Movin' On

You know you've gone too long without posting on your blog when you cannot remember your password to log in to your blog. D'oh! (props to The Simpsons)

Well, friends, I am ever so glad that 2009 is over. What a craptastic year that was. * A clusterfuck of pain, lies, illness, death, confusion, fear and full-on mental exhaustion. Therefore, on December 31, I took 2 Nyquil, 3 Bourbon and Diet Cokes and was asleep by 9:00 p.m., determined to piss off the remainder of that 365-day long nightmare and begin anew the following day.

2010. Eleven days in and so far, so good. All things considered. Refraining from making a formal New Year's Resolution, I am striving to not let things (read: other people) bother me quite so much. Please stop laughing. Yes, if I should accomplish this, I may become unrecognizable to many of you. If you need me to, I will wear a name tag so you can pick me out of a crowd of folks walking around happily unfazed.

Let's see how it goes, shall we?



* One lovely exception to this was celebrating the 20th anniversary of best-friendship with Tallulah!

It sounded like a freight train!

I’m a good little worker bee. Although those of my coworkers often are not, my work ethic is well developed, and I have not (yet) gone postal and entered the office building with some kind of weapon of mass destruction. I know my professional responsibilities, I perform them well, the big boss trusts me and all is relatively right with my working world. However…………I’m something else, too – I am prone to what can politely be described as derailed trains of thought. I’m not so far gone that bright shiny objects distract me, but I do tend to have various ruminations (be they profound, inane or simply inappropriate) that divert my attention from a task at hand. Not that I can’t multi-task with the best of ‘em. Sometimes, though, I’m so far off the rails that I have to flag down a new locomotive and beg the mental conductor to re-fire my neurons so that I can continue on down the cerebral line.

My train recently veered violently off course during the working hours. If you’re thinking ‘well, that can’t be good’, you’re right. But man, I thought it was frickin’ hilarious!!! Most outsiders will think I’ve lost my mind, but that’s precisely the point. Aha! I lost my mind – it left – down the tracks. Don’t worry, it was only gone a couple of minutes. It came back, none the worse for wear. Here’s what happened:

My baby boss (the one with no power to actually fire me, thank goodness) came to my office, stood in the doorway and proceeded to tell me about a matter on which we would be working in the coming weeks. I heard and digested the first two sentences of what he said, and then my brain exited. Obviously, my internal thoughts were more important and thus overrode the blahblahblah of instruction coming from him.

You must picture it. There I sat, poised in my chair, seemingly rapt with appropriate attention as he spoke of important legal things (I guess). Any passerby would have assumed I was intently focused on and maybe even engrossed in a very important discussion. Not. Even the baby boss thought I was paying close attention. That was, until, I snapped back to reality and my first words to him were: “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t listening and didn’t hear a word you said. You’re going to have to start all over.” I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that he looked at me agog, likely thinking WTF! He spoke no further, so I continued on with my piss-poor, but perfectly rational (to me) explanation: “Well, I’m sorry, I just started thinking of something else and completely blanked out. I stopped listening. What did you say?” At which point, I laughed. Uproariously.

Uncontrollably. You see, IIIIIIIIII knew what I had been thinking about……..and to me, that made it that much more humorous that I had blanked out during what turned out to be a one-way work conversation. Oops. Baby boss rewound and then finished his little presentation and this time I did concentrate on his spiel alone. Boring. I’m not sure, but I think I did curtail my outward giggling until he left my office. Then, I cackled some more. And some more. It’s important to be able to laugh at yourself, right? Damn, I’m goofy. As hell. Chooo! Choooooo!!

And No! – I won’t tell you what I was thinking about. You just had to be there – in my little head. And you don’t fit. It's full of Amtrak pile-ups.

Smells Like Teen Spectacle

I took the boy for his flu vaccine Monday night. Of course, this was just for the 'regular old flu', not the dreaded and overblown (my apologizes if I have offended any nasal passages with that play on words) H1N1 virus. When I first informed him that he would be getting the vaccine, there was the requisite whining about having to get a shot. No, silly, it's not a shot. It's a squirt of whatever-it-is up your nose. Ah, the miracle of science. Ok, then, TER couldn't complain about that; not bad, for a boy who can pretty much complain and be contrary about everything.

Once we arrived at the office of the pediatrician, he immediately sat down and proceeded to cover his mouth and nose with his t-shirt. He informed me that he was protecting himself because that place is "full of sick people!". ooooooookkkkkkkkkkk Good to know that his old ratty t-shirt is the perfect buffer against all germs and viruses. He has many of such t-shirts, so if you would like one for your own protection, do let me know and I'd be happy to provide you with one.

So there he sat, looking as if he had lost his actual surgical mask, but was preparing to perform some radical new procedure (one-handed) on the nearest child. I couldn't help giggling at him, which he did not appreciate. Oddly, once we were called back into the exam room, the necessity to cover his mouthal openings had subsided and he felt he could safely sit there - were no sick children had apparently been all day. Whatever. In comes the nurse, squirted the magic spray up his nose and sent him on his way, with specific instruction not to blow his nose "for a while". Thanks for clearing that up. By the time we got back to the car, he blew his nose. I envisioned the $35 I had just paid projecting right out of his nostrils onto the ground. But, I'll choose to believe that the vaccine had sufficiently made its way to wherever it goes once it goes up the nose. On the other hand, TER was convinced that he would now get the flu the next day, and that he had, once again, ruined everything.

By the time we got home, the nasal episode was forgotten and the boy proceeded to begin making chocolate chip cookies - from scratch. I'm still not sure why allowed this on a school night. Maybe I wanted a cookie? Thankfully, this was his personal project, so I was free to go downstairs to watch the season premiere of House in peace. (mmmmm Hugh Laurie) Surprisingly, I was interrupted by only a few irrelevant baking questions, which included "how many tablespoons are in a cup?" and "do eggshells go in the garbage disposal or in the trash?". All was going well until I smelled the cookies. A lot. A batch was burning. I'm not sure how he missed this fact, considering the house smelled like, well, burnt cookies! A lot. After waiting for a commercial (bad Mommy), I went upstairs to remind him to remove cookies from the oven when the timer goes off. "oh yeah" Well, he WAS caught up on SportsCenter, so it's understood how distracted he was. In his head, anyway.

Burnt cookies = more determination that he had "ruined everything". However, he made me try one, insisting that maybe they weren't that bad. How is that possible that they were ruined not that badly?? To keep the peace, I took a bite, swallowed hard, and smiled, indicating that they will suffice. In my head I felt they would only suffice if you were a starving pygmy, or needed to pelt a burglar with a hard object.

Happily, there was only one batch that went awry. The other cookies looked and were perfectly yummy. I swear I've only had two, as he is using them as his treats when he packs his school lunches. Aaawww - how cute. The burned cookies have mysteriously disappeared (into the trash can, underneath other pieces of trash so to hide evidence of my betrayal that I have eaten them with delight).

Cookies baked, TER went to bed. I finished House and made my way back into the kitchen. At least I think it was a kitchen. It looked more like a Keebler factory had moved in, then exploded. Utensils, ingredients and dough everywhere. And everywhere is where I left it. Hell, it would be there in the morning. And it was, at which time the boy got upset at the fact that there were no clean spoons for his cereal. Drama continues...........eyes keep rolling.

Sugar Baby!

Good news for me! I am off the hook. My household responsibilities are no more. The water, cable and VEPCO** bills will be paid for me. My salary will now be my fun money, to be spent as I choose, be it on liquor, first-class travel and/or trips to Vegas and Monte Carlo. I need to get on the phone and find myself full-time personal shoppers, maids, chefs, trainers and hairdressers. I feel like Eva Gabor before Eddie Albert moved her out to the Green Acres farm.

My new found life of luxury is due to the fact that I was informed earlier today that my abode actually belongs to my son, not to me at all. I know this because he called to say that he forgot THE keys to HIS house. Luckily, I happen to have a spare set (although I had thought they were the original - oh well) of keys to HIS house, and was able to let him into his personal dwelling. From here on out, I shall consider myself a guest, and expect to be catered to. This plan, however, may be flawed. We're talking here about the odds of TER having any hosting abilities when he can't remember to: flush the toilet; put the milk jug back in the fridge; turn off the light/tv/computer/water faucet; or lock the front door.

Fiddledeedee. I will just be the kind of company who fends for herself, not wanting to be a burden or put anyone out. Besides, I will get enough joy out of knowing that the boy's invisible paycheck will pay for all costs associated with HIS house! He can't kick me out - he needs me to drive him places. He will make the car payment, and I'm happy to cart him to baseball practice. My very own Sugar Baby!

** VEPCO: Predecessor of our current monopolistic electric company, Dominion Virginia Power.*** But I like "VEPCO" and refuse to refer to it as anything else. Just like the little convenience store down the street from my parents' house will forever be Short Stop to me, no matter how many times it changes names and ownership.

*** BTW - never make out a check to Dominion Virginia Power simply as "Virginia Power" - I heard once that crooked bank employees will change the payee to "Virginia Powerston" and run off with your money! Then VEPCO turns off your electricity and in order to call and yell at them, you have to to find a flashlight to find a phone book to look up VEPCO, which you can't find, because it only exists in my head.

Bite Me!

A friend told me this evening that “if we were gay cowboys……..I’d quit you…….because you don’t blog.” Damn, girl, glad I’m not a gay cowboy – not that there’s anything wrong with that. They make for some box office gold!

As a straight suburb-girl, I blog for you today. The subject: my fingernails.

I began the awful, disgusting habit of biting my nails in the womb. This is because at that time, my mother still nibbled on hers! That sainted woman was 27 years old before she stopped. That is a fact that might make one cringe, until you learn that I am almost 38 and still bite mine. I can hear your squeals of “eeewwww” now. Don’t worry. I have stopped. For the moment. I think.

In an effort to appear a feminine creature adorned with lovely painted fingers, I wore acrylic tips for years. However, the biweekly ritual of having a sprite-like Vietnamese woman called Kim attempt to beautify my hands became too much – from a financial perspective. As part of my own personal attempt at Recession Salvation, I have given up on my plastic claws. As a result of the years of abuse to which I subjected my keratin stubs, they are very, very weak; and thus are a pain in my ass. Although they are actually “long” enough to poke something, they are practically wobbly. I apply what is purported to be Strengthener every day, but I feel certain that it’s really just shiny goo that smells funny.

The good news for those of you who have cried yourselves to sleep at night over the lack of my postings…………I read that increased blood flow to your fingers can stimulate and increase nail growth. That means more typing for me; and more reading for you!

My Blog's a Blank

In recent weeks, I have been reminded/hounded/berated/beaten about the head and face regarding the perception that it has been "way too long" since my last posting. To some, I have even made unkept promises of forthcoming amusements pouring from my fingertips. Sorry guys. I pinkie swear that I have racked my little pea brain to come up with a topic worthy of your read. I've got nuthin'! Which is sad because, as we all know, I'm a smart girl. About some things. Most days. All things being relative, of course. Just don't ask me about chemistry.

The few sparks of possible writing material quickly revealed themselves to be either: stupid; not interesting at all; only funny to me; nothing I'd want seen written on the side of a bus; or frankly, none of your damn business.

I do have one actual update to give you. When last we found ourselves in this State, I had been victimized and traumatized by you-know-where. Well, after two morons from the company contacted me to basically tell me 'too bad, so sad for you', I wrote a prolific nastrygram back to the head office. Immediately after my diatribe was passed down the chain of ineffectiveness, I was offered a $25 gift card to you-know-where, to compensate me for the trouble I had encountered. (A new porsche would have been more equitable.) Mind you, I will never shop there again, BUT did enter the store to pick up said free money! And as my good deed that day, promptly turned it over to a charitable organization.

In other news.........there really isn't any.........that I'm ready to share. See, now you're waiting with baited breath, aren't you? Probably not, but whatever.

Seriously, though, I'm going to start making shit up if bouts of literary genious continue to evade me.

An EscheWAL of the MART

Last night, TER and I went shopping for the remaining items required for his upcoming trip to Williamsport, PA for Baseball Camp. I’m almost of jealous of what will be his exciting adventure – playing the game at the Little League capital of the world. Second only to the fervor of counting the days during which I will be childless is my anticipation of seeing the place for myself when I go there to pick him up next Friday. I love baseball and cannot wait to see that Mecca!!

In a moment of what can only be described temporary insanity on my part, I drove straight to the place that shall not be named, but that I will refer to as WM. It was a conscious effort to save money on the myriad of items still on the shopping list. Little did I know the high price I would pay for my frugality. It may be a case of no good deed going unpunished, or it could be bad karma coming after my ass. If it was karmic retribution, I think I am even with the gods.

The department store trauma began when I asked an employee where I might find the dressing rooms so that the boy could try on the gym shorts which took him no less than 20 minutes to pick out. Keep in mind that this woman was on the floor, re-folding girls tops that had been haphazardly rummaged through by the rude customers who populated the store. My question about the dressing room was met with a blank stare and a mumbled “huh?”. This was the only discernable verbal response I got because this publicly-visible employee spoke no English. Why in the world is such a deplorable linguist positioned in a location where it is a hugely viable possibility that she would be asked questions in English? Good night in Heaven! So, I proceeded to wander about on my own and eventually found the dressing room, wherein it took TER 10 full minutes to try on two pair of shorts. I still don’t understand that delay.

Once his shorts had been formally selected, we proceeded on to look for beach towels. Crazily, I assumed beach towels would either be found in the towel department, or perhaps with the seasonal stuff, like pool toys and whatever. Nope. No beach towels were to be seen. I decided to throw the dice and ask the next employee I found (no small feat) about the possible location of beach towels. She had no clue, but at least could tell me so in broken English. She kindly walked with me to the Customer Service (hahahahaha) desk at which a gentleman informed me that all moisture alleviators would be found in the housewares department, near the washcloths and shower curtains. When I insisted this was untrue, he then informed me that they must be out of stock. What? Ok, whatever. So I ventured off one more time to search for more items on the list, by this time muttering under (and sometimes over) my breath such phrases which I should not have been vocalizing in public. To TER’s credit, he kept silent during my semi-public tirade and immense frustration at the ludicrous happenings inside the store. I finally told him that I HAD to get out of there, NOW! Whatever we didn’t have in the cart, I would get elsewhere. I just HAD to leave. You know that feeling you get when you know that if you don’t remove yourself from a particular setting, somebody is going to get hurt? That was me.

The few check-out lines which were open all had at least three other brain-addled customers waiting in line. So, I had the bright idea to just use one of the self check-out lanes, all of which were shockingly line-less. Upon scanning my third item – travel-sized shampoo – the senseless scanner/screen combo informed me that I had to “wait for assistance”. For what? I again graced anyone within earshot with a few choice words. You will be stupefied to learn that no assistance came forth. The machine cared not, assumed I was some moron who lacked swiping ability and refused to allow me to continue the check-out process. That’s it. I was DONE. Done. Done. Done. One foot already over the line of the cliff of Tolerance of Absurdity, I stormed out of WM. Left, just left. Left my cart right where it was, and left. Had to leave. Just had to. TER followed silently behind. When Mom is shaking in an attempt to not commit an act which would force WM to, in the future, carry straight jackets (likely in the housewares department) for occasions during which irate customers need to be restrained, a bright child will obey the wordless orders to make no sudden moves and to accept as appropriate everything Mom just said and did.

As God as my witness, I will never again enter a WM store. Now, who wants to go to Target with me tonight?