’T STOPPED BEING THAT NERDY LITTLE BOY YET." Don’t get me wrong - nerdy men = kinda sexy. Nerdy little grown-up boys = sad. Pinky rings, well . . . need I say more?
(8) Car.
Again, the price and brand are not what most mature women are looking for in a guy’s car. In fact, if a guy has clearly spent an obnoxious amount of money on his car, it leaves a woman wondering where she will fall in the rankings and thinking it will probably be below the car. The car is evaluated for one thing - is this guy living within his means or trying to be something he’s not?
(9) Job.
First, it is important to have one. Second, remember that some women are not looking for men to support them, particularly women in their 30s. Us 30-somethings can support ourselves just fine, thank you. I make a pretty decent living and really don’t care whether you make more or less than I do. But, just like I don’t expect you to support me, I don’t expect to support you. (This changes, of course, when the relationship becomes a committed one, depending on each person’s circumstances. However, for the initial evaluation process, you’d better have yourself a job.)
(10) Eyes.
Sure, the way they physically look is important, but that’s not really what I look for. When I look at your eyes, I’m looking to see whether you make good eye contact with me. Listen, I deal with a lot of shady people, scam artists, and liars in my line of work. The one thing these people have in common? They won’t hold steady eye contact. Whether shifty-eye-ness stems from low self-esteem, criminal thinking, or general loserhood, it will get you booted off my list instantly.
Have I dated guys that don't meet all of the factors on my list? Sure. But after spending the last 20 years dating off and on, I've learned that this list can come in pretty handy.
I'm sure every woman has her own variation on the factors on this list. But, I am willing to bet that most women have lists very similar to my own. A friend and I were recently discussing my list, and I got to thinking that it would be a good public service announcement to all men. Perhaps there are several of you out there who are not aware of the list. Well, here you go. Learn something.
(1) Age.
There is probably no specific age requirement when looking for men, but men around the same age tend to have similar interests and life experiences. Personally, I have dated older men and tend to be attracted to men who are older than I am. However, I am not looking for someone who is my father’s age. That just creeps me out a little bit. So, when I’m looking at someone’s age, I usually evaluating within the 25-45 age range.
(2) Height.
This is a big factor for me and for many women. With all due respect to short men, I just can’t see myself dating one. I’m 5’8" and I absolutely prefer someone who is taller than I am, even if just an inch or two. I think it’s sort of a girl thing - I don’t know many women who want to be perceived as bigger than their mates. Sorry, short guys . . . I just don’t want to feel like an Amazon.
(3) Hair.
This category covers a lot - hair on your head, hair on your face, eyebrows, and body hair. Of course, no uni-brows. And please - no trying to cover up baldness. If you are going bald or already bald, it’s just much sexier for you to be comfortable with it and not try to cover it up. A good haircut is a necessity. I’m not saying it has to be done by a fancy salon, but something that fits you and your face.
Facial hair also depends on the person. Some men can carry off facial hair; some can’t. Full scraggly beards scream "UNKEMPT!" Moustaches alone scream "COP!" Pencil thin line beards on men with fat faces scream, "I’M TRYING TO DEFINE MY NON-EXISTENT JAW LINE!" You are not fooling anyone, guys.
(4) Teeth.
Two basic requirements for teeth - clean and all present. If you are missing a tooth, get it fixed and come back later. If you are missing more than one tooth, I think you have other underlying problems that tell me to stay away from you. Straight teeth are also preferable, but as long as you aren’t a snaggletooth, you are probably fine. A subcategory here is good breath. If I’m evaluating you on my list, it means I might consider dating you. If I am considering dating you, I might consider kissing you. However, if you have bad breath, you are not getting through my initial evaluation.
(5) Clothes.
Price doesn’t matter. I frankly don’t care where you bought your clothes or how much you paid for them. What matters is whether they fit you well, indicate a personal style, and fit the situation we are currently in. I love a man in a well-fitted suit. However, if the suit has not been tailored to fit you specifically, you might as well be wearing a wife-beater and tighty-whities. Whatever you are wearing, it needs to fit the situation. Don’t wear dress slacks to a BBQ. Don’t wear a T-shirt to a nice restaurant. And, for god’s sake, don’t wear a tie with a short-sleeved dress shirt.
(6) Shoes.
Ah, men’s shoes. The shoes probably are the biggest factor to switch a guy from dateable to undateable. Again, they don’t need to be expensive. But they do need to be appropriate for the situation and your clothes. If you are wearing a suit, the shoes better be clean and polished. And, if you are wearing sandals, please evaluate your toes. Long toenails are really, really disgusting.
(7) Earrings and/or Tattoos.
Some guys can pull these off, some can’t. It all stems from knowing yourself. I love a well thought out and well placed tattoo. However, I’d think twice about a guy who has some other woman’s name tattooed anywhere on his body. Talk about the elephant in the room, jeez. Why not just invite the ex into bed?
Earrings are a general no-no unless you are rock-star famous. Same with other jewelry. Shiny bracelets or necklaces say "CRIMINAL" to me. Plastic watches are equally as bad - they say "I HAVEN’T STOPPED BEING THAT NERDY LITTLE BOY YET." Don’t get me wrong - nerdy men = kinda sexy. Nerdy little grown-up boys = sad. Pinky rings, well . . . need I say more?
(8) Car.
Again, the price and brand are not what most mature women are looking for in a guy’s car. In fact, if a guy has clearly spent an obnoxious amount of money on his car, it leaves a woman wondering where she will fall in the rankings and thinking it will probably be below the car. The car is evaluated for one thing - is this guy living within his means or trying to be something he’s not?
(9) Job.
First, it is important to have one. Second, remember that some women are not looking for men to support them, particularly women in their 30s. Us 30-somethings can support ourselves just fine, thank you. I make a pretty decent living and really don’t care whether you make more or less than I do. But, just like I don’t expect you to support me, I don’t expect to support you. (This changes, of course, when the relationship becomes a committed one, depending on each person’s circumstances. However, for the initial evaluation process, you’d better have yourself a job.)
(10) Eyes.
Sure, the way they physically look is important, but that’s not really what I look for. When I look at your eyes, I’m looking to see whether you make good eye contact with me. Listen, I deal with a lot of shady people, scam artists, and liars in my line of work. The one thing these people have in common? They won’t hold steady eye contact. Whether shifty-eye-ness stems from low self-esteem, criminal thinking, or general loserhood, it will get you booted off my list instantly.
Have I dated guys that don't meet all of the factors on my list? Sure. But after spending the last 20 years dating off and on, I've learned that this list can come in pretty handy.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
My First “You’re FIRED!”
For the first time in my life, I fired someone. I fired my house cleaning service and it was hard. In fact, it took me about a year to lower the axe.
I hired a cleaning service two years ago when it became abundantly clear that I wouldn’t be able to keep up with the cleaning, my job, my social life, and add a child to the mix. Out of those things, I decided to give the cleaning job to someone else. The first year went well - the house was clean, they were reliable, and I was happy. Then the "team" of cleaners cleaning my house changed. And the house wasn’t exactly clean when I came home.
I made several attempts to correct the problems, notifying the company and asking for it to be fixed. And it would be fixed, for the next visit or two. Then it would go downhill again, and I would have to call and complain again. Over and over again.
Cleaning my house is not that difficult, if you like cleaning or if you are paid to clean. I really have just four requirements for a clean house:
(1) All dog and cat hair must be removed from all surfaces, including the rugs. This is the hardest part, really, because the amount of pet hair in my house is insane. But, this is why I pay someone else to do it.
(2) All floors must be clean. I know this sounds easy, but apparently it is not. Every time the service cleaned, I would come home and wipe a wet paper towel in various places on the floor. If it was still dirty (and it often was), I would call and complain. Seriously, people. I have babies - they spend a good portion of their time on the floor.
(3) Bathrooms must be clean, but especially toilets. To me, there is nothing grosser than a dirty toilet. And, again, we spend a lot of time on the floor, even in the bathroom. Although a toilet might look clean from above, it is not clean if you can see the black gunk around the rim when you are eye to eye with it. Shudder.
(4) All cobwebs must be removed from ceiling and light fixtures. I can’t stand cobwebs, probably because they remind me of spiders. How hard is it to clean cobwebs? Hard, apparently, as the same cobwebs would be present the morning before the clean, and the evening after the "clean." I have the proof. I took pictures.
That’s all I ask, aside from a general cleaning of the remainder of the house. I don’t expect them to make our beds (hell, I never make our beds) but they did it every time. I don’t expect them to take out the trash, although they always did. But then they would replace my trash bags with flimsy trash bags and, believe me, we are a family that needs HEFTY HEFTY HEFTY trash bags. I never asked them to clean my windows or the basement or the refrigerator or the oven. I never asked them to wash dishes or laundry (although my brother’s house cleaner does their laundry.) And it's a small house, relatively.
So, two weeks ago, I finally worked up the courage to fire them. What I really wanted to do was write a burning letter detailing all of their faults and failures to correct them and personally hand it over with a Donald Trump-esque "YOU’RE FIRED!" I wrote that letter over and over again in my head.
But, as it turns out, I’m a firing wimp.
Who knew? Anyone who knows me knows that I don’t shy away from confrontation, I thrive on confrontation. It’s what I get paid to do. I’ll tell anybody and their dog what I think of them if the mood strikes me and there is a good reason for it. I once had a two hour bitch-fest at the DMV because they were trying to charge me late fees for not paying my registration on time. (Admittedly, I lost that one. I mean, I had failed to pay my registration for a year. Oops. I was busy, what can I say?)
But firing a personal service company for poor service? I guess I’m just a timid little barn mouse. I couldn’t write the letter. Instead, I wrote a note that said, "Dear _______, Your services are no longer required. Please slide the key through the mail slot when you are done today." How embarrassing.
However, it didn’t really occur to me until after I fired them that . . . holy shit . . . if they aren’t going to do the cleaning . . . who is? Damn. I haven’t cleaned my house for two years. I’m not even sure I know how to anymore and I’m damn sure I still don’t have the time to clean.
Finding a new service was not easy. I don’t like strangers in my home and I really wanted to be able to trust a new house cleaner. So, after about 30 phone calls and emails, I finally found one. She is a friend of a friend and hopefully reliable. I informed her of my four criteria for a clean home. She seemed to agree. I told her some of the special rules of my house - toilet seats always down because the dog drinks the water and then pees all over; toilet paper hidden because the cat eats it; and leave the books in my bed alone - I’m reading them. Yes, all of them. Yes, all of them at the same time.
Gawd, I hope I don’t have to fire anyone else for a long time. It’s exhausting.
I hired a cleaning service two years ago when it became abundantly clear that I wouldn’t be able to keep up with the cleaning, my job, my social life, and add a child to the mix. Out of those things, I decided to give the cleaning job to someone else. The first year went well - the house was clean, they were reliable, and I was happy. Then the "team" of cleaners cleaning my house changed. And the house wasn’t exactly clean when I came home.
I made several attempts to correct the problems, notifying the company and asking for it to be fixed. And it would be fixed, for the next visit or two. Then it would go downhill again, and I would have to call and complain again. Over and over again.
Cleaning my house is not that difficult, if you like cleaning or if you are paid to clean. I really have just four requirements for a clean house:
(1) All dog and cat hair must be removed from all surfaces, including the rugs. This is the hardest part, really, because the amount of pet hair in my house is insane. But, this is why I pay someone else to do it.
(2) All floors must be clean. I know this sounds easy, but apparently it is not. Every time the service cleaned, I would come home and wipe a wet paper towel in various places on the floor. If it was still dirty (and it often was), I would call and complain. Seriously, people. I have babies - they spend a good portion of their time on the floor.
(3) Bathrooms must be clean, but especially toilets. To me, there is nothing grosser than a dirty toilet. And, again, we spend a lot of time on the floor, even in the bathroom. Although a toilet might look clean from above, it is not clean if you can see the black gunk around the rim when you are eye to eye with it. Shudder.
(4) All cobwebs must be removed from ceiling and light fixtures. I can’t stand cobwebs, probably because they remind me of spiders. How hard is it to clean cobwebs? Hard, apparently, as the same cobwebs would be present the morning before the clean, and the evening after the "clean." I have the proof. I took pictures.
That’s all I ask, aside from a general cleaning of the remainder of the house. I don’t expect them to make our beds (hell, I never make our beds) but they did it every time. I don’t expect them to take out the trash, although they always did. But then they would replace my trash bags with flimsy trash bags and, believe me, we are a family that needs HEFTY HEFTY HEFTY trash bags. I never asked them to clean my windows or the basement or the refrigerator or the oven. I never asked them to wash dishes or laundry (although my brother’s house cleaner does their laundry.) And it's a small house, relatively.
So, two weeks ago, I finally worked up the courage to fire them. What I really wanted to do was write a burning letter detailing all of their faults and failures to correct them and personally hand it over with a Donald Trump-esque "YOU’RE FIRED!" I wrote that letter over and over again in my head.
But, as it turns out, I’m a firing wimp.
Who knew? Anyone who knows me knows that I don’t shy away from confrontation, I thrive on confrontation. It’s what I get paid to do. I’ll tell anybody and their dog what I think of them if the mood strikes me and there is a good reason for it. I once had a two hour bitch-fest at the DMV because they were trying to charge me late fees for not paying my registration on time. (Admittedly, I lost that one. I mean, I had failed to pay my registration for a year. Oops. I was busy, what can I say?)
But firing a personal service company for poor service? I guess I’m just a timid little barn mouse. I couldn’t write the letter. Instead, I wrote a note that said, "Dear _______, Your services are no longer required. Please slide the key through the mail slot when you are done today." How embarrassing.
However, it didn’t really occur to me until after I fired them that . . . holy shit . . . if they aren’t going to do the cleaning . . . who is? Damn. I haven’t cleaned my house for two years. I’m not even sure I know how to anymore and I’m damn sure I still don’t have the time to clean.
Finding a new service was not easy. I don’t like strangers in my home and I really wanted to be able to trust a new house cleaner. So, after about 30 phone calls and emails, I finally found one. She is a friend of a friend and hopefully reliable. I informed her of my four criteria for a clean home. She seemed to agree. I told her some of the special rules of my house - toilet seats always down because the dog drinks the water and then pees all over; toilet paper hidden because the cat eats it; and leave the books in my bed alone - I’m reading them. Yes, all of them. Yes, all of them at the same time.
Gawd, I hope I don’t have to fire anyone else for a long time. It’s exhausting.
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