No. I did not decide to cross over to Judaism.
I did not convert for my husband (who, by the way, is everything BUT Jewish).
Remember my 24 tubes of blood? Well. The results are in and now I am Jewish. Some people walk away from blood tests to find out nothing is wrong with them. Some may find out they have diabetes, are anemic or something else. I walked away from my blood test an Ashkenazi Jew. You can imagine what a blow this was because I have been under the impression for 34 years now that I was 100% Italian American despite the fact I spent high school with some moron kid who used to throw pennies at me and say, "pick them up, Jew girl." He's dead now which is too bad because I would look him up and ask him how he knew before me.
Now. Before you start thinking I actually believe that I am now of Jewish descent, I will say that it is MORE THAN LIKELY the fucking moron taking my blood that day fucked up somehow. Perhaps he should have taken me up my offer to help him write my name and birth date on all 24 tubes since he was complaining that he had to do that next. And he had no clue what a lot of the codes I was being tested for meant. So. Yeah, I'd say there is a better chance that he fucked up than I was robbed out of a bat mitzvah.
But. Let me just explain how all this came about. While I was waiting out a recess in court my cell rang. It was my prenatal doctor's office calling with the results. I was expecting her to tell me I was a little anemic and I had Factor V Liden. She told me I did not test positive for Factor V at all but I was Protein C deficient, Protein S deficient and I had Factor XI.
So. What does this all mean? Got me. How could I have spent the last 7 years thinking I had Factor V? Then again, how could I have spent the last 34 years thinking I was Italian? Seriously, what does it mean? Got me. All I know is her last words to me were "Well. You won't be the hardest case we've had but you'll certainly be the most interesting." Um. Thanks. I guess. You see, while all the protein C & S deficiencies are clotting factors, Factor XI is actually a form of Hemophilia. Shouldn't these cancel each other out?
She wants to send me for a redo. What did I tell you?
I went back down to my office and started researching this Factor XI. Turns out it is rare but occurrences of it are common among Ashkenazi Jews because they had a very high rate of inter-marriage. Well. I'm not Jewish but my grandparents were first cousins and since I get the Factor V gene from my dad and those are his parents, I pretty much had an answer for this mystery. It did not surprise me when a few days later I spoke to the nurse at my doctor's office and she asked if I was Jewish. A valid question, I guess, she could have thought my last name on my chart was my married name. I told her I was not but I explained the kissing cousins theory and she said it makes a bit more sense.
My sister is convinced that no matter what this test says someone in my family at some point slept with an Ashlenazi Jew. It's possible but who knows. I suppose I would never know for sure unless I sunk thousands of dollars and hours into charting my family tree. My mom is really confused. And Stew and I are kinda bummed that we could have had way more wedding fun by smashing glasses under our feet and having our friends hoist up us on chairs and dance us around the room. Oh well.
So. Now I wait on the results of the redo tests (yes, of course I went to a completely different lab where I had only slightly more confidence in the staff). Oh. And of course I called my primary care doctor who administered my tests for Factor V in 2001 and had her send the results to the prenatal doctor.
Until all the tests are back I'll hold off on my membership application to the Jewish Community Center but not my craving for corned beef on rye.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
23 vials of blood
I had today off. A much needed day off. Yet, I found myself awake at 7:59 stinky, itchy, hungry, thirsty and in dire need of coffee. But. Before I could enjoy my morning coffee, a cheesey omellette and a shower I had one thing to do first.
Go for bloodwork I have been putting off since November. I was waiting for a day off because usually the lab is booked solid and the wait is hours in the a.m. I decided to spare myself some anxiety and do it on a day off. I also had to fast for 12 hours and considering one last morsel of food usually goes in my mouth around 10:30 it meant I had to wait until 10:30 to go. I decided to at least shower first because I smelled and my scalp was itchy after 2 days sans shampoo.
I got to Quest at 9:45. I figured I would have at least an hour's wait but judging by the packed parking lot it may be longer. I had to park down the street and walk which was harder than it sounds because it's like negative 2 with this wind and I was lacking the energy I usually get from stuff like food and coffee. I was surprised when I opened the door to the lab waiting room there was not a soul in sight. I was hoping to be eating in 15 minutes (and that included the ride home). Just my luck that two employees were working there today, Lazy & Stupid. Stupid was on a break and Lazy was on a personal call that wasn't ending any time soon. She told me to sign in which i thought was stupid since I was the only one there. I signed in and then stood at her window with my paperwork and insurance card. She ignored me. I finally sat down but not before rolling my eyes and sucking on my teeth.
Stupid came back from his break and changed into his lab coat. He took my paperwork and insurance card. Then, he sat me in a room and said he would be right back because he had to look up some codes. "This is a lot of blood work" he said. Apparently, he was unfamilar with some of the tests on one of my forms (I had two forms from two different doctors). After 15 minutes, he came back in and proceeded to pull tube after tube out and line them up on the counter.
21 tubes later, he was ready to start.
"Oh. Wait" Stupid said, "I want to make sure that's it . . . Oh."
23 tubes later my eyes widened.
"32 is the maximum I can take from a pregnant lady," Stupid said.
"Um, I'm not pregnant," I said, "I just lost 3 pounds. This is a skinny day."
I could see how Stupid might make the jump as some were prenatal tests. The operative word being PRE.
Around the 12th tube I thought my arm was going to fall off and I was starting to feel some discomfort when he changed tubes snapping each one in and out of place.
"My arm is starting to hurt a little," I said. Not whining or anything. Just stating a fact.
"Well. My arm hurts too," Stupid said, "I have to hold it like this and these gloves are uncomfortable."
Umm . . . Excuse me, but I am the one with a needle sticking out of my arm as you extract 23 tubes worth of my blood without paying me for it, might I add. And all I kept thinking was how Stupid was more than likely doing something wrong and I would end up back here.
I decided to make small talk to make the time go faster and think less about the pain. I said how I was surprised there was not a wait when I walked in. Stupid said most people come early because they are fasting.
"You didn't have to fast so you could come later," Stupid said.
"Actually, I am fasting," I said. Something you would have known if you saw there were glucose tests on there, STUPID!!!!
Finally Stupid was done. But not without taking one more tube "because it doesn't hurt to have extra in case I missed something."
24.
24 tubes of blood.
Stupid said I was now free to eat a big breakfast. I said all I wanted was a big coffee. Food would come later.
"Well. I'm late for break but that's okay." Stupid said.
Uh . . . Thanks. I'd hate for you to be late for a break when you just got back from one. WTF? Can you say anything right? Maybe if you knew what you were doing you could have saved 15 minutes looking up codes or asked Lazy. I bet she knew since she's Lazy and you're Stupid. I left shaking my head because I knew I would be back in about a week when my doctors realize Stupid missed something and my tests aren't complete. I am sure of it
Go for bloodwork I have been putting off since November. I was waiting for a day off because usually the lab is booked solid and the wait is hours in the a.m. I decided to spare myself some anxiety and do it on a day off. I also had to fast for 12 hours and considering one last morsel of food usually goes in my mouth around 10:30 it meant I had to wait until 10:30 to go. I decided to at least shower first because I smelled and my scalp was itchy after 2 days sans shampoo.
I got to Quest at 9:45. I figured I would have at least an hour's wait but judging by the packed parking lot it may be longer. I had to park down the street and walk which was harder than it sounds because it's like negative 2 with this wind and I was lacking the energy I usually get from stuff like food and coffee. I was surprised when I opened the door to the lab waiting room there was not a soul in sight. I was hoping to be eating in 15 minutes (and that included the ride home). Just my luck that two employees were working there today, Lazy & Stupid. Stupid was on a break and Lazy was on a personal call that wasn't ending any time soon. She told me to sign in which i thought was stupid since I was the only one there. I signed in and then stood at her window with my paperwork and insurance card. She ignored me. I finally sat down but not before rolling my eyes and sucking on my teeth.
Stupid came back from his break and changed into his lab coat. He took my paperwork and insurance card. Then, he sat me in a room and said he would be right back because he had to look up some codes. "This is a lot of blood work" he said. Apparently, he was unfamilar with some of the tests on one of my forms (I had two forms from two different doctors). After 15 minutes, he came back in and proceeded to pull tube after tube out and line them up on the counter.
21 tubes later, he was ready to start.
"Oh. Wait" Stupid said, "I want to make sure that's it . . . Oh."
23 tubes later my eyes widened.
"32 is the maximum I can take from a pregnant lady," Stupid said.
"Um, I'm not pregnant," I said, "I just lost 3 pounds. This is a skinny day."
I could see how Stupid might make the jump as some were prenatal tests. The operative word being PRE.
Around the 12th tube I thought my arm was going to fall off and I was starting to feel some discomfort when he changed tubes snapping each one in and out of place.
"My arm is starting to hurt a little," I said. Not whining or anything. Just stating a fact.
"Well. My arm hurts too," Stupid said, "I have to hold it like this and these gloves are uncomfortable."
Umm . . . Excuse me, but I am the one with a needle sticking out of my arm as you extract 23 tubes worth of my blood without paying me for it, might I add. And all I kept thinking was how Stupid was more than likely doing something wrong and I would end up back here.
I decided to make small talk to make the time go faster and think less about the pain. I said how I was surprised there was not a wait when I walked in. Stupid said most people come early because they are fasting.
"You didn't have to fast so you could come later," Stupid said.
"Actually, I am fasting," I said. Something you would have known if you saw there were glucose tests on there, STUPID!!!!
Finally Stupid was done. But not without taking one more tube "because it doesn't hurt to have extra in case I missed something."
24.
24 tubes of blood.
Stupid said I was now free to eat a big breakfast. I said all I wanted was a big coffee. Food would come later.
"Well. I'm late for break but that's okay." Stupid said.
Uh . . . Thanks. I'd hate for you to be late for a break when you just got back from one. WTF? Can you say anything right? Maybe if you knew what you were doing you could have saved 15 minutes looking up codes or asked Lazy. I bet she knew since she's Lazy and you're Stupid. I left shaking my head because I knew I would be back in about a week when my doctors realize Stupid missed something and my tests aren't complete. I am sure of it
Thursday, February 07, 2008
You don't sing me love songs
Two posts in a row. I can hardly believe. And if anyone were actually reading this thing, I bet they wouldn't believe it either.
Actually this post was supposed to be yesterday's pot but i saw that Adnan one kicking around in my drafts box and figured i should get that out before the (pill)Pop(ping) Princess went and got herself healed. But. alas, when I came home yesterday, my favorite site Perezhilton.com informed me that Brit was out of the psych word, back in the arms of her sketchy boyfriend and quickly up to her old antics. Oh well.
So. Now. We can resume our regularly scheduled post. The other night I had a strange dream. And it was not strange in content as it was the characters in it. In my dream Max Weinberg (yes of the E Street Band and the Max Weinberg 7) was a marshal in the court house. No reason for the career switch, just that he said he needed some change. Now. I wouldn't know Max if i fell over him. But. There he was in my dream. He wanted me to help him get back into music. Not only was I holding down my same everyday job in my dream but apparently I was also skilled in music management. He approached me one day explaining his story of having fallen on hard times, booze, drugs and now a marshal. He held out a soggy piece of loose leaf for me and told me he wanted me to type up this sheet of music. Now. I say there was music on the sheet but it was not notes, it was the beat spelled out like dun hum dee dee hum hum dew. I thought he wanted me to type the actual notes. But. Nope. he just wanted a transcription of the jibberish he had on the loose leaf. That is when I knew the old man was crazzzzzzzy. But. I wanted to help him. I mean how many times in a young girl's life (aside from Patti Scialfa) can you say you helped someone from the E Street Band out. So. I gave it my all thinking he was loony tunes the whole time. I was even thinking it as I shopped in macy's for Christmas decorations. Did i mention my dream was taking place in the summer time? Far be it from me not to enjoy a good presale. And I was really pissed off because my friend, the one who I'm afraid is going to get back with his own Britney Spears crazy ex girlfriend called to tell me he fell off the AA wagon and was drinking again. I wanted to help a friend but I was trying to help Max Weinberg. Hello! Max Weinberg, takes precedence over anyone else.
Needless to say waking up from this dream I was just as confused as I was while it was happening. I tried to relay it to the boy but he is half asleep as he's walking out the door so he could not grasp the greatness of it. His wife was helping Max Wienberg. You think that would get his attention. Nope. So. I started pouting until he started singing, "you don't bring me flowers" which he promplty cocked up. So, I had to show him how it's really done singing both the male and female parts while drinking coffee. Multi-talented, bitches!
Actually this post was supposed to be yesterday's pot but i saw that Adnan one kicking around in my drafts box and figured i should get that out before the (pill)Pop(ping) Princess went and got herself healed. But. alas, when I came home yesterday, my favorite site Perezhilton.com informed me that Brit was out of the psych word, back in the arms of her sketchy boyfriend and quickly up to her old antics. Oh well.
So. Now. We can resume our regularly scheduled post. The other night I had a strange dream. And it was not strange in content as it was the characters in it. In my dream Max Weinberg (yes of the E Street Band and the Max Weinberg 7) was a marshal in the court house. No reason for the career switch, just that he said he needed some change. Now. I wouldn't know Max if i fell over him. But. There he was in my dream. He wanted me to help him get back into music. Not only was I holding down my same everyday job in my dream but apparently I was also skilled in music management. He approached me one day explaining his story of having fallen on hard times, booze, drugs and now a marshal. He held out a soggy piece of loose leaf for me and told me he wanted me to type up this sheet of music. Now. I say there was music on the sheet but it was not notes, it was the beat spelled out like dun hum dee dee hum hum dew. I thought he wanted me to type the actual notes. But. Nope. he just wanted a transcription of the jibberish he had on the loose leaf. That is when I knew the old man was crazzzzzzzy. But. I wanted to help him. I mean how many times in a young girl's life (aside from Patti Scialfa) can you say you helped someone from the E Street Band out. So. I gave it my all thinking he was loony tunes the whole time. I was even thinking it as I shopped in macy's for Christmas decorations. Did i mention my dream was taking place in the summer time? Far be it from me not to enjoy a good presale. And I was really pissed off because my friend, the one who I'm afraid is going to get back with his own Britney Spears crazy ex girlfriend called to tell me he fell off the AA wagon and was drinking again. I wanted to help a friend but I was trying to help Max Weinberg. Hello! Max Weinberg, takes precedence over anyone else.
Needless to say waking up from this dream I was just as confused as I was while it was happening. I tried to relay it to the boy but he is half asleep as he's walking out the door so he could not grasp the greatness of it. His wife was helping Max Wienberg. You think that would get his attention. Nope. So. I started pouting until he started singing, "you don't bring me flowers" which he promplty cocked up. So, I had to show him how it's really done singing both the male and female parts while drinking coffee. Multi-talented, bitches!
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Adnan Gha(d)lib
So. Wait. let me get this straight. Brit Brit dates this Papparazzi cum famewhore Adnan Ghalib for a few weeks and he starts to show his face in every media outlet known to man whoring out his 15 minutes into 20 and making thousands to boot all off the fact he stuck his dick in a crazy girl and lived to tell about it. And despite this obvious exploitation, she's still with him. They're probably in cahoots together to pimp him out and get money so she can pay K-Fed's legal bills without having to dig into her own "Money for meth" piggybank.
Between you and me, Adnan doesn't bother me as much for cashing in on his 15 minutes as it does that he answers any interviewer's question like a Dr. Seuss book. Any intelligent interviewer might slap him on the back of his head and try to stop the skipping but instead they plug right along.
Interviewer: If Britney asked you to marry her, would you say yes?
Adnan: Would anyone say no?
Interviewer: Do you think Britney is crazy?
Adnan: I think she is smarter than you think.
We didn't ask about her IQ, Adnan. We asked about her mental stability, genius. Way to give an interview without giving any answers. Would you like some green eggs and ham with all that steaming pile of bullshit you're serving up. I bet you do. One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish.
Alas, I am glad that all this Brit-drama is coming to an end and her parents wised up that they should take control of her life like a 2 year-old chils and reign in the crazy. It was fune while it lasted but now it's getting old and sad. I'll miss that british accent she adopted. I mean, Madonna has been getting away with that shtick for years, I was rooting Brit could pull it off without looking batshit crazy. But. there were too many other factors working against her there.
Between you and me, Adnan doesn't bother me as much for cashing in on his 15 minutes as it does that he answers any interviewer's question like a Dr. Seuss book. Any intelligent interviewer might slap him on the back of his head and try to stop the skipping but instead they plug right along.
Interviewer: If Britney asked you to marry her, would you say yes?
Adnan: Would anyone say no?
Interviewer: Do you think Britney is crazy?
Adnan: I think she is smarter than you think.
We didn't ask about her IQ, Adnan. We asked about her mental stability, genius. Way to give an interview without giving any answers. Would you like some green eggs and ham with all that steaming pile of bullshit you're serving up. I bet you do. One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish.
Alas, I am glad that all this Brit-drama is coming to an end and her parents wised up that they should take control of her life like a 2 year-old chils and reign in the crazy. It was fune while it lasted but now it's getting old and sad. I'll miss that british accent she adopted. I mean, Madonna has been getting away with that shtick for years, I was rooting Brit could pull it off without looking batshit crazy. But. there were too many other factors working against her there.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Truly, madly, deeply . . . . . stupid.
It's no surprise. Despite my happy go lucky nature, I secretly dislike most people. However, I outwardly dislike people who seem to repeat their mistakes over and over and over again. It's okay to screw up once. Maybe even twice. But, if you do it constantly then I begin to think that you're the one with the problem not the other person.
Remember a while back, my story about my friend with the crazy ex who not only had a few screws loose but they seemingly fell out of her head while she walked like an open toolbox. And how I told you about his extreme hate of her and his promise that if he ever gets back together with her he should have his head check.
Well. I hope he made that doctor's appointment.
It had been a few days since I heard from him. I knew that meant something bad. How did I know that? My third fucking eye . . . . and zilch faith in humanity.
So. I wrote him an e-mail that said: "Don't think I don't know what you're doing."
To which he responded, "WTF?"
And I just replied, "Uh-huh. I thought so."
Which warranted a call asking me to explain. I said, "you are back with her. I know it. So. Just fess up to it now so i can call you a loser and terminate our friendship."
See. Right before Christmas he came out to dinner with us. It ended up being a huge "woe is me" fest from him. And every time the conversation dared to move off of his favorite subject - himself, he made sure to swing it right back. And when he wasn't dominating the conversation about his undying love for crazy; he was asking me if I was eating for two and grabbing at my thighs. Exactly! So glad you invited yourself. Geeze.
Anyway, he insisted that I read a lengthy e-mail exchange between him and crazy despite my pleadings that i did not care and did not want to read it. See. That should let most of you (who know I am a prying, meddling, busy bee) know just exactly how sick I am of hearing about crazy that I wasn't frothing at the mouth when he offered to let me read e-mails. I scanned them on his phone while waiting for my jalapeno poppers to arrive but i kept hitting buttons (mainly on purpose) and bringing it back to the home scree. Whoops! Did i do that?
What i read seemed to be the same old same old bs. She was blaming him for everything that went wrong in their relationship and how cruel was to her after all the while not even taking a nugget of responsibility for being crazy and having a drinking problem. And he even said it. Plain as day. "I could actually see myself back together with her if she only admitted that she had a problem." Stew and I both looked at him like he was batshit stupid. With one look we managed to say to each other, "don't say anything, let's just eat some wings."
So. It was no surprise when my friend called me from California where he was visiting over Christmas and said that he just had a two hour conversation with crazy and she admitted she had a problem.
Sigh.
Sometimes love is so blind because it can't see past its own erection.
Now. Any rational person who is less than inch removed from the situation could see that she finally realized what she had to do out of all her desperate pleas to get him back which included, but were not limited to:
- Showing up at his house unnannounced and crying and convulsing with siezures (as my friend put it)
- Showing up at his job unannounced and crying and convulsing with seizures
- Meeting him in parking lots to pick up her mail crying and convulsing with seizures
- Calling him while crying and convulsing with seizures
- Writing him emails berating him for being so mean and cruel to her while crying and convulsing with seizures
- Telling him she was getting back together with her ex-husband
- Texting him that his match profile seemed bitter and mean and she was worried about him.
It finally clicked with her that all she had to do was admit to having a drinking problem and she was back in regardless if she didn't want to get help or anything. So. She did it and he fell hook, line and sinker.
Yes. Okay. So that is how I really knew, did you think I seriously had a third eye?
So. When he called me that night to ask me what i meant by all my cryptic e-mails I decided not to beat around the bush. "are you back with crazy?" Of course in trying to mask the answer he went on to tell me that i didn't have much business calling people crazy. I enlightened him on good crazy (me) and bad call the police crazy (her). He said they were not fully back together but it was going in that direction. I asked if she was going to go to AA with him? No. Was she willing to get any help at all? I don't know. Did it cross your mind at all that the only reason she may have said this to you was to get back together with you and has no intention of trying to fix her problem? It did cross my mind but i am madly, deeply in love with her. I hung up madly deeply offended that he spent MONTHS crying and bitching to me and this is what he does.
Today was the first I have heard from him in weeks. Of course he wanted something which is what i asked him after I finally picked up after 4 ignored attempts. I had a bone to pick with him anyway because my dad told me he ignored him at the gym and NOBODY ignores my daddy! Of course I HAD to ask about crazy. he said he hasn't heard from her since they went to couples counseling last Tuesday.
Times like those I wish i had a mouth full of water so I could laugh and spray for dramatic effect.
Remember a while back, my story about my friend with the crazy ex who not only had a few screws loose but they seemingly fell out of her head while she walked like an open toolbox. And how I told you about his extreme hate of her and his promise that if he ever gets back together with her he should have his head check.
Well. I hope he made that doctor's appointment.
It had been a few days since I heard from him. I knew that meant something bad. How did I know that? My third fucking eye . . . . and zilch faith in humanity.
So. I wrote him an e-mail that said: "Don't think I don't know what you're doing."
To which he responded, "WTF?"
And I just replied, "Uh-huh. I thought so."
Which warranted a call asking me to explain. I said, "you are back with her. I know it. So. Just fess up to it now so i can call you a loser and terminate our friendship."
See. Right before Christmas he came out to dinner with us. It ended up being a huge "woe is me" fest from him. And every time the conversation dared to move off of his favorite subject - himself, he made sure to swing it right back. And when he wasn't dominating the conversation about his undying love for crazy; he was asking me if I was eating for two and grabbing at my thighs. Exactly! So glad you invited yourself. Geeze.
Anyway, he insisted that I read a lengthy e-mail exchange between him and crazy despite my pleadings that i did not care and did not want to read it. See. That should let most of you (who know I am a prying, meddling, busy bee) know just exactly how sick I am of hearing about crazy that I wasn't frothing at the mouth when he offered to let me read e-mails. I scanned them on his phone while waiting for my jalapeno poppers to arrive but i kept hitting buttons (mainly on purpose) and bringing it back to the home scree. Whoops! Did i do that?
What i read seemed to be the same old same old bs. She was blaming him for everything that went wrong in their relationship and how cruel was to her after all the while not even taking a nugget of responsibility for being crazy and having a drinking problem. And he even said it. Plain as day. "I could actually see myself back together with her if she only admitted that she had a problem." Stew and I both looked at him like he was batshit stupid. With one look we managed to say to each other, "don't say anything, let's just eat some wings."
So. It was no surprise when my friend called me from California where he was visiting over Christmas and said that he just had a two hour conversation with crazy and she admitted she had a problem.
Sigh.
Sometimes love is so blind because it can't see past its own erection.
Now. Any rational person who is less than inch removed from the situation could see that she finally realized what she had to do out of all her desperate pleas to get him back which included, but were not limited to:
- Showing up at his house unnannounced and crying and convulsing with siezures (as my friend put it)
- Showing up at his job unannounced and crying and convulsing with seizures
- Meeting him in parking lots to pick up her mail crying and convulsing with seizures
- Calling him while crying and convulsing with seizures
- Writing him emails berating him for being so mean and cruel to her while crying and convulsing with seizures
- Telling him she was getting back together with her ex-husband
- Texting him that his match profile seemed bitter and mean and she was worried about him.
It finally clicked with her that all she had to do was admit to having a drinking problem and she was back in regardless if she didn't want to get help or anything. So. She did it and he fell hook, line and sinker.
Yes. Okay. So that is how I really knew, did you think I seriously had a third eye?
So. When he called me that night to ask me what i meant by all my cryptic e-mails I decided not to beat around the bush. "are you back with crazy?" Of course in trying to mask the answer he went on to tell me that i didn't have much business calling people crazy. I enlightened him on good crazy (me) and bad call the police crazy (her). He said they were not fully back together but it was going in that direction. I asked if she was going to go to AA with him? No. Was she willing to get any help at all? I don't know. Did it cross your mind at all that the only reason she may have said this to you was to get back together with you and has no intention of trying to fix her problem? It did cross my mind but i am madly, deeply in love with her. I hung up madly deeply offended that he spent MONTHS crying and bitching to me and this is what he does.
Today was the first I have heard from him in weeks. Of course he wanted something which is what i asked him after I finally picked up after 4 ignored attempts. I had a bone to pick with him anyway because my dad told me he ignored him at the gym and NOBODY ignores my daddy! Of course I HAD to ask about crazy. he said he hasn't heard from her since they went to couples counseling last Tuesday.
Times like those I wish i had a mouth full of water so I could laugh and spray for dramatic effect.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
I'm obligated to speak the truth
I said something that was mean. I know. That's not really blog worthy. Some people call me "black souled" and perhaps I am sometimes deserving of such a title. And on those days I revel in my meanness. I embrace it lovingly and prepare for a slow waltz. One da, da, da. Two, da, da, da.
So. Yesterday with little else to do, we watched Entertainment Tonight while eating our Chinese feast. This was after I indulged in Extra while exercising. I know. You're laughing that I was watching Extra, right. You wouldn't think of laughing at the fact I was exercising. Anyway, after devoting 28 to their 30 minutes to Britney Spears stories that pervert O'neil and the other one had the audacity to say how they are OBLIGATED to report on Britney news. In other words, "do not send up hate mail for fanning the flames of this girl's demise we're only doing our jobs."
Stew and I both told the TV to suck our asses. Actually Stew was nicer and said "No, you're not. You love it." I believe it was me who said, "suck my ass, bitches." Britney sells and 98% of this world is buyin'. I don't know about you but a good Brit Gone Crazy story can put a smile on my face faster than the smell of turkey bacon in the morning. Even Doctor Phil jumped on the bandwagon (Hey, Maury was legit too for a while). He gave a two part exclusive to ET talking about how he went to the hospital to see Britney. The best was the good doctor saying, "I won't talk about what happened because it's private" and then he went on to tell every detail from the moment he walked through the hospital doors to the time he left.
That's when I let it slip. "I would be really disappointed if she didn't kill herself. I mean all this has to lead up to something. There is no other way it can end." Hahaha! Whoops! Was that out loud?
Go ahead and tell me I am mean. That she is mentally ill and you feel sorry for her. I feel sorry for her too because anyone that has been spiraling THAT out of control for over a year now in the public eye MUST have something wrong with her. It's not like Anna Nicole who popped in out of our lives in various states of crazy. This has been one long wild ride that seems to only get more thrilling as the days past. And if she is indeed that mentally ill then shouldn't someone be having her declared insane and have her locked up a bit until she gets that "in patient help she so desperately needs." Those are Dr. Phil's words not mine.
Stew looked at me like I was some kind of evil. But this is the guy who sat there months ago watching anorexic twins break down on ET. And I wouldn't think this was mean had he not yelled at the TV, "I'll take ya to Vinny's" while balancing a dish on his gut and chewing with his mouth open. Then he laughed so hard at himself that the plate shook uncontrollably. It was a sight. Kinda like when I got Triscuits in my eye and now i get reprimanded when he sees me tilt a bag over my mouth.
And go ahead and tell me it wouldn't be somewhat of a relief to wake up one day and find out Brit is dead. And if that wasn't enough you can watch the two week long coverage of her funeral on ET followed by another two weeks of "what's next for Sean Preston and Jayden James."
So. Yesterday with little else to do, we watched Entertainment Tonight while eating our Chinese feast. This was after I indulged in Extra while exercising. I know. You're laughing that I was watching Extra, right. You wouldn't think of laughing at the fact I was exercising. Anyway, after devoting 28 to their 30 minutes to Britney Spears stories that pervert O'neil and the other one had the audacity to say how they are OBLIGATED to report on Britney news. In other words, "do not send up hate mail for fanning the flames of this girl's demise we're only doing our jobs."
Stew and I both told the TV to suck our asses. Actually Stew was nicer and said "No, you're not. You love it." I believe it was me who said, "suck my ass, bitches." Britney sells and 98% of this world is buyin'. I don't know about you but a good Brit Gone Crazy story can put a smile on my face faster than the smell of turkey bacon in the morning. Even Doctor Phil jumped on the bandwagon (Hey, Maury was legit too for a while). He gave a two part exclusive to ET talking about how he went to the hospital to see Britney. The best was the good doctor saying, "I won't talk about what happened because it's private" and then he went on to tell every detail from the moment he walked through the hospital doors to the time he left.
That's when I let it slip. "I would be really disappointed if she didn't kill herself. I mean all this has to lead up to something. There is no other way it can end." Hahaha! Whoops! Was that out loud?
Go ahead and tell me I am mean. That she is mentally ill and you feel sorry for her. I feel sorry for her too because anyone that has been spiraling THAT out of control for over a year now in the public eye MUST have something wrong with her. It's not like Anna Nicole who popped in out of our lives in various states of crazy. This has been one long wild ride that seems to only get more thrilling as the days past. And if she is indeed that mentally ill then shouldn't someone be having her declared insane and have her locked up a bit until she gets that "in patient help she so desperately needs." Those are Dr. Phil's words not mine.
Stew looked at me like I was some kind of evil. But this is the guy who sat there months ago watching anorexic twins break down on ET. And I wouldn't think this was mean had he not yelled at the TV, "I'll take ya to Vinny's" while balancing a dish on his gut and chewing with his mouth open. Then he laughed so hard at himself that the plate shook uncontrollably. It was a sight. Kinda like when I got Triscuits in my eye and now i get reprimanded when he sees me tilt a bag over my mouth.
And go ahead and tell me it wouldn't be somewhat of a relief to wake up one day and find out Brit is dead. And if that wasn't enough you can watch the two week long coverage of her funeral on ET followed by another two weeks of "what's next for Sean Preston and Jayden James."
Monday, December 31, 2007
Off the hook . . . . for now
Okay. So. He's off the hook.
No. the game did not break on its own. I just committed what I found out is a first year faux pas. Apparently I broke a cardinal rule of returning a gift my husband got me before the five year time limit of truth in a marriage.
See. I hinted HEAVILY that I wanted a necklace I saw at Tiffany. Anyone who knows me knows that subtlety is not a strong point of mine so hinting heavily means asking if he got it everyday and then tiling a picture of the necklace and making it his background.
Christmas morning, before i even started opening my gifts, I asked where my card was. He told me I could have it AFTER I opened up my stocking stuffers. So. I did. then I asked again for my card. He told me to just open presents. I opened present after present, none of them looking like it could contain my necklace.
Exasperated (and surrounded by paper) I asked again for my card. I was ready to call off Christmas if I didn't get a card. He handed me my card. Finally. It was cute and he doctored it up to fit us. And it contained a riddle. A riddle that led to my necklace hidden in the room. I danced about and hooted and hollered. However, upon seeing it in real life I did not like the necklace as much as I thought I would. It didn't fall right and the double chain was not as dainty as I like my necklaces to be. Within 10 minutes I asked if we could return it.
I found out later that what i did was rude. That I should never ask my husband to return a gift he bought me. Whoops. But most womyn aren't married to a Stew. One who could laugh (although through gritted teeth) at his wife. And one who would rather spend the money on something i really like. Of course I picked out a necklace that was far too close my favorite $7 Target necklace he got me 2 years ago that i couldn't justify making him spend more than 25 times that when this necklace is still perfectly fine. So. He ended up taking a credit on his credit card for a necklace I asked for and he went through hell to get and even more hell trying to surprise my inquisitive ass with. I feel bad.
But. Not not bad enough to tell him my plan. All I need is another few Tiffany credit Christmases like this one and maybe I can get some diamond studs.
No. the game did not break on its own. I just committed what I found out is a first year faux pas. Apparently I broke a cardinal rule of returning a gift my husband got me before the five year time limit of truth in a marriage.
See. I hinted HEAVILY that I wanted a necklace I saw at Tiffany. Anyone who knows me knows that subtlety is not a strong point of mine so hinting heavily means asking if he got it everyday and then tiling a picture of the necklace and making it his background.
Christmas morning, before i even started opening my gifts, I asked where my card was. He told me I could have it AFTER I opened up my stocking stuffers. So. I did. then I asked again for my card. He told me to just open presents. I opened present after present, none of them looking like it could contain my necklace.
Exasperated (and surrounded by paper) I asked again for my card. I was ready to call off Christmas if I didn't get a card. He handed me my card. Finally. It was cute and he doctored it up to fit us. And it contained a riddle. A riddle that led to my necklace hidden in the room. I danced about and hooted and hollered. However, upon seeing it in real life I did not like the necklace as much as I thought I would. It didn't fall right and the double chain was not as dainty as I like my necklaces to be. Within 10 minutes I asked if we could return it.
I found out later that what i did was rude. That I should never ask my husband to return a gift he bought me. Whoops. But most womyn aren't married to a Stew. One who could laugh (although through gritted teeth) at his wife. And one who would rather spend the money on something i really like. Of course I picked out a necklace that was far too close my favorite $7 Target necklace he got me 2 years ago that i couldn't justify making him spend more than 25 times that when this necklace is still perfectly fine. So. He ended up taking a credit on his credit card for a necklace I asked for and he went through hell to get and even more hell trying to surprise my inquisitive ass with. I feel bad.
But. Not not bad enough to tell him my plan. All I need is another few Tiffany credit Christmases like this one and maybe I can get some diamond studs.
Monday, December 24, 2007
An open letter to my Husband:
My darling,
I love you. Every morning I wake up and look at your face hovering over me (as you are the one waking me up) and I find new reasons to love you. Lately it feels as though something is coming between us. It's not the football that occupies most waking moments from August until the Superbowl. It's not the late night poker games. Or, the other months chock full of Fantasy Sports orgies with your friends. It's not even the weeks spent planning when you 're about to embark on an occasional Dungeons and Douchebags campaign. It is none of these things.
See, call this what it is. I guess one might call it a thinly veiled threat. But. One of the problems with having a wife who more technically advanced than she lets on is the fact that, if pushed to the point, she will begin uninstalling things that seem to hog up a large amount of your time. Yes, dear, i am talking about your Guild Wars.
You see, so far the past two weeks have gone a lot like this for me:
Work every day
Do most of the Christmas shopping
Wrote out and sent all of the Christmas cards
Did all of the wrapping
Baked 12 dozen cookies
Cleaned the entire house
Did my laundry (which I only started doing AFTER you washed my cashmere sweater)
Vacuumed and dusted every room
Took home and completed SEVERAL transcripts.
Took care of a dog
And here are the things I asked you to do to help me out:
Take the dog out at least every two hours
Pick up the bread for Christmas Eve
Pick up my mother's gift certificate at the nail salon which you offered to do MULTIPLE times.
Clean the downstairs bathroom (which I eventually did)
Empty the dishwasher
As of 1:37 p.m. Christmas Eve here is what you have done of all the things I have asked in the past two weeks:
Emptied the dishwasher
Maybe it will help you to see this in black and white. Maybe I should bold it. I know you will say that baking the cookies and doing the Christmas cards and cleaning are my choice. But you remember how the cashmere sweater got washed, don't you? I believe it was a comment about the bedroom being so messy you weren't sure if was in the dirty pile or the clean one. Forget the fact that you drove it to and picked it up from the dry cleaners for me several times in the past 4 years.
Here is what you have done for NUMEROUS hours:
Played Guild Wars
Do you see how I might be a little frustrated? And hey, I know I mess a lot with my Sims games but that is after I have done everything else I am supposed to do. I'm being pushed to the brink of uninstallation and here's why. The topic of kids coming into the picture is now a reality. But. I swear to God, I will keep this IUD in for the rest of my life and pretend like I have NO CLUE why we're not getting pregnant if you don't start pulling your weight. And the only way you will wise up to what I'm doing is if you take me to get an x-ray and I know you won't make time for that much less remember the appointment.
I recall when my patience broke the first time. I was inundated with typing and was complaining how I had to type all weekend but now I was even more stressed because I told my nephews theyc ould sleep over. You told me not to worry. That you would watch them. I trusted you and went upstairs to type. Things were good for a while until I heard tiny footsteps coming up the stairs and to my office door and then it opened. And soon I knew his brother would follow. I peeked down the stairs and what were you doing? You were on one couch with your laptop firmly planted in your lap playing your gime while the little one was racing cows but the other one was bothering me. One little thing. Do you see how this might worry me that if we have kids I'll end up doing EVERYTHING until the resentment spills over and I start taking a meat cleaver to wires?
I am sure if I uninstall your game (which I will do and anyone who knows me knows I'm EXACTLY the kind of a vindictive bitch who will do it) you will find something else to occupy your time. And you know what, that will mysteriously break too. It will all break until you are standing in a pile of broken plastic guitars, uninstalled games, busted CDs (because surely you will attempt to reinstall it) and broken up PS3s.
I'm sorry it has come to this. But. You cannot say you weren't warned. I have been telling you for months now that I'm getting close to breaking all your toys. I've muttered it under my breath. I've shouted it from rooftops. Shape up or pick up your feet when walking among the broken plastic.
Love always,
Lulu
I love you. Every morning I wake up and look at your face hovering over me (as you are the one waking me up) and I find new reasons to love you. Lately it feels as though something is coming between us. It's not the football that occupies most waking moments from August until the Superbowl. It's not the late night poker games. Or, the other months chock full of Fantasy Sports orgies with your friends. It's not even the weeks spent planning when you 're about to embark on an occasional Dungeons and Douchebags campaign. It is none of these things.
See, call this what it is. I guess one might call it a thinly veiled threat. But. One of the problems with having a wife who more technically advanced than she lets on is the fact that, if pushed to the point, she will begin uninstalling things that seem to hog up a large amount of your time. Yes, dear, i am talking about your Guild Wars.
You see, so far the past two weeks have gone a lot like this for me:
Work every day
Do most of the Christmas shopping
Wrote out and sent all of the Christmas cards
Did all of the wrapping
Baked 12 dozen cookies
Cleaned the entire house
Did my laundry (which I only started doing AFTER you washed my cashmere sweater)
Vacuumed and dusted every room
Took home and completed SEVERAL transcripts.
Took care of a dog
And here are the things I asked you to do to help me out:
Take the dog out at least every two hours
Pick up the bread for Christmas Eve
Pick up my mother's gift certificate at the nail salon which you offered to do MULTIPLE times.
Clean the downstairs bathroom (which I eventually did)
Empty the dishwasher
As of 1:37 p.m. Christmas Eve here is what you have done of all the things I have asked in the past two weeks:
Emptied the dishwasher
Maybe it will help you to see this in black and white. Maybe I should bold it. I know you will say that baking the cookies and doing the Christmas cards and cleaning are my choice. But you remember how the cashmere sweater got washed, don't you? I believe it was a comment about the bedroom being so messy you weren't sure if was in the dirty pile or the clean one. Forget the fact that you drove it to and picked it up from the dry cleaners for me several times in the past 4 years.
Here is what you have done for NUMEROUS hours:
Played Guild Wars
Do you see how I might be a little frustrated? And hey, I know I mess a lot with my Sims games but that is after I have done everything else I am supposed to do. I'm being pushed to the brink of uninstallation and here's why. The topic of kids coming into the picture is now a reality. But. I swear to God, I will keep this IUD in for the rest of my life and pretend like I have NO CLUE why we're not getting pregnant if you don't start pulling your weight. And the only way you will wise up to what I'm doing is if you take me to get an x-ray and I know you won't make time for that much less remember the appointment.
I recall when my patience broke the first time. I was inundated with typing and was complaining how I had to type all weekend but now I was even more stressed because I told my nephews theyc ould sleep over. You told me not to worry. That you would watch them. I trusted you and went upstairs to type. Things were good for a while until I heard tiny footsteps coming up the stairs and to my office door and then it opened. And soon I knew his brother would follow. I peeked down the stairs and what were you doing? You were on one couch with your laptop firmly planted in your lap playing your gime while the little one was racing cows but the other one was bothering me. One little thing. Do you see how this might worry me that if we have kids I'll end up doing EVERYTHING until the resentment spills over and I start taking a meat cleaver to wires?
I am sure if I uninstall your game (which I will do and anyone who knows me knows I'm EXACTLY the kind of a vindictive bitch who will do it) you will find something else to occupy your time. And you know what, that will mysteriously break too. It will all break until you are standing in a pile of broken plastic guitars, uninstalled games, busted CDs (because surely you will attempt to reinstall it) and broken up PS3s.
I'm sorry it has come to this. But. You cannot say you weren't warned. I have been telling you for months now that I'm getting close to breaking all your toys. I've muttered it under my breath. I've shouted it from rooftops. Shape up or pick up your feet when walking among the broken plastic.
Love always,
Lulu
Monday, December 10, 2007
Smoke & Mirrors
** Names have been changed to protect the fraudulent and save myself from a lawsuit **
I can remember when I learned that Santa Claus was fictional.
I can remember when I found out it was really my parents posing as the tooth fairy.
I expect, as an adult, I'm going to experience some of the same letdowns on a different scale. However, I feel as tho' I have been duped twice. And frankly, I am sick of it.
I can't mention names because I'd probably get sued but if I've learned anything this past year it's how to artfully dodge the truth and not implicate yourself while doing it. A couple of years ago a very successful chain BBQ restaurant opened a few towns over. The gimmick of this place is down home BBQ cooking and leads you to believe that the owner and his wife are overweight, artery clogging hillbillys who live in a double wide and she sends him off to work everyday with a mason jar packed with pulled pork, slaw, mac and cheese and biscuits. And heavens forbid he cut himself on the job he'd bleed three different kinds of BBQ sauce.
So, one day we were eating in said restaurant for a family dinner (who am I calling a hillbilly here?) and the owner comes over and introduces himself just like any good businessman would when he $ee$ a party of ten. The menu leads you to believe the owner is in the back wearing a raccoon tail cap standing over a smoker in a wifebeater and jeans slick with grease.
At least that's what i want to believe when I bit into the smokey goodness of a my "burnt ends."
But "Big Billy" comes over to the table in his probably cashmere cardigan, khakis and loafers. And he's far from shopping at the Big & Tall. A southern accent isn't even remotely detected and when he finds out my aunt and uncle are from Rye he begins to tell them about all the country clubs he belongs to there and all the golfing he does. My "burnt ends' started tasting less smokey and more burnt as the grungy image of Big Billy evaporated before my eyes.
Enough time had lapsed for me to forget and work up another craving for their ribs. Plus, it was Good Friday and the Boy and I have a tradition of going to meat places that are usually packed on a Friday night on Good Friday because we're under the impression there will be less of a wait.
So, this particular Friday I was about ready to bite into my burnt ends when a well-dressed lady comes over to our table tastefully dressed with enough jewelry to say "I'm not flashy but I have more money than everyone in here" and introduces herself to us as "Miss BobbyJo".
Again, I wanted Miss BobbyJo to be at home eating bon bons while watching her stories and waiting for Big Billy to come home so she can fry up a ham steak. But no. Here she was looking like she fell of a page of the Ann Taylor catalog. She asked us where were from and that led to a few other questions about us and it came out about the wedding and where it was. She went onto say how Big Billy belongs to Country Clubs up there and how he belongs to about 50 different clubs and golfs all the time and how their daughter is getting married at some country club in DC (which i later looked up and found it was like $250 a plate).
Long story short. We haven't been back since.
So. A few times the Boy has tried to coax me back into BBQ food, which, honestly, prior to my low-carb lifestyle I was never into. He started raving about some Cajun place a couple of towns over that had the best food. So. one day I relented and we went there. I read all the articles on the wall and looked at all the pictures and I was lead to believe that I was about to eat some real Cajun food that will rival something I'd find in the streets of the Big Easy. That the owner spent most of his life in the New Orleans cooking for the locals and now he wanted to bring a little of that to Connecticut. It was tasty and I happily devoured everything in my plate while listening to some blues.
We had gone back a few times since that amazing day. And every time we returned the food was more delicious than the last and my desire to see N'awlins was dying because this was just like being there. This past weekend, we stopped in for some lunch and the owner was there (as he usually was). He asked us if we wanted to try some chili and when we said sure he came over with generous samplings piled high over sausage filled jambalaya.
Feel those arteries clog. A slow death never tasted so good.
He asked the boy and I if we've ever been to New Orleans and when we said no he said, "this is what it's like. Good food and jazz playing". he went onto say how so many restaurants in Fairfield County lack hospitality. Amen to that. And how they act like they're doing you a favor to get you more water when you're spending $30 a plate. Amen to that too.
Then he screwed himself. He asked us where we were from and when we said Stamford, he said "I was raised there too. West side." I said "me too" ready to start slinging some gang signs as soon as I moved my Dooney & Burke to a less sauce soaked spot on the table. But faster than i could do that the vision of eating tasty food cooked by a Ragin' Cajun disappeared faster than those FEMA e-mails. *POOF* Gone. Duped again. He told me how he was trained at an Italian restaurant I knew very well because I was best friends with the chef's daughter. Then to add insult to injury he asked if i was around in the 60's or 70's. Oh my god, do I look like I am pushing 50? Most people don;t even believe I'm in my 30's.
Moments ago i was talking to the boy about having him cater our Superbowl Party but now I may as well have been sitting in Chi Chi's.
Duped again. Just for that I threw out the rest of his free sample. Lie to me!!!!
I can remember when I learned that Santa Claus was fictional.
I can remember when I found out it was really my parents posing as the tooth fairy.
I expect, as an adult, I'm going to experience some of the same letdowns on a different scale. However, I feel as tho' I have been duped twice. And frankly, I am sick of it.
I can't mention names because I'd probably get sued but if I've learned anything this past year it's how to artfully dodge the truth and not implicate yourself while doing it. A couple of years ago a very successful chain BBQ restaurant opened a few towns over. The gimmick of this place is down home BBQ cooking and leads you to believe that the owner and his wife are overweight, artery clogging hillbillys who live in a double wide and she sends him off to work everyday with a mason jar packed with pulled pork, slaw, mac and cheese and biscuits. And heavens forbid he cut himself on the job he'd bleed three different kinds of BBQ sauce.
So, one day we were eating in said restaurant for a family dinner (who am I calling a hillbilly here?) and the owner comes over and introduces himself just like any good businessman would when he $ee$ a party of ten. The menu leads you to believe the owner is in the back wearing a raccoon tail cap standing over a smoker in a wifebeater and jeans slick with grease.
At least that's what i want to believe when I bit into the smokey goodness of a my "burnt ends."
But "Big Billy" comes over to the table in his probably cashmere cardigan, khakis and loafers. And he's far from shopping at the Big & Tall. A southern accent isn't even remotely detected and when he finds out my aunt and uncle are from Rye he begins to tell them about all the country clubs he belongs to there and all the golfing he does. My "burnt ends' started tasting less smokey and more burnt as the grungy image of Big Billy evaporated before my eyes.
Enough time had lapsed for me to forget and work up another craving for their ribs. Plus, it was Good Friday and the Boy and I have a tradition of going to meat places that are usually packed on a Friday night on Good Friday because we're under the impression there will be less of a wait.
So, this particular Friday I was about ready to bite into my burnt ends when a well-dressed lady comes over to our table tastefully dressed with enough jewelry to say "I'm not flashy but I have more money than everyone in here" and introduces herself to us as "Miss BobbyJo".
Again, I wanted Miss BobbyJo to be at home eating bon bons while watching her stories and waiting for Big Billy to come home so she can fry up a ham steak. But no. Here she was looking like she fell of a page of the Ann Taylor catalog. She asked us where were from and that led to a few other questions about us and it came out about the wedding and where it was. She went onto say how Big Billy belongs to Country Clubs up there and how he belongs to about 50 different clubs and golfs all the time and how their daughter is getting married at some country club in DC (which i later looked up and found it was like $250 a plate).
Long story short. We haven't been back since.
So. A few times the Boy has tried to coax me back into BBQ food, which, honestly, prior to my low-carb lifestyle I was never into. He started raving about some Cajun place a couple of towns over that had the best food. So. one day I relented and we went there. I read all the articles on the wall and looked at all the pictures and I was lead to believe that I was about to eat some real Cajun food that will rival something I'd find in the streets of the Big Easy. That the owner spent most of his life in the New Orleans cooking for the locals and now he wanted to bring a little of that to Connecticut. It was tasty and I happily devoured everything in my plate while listening to some blues.
We had gone back a few times since that amazing day. And every time we returned the food was more delicious than the last and my desire to see N'awlins was dying because this was just like being there. This past weekend, we stopped in for some lunch and the owner was there (as he usually was). He asked us if we wanted to try some chili and when we said sure he came over with generous samplings piled high over sausage filled jambalaya.
Feel those arteries clog. A slow death never tasted so good.
He asked the boy and I if we've ever been to New Orleans and when we said no he said, "this is what it's like. Good food and jazz playing". he went onto say how so many restaurants in Fairfield County lack hospitality. Amen to that. And how they act like they're doing you a favor to get you more water when you're spending $30 a plate. Amen to that too.
Then he screwed himself. He asked us where we were from and when we said Stamford, he said "I was raised there too. West side." I said "me too" ready to start slinging some gang signs as soon as I moved my Dooney & Burke to a less sauce soaked spot on the table. But faster than i could do that the vision of eating tasty food cooked by a Ragin' Cajun disappeared faster than those FEMA e-mails. *POOF* Gone. Duped again. He told me how he was trained at an Italian restaurant I knew very well because I was best friends with the chef's daughter. Then to add insult to injury he asked if i was around in the 60's or 70's. Oh my god, do I look like I am pushing 50? Most people don;t even believe I'm in my 30's.
Moments ago i was talking to the boy about having him cater our Superbowl Party but now I may as well have been sitting in Chi Chi's.
Duped again. Just for that I threw out the rest of his free sample. Lie to me!!!!
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
If the eyes are the windows to the soul than your words are Saran Wrap
So my friend who broke up with his lunatic ex girlfriend seems to be healing nicely. I wrote a match.com profile rife with only the sarcasm I can achieve with the attitude he can carry and he is getting some bites. I kinda figured as I was writing it that she would more than likely read it. I mean any girl who meets a guy on Match stalks him for a while after the break up to see what their new profile reads and how often they are active. I can't tell you how many phone calls from my friends that started with, "we broke up three days ago and his ad is already back up." I remember after ending things with jersey boy I was a bit disturbed that barely two whole days passed when his ad went back up including a picture I took of him. Tacky.
Anyway, I knew that the ex-loon would see his ad so I tried to be careful not to be too mean when I wrote it. But. he asked me to honest and sometimes the lines between honest and mean get a bit blurred and I can't be to blame.
So. A few days after i came home from my honeymoon my friend called. "You'll never believe this," he said. Ohhhh, I bet i will. Try me. I was scared for a second he was going to tell me he was back together with her in which case I would have to move and join the Witness Protection Program. Thankfully that was not the case.
A few months ago when he was under the impression he was going to buy her a very large and very expensive engagement ring, she sold her engagement ring from her first marriage to a jeweler my friend knows. Now she is calling my friend asking him to help her get the ring back.
"Can you believe that thieving whore wants me to do a favor for her?" he asked me.
Well. Yes. I can.
"I should have told her that i would do her a favor when she returned everything she stole from my house and repaid me for a first class ticket to San Francisco I let her use after we broke up. Technically i could have canceled that ticket."
His argument was valid but I knew he would never say these things to her. He wanted to but he wouldn't because that is too mean (even for him). I told him he should have said these things and then some and then tell her to stick that diamond up her ass. However, my interest was mildly piqued. Why did she want the ring back? Was she feeling guilty that she sold the only ring her crazy ass would probably ever get? Or was she trying to live out some deranged fantasy where he shows up with the ring to give back to her and she somehow tricks him into proposing.
"No," my friend said, "Get this. She told me she is going to work things out with her ex-husband."
Oh now she didn't. She went through the oldest jealousy BS trick in the book. She would have been better off having sex on his lawn with someone else. The old ex-husband trick is boring and cliche. I expected more from someone so batshit crazy. I expected a faked pregnancy, sex with one of the guys who works for him, sex with his dad. Anything but this old gag. All that crazy and a huge let down.
"Well. That's nice." I said. Maybe those two crazy kids can make it work this time."
Then he told me how she sent him some text messages saying how she read his match profile and how she is concerned about him because it sounds so angry and she loves him, cares about him and wants him to be happy.
Um. Okay, hons, if you are trying to work things out with your ex why are you cruising match and looking at your ex boyfriend's profile? Genius. Why not just give yourself away.
Oh. And Angry? Obviously she has no sense of sarcasm and humor. Or maybe the line, "I like a girl who knows how to have fun as long it doesn't result in a 3 a.m. call from the police" hit too close to home.
Anyway, I knew that the ex-loon would see his ad so I tried to be careful not to be too mean when I wrote it. But. he asked me to honest and sometimes the lines between honest and mean get a bit blurred and I can't be to blame.
So. A few days after i came home from my honeymoon my friend called. "You'll never believe this," he said. Ohhhh, I bet i will. Try me. I was scared for a second he was going to tell me he was back together with her in which case I would have to move and join the Witness Protection Program. Thankfully that was not the case.
A few months ago when he was under the impression he was going to buy her a very large and very expensive engagement ring, she sold her engagement ring from her first marriage to a jeweler my friend knows. Now she is calling my friend asking him to help her get the ring back.
"Can you believe that thieving whore wants me to do a favor for her?" he asked me.
Well. Yes. I can.
"I should have told her that i would do her a favor when she returned everything she stole from my house and repaid me for a first class ticket to San Francisco I let her use after we broke up. Technically i could have canceled that ticket."
His argument was valid but I knew he would never say these things to her. He wanted to but he wouldn't because that is too mean (even for him). I told him he should have said these things and then some and then tell her to stick that diamond up her ass. However, my interest was mildly piqued. Why did she want the ring back? Was she feeling guilty that she sold the only ring her crazy ass would probably ever get? Or was she trying to live out some deranged fantasy where he shows up with the ring to give back to her and she somehow tricks him into proposing.
"No," my friend said, "Get this. She told me she is going to work things out with her ex-husband."
Oh now she didn't. She went through the oldest jealousy BS trick in the book. She would have been better off having sex on his lawn with someone else. The old ex-husband trick is boring and cliche. I expected more from someone so batshit crazy. I expected a faked pregnancy, sex with one of the guys who works for him, sex with his dad. Anything but this old gag. All that crazy and a huge let down.
"Well. That's nice." I said. Maybe those two crazy kids can make it work this time."
Then he told me how she sent him some text messages saying how she read his match profile and how she is concerned about him because it sounds so angry and she loves him, cares about him and wants him to be happy.
Um. Okay, hons, if you are trying to work things out with your ex why are you cruising match and looking at your ex boyfriend's profile? Genius. Why not just give yourself away.
Oh. And Angry? Obviously she has no sense of sarcasm and humor. Or maybe the line, "I like a girl who knows how to have fun as long it doesn't result in a 3 a.m. call from the police" hit too close to home.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Hell on earth has a home away from home
I used to think the phramacy line at CVS was hell on earth. And it still is but now I discovered there was another place that was hell on earth - the Stop & Shop deli department.
I know. It is dreadful to think that one might spend a few moments on a Friday or Saturday night grocery shopping. And I'm not talking after work hours. I'm talking 9 p.m. when most people are doing normal Friday night activities. And now, it's not because I am married now and have no life, but because the store is not weighed down with the mass of morons drunk driving their carts while trying to calm screaming kids or old people who think it's okay to park their cart in the middle of the aisle while they take 20 minutes to decide on what brand of prune juice fits their needs. I go to the grocery store only at these times. But sometimes I find myself having to go after work to pick something up for dinner. I hate these moments. In fact, it's these times that warrant eating out okay even if we ate out all of the preceding evenings as well.
The last time I braved the afterwork grocery store rush I knew it was a bad idea as soon as I stepped inside. The joint was FREEZING. Granted, I was in produce but this odd new sensitivity to the cold instantly turned my feet numb and blue. I went to the deli counter and took a number 194. What does that tell you? They have this new thing now where you can punch your order into a machine and they will have it ready for you while you shop for other things rather than wait. This is a great idea except I was only here for cold cuts.
My number 194 looked bad but looked less scary when I looked up and saw they were on 190. It should go fast. But my hopes were dashed by the fact that despite 6 people behind the counter, there was only one person slicing cold cuts. That means 5 people were there to do nothing but raise my blood pressure. And the one worker . . . . well slow would be an understatement. I watched as she could not find the Land O' Lakes white American in the fridge. Obviously, this called for the opening of a new one. But rather do that, she talked to the fridge for a few minutes trying to coax it out of hiding.
I realized there was an unusually large crowd gathered by the deli counter because it was raining the day before and rain, you know, melts people.
By the time the counter called for 191, my fingers were white with frostbite and it had been 5 minutes. I started pawing through the pre-packages cold cuts but became angry when I realized that you are paying about $2 more for the conveninece of that and I wanted more than a quarter pound of proscuttio. Call me crazy. Five minutes later they were still on 191 so I began collecting prepackaged cold cuts fightig back the hot stinging tears of defeat as Stop & Shop took my money because they failed to hire proper management to get the deli department in working order.
Screw that!!! No way would I let them win. I put the cold cuts back and decided to wait.
192 was called and I saw another deli person washing their hands as if ready to pitch in and help his slower than slower than slow co-worker. I realized then what took so long. The clerk would slice a piece of whatever and hold it up for the customer to see if it was cut to their liking. Now, who is watching their deli clerk that intently that they would see them hold up a slice of ham. Most people are talking on their cells, walking around produce getting other things or watching their kids trying to wriggle free from the confines of their cold steel cages with wheels. And rather than just let the customer slide, these clerks were waiting for the customer to acknowledge them without making any attempt to get their attention.
Here's a concept. How about just slicing your cold cuts to a usual standard unless the customer specifies a different way. I always specify and therefore I am always fast to answer when the clerk holds up a slice for me to inspect. Not specifying = not caring. So, slice away deli people. Slice away.
By the time they got to 193, my feet were so frozen walking was painful and I thought for sure they were doing this on purpose. I began collecting my cold cuts again while carefully watching the counter to see if it would change before I finished. I balled my number up into a tight little ball and just about pitched into the trash when I thought, "You waited this long, dummy. What's one more number?" So i waited . . . and waited . . . and waited . . . . and waited.
194 Finally! I over ordered everything on purpose and threw in a few extra so that the people behind me had to wait like I had to wait while the Suzie Homemakers before me ordered enough cold cuts to feed army troops. I highly doubt all those people were making antipastas. There is just no excuse.
$22 later, I left the store and vowed to never returned.
I know. It is dreadful to think that one might spend a few moments on a Friday or Saturday night grocery shopping. And I'm not talking after work hours. I'm talking 9 p.m. when most people are doing normal Friday night activities. And now, it's not because I am married now and have no life, but because the store is not weighed down with the mass of morons drunk driving their carts while trying to calm screaming kids or old people who think it's okay to park their cart in the middle of the aisle while they take 20 minutes to decide on what brand of prune juice fits their needs. I go to the grocery store only at these times. But sometimes I find myself having to go after work to pick something up for dinner. I hate these moments. In fact, it's these times that warrant eating out okay even if we ate out all of the preceding evenings as well.
The last time I braved the afterwork grocery store rush I knew it was a bad idea as soon as I stepped inside. The joint was FREEZING. Granted, I was in produce but this odd new sensitivity to the cold instantly turned my feet numb and blue. I went to the deli counter and took a number 194. What does that tell you? They have this new thing now where you can punch your order into a machine and they will have it ready for you while you shop for other things rather than wait. This is a great idea except I was only here for cold cuts.
My number 194 looked bad but looked less scary when I looked up and saw they were on 190. It should go fast. But my hopes were dashed by the fact that despite 6 people behind the counter, there was only one person slicing cold cuts. That means 5 people were there to do nothing but raise my blood pressure. And the one worker . . . . well slow would be an understatement. I watched as she could not find the Land O' Lakes white American in the fridge. Obviously, this called for the opening of a new one. But rather do that, she talked to the fridge for a few minutes trying to coax it out of hiding.
I realized there was an unusually large crowd gathered by the deli counter because it was raining the day before and rain, you know, melts people.
By the time the counter called for 191, my fingers were white with frostbite and it had been 5 minutes. I started pawing through the pre-packages cold cuts but became angry when I realized that you are paying about $2 more for the conveninece of that and I wanted more than a quarter pound of proscuttio. Call me crazy. Five minutes later they were still on 191 so I began collecting prepackaged cold cuts fightig back the hot stinging tears of defeat as Stop & Shop took my money because they failed to hire proper management to get the deli department in working order.
Screw that!!! No way would I let them win. I put the cold cuts back and decided to wait.
192 was called and I saw another deli person washing their hands as if ready to pitch in and help his slower than slower than slow co-worker. I realized then what took so long. The clerk would slice a piece of whatever and hold it up for the customer to see if it was cut to their liking. Now, who is watching their deli clerk that intently that they would see them hold up a slice of ham. Most people are talking on their cells, walking around produce getting other things or watching their kids trying to wriggle free from the confines of their cold steel cages with wheels. And rather than just let the customer slide, these clerks were waiting for the customer to acknowledge them without making any attempt to get their attention.
Here's a concept. How about just slicing your cold cuts to a usual standard unless the customer specifies a different way. I always specify and therefore I am always fast to answer when the clerk holds up a slice for me to inspect. Not specifying = not caring. So, slice away deli people. Slice away.
By the time they got to 193, my feet were so frozen walking was painful and I thought for sure they were doing this on purpose. I began collecting my cold cuts again while carefully watching the counter to see if it would change before I finished. I balled my number up into a tight little ball and just about pitched into the trash when I thought, "You waited this long, dummy. What's one more number?" So i waited . . . and waited . . . and waited . . . . and waited.
194 Finally! I over ordered everything on purpose and threw in a few extra so that the people behind me had to wait like I had to wait while the Suzie Homemakers before me ordered enough cold cuts to feed army troops. I highly doubt all those people were making antipastas. There is just no excuse.
$22 later, I left the store and vowed to never returned.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Boiling rabbits
I have a theory and sometimes that theory is right. Okay, it's OFTEN right but I hate going around saying, "I told you so" because, really, what good does it do? I don't claim to be a relationship expert and I only claim to have made about four good decisions in my entire 34 years so far so really, who should listen to me? I'm crazy but in an okay way. I have really weird unexplained quirks and I'm the only person who begs to be on trials where afflictions of the skin are involved. These are weird and a bit crazy but I like to think I am the good crazy not the kind that requires you to have the police on speed dial.
But this theory I have is one that a lot of people (except the people going through it) agree with. It's the theory of couples counseling.
Now. For the record, let me state here that I'm not against couple's counseling. Sometimes couples just need a little extra help communicating. They need an unbiased party to set their shit straight and put them on a path to success. Couples counseling has helped people I know avoid divorce or decide to divorce. It certainly has its benefits. However, I have seen an awful lot of people I know lately who aren't even engaged going to counseling.
Let me just throw this out there as food for thought. If you have to go to counseling before you're even engaged, isn't that setting off some kind of red flag? Isn't that saying, "gee, we're having a problem communicating now, let's get married and cure it." To me, it's like having kids to save your marriage. I can understand it. You love this person, you want to spend the rest of your life with this person but they need some work. All couples need work. All couples have growing pains. Every person walks into a relationship with a clusterfuck of issues. It's a fact of life. If you think you're not going to be effected by this then you live in a fairytale. Sometimes these issues can only be helped by a professional. Sometimes they can only be helped by that individual but the fact of the matter is that person has to really want to overcome their issues for their sake and the sake of their partner. They have to be open to being helped.
So, it's not a very big surprise to me when non-engaged couples who are in therapy break up. It's also no surpise to me that when I'm looked to for encouraging words about said break up I bring aboslutely nothing of emotional value to the table except a a very strong urge not to say, "well, duhhhhhhhh!"
I got nuttin'. I know that may come off as cold and I've been called "black hearted". But, wouldn't you rather have that than me blowing Doctor Phil psychobabble up your ass? Recently a friend of mine broke up with his girlfriend. I saw all the red flags practicaly shooting sparklers and he chose to ignore all of them until he had to change his locks to protect himself from them.
Red flag #1 - I pegged her as crazy (the bad crazy) the minute I met her. I know I make snap judgments about people but I'm not usually wrong. On the rare occassion that I misjudged someone I am the first to admit it.
Red flag #2 - At a dinner party more than one of her friends (and one guy who didn't know her all that well) suggested she had an alcohol problem. Granted, they may have been joking but there is truth in every joke.
Red flag #3 - He's witnessed more drunken rages than he cares to admit to. I learn about a new one he failed to tell me everyday. During one rage he witnessed her display Herculean strength pushing a heavy, filled armoire across the room like it was a cottonball in an effort to cause him physical harm.
Red flag #4 - They don't even live together yet and they are in therapy.
Red flag #5 - They narrowly escaped breaking up twice before they were six months into their relationship. Six months is still the honeymoon period as far as I am concrened. You should still be on your best behavior around your significant ther. This means that you're not farting in front of eachother and you're still closing the bathroom door.
But of course all those times he told me he was enaggement ring hunting and I kept telling him to keep the receipt, I was being "mean." And all those times I said, "she is crazy, could very well have a problem with the vino so beware" apparently wasn't enough because when they broke up this past time, I was blamed for not telling him what I thought about her. Mind you, this is the second girl in two years who displayed a major crazy side. Both of which I said, "you know she is crazy, right?" after meeting them for the first time.
And now he wants supportive words. I had to tell him I am not good with break ups. I never have been. In my thought process you break up because you're not compatible. End of story. If the other party is having a hard time accepting it then it is their bag. And we've ALL been in the place of unacceptance before. We've all said something so mean and hurtful to our exes with the intention of having it sting like a swarm of bees. I know it's hard to watch someone you care about cry and convulse but it's pretty shitty of them to think that breaking up with them had no effect on you whatsoever so they can carry on like they're having an epileptic fit. You just happen to be in more control of your emotions than they are.
I'm probably the last person anyone should want encouraging words from right now. I'm still a newlywed (despite the fact it feels like I have been married ten years already) so everything is all roses and kissy faces and shit. But, I've always had that, you live and you learn now move on attitude about relationships. I guess I just naturally assumed there is someone else out there who is better for you if you deserved it. Plus, I sometimes find it an exercise in futility to console someone who has a track record of getting back together with their crazy ex. I mean why expend the energy if it's ignored anyway. I learned that the hard way which is probably why I am the way I am.
He said he wants to know how to tell if a girl is crazy or not. I told him that I would be his crazy barometer. Invite them out and have me meet them, if I tell you she is crazy then dump her. So far I haven't been wrong.
But this theory I have is one that a lot of people (except the people going through it) agree with. It's the theory of couples counseling.
Now. For the record, let me state here that I'm not against couple's counseling. Sometimes couples just need a little extra help communicating. They need an unbiased party to set their shit straight and put them on a path to success. Couples counseling has helped people I know avoid divorce or decide to divorce. It certainly has its benefits. However, I have seen an awful lot of people I know lately who aren't even engaged going to counseling.
Let me just throw this out there as food for thought. If you have to go to counseling before you're even engaged, isn't that setting off some kind of red flag? Isn't that saying, "gee, we're having a problem communicating now, let's get married and cure it." To me, it's like having kids to save your marriage. I can understand it. You love this person, you want to spend the rest of your life with this person but they need some work. All couples need work. All couples have growing pains. Every person walks into a relationship with a clusterfuck of issues. It's a fact of life. If you think you're not going to be effected by this then you live in a fairytale. Sometimes these issues can only be helped by a professional. Sometimes they can only be helped by that individual but the fact of the matter is that person has to really want to overcome their issues for their sake and the sake of their partner. They have to be open to being helped.
So, it's not a very big surprise to me when non-engaged couples who are in therapy break up. It's also no surpise to me that when I'm looked to for encouraging words about said break up I bring aboslutely nothing of emotional value to the table except a a very strong urge not to say, "well, duhhhhhhhh!"
I got nuttin'. I know that may come off as cold and I've been called "black hearted". But, wouldn't you rather have that than me blowing Doctor Phil psychobabble up your ass? Recently a friend of mine broke up with his girlfriend. I saw all the red flags practicaly shooting sparklers and he chose to ignore all of them until he had to change his locks to protect himself from them.
Red flag #1 - I pegged her as crazy (the bad crazy) the minute I met her. I know I make snap judgments about people but I'm not usually wrong. On the rare occassion that I misjudged someone I am the first to admit it.
Red flag #2 - At a dinner party more than one of her friends (and one guy who didn't know her all that well) suggested she had an alcohol problem. Granted, they may have been joking but there is truth in every joke.
Red flag #3 - He's witnessed more drunken rages than he cares to admit to. I learn about a new one he failed to tell me everyday. During one rage he witnessed her display Herculean strength pushing a heavy, filled armoire across the room like it was a cottonball in an effort to cause him physical harm.
Red flag #4 - They don't even live together yet and they are in therapy.
Red flag #5 - They narrowly escaped breaking up twice before they were six months into their relationship. Six months is still the honeymoon period as far as I am concrened. You should still be on your best behavior around your significant ther. This means that you're not farting in front of eachother and you're still closing the bathroom door.
But of course all those times he told me he was enaggement ring hunting and I kept telling him to keep the receipt, I was being "mean." And all those times I said, "she is crazy, could very well have a problem with the vino so beware" apparently wasn't enough because when they broke up this past time, I was blamed for not telling him what I thought about her. Mind you, this is the second girl in two years who displayed a major crazy side. Both of which I said, "you know she is crazy, right?" after meeting them for the first time.
And now he wants supportive words. I had to tell him I am not good with break ups. I never have been. In my thought process you break up because you're not compatible. End of story. If the other party is having a hard time accepting it then it is their bag. And we've ALL been in the place of unacceptance before. We've all said something so mean and hurtful to our exes with the intention of having it sting like a swarm of bees. I know it's hard to watch someone you care about cry and convulse but it's pretty shitty of them to think that breaking up with them had no effect on you whatsoever so they can carry on like they're having an epileptic fit. You just happen to be in more control of your emotions than they are.
I'm probably the last person anyone should want encouraging words from right now. I'm still a newlywed (despite the fact it feels like I have been married ten years already) so everything is all roses and kissy faces and shit. But, I've always had that, you live and you learn now move on attitude about relationships. I guess I just naturally assumed there is someone else out there who is better for you if you deserved it. Plus, I sometimes find it an exercise in futility to console someone who has a track record of getting back together with their crazy ex. I mean why expend the energy if it's ignored anyway. I learned that the hard way which is probably why I am the way I am.
He said he wants to know how to tell if a girl is crazy or not. I told him that I would be his crazy barometer. Invite them out and have me meet them, if I tell you she is crazy then dump her. So far I haven't been wrong.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
No rules must mean no reservations
This will be short. Can someone tell me, please, what the hell is the difference between a regular reservation and what Outback calls it - "call ahead"? They do not take reservations. I'm sorry but if I call a restaurant to make reservations I give them my name, how many people in my party and what time I want to come and when I get there, my table is ready.
Usually.
Unless it's a case of what happened a week ago. A week ago, I put hubby in charge of calling P.F. Chang's in the Westchester mall. When we got there after a long evening of shoe shopping, they said our reservation didn't exist. We waited a while, eventually sat down and ate and came home. That is when my darling realized he made the reservations for Woodbury, New York and not Westchester.
But this past Friday I wanted Outback. Friday and Outback are never a good mix. That place is always busy. However, I used their call ahead system and when we got there, we were escorted past waiting diners and right to our seat.
Again, I ask, what is the difference between this stupid call ahead and a reservation. Just call it what it is. I'm sure they want to reserve the right to bump a party of two for a party of six but that's not good business practices. When my Mother-in-Law and I were planning the boy's surprise 30th birthday there, they wouldn't even guarantee me a table for 15 so it really can't be for the sake of the bump that they don't take reservations.
Usually.
Unless it's a case of what happened a week ago. A week ago, I put hubby in charge of calling P.F. Chang's in the Westchester mall. When we got there after a long evening of shoe shopping, they said our reservation didn't exist. We waited a while, eventually sat down and ate and came home. That is when my darling realized he made the reservations for Woodbury, New York and not Westchester.
But this past Friday I wanted Outback. Friday and Outback are never a good mix. That place is always busy. However, I used their call ahead system and when we got there, we were escorted past waiting diners and right to our seat.
Again, I ask, what is the difference between this stupid call ahead and a reservation. Just call it what it is. I'm sure they want to reserve the right to bump a party of two for a party of six but that's not good business practices. When my Mother-in-Law and I were planning the boy's surprise 30th birthday there, they wouldn't even guarantee me a table for 15 so it really can't be for the sake of the bump that they don't take reservations.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Beefer-ella
Mirror mirror on the wall, who is the most bitter of them all?
You are Beefer-ella, you are.
Damn skippy. Beyotch.
So. I got suckered into a responsibility at work because I lacked the common sense to share something with my co-workers. I mistakenly shared the fact that I have half a brain. Now I am being punished for it. I got roped into being the "go-to" person for the software we use. Being that there's 30 or so computers in the building that use this software, I don't get a moment's rest. It's my fault really. I mean, I can turn a computer off and on so I was an obvious mark to take on this thankless duty. I figured it would give me some kind of job security and then I realized with a state job, there is no such thing. It's all about tenure. Technically all i have to do is show up every day and try not to fuck up too much and so long as people come in after me, I will slowly move up the ladder. So, taking on the additional responsbilities is an exercise in futility. I used to do nice things until I saw that I was being taken advantage of. And by being taken advantage of, i mean people were asking me to fix their personal computer and software issues and asking me to email the helpdesk when they were perfectly capable of such duties.
I used to pop down to the mailroom and get the mail if I had nothing to do. I had another motive as I was always hoping there would be a check for me. Even if there wasn't, I would still bring all the mail up and distribute it. Now, i go down, sift through it and if there is no check for me, I leave it. I leave it even if there is a check for me.
So, yesterday I was ready to beef as soon as I got in. I tend to walk in at 9 to a desk full of bullshit notes. I wouldn't mind so much if a good chunk of these issues were not someone simply forgetting to turn on a switch or not knowing where the master volume on the computer is. Honestly, i don't know any more about computers than the next person but I am not afraid of pressing buttons to figure out what the issue is. I know that the way our techs have the computers set up, it's virtually impossible to change a setting so much that a good old fashion restart couldn't cure it. Our administrative duties on the computers are very limited.
Needless to say, it is virtually impossible for me to get any work done during my two fifteen minute breaks a day and one hour lunch. So, while the helpless are taking their lunches or smoking outside I am working. Constantly. I've taken to making up imaginary doctors appointments just so I have to leave the building for lunch. I used to sit at my desk and get some typing done but now I dread going back to the office because I know as soon as I walk through that door I am going to get inundated with BS. Like I said, I wouldn't mind if 95 percent of the issues didn't make me want to smack them on the forehead and say, "Uh-duh!"
The feeling of swimming in a pool of dopes continued after work. On may way home I happene dto get in front of a driver who was paying no attention whatsoever to the road. I only noticed this because he looked familiar and I thought he was one of my mom's friends' husband. I am not sure what he was doing. It appeared that he was reading a book, newspaper or trying to dial a cellphone but when I stopped at a red light, he would roll to a stop behind me. There was a lot of traffic so I had to wait at a light for more than two rounds before passing. Each time I moved up, he was digging into another chapter and would let a space the size ofa football field come between us before rolling slowly while reading. I kept looking at him in my rearview mirror. I could care less if i recognized him, his complete lack of attention while driving was pissing me off.
So.
Of course.
A few seconds after thinking this. I watched the asshole slowly roll right into me. There was no damage. he was rolling so slowly, I knew he was just going to bounce off my spare tire anyway. But, he didn't even look phased except for a momentary look of guilt on his face and then he went right back into being a clueless ignoring-the-road asshole. I was going to get out but I was so pissed off all i would have done was yell at him and ended up in jail. However, i did take his license plate number down in case there was damage. I know it's harder to prove later but I figured if anything I would have my dad run his plates and crank call him at 3 a.m.
You are Beefer-ella, you are.
Damn skippy. Beyotch.
So. I got suckered into a responsibility at work because I lacked the common sense to share something with my co-workers. I mistakenly shared the fact that I have half a brain. Now I am being punished for it. I got roped into being the "go-to" person for the software we use. Being that there's 30 or so computers in the building that use this software, I don't get a moment's rest. It's my fault really. I mean, I can turn a computer off and on so I was an obvious mark to take on this thankless duty. I figured it would give me some kind of job security and then I realized with a state job, there is no such thing. It's all about tenure. Technically all i have to do is show up every day and try not to fuck up too much and so long as people come in after me, I will slowly move up the ladder. So, taking on the additional responsbilities is an exercise in futility. I used to do nice things until I saw that I was being taken advantage of. And by being taken advantage of, i mean people were asking me to fix their personal computer and software issues and asking me to email the helpdesk when they were perfectly capable of such duties.
I used to pop down to the mailroom and get the mail if I had nothing to do. I had another motive as I was always hoping there would be a check for me. Even if there wasn't, I would still bring all the mail up and distribute it. Now, i go down, sift through it and if there is no check for me, I leave it. I leave it even if there is a check for me.
So, yesterday I was ready to beef as soon as I got in. I tend to walk in at 9 to a desk full of bullshit notes. I wouldn't mind so much if a good chunk of these issues were not someone simply forgetting to turn on a switch or not knowing where the master volume on the computer is. Honestly, i don't know any more about computers than the next person but I am not afraid of pressing buttons to figure out what the issue is. I know that the way our techs have the computers set up, it's virtually impossible to change a setting so much that a good old fashion restart couldn't cure it. Our administrative duties on the computers are very limited.
Needless to say, it is virtually impossible for me to get any work done during my two fifteen minute breaks a day and one hour lunch. So, while the helpless are taking their lunches or smoking outside I am working. Constantly. I've taken to making up imaginary doctors appointments just so I have to leave the building for lunch. I used to sit at my desk and get some typing done but now I dread going back to the office because I know as soon as I walk through that door I am going to get inundated with BS. Like I said, I wouldn't mind if 95 percent of the issues didn't make me want to smack them on the forehead and say, "Uh-duh!"
The feeling of swimming in a pool of dopes continued after work. On may way home I happene dto get in front of a driver who was paying no attention whatsoever to the road. I only noticed this because he looked familiar and I thought he was one of my mom's friends' husband. I am not sure what he was doing. It appeared that he was reading a book, newspaper or trying to dial a cellphone but when I stopped at a red light, he would roll to a stop behind me. There was a lot of traffic so I had to wait at a light for more than two rounds before passing. Each time I moved up, he was digging into another chapter and would let a space the size ofa football field come between us before rolling slowly while reading. I kept looking at him in my rearview mirror. I could care less if i recognized him, his complete lack of attention while driving was pissing me off.
So.
Of course.
A few seconds after thinking this. I watched the asshole slowly roll right into me. There was no damage. he was rolling so slowly, I knew he was just going to bounce off my spare tire anyway. But, he didn't even look phased except for a momentary look of guilt on his face and then he went right back into being a clueless ignoring-the-road asshole. I was going to get out but I was so pissed off all i would have done was yell at him and ended up in jail. However, i did take his license plate number down in case there was damage. I know it's harder to prove later but I figured if anything I would have my dad run his plates and crank call him at 3 a.m.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Good luck? What kind of a shitty thing is that to say?
Sundays are lonely for me now that football has started. The boy usually takes off to sit with his friends watching the game in some lousy bar with lousy service and lousy food that I have to hear an incessant amount of bitching about when he comes home. Meanwhile I'm trapped in the house most of the day (because I equate going out with spending money and now that I am married I seem to have no money) with a TV that I can't work because there are way too many remotes and I have no clue which is which.
This past Sunday the boy was feeling guilty for working an overnight on Friday and losing Saturday night to a family gathering so he decided he would stay home Sunday and spend some time with me. Here's how spending time with each other goes these days. I play Sims in one corner of the living room while he sits behind me and watched football.
But, we're together, right?
I began dropping hints around 2:30 that I was starving. So, he did what any football fan would do whose wife said she was starving more than 6 times in 10 minutes. He took me to a bar he knew would have food AND TVs. I don't mind, I actually happen to like this place and frequent it at least 2 times a week during every season, not just football. I ordered the usual, a salad pizza and some wings. Now, for those of you not familiar with a salad pizza, it's pretty much thin crust with cheese melted on top and layer of cold tossed greens with vinegar. I particularly love dousing it in grated cheese, crushed pepper and salt. Actually, sad to say, I smuggle this in in my purse.
Try it and seasoning will never be the same.
http://secure.cartsvr.net/catalogs/catalog.asp?prodid=1111107
So, anyway, where was I?
We're sitting there munching on wings and the bartender brings over the salad pizza.
Two men to right remark, "I've never seen that before."
I didn't think they were saying anything to us so I continued my ritual of grated cheese and Hot Rocks.
Again, the man says, "I've never seen that before. What is it?"
I looked up and he was pointing at our pizza. I said, "It's salad pizza." And the man asked again what it is because apparently he never heard of a salad and a pizza. DUH! I explained (fighting the urge to speak slowly, loudly and use small words), "It's a salad on a pizza. It's good."
"Interesting," he says, "Good luck."
Good luck?
I thought it was the strangest thing I ever heard. The last time someone saw my salad pizza they ordered it and quickly became fans. But "good luck"? Exactly what did that mean? I thought about it for my entire meal. The only thing I could think of was the guy thought I was on a diet hence why I ordered salad on a pizza and he was wishing me luck on my diet.
This upset me for a couple of reasons. I know I put on a few pounds since the wedding but I reigned myself in with 135 grams of protein a day and under 50 carbs. So, this was my splurge day. Actually, despite the fact I was eating a salad, I was still being bad because my salad was on a crust. That rationale led me to think the man thought I was fat and SHOULD be on a diet so I got really self-conscious. But, hello, he just saw me shovel some wings down my gullet and I was pouring grated cheese on it thus canceling all the good out of it being a salad. Hmm . . . Maybe he meant good luck because I was OBVIOUSLY failing at my diet by doing this.
I wanted to ask Stew what the guy meant. Sometimes I think Stew can translate guy-ese better because he's a guy and therefore he must know what men are thinking all the time. However, with the guy sitting so close I couldn't ask Stew. So, I waited the whole meal (which felt like forfuckingever) and when Stew and I were safely in the car (okay, so it was really right when the door to the bar closed behind me), I asked Stew what the guy meant by saying good luck. Of course, Stew being a guy, forgot the whole event even transpired and I had to give him a play-by-play of something that happened twenty minutes ago. Ignorance is bliss. I wish i was a guy and forgot about shit like that so easy.
This was Stew's explanation.
"Maybe he doesn't like vegetables so he was wishing you good luck eating it." Like I was eating something exotic you'd find on a menu in some foreign country. Good luck with that plate of live worms and side of fried locusts.
"You know, Lulu, some men just don't like vegetables."
I patted Stew's sweet face. I think his baseball hat was too tight and cutting off circulation to his brain with that explanation. "Well, I guess I'm lucky to have found the only guy out there who will eat vegetables with me."
He made the face. You know the face. The face that almost looks pained because he is only doing something because I want to do it but he doesn't have the heart to tell me. "It's different," he explained, "those vegetables are sitting on cheese and crust so they're okay."
So, it's official. The guy at the bar thought I was fat and should be on a diet. However, he wishes me all the luck in the world.
This past Sunday the boy was feeling guilty for working an overnight on Friday and losing Saturday night to a family gathering so he decided he would stay home Sunday and spend some time with me. Here's how spending time with each other goes these days. I play Sims in one corner of the living room while he sits behind me and watched football.
But, we're together, right?
I began dropping hints around 2:30 that I was starving. So, he did what any football fan would do whose wife said she was starving more than 6 times in 10 minutes. He took me to a bar he knew would have food AND TVs. I don't mind, I actually happen to like this place and frequent it at least 2 times a week during every season, not just football. I ordered the usual, a salad pizza and some wings. Now, for those of you not familiar with a salad pizza, it's pretty much thin crust with cheese melted on top and layer of cold tossed greens with vinegar. I particularly love dousing it in grated cheese, crushed pepper and salt. Actually, sad to say, I smuggle this in in my purse.
Try it and seasoning will never be the same.
http://secure.cartsvr.net/catalogs/catalog.asp?prodid=1111107
So, anyway, where was I?
We're sitting there munching on wings and the bartender brings over the salad pizza.
Two men to right remark, "I've never seen that before."
I didn't think they were saying anything to us so I continued my ritual of grated cheese and Hot Rocks.
Again, the man says, "I've never seen that before. What is it?"
I looked up and he was pointing at our pizza. I said, "It's salad pizza." And the man asked again what it is because apparently he never heard of a salad and a pizza. DUH! I explained (fighting the urge to speak slowly, loudly and use small words), "It's a salad on a pizza. It's good."
"Interesting," he says, "Good luck."
Good luck?
I thought it was the strangest thing I ever heard. The last time someone saw my salad pizza they ordered it and quickly became fans. But "good luck"? Exactly what did that mean? I thought about it for my entire meal. The only thing I could think of was the guy thought I was on a diet hence why I ordered salad on a pizza and he was wishing me luck on my diet.
This upset me for a couple of reasons. I know I put on a few pounds since the wedding but I reigned myself in with 135 grams of protein a day and under 50 carbs. So, this was my splurge day. Actually, despite the fact I was eating a salad, I was still being bad because my salad was on a crust. That rationale led me to think the man thought I was fat and SHOULD be on a diet so I got really self-conscious. But, hello, he just saw me shovel some wings down my gullet and I was pouring grated cheese on it thus canceling all the good out of it being a salad. Hmm . . . Maybe he meant good luck because I was OBVIOUSLY failing at my diet by doing this.
I wanted to ask Stew what the guy meant. Sometimes I think Stew can translate guy-ese better because he's a guy and therefore he must know what men are thinking all the time. However, with the guy sitting so close I couldn't ask Stew. So, I waited the whole meal (which felt like forfuckingever) and when Stew and I were safely in the car (okay, so it was really right when the door to the bar closed behind me), I asked Stew what the guy meant by saying good luck. Of course, Stew being a guy, forgot the whole event even transpired and I had to give him a play-by-play of something that happened twenty minutes ago. Ignorance is bliss. I wish i was a guy and forgot about shit like that so easy.
This was Stew's explanation.
"Maybe he doesn't like vegetables so he was wishing you good luck eating it." Like I was eating something exotic you'd find on a menu in some foreign country. Good luck with that plate of live worms and side of fried locusts.
"You know, Lulu, some men just don't like vegetables."
I patted Stew's sweet face. I think his baseball hat was too tight and cutting off circulation to his brain with that explanation. "Well, I guess I'm lucky to have found the only guy out there who will eat vegetables with me."
He made the face. You know the face. The face that almost looks pained because he is only doing something because I want to do it but he doesn't have the heart to tell me. "It's different," he explained, "those vegetables are sitting on cheese and crust so they're okay."
So, it's official. The guy at the bar thought I was fat and should be on a diet. However, he wishes me all the luck in the world.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
My husband, the size queen
I always thought it was a few hormones and genitalia. But it's not. The difference between man and womyn is much more simple than that. It's not biological, hormonal or genital.
It's electronic.
All my life I could have cared less about a TV. I mean I watched it. I enjoyed it but I could care less about the size. Twenty inches, twenty five, twenty seven, whatever. I was fine with it. My whole freshman year of college I lived without a TV. I remember if we wanted to watch 90210 we all crowded around my friend Marcie's 12-inch tv.
I had no issue with my TV since my parents got me the one for my first place. It fit into my beloved entertainment center (the recipient of MANY compliments) and life was good.
Until.
It took a couple of weeks after the boy moved in for him to start dissing my TV. The one he had at his place was enormous. I gave up my office so he could make it into his den and fit his TV. His TV would simply not fit into my entertainment center and I wisely chose my entertainment center over that monstrosity of a TV. I was not sacrificing Pottery Barn life for a corner of Best Buy. No way. I got my satisfaction when the mother of a Halloween trick-or-treater poked her head inside my crib and said, "wow, what a beautiful entertainment center." I closed the door, looked at Stew, who by the way was dressed like a pirate, and said, "did you hear that. She called it beautiful. It took her breath away." He immediately dismissed her as "a broad' and said my entertainment center lacked entertainment. he went on to trash the fact that it only had two outputs and I committed the sin of all sins by adding to my crappy TV a DVD/VCR combo which he practically threw up knowing we had to watch a movie on it. Geeze, don't hold back. He told his friends about my small TV and my combo and they ridiculed me incessantly. I fed into it by sending them pictures of how my crap-tastic TV would somehow change to Spanish subtitled around 9 p.m. every night. It annoyed Stew but i loved it. It helped make me bi-lingual and that comes in handy.
So. It was no surprise when Stew's parents gifted us with a check ear-marked for a TV on our wedding day. Anticipating this I put an entertainment center I found comparable to mine on our registry. I knew nobody was going to buy it for us but just having it on there would earn us 20% off when we did purchase it. The week after the wedding we sat in Fortunoff's as the saleslady went nuts trying to figure out how to discount it. Sadly enough we didn't have the TV yet but I knew it was just a matter of time. I pushed the delivery out as far as I could go and within a couple of weeks, Stew happily wrote me an email saying he picked out his TV. He sent me the link (like I actually had an input on it) and I pretended like I actually cared. I only cared about one thing, how much was delivery of this thing going to fuck my day up. When he got home he told me how pissed his friends were because his Tv will be two inches bigger. TWO INCHES. That is when I realzed, a man's TV is like a how a girl compares her boobs with those of another girl. Size does matter.
The entertainment center came first. Actually, we cheated a bit. The one I had was vanilla distressed wood and so was the new one so we just bought the expandable stand and the bridge saving ourselves about $1000. I did a little returning, some gift card schmoozing, "what do you mean that promotion had an expiration date, nobody told me. Can you go get your manager?" It ended up costing us a lot less. I never take no for an answer. Unacceptable. When the entertainment center came, Stew literally sat on the couch in front of the new and improved LOTSAENTERTAINMENT center with a huge smile on his face. I swear if he could have put his hand down his pants at that moment, he would have. I quickly put my 20 inch TV in the massive void. I thought the smile was disappear but it didn't. He was thinking ahead.
We both played hooky the day the TV got delivered. They gave us the generous window of 12-6. Stew "worked from home" and I just took the day off. I actually did work at home tho'. Stew spent the day pacing, perking up and running to the window every time he heard a truck. We live next door to a shopping center and trucks are always making deliveries so stew's hopes were dashed - A LOT. The TV came around 5 like we suspected. As soon as he confirmed it was the right truck he quickly (seriously, I never saw him move that fast) pushed the door open and waited there like a kid at Christmas. As soon as the guys left he quickly got to work with the wiring (special cables only), hooking up the Blu-Ray dvd player. We had some minor set-backs with the cable box but as soon as everything was done, his world was complete. He misses the TV more than me during the day now.
I guess he won't miss me then when I reclaim my office so I can get some work done since the TV is always on. I need some compensation tho', he made me get rid of my beloved L-shaped desk and that's going to cost a trip to Ikea.
It's electronic.
All my life I could have cared less about a TV. I mean I watched it. I enjoyed it but I could care less about the size. Twenty inches, twenty five, twenty seven, whatever. I was fine with it. My whole freshman year of college I lived without a TV. I remember if we wanted to watch 90210 we all crowded around my friend Marcie's 12-inch tv.
I had no issue with my TV since my parents got me the one for my first place. It fit into my beloved entertainment center (the recipient of MANY compliments) and life was good.
Until.
It took a couple of weeks after the boy moved in for him to start dissing my TV. The one he had at his place was enormous. I gave up my office so he could make it into his den and fit his TV. His TV would simply not fit into my entertainment center and I wisely chose my entertainment center over that monstrosity of a TV. I was not sacrificing Pottery Barn life for a corner of Best Buy. No way. I got my satisfaction when the mother of a Halloween trick-or-treater poked her head inside my crib and said, "wow, what a beautiful entertainment center." I closed the door, looked at Stew, who by the way was dressed like a pirate, and said, "did you hear that. She called it beautiful. It took her breath away." He immediately dismissed her as "a broad' and said my entertainment center lacked entertainment. he went on to trash the fact that it only had two outputs and I committed the sin of all sins by adding to my crappy TV a DVD/VCR combo which he practically threw up knowing we had to watch a movie on it. Geeze, don't hold back. He told his friends about my small TV and my combo and they ridiculed me incessantly. I fed into it by sending them pictures of how my crap-tastic TV would somehow change to Spanish subtitled around 9 p.m. every night. It annoyed Stew but i loved it. It helped make me bi-lingual and that comes in handy.
So. It was no surprise when Stew's parents gifted us with a check ear-marked for a TV on our wedding day. Anticipating this I put an entertainment center I found comparable to mine on our registry. I knew nobody was going to buy it for us but just having it on there would earn us 20% off when we did purchase it. The week after the wedding we sat in Fortunoff's as the saleslady went nuts trying to figure out how to discount it. Sadly enough we didn't have the TV yet but I knew it was just a matter of time. I pushed the delivery out as far as I could go and within a couple of weeks, Stew happily wrote me an email saying he picked out his TV. He sent me the link (like I actually had an input on it) and I pretended like I actually cared. I only cared about one thing, how much was delivery of this thing going to fuck my day up. When he got home he told me how pissed his friends were because his Tv will be two inches bigger. TWO INCHES. That is when I realzed, a man's TV is like a how a girl compares her boobs with those of another girl. Size does matter.
The entertainment center came first. Actually, we cheated a bit. The one I had was vanilla distressed wood and so was the new one so we just bought the expandable stand and the bridge saving ourselves about $1000. I did a little returning, some gift card schmoozing, "what do you mean that promotion had an expiration date, nobody told me. Can you go get your manager?" It ended up costing us a lot less. I never take no for an answer. Unacceptable. When the entertainment center came, Stew literally sat on the couch in front of the new and improved LOTSAENTERTAINMENT center with a huge smile on his face. I swear if he could have put his hand down his pants at that moment, he would have. I quickly put my 20 inch TV in the massive void. I thought the smile was disappear but it didn't. He was thinking ahead.
We both played hooky the day the TV got delivered. They gave us the generous window of 12-6. Stew "worked from home" and I just took the day off. I actually did work at home tho'. Stew spent the day pacing, perking up and running to the window every time he heard a truck. We live next door to a shopping center and trucks are always making deliveries so stew's hopes were dashed - A LOT. The TV came around 5 like we suspected. As soon as he confirmed it was the right truck he quickly (seriously, I never saw him move that fast) pushed the door open and waited there like a kid at Christmas. As soon as the guys left he quickly got to work with the wiring (special cables only), hooking up the Blu-Ray dvd player. We had some minor set-backs with the cable box but as soon as everything was done, his world was complete. He misses the TV more than me during the day now.
I guess he won't miss me then when I reclaim my office so I can get some work done since the TV is always on. I need some compensation tho', he made me get rid of my beloved L-shaped desk and that's going to cost a trip to Ikea.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Pie in the sky . . . or trash
The sugar free "pie" lasted until this evening. It's Wednesday for you late comers. I decided to give it another whirl when I walked into the kitchen to get some Cadbury mini-eggs.
Now, I know what you're thinking:
1.) How did you score mini-eggs in August?
The answer is simple. I have an Easter candy addiction. As we know Easter is my favorite candy holiday so I leave no shelf unturned in every store I go in around Easter time. Normally, I buy Easter candy after the official holiday to get it at 50 and sometimes 75% off but those mini-eggs have to be scooped up early. They are almost NEVER left on clearance racks. So, i buy a few bags and that way i have them throughout the year. In fact, I recently opened a bag I had leftover from LAST year. As in Easter 2006. Oh yeah. I still have Peeps too. It's Easter everyday in my house. I went a wee bit crazy this year and came home with about $25 worth of candy every time I went to CVS or Target. It got to the point where my chocoliscious loot was taking up and entire cabinet in my fridge. The sick part of me feels safe having it. Knowing it's there. I do not eat some everyday. I save it for PMS moments. I save it for the peanuts when they visit. I offer it up when a visitor says, "i wish i had something sweet." I'll share . . . unless I am down to my last cream egg and then you're on your own, pal.
2.) Why would you go into the kitchen for sugar ridden mini-eggs and suddenly get side-tracked by sugar free "pie."
Again, the answer is simple. I already had a handful of mini-eggs a little earlier and now I was planning to undo the damage (or curb the urge for another handful of mini-eggs) by attempting the "pie" again. Maybe another go at it wouldn't be too bad.
Two bites later that thing was in the garbage and I was digging in the freezer for some Reeces eggs.
Throwing out pie is unheard of. Unless it sprung mold (not that it lasts that long to turn bad) it is a sin to throw pie out in this house. But alas, it went bye bye.
Now, I know what you're thinking:
1.) How did you score mini-eggs in August?
The answer is simple. I have an Easter candy addiction. As we know Easter is my favorite candy holiday so I leave no shelf unturned in every store I go in around Easter time. Normally, I buy Easter candy after the official holiday to get it at 50 and sometimes 75% off but those mini-eggs have to be scooped up early. They are almost NEVER left on clearance racks. So, i buy a few bags and that way i have them throughout the year. In fact, I recently opened a bag I had leftover from LAST year. As in Easter 2006. Oh yeah. I still have Peeps too. It's Easter everyday in my house. I went a wee bit crazy this year and came home with about $25 worth of candy every time I went to CVS or Target. It got to the point where my chocoliscious loot was taking up and entire cabinet in my fridge. The sick part of me feels safe having it. Knowing it's there. I do not eat some everyday. I save it for PMS moments. I save it for the peanuts when they visit. I offer it up when a visitor says, "i wish i had something sweet." I'll share . . . unless I am down to my last cream egg and then you're on your own, pal.
2.) Why would you go into the kitchen for sugar ridden mini-eggs and suddenly get side-tracked by sugar free "pie."
Again, the answer is simple. I already had a handful of mini-eggs a little earlier and now I was planning to undo the damage (or curb the urge for another handful of mini-eggs) by attempting the "pie" again. Maybe another go at it wouldn't be too bad.
Two bites later that thing was in the garbage and I was digging in the freezer for some Reeces eggs.
Throwing out pie is unheard of. Unless it sprung mold (not that it lasts that long to turn bad) it is a sin to throw pie out in this house. But alas, it went bye bye.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Sugar Free Pie
Okay folks, let's face it. Sugar free and pie are two words that should NEVER go together in the English language. Pie without sugar, may not affect your glycemic levels while giving you the illusion of eating pie but the fact of the matter is Sugar Free pie tastes like shit.
Actually, I take that back. It does not actually taste like shit. The first bite renders some satisfaction that this Sugar Free confection may not be so bad afterall. The second bite tests your endurance and the third bite makes you throw your fork down and just give up.
In case you don't believe me. There is still some pie left. Pie left untouched since Saturday is unheard of in my house. If anything that pie would have been wolfed down for breakfast Sunday morning.
But, alas, I am glad I tried it because I would have always wondered. Now I know. It tastes like shit and gives you a horrendous case of garbage ass.
Actually, I take that back. It does not actually taste like shit. The first bite renders some satisfaction that this Sugar Free confection may not be so bad afterall. The second bite tests your endurance and the third bite makes you throw your fork down and just give up.
In case you don't believe me. There is still some pie left. Pie left untouched since Saturday is unheard of in my house. If anything that pie would have been wolfed down for breakfast Sunday morning.
But, alas, I am glad I tried it because I would have always wondered. Now I know. It tastes like shit and gives you a horrendous case of garbage ass.
Monday, August 06, 2007
Spiders in my ear and Triscuits in my eye
So. Imagine this. You are me and you have NO insurance. None. And you're eating Triscuits and you finish the box and you get to the best part. All those yummy salty crumbs in the bottom of the bag. You run into the kitchen, grab a scissors and slice off the crinkled messed up part of the bag so you have a smooth, straight sailing, easy slide right into your mouth. How many times have you done with a bag of chips? many. You don't think that this particular time will be the time that may cause you great embarrassment and shame.
I tip the bag so that all the deliciousness goes to one side. I tilt my head back and prepare for decadence. I forgot to close my eyes realizing this after it was too late and dozens of triscuit shreds (they were cheddar flavor too so nice and fake orangey yellow and salty) poured right into my right eye. It felt like I have several shards of salty glass scratching at my eyeball.
I panicked.
Stew was upstairs in the den playing a computer game and I was covering my left eye and blindly flailing about in the living room trying not to DIE from embarrassment that I may have to go to the hospital because I had Triscuits in my eye. Not only would they look at me like I was uncontrollable chubby wubby who has just to put the Triscuit bag over her face like a feedbag and couldn't face the fact the bag was empty; but this was going to cost a small fortune. I'd almost rather go blind and tell people a lie like I woke up one morning and was blind in my left eye than admit I went blind because I had Triscuits in my eye.
I could not stand the pain anymore and ran up the stairs. Stew heard the clumsy stomping and opened the door to his den. I couldn't really see if he was coming so I casually screamed, "get outta my way, I have Triscuits in my eye." That's right, pal. You married Mama Cass. I'm only a good 10 years away from choking on an Italian combo. Who loves ya, baby?
Stew just stood back while I ran into the bathroom and put on the water with every intention of flushing out my eyeball. Those plans quickly ended after the first splash revealed I put on the hot water. Stew stood there looking at me and wondering what he did to commit himself to a girl who blinded herself with Triscuits.
"How did you do that?" He asked but answered his own question. "Lulu, were you pouring the bag into your mouth."
You know. I wear glasses. they should be just as good as safety goggles in events like this but apparently I contorted my head far enough back to reach Linda Blair proportions. Stellar.
"Yes," I growled at him as I inspected my eye looking for soggy bits of yellowy orange wheat shreds. "I feel something way back there."
Stew told me it would work itself out but I was convinced it was going to rot first and cause an infection in my brain and produce maggots in my head.
"Just try not to rub your eye," he warned.
Um. Okay. Easy for you to say. Your eye didn't just get sprinkled with granules of salt and dried fake cheese.
Eventually, the feeling went away. I don't know if the Triscuit bits did work themselves out or if they just got soggy enough from eye juice that they broke apart and went away. By the time I went to sleep that night, I just felt a mild scratching behind my eye. However, for some reason there was this bad itch in my ear. Surely it was a spider.
"Stew," I said from under the covers, "My ear itches. I think it's a spider."
He assured me I was wrong. "I'm sure you don't have a spider in your ear."
Hah! How does he know? I have Triscuits in my eye.
I tip the bag so that all the deliciousness goes to one side. I tilt my head back and prepare for decadence. I forgot to close my eyes realizing this after it was too late and dozens of triscuit shreds (they were cheddar flavor too so nice and fake orangey yellow and salty) poured right into my right eye. It felt like I have several shards of salty glass scratching at my eyeball.
I panicked.
Stew was upstairs in the den playing a computer game and I was covering my left eye and blindly flailing about in the living room trying not to DIE from embarrassment that I may have to go to the hospital because I had Triscuits in my eye. Not only would they look at me like I was uncontrollable chubby wubby who has just to put the Triscuit bag over her face like a feedbag and couldn't face the fact the bag was empty; but this was going to cost a small fortune. I'd almost rather go blind and tell people a lie like I woke up one morning and was blind in my left eye than admit I went blind because I had Triscuits in my eye.
I could not stand the pain anymore and ran up the stairs. Stew heard the clumsy stomping and opened the door to his den. I couldn't really see if he was coming so I casually screamed, "get outta my way, I have Triscuits in my eye." That's right, pal. You married Mama Cass. I'm only a good 10 years away from choking on an Italian combo. Who loves ya, baby?
Stew just stood back while I ran into the bathroom and put on the water with every intention of flushing out my eyeball. Those plans quickly ended after the first splash revealed I put on the hot water. Stew stood there looking at me and wondering what he did to commit himself to a girl who blinded herself with Triscuits.
"How did you do that?" He asked but answered his own question. "Lulu, were you pouring the bag into your mouth."
You know. I wear glasses. they should be just as good as safety goggles in events like this but apparently I contorted my head far enough back to reach Linda Blair proportions. Stellar.
"Yes," I growled at him as I inspected my eye looking for soggy bits of yellowy orange wheat shreds. "I feel something way back there."
Stew told me it would work itself out but I was convinced it was going to rot first and cause an infection in my brain and produce maggots in my head.
"Just try not to rub your eye," he warned.
Um. Okay. Easy for you to say. Your eye didn't just get sprinkled with granules of salt and dried fake cheese.
Eventually, the feeling went away. I don't know if the Triscuit bits did work themselves out or if they just got soggy enough from eye juice that they broke apart and went away. By the time I went to sleep that night, I just felt a mild scratching behind my eye. However, for some reason there was this bad itch in my ear. Surely it was a spider.
"Stew," I said from under the covers, "My ear itches. I think it's a spider."
He assured me I was wrong. "I'm sure you don't have a spider in your ear."
Hah! How does he know? I have Triscuits in my eye.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Love, Honor and What . . . .
For those of you wondering, I do not feel any different. I probably would if Stew and I did not live in sin for almost two years before we got married. But, it's not like I'm suddenly picking up his dirty boxers off the bedroom floor. I've been doing it far too long to admit. However, strategically placed hampers have now eliminated that problem.
The only time I feel slightly different (and it's more weird than it is different) is when I refer to him as "my husband." I never really referred to Stew as my "boyfriend." I always just called him Stew. Rarely did I say "my boyfriend" because I remember being single and internally rolling the shit out of my eyes when some broad used to say, "my booyyyfriend." And even after we got engaged, "fiancee" rolled off my tongue about as well as if I tried to speak French. Even when I talked about him, his title was still "Stew" or "my boyfriend" but almost ALWAYS Stew. So, you can imagine how much I stutter the word "husband". I have to get in the habit of saying it but everytime I do, it jolts me something fierce and I have to start asking myself, "really? a husband? Are you sure? You barely look a day over 22, you can't possibly have a husband." Heck, if it weren't for my dental hygenist pointing out my gray hairs I wouldn't look a day over 13.
Having a husband has led to the great name change debate. Everybody keeps asking me what I am going to do. Am I going to take his, leave mine or compromise and hyphenate. The plan was to leave it alone. If someone wanted to call me Mrs. Doodyhead, I was fine with that. I wasn't going to take their head off and say "I am still Lisa Craplips." The other option was to hypenate but honestly, doing that makes me sound like a staunch german womyn who wants you to make her lick her boots. And, if you have ever looked into changing your name, it is a GIANT pain in the ass. I need my marriage license to do anything and THAT is currently being processed. I was just going to leave well enough alone until I met the branch manager at my bank.
A few days after the wedding I went to the bank to DEPOSIT the monetary gifts we received. The account has BOTH of our names on it. When I log into my account online I also get the joint accounts listed. From there I can move money around all I want. I can take from the joint and put it in my account and I can do whatever I want with it.
However, going there that day to deposit money into the joint account where they could see I was REALLY Lisa Craplips was probably harder than robbing that very same bank. Because some of the checks were made out to: "Mr. and Mrs. Stewart Doodyhead" or "Lisa and Stew Doodyhead" or "Mr. Stewart Doodyhead" or "Stewart Doodyhead and Lisa Craplips Doodyhead". I had Stew sign the back of every check. That was not good enough for the manager. The manager, who was talking to himself. The manager who was sniffling and choking on his own phlegm like a 2 year-old. The manager I wouldn't even trust to count my change jar. Suddenly, despite my having FULL access to this money online; I was trying to pull a fast one on him. I pointed out that I have online rights. I also pointed out that until this very moment I made weekly deposits into that same account without there ever being an issue.
I smiled. I made small talk with the girl he was training thinking this was going to be a very good lesson for her. I sat there while he looked like he was genuinely struggling with the decision to let me do this or not. I made this phlegm-bot's decision very easy for him. I sat back in the chair, crossed my arms like Sitting Bull and simply said, "all those checks are signed by Stewart Doodyhead so they are as good as cash. I am not leaving until all those checks are deposited." We were both there in person when we opened it. We both gave them our licenses. There was NO reason he could not do this.
He did it. But not without warning that there might be a problem. There wasn't.
And not without saying that he really shouldn't be doing this. Give me one good reason why? I am DEPOSITING money.
He said I should change my license. That some piece of identification on me needs to say that my lastname is Doodyhead or Craplips-Doodyhead. Something. Anything. So, I came home and looked into it and you know what, it's just too much f-ing trouble. I'd rather change banks.
Btw, this was a sponsored link. http://www.kitbiz.com/?AID=806247&PID=1116763
The only time I feel slightly different (and it's more weird than it is different) is when I refer to him as "my husband." I never really referred to Stew as my "boyfriend." I always just called him Stew. Rarely did I say "my boyfriend" because I remember being single and internally rolling the shit out of my eyes when some broad used to say, "my booyyyfriend." And even after we got engaged, "fiancee" rolled off my tongue about as well as if I tried to speak French. Even when I talked about him, his title was still "Stew" or "my boyfriend" but almost ALWAYS Stew. So, you can imagine how much I stutter the word "husband". I have to get in the habit of saying it but everytime I do, it jolts me something fierce and I have to start asking myself, "really? a husband? Are you sure? You barely look a day over 22, you can't possibly have a husband." Heck, if it weren't for my dental hygenist pointing out my gray hairs I wouldn't look a day over 13.
Having a husband has led to the great name change debate. Everybody keeps asking me what I am going to do. Am I going to take his, leave mine or compromise and hyphenate. The plan was to leave it alone. If someone wanted to call me Mrs. Doodyhead, I was fine with that. I wasn't going to take their head off and say "I am still Lisa Craplips." The other option was to hypenate but honestly, doing that makes me sound like a staunch german womyn who wants you to make her lick her boots. And, if you have ever looked into changing your name, it is a GIANT pain in the ass. I need my marriage license to do anything and THAT is currently being processed. I was just going to leave well enough alone until I met the branch manager at my bank.
A few days after the wedding I went to the bank to DEPOSIT the monetary gifts we received. The account has BOTH of our names on it. When I log into my account online I also get the joint accounts listed. From there I can move money around all I want. I can take from the joint and put it in my account and I can do whatever I want with it.
However, going there that day to deposit money into the joint account where they could see I was REALLY Lisa Craplips was probably harder than robbing that very same bank. Because some of the checks were made out to: "Mr. and Mrs. Stewart Doodyhead" or "Lisa and Stew Doodyhead" or "Mr. Stewart Doodyhead" or "Stewart Doodyhead and Lisa Craplips Doodyhead". I had Stew sign the back of every check. That was not good enough for the manager. The manager, who was talking to himself. The manager who was sniffling and choking on his own phlegm like a 2 year-old. The manager I wouldn't even trust to count my change jar. Suddenly, despite my having FULL access to this money online; I was trying to pull a fast one on him. I pointed out that I have online rights. I also pointed out that until this very moment I made weekly deposits into that same account without there ever being an issue.
I smiled. I made small talk with the girl he was training thinking this was going to be a very good lesson for her. I sat there while he looked like he was genuinely struggling with the decision to let me do this or not. I made this phlegm-bot's decision very easy for him. I sat back in the chair, crossed my arms like Sitting Bull and simply said, "all those checks are signed by Stewart Doodyhead so they are as good as cash. I am not leaving until all those checks are deposited." We were both there in person when we opened it. We both gave them our licenses. There was NO reason he could not do this.
He did it. But not without warning that there might be a problem. There wasn't.
And not without saying that he really shouldn't be doing this. Give me one good reason why? I am DEPOSITING money.
He said I should change my license. That some piece of identification on me needs to say that my lastname is Doodyhead or Craplips-Doodyhead. Something. Anything. So, I came home and looked into it and you know what, it's just too much f-ing trouble. I'd rather change banks.
Btw, this was a sponsored link. http://www.kitbiz.com/?AID=806247&PID=1116763
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