---Original Message---
From: Nancy[mailto:YourMother@eservice.com]
Sent: Wednesday, December 31, 2003 6:35 AM
To: Stacey
Subject:
Hi - You may not remember me, but just thought I'd touch bases with you ... Remember ... You and KC were going to call???? I would like to hear about your holiday other than in blog form ... By the way, Brooks is an interesting character ...
Love,
YWBJM
PS Glad Squiggy is still swimming in his world ...
PSS Happy New Year. Any plans for the evening? Any new year resolutions?
---
From: Stacey
Sent Wednesday, December 31, 2003 7:52 AM
To: Nancy - "Mom"
Subject: RE:
Dear Mom ~
I've recently taken a vow of silence. I have not spoken to anyone in days, which is actually easy to do as service to my phone has been out since the day after Christmas when a freak natural disaster hit our area. I would have used my cell phone, but I lost it. And then when I found it, there was no money on it to make a call. I think KC called Tokyo or something of the like and used up all my minutes.
As for plans for the New Year they are nonexistent, although I do have some resolutions which are as follows:
1. Get rich ... Really, really rich.
2. Meet nice man. Limited issues a must.
3. Train cat to clean out litter.
4. Swim with sharks and not get eaten.
5. Get along with family ... Or move very far away from all of them.
6. Eat more fruit.
7. Realize that blogging in no way makes up for actual conversations/communication with loved ones.
8. Watch more British movies, preferably with Colin Firth (MoMD) in leading role.
9. Play monopoly without cheating.
10. Stop sticking my tongue out at strangers.
As for serious resolutions, I don't really have any just yet. I'll need a little more time to figure those ones out before the ball falls tonight.
We love you.
YD
--------
Please Mr. Postman
Well she did it. She signed me up on Match.com, without me knowing it, photo and all.
I should be embarrassed that this is what my love life - alright, non-existent love life - has come to, a 250 word summary of all things Stacey.
But I laughed.
Especially when I was reading the commentary my sister provided about me. According to Amy, I like to read books ... A lot, and that's pretty much all I do. Which of course says to the male reader, that I'm a complete loser living in an imaginary world who never leaves her house. Close ... But not quite true. I do occasionally go to work.
So even though I'm not crazy about the whole idea of internet dating, I let her keep it up, with one tiny little exception, I got to tweak my profile. And while I may not get any serious hits, I will most certainly get a laugh or two.
Maybe tomorrow, after all my changes have gone through, I'll share with you a small sample.
I should be embarrassed that this is what my love life - alright, non-existent love life - has come to, a 250 word summary of all things Stacey.
But I laughed.
Especially when I was reading the commentary my sister provided about me. According to Amy, I like to read books ... A lot, and that's pretty much all I do. Which of course says to the male reader, that I'm a complete loser living in an imaginary world who never leaves her house. Close ... But not quite true. I do occasionally go to work.
So even though I'm not crazy about the whole idea of internet dating, I let her keep it up, with one tiny little exception, I got to tweak my profile. And while I may not get any serious hits, I will most certainly get a laugh or two.
Maybe tomorrow, after all my changes have gone through, I'll share with you a small sample.
Zzzzzzz
Hers was the pleasant fatigue that comes of work well done. When at night in bed she went over the events of the day, it was with a modest yet certain satisfaction at this misunderstanding disentangled, that problem solved, some other help given in time of need. Her good deeds smoothed her pillow.
~ Winifred Holtby, South Riding (1936)
As long as it's the cold side of the pillow, you can call me happy.
Goodnight Moon.
~ Winifred Holtby, South Riding (1936)
As long as it's the cold side of the pillow, you can call me happy.
Goodnight Moon.
Almost Speachless
What a day, what a day, what a day.
It's not even 7 o'clock and I am 100% completely exhausted. Lack of sleep will do that to you.
As of this very moment, Squiggy seems to be doing just fine, swimming around his tank like a madman as if he were on roids. The color in his bottom fins however is still a sickening red.
Dad came over earlier to hang my new curtain rod and drapes in my bedroom, finally bringing my Renaissance theme to a culmination. It's amazing how a simple window treatment - to coin a decorating phrase - can really provide that last pleasing punch that finishes off a room. It looks beautiful.
Dad also surprised me with a late just for me Christmas present. If you heard that loud dropping sound earlier, you can be certain it was just my jaw hitting the floor in record time as my Father pulled out a black canvas carrying bag.
"Try this out and tell me what you think," he said, putting the bag on my dining room table. My eyes close to watering, I reached out my hand.
"Is this what I think this is?" I asked, my voice shaking.
"Go ahead and open it," he said, watching me as I slowly started to pull back the zipper.
"Is this Becky's?"
"No. It's yours."
"Oh my God! Are you kidding? You're kidding right? You can't be serious," I yelled, trying to draw breath back into my lungs. "You're serious?"
"Yes. Now don't get too excited, it's pretty old. But it should work."
I wanted to cry. Happy tears, of course.
"As long as I can write, that's all I need it to do."
And so dear readers, this writer has been blessed with a laptop of her very own, courtesy of two very wonderful people, my Dad and his friend Eldon.
I am a very lucky girl indeed. Lucky and very thankful.
It's not even 7 o'clock and I am 100% completely exhausted. Lack of sleep will do that to you.
As of this very moment, Squiggy seems to be doing just fine, swimming around his tank like a madman as if he were on roids. The color in his bottom fins however is still a sickening red.
Dad came over earlier to hang my new curtain rod and drapes in my bedroom, finally bringing my Renaissance theme to a culmination. It's amazing how a simple window treatment - to coin a decorating phrase - can really provide that last pleasing punch that finishes off a room. It looks beautiful.
Dad also surprised me with a late just for me Christmas present. If you heard that loud dropping sound earlier, you can be certain it was just my jaw hitting the floor in record time as my Father pulled out a black canvas carrying bag.
"Try this out and tell me what you think," he said, putting the bag on my dining room table. My eyes close to watering, I reached out my hand.
"Is this what I think this is?" I asked, my voice shaking.
"Go ahead and open it," he said, watching me as I slowly started to pull back the zipper.
"Is this Becky's?"
"No. It's yours."
"Oh my God! Are you kidding? You're kidding right? You can't be serious," I yelled, trying to draw breath back into my lungs. "You're serious?"
"Yes. Now don't get too excited, it's pretty old. But it should work."
I wanted to cry. Happy tears, of course.
"As long as I can write, that's all I need it to do."
And so dear readers, this writer has been blessed with a laptop of her very own, courtesy of two very wonderful people, my Dad and his friend Eldon.
I am a very lucky girl indeed. Lucky and very thankful.
Is There a Fish Doctor in the House?
As I came downstairs this morning, a bright red flash of movement swirling around in the fish tank caught my eye. Barely awake, (since the girls kept their promise of staying up almost the whole night) all I wanted was a cup of something warm to drink, and a quiet comfy spot on the couch where I could veg out to my hearts content before the little hellions regained consciousness.
Peering into the still cloudy water, I realized two things:
(1) After yesterday's thorough cleaning, the water filter wasn't running correctly, requiring repairs.
and
(2) Something was very wrong with Squiggy.
Squiggy and I go way back ever since the weird drowning accident with Lenny some years ago, when I was still just a novice fish owner using a glass bowl rather than a tank. Back then, I didn't know that if you filled the water right up to the top, that you were pretty much screwing your fish out of getting any air. Unfortunately for Lenny, it was a lesson I learned to late. I found him floating the next morning with poor Squiggy gasping for breath at his side. One emergency call to the fish store later, I quickly corrected the problem and Squiggy lived to tell the tale.
Since that fateful day, life has been kind to Squiggy. We bought a one gallon tank, complete with air bubbler and brought them both home to stay, after my boss kindly suggested that everyone else was getting jealous over my having an offish ... (Yeah. That joke was just as bad when I came up with it years ago.)
"Pet's Stacey," he said, "don't belong in the office. If I let you have one, then everybody else is going to want to have one. And then we're going to have a problem because no one is going to know where to draw the line."
I thought about it for a moment, remembering all the office memories of Squiggy and I listening to Dave Matthews, Lenny Kravitz, and Tori Amos and how Squiggy liked Dave the best, often times singing along in his little fishy way, with his mouth puckered up just like ...
Anyway it broke my heart. "Come on Mr. Phelps. Can't you just tell everyone that I'm special and their not?" I whined, pleading with him for leniency. But he simply stood there for a moment, shaking his head back and forth as he is prone to do whenever having a conversation with me and quietly requested once more that Squiggy find himself a new place of residence.
So Squiggy moved into his posh new digs and his new household like he was king of the manor born. He even managed to train KC to feed him on command, just by swimming to the front of his tank and then skinning his lips on the surface. KC however took feeding him to a whole new level, dumping ridiculously large amounts of food into his tank at one time.
"You're giving him too much," I'd tell her. "He's going to die of food consumption."
"Nuh uh. Squiggy likes all the food I give him. See ... Watchem eat," KC would argue. "He's my fish anyway."
And that is how Squiggy went from being a small, tiny little goldfish into the monster he is now, approximately the size of my hand. His growth, of course, upgraded his yugo one gallon tank to a ten gallon country club complete with members. But it wasn't all champagne wishes and caviar dreams. There were a few rough spots on the way.(02-02-2003)
But this morning, things aren't looking quite good for poor Squiggy. His bottom fins are bright red, as if they are engorged with blood from some sort of internal hemorrhaging. Although he appears well, despite occasional rest stops at the bottom of the tank, I fear that this illness just might do him in.
And it breaks my heart, because although I know he's a fish, I've gotten rather attached. Whether it's saying hello to him every morning, or bidding him good evening when it's late at night or just simply pressing my hand against his tank to pet him through the glass, Squiggy is part of the family.
So I'm crossing my fingers that it's not too late for Squiggy to pull through.
Updates to follow later.
Peering into the still cloudy water, I realized two things:
(1) After yesterday's thorough cleaning, the water filter wasn't running correctly, requiring repairs.
and
(2) Something was very wrong with Squiggy.
Squiggy and I go way back ever since the weird drowning accident with Lenny some years ago, when I was still just a novice fish owner using a glass bowl rather than a tank. Back then, I didn't know that if you filled the water right up to the top, that you were pretty much screwing your fish out of getting any air. Unfortunately for Lenny, it was a lesson I learned to late. I found him floating the next morning with poor Squiggy gasping for breath at his side. One emergency call to the fish store later, I quickly corrected the problem and Squiggy lived to tell the tale.
Since that fateful day, life has been kind to Squiggy. We bought a one gallon tank, complete with air bubbler and brought them both home to stay, after my boss kindly suggested that everyone else was getting jealous over my having an offish ... (Yeah. That joke was just as bad when I came up with it years ago.)
"Pet's Stacey," he said, "don't belong in the office. If I let you have one, then everybody else is going to want to have one. And then we're going to have a problem because no one is going to know where to draw the line."
I thought about it for a moment, remembering all the office memories of Squiggy and I listening to Dave Matthews, Lenny Kravitz, and Tori Amos and how Squiggy liked Dave the best, often times singing along in his little fishy way, with his mouth puckered up just like ...
Anyway it broke my heart. "Come on Mr. Phelps. Can't you just tell everyone that I'm special and their not?" I whined, pleading with him for leniency. But he simply stood there for a moment, shaking his head back and forth as he is prone to do whenever having a conversation with me and quietly requested once more that Squiggy find himself a new place of residence.
So Squiggy moved into his posh new digs and his new household like he was king of the manor born. He even managed to train KC to feed him on command, just by swimming to the front of his tank and then skinning his lips on the surface. KC however took feeding him to a whole new level, dumping ridiculously large amounts of food into his tank at one time.
"You're giving him too much," I'd tell her. "He's going to die of food consumption."
"Nuh uh. Squiggy likes all the food I give him. See ... Watchem eat," KC would argue. "He's my fish anyway."
And that is how Squiggy went from being a small, tiny little goldfish into the monster he is now, approximately the size of my hand. His growth, of course, upgraded his yugo one gallon tank to a ten gallon country club complete with members. But it wasn't all champagne wishes and caviar dreams. There were a few rough spots on the way.(02-02-2003)
But this morning, things aren't looking quite good for poor Squiggy. His bottom fins are bright red, as if they are engorged with blood from some sort of internal hemorrhaging. Although he appears well, despite occasional rest stops at the bottom of the tank, I fear that this illness just might do him in.
And it breaks my heart, because although I know he's a fish, I've gotten rather attached. Whether it's saying hello to him every morning, or bidding him good evening when it's late at night or just simply pressing my hand against his tank to pet him through the glass, Squiggy is part of the family.
So I'm crossing my fingers that it's not too late for Squiggy to pull through.
Updates to follow later.
Two Times the Trouble
Would that I could hear myself think, I might be able to write something intelligent tonight. But I'm afraid it's not going to happen. Four hours into KC's sleepover from hell, the girls show no signs of being exhausted, while I am ready to take a dozen advils, crawl into bed and say good-bye to the conscious world.
"Aren't you tired?" I asked them earlier, watching as they shared the same evil look before breaking out into a fit of giggles.
Their answer was disappointing to say the least.
"We're staying up all night."
(We'll just have to see about that ...)
"Aren't you tired?" I asked them earlier, watching as they shared the same evil look before breaking out into a fit of giggles.
Their answer was disappointing to say the least.
"We're staying up all night."
(We'll just have to see about that ...)
On the Road Again
Last night I came home reeking like a giant cigarette, my eyes bloodshot and watering, with a splitting pain in my temples. I felt like I had been at a bar all night, bathing myself in second hand smoke, only to find that despite driving with my windows down in the frigid cold, the smell had hardly dissipated when I got home. I was, for all intents and purposes, a giant walking ash tray.
And this is what I hate most about the holidays. Sitting nine full, like a tin can of sardines in a single room, with my back up against a blast of hot, hot air radiating from a wood stove behind me. Sitting there, until it feels like my skin might start oozing away from my body, dripping drop by drop down onto the hard slate floor, until it forms a puddle of what had previously been me in solid matter.
I counted the packs of cigarettes on the table. 2, 4, 6, 8 ... Maybe two packs for every one person sitting around the world's smallest table, in the world's smallest kitchen, with the world's biggest collection of ash trays to ever accommodate a single group of people. It was hard not to be impressed.
But it was even harder trying not to breathe for the 2 hours I was there doing my Christmas duty and making nice for the holidays.
Earlier in the afternoon, I had considered not going. Thinking that a nap sounded much better indeed than going to a home that used to be my home, that was no longer my home, but still housed someone I referred to as Dad, whenever our lives happened to intersect and meet. It was a tempting thought to forego the drive and stay curled up on my couch, reading the new book my Mother had given me for Christmas, while KC was gone for the afternoon with her Dad.
But I couldn't disappoint him. Not on Christmas.
And so I went. Managing to show up before Amy and her family made their own appearance, despite having timed myself precisely to their having left before me, so I could be the one to arrive after everyone else. It seems silly. But it makes me feel better, to make an entrance when I know there's going to be more familiar faces than strangers for me to meet.
Still he was happy to see me. How to explain the smile that lit up his face, when I walked through the door and said hello, knowing that he had probably already come to the conclusion that I was going to be a no show this year. Which all in all, made both the drive and the visit well worth the second shower I had to take last night just to scrub off the cigarette smell.
So I made it through the holidays, none too worse for wear, despite the fact that there's still one more thing I need to do ...
I hear there's some more presents with my name on them, just begging to be opened.
And this is what I hate most about the holidays. Sitting nine full, like a tin can of sardines in a single room, with my back up against a blast of hot, hot air radiating from a wood stove behind me. Sitting there, until it feels like my skin might start oozing away from my body, dripping drop by drop down onto the hard slate floor, until it forms a puddle of what had previously been me in solid matter.
I counted the packs of cigarettes on the table. 2, 4, 6, 8 ... Maybe two packs for every one person sitting around the world's smallest table, in the world's smallest kitchen, with the world's biggest collection of ash trays to ever accommodate a single group of people. It was hard not to be impressed.
But it was even harder trying not to breathe for the 2 hours I was there doing my Christmas duty and making nice for the holidays.
Earlier in the afternoon, I had considered not going. Thinking that a nap sounded much better indeed than going to a home that used to be my home, that was no longer my home, but still housed someone I referred to as Dad, whenever our lives happened to intersect and meet. It was a tempting thought to forego the drive and stay curled up on my couch, reading the new book my Mother had given me for Christmas, while KC was gone for the afternoon with her Dad.
But I couldn't disappoint him. Not on Christmas.
And so I went. Managing to show up before Amy and her family made their own appearance, despite having timed myself precisely to their having left before me, so I could be the one to arrive after everyone else. It seems silly. But it makes me feel better, to make an entrance when I know there's going to be more familiar faces than strangers for me to meet.
Still he was happy to see me. How to explain the smile that lit up his face, when I walked through the door and said hello, knowing that he had probably already come to the conclusion that I was going to be a no show this year. Which all in all, made both the drive and the visit well worth the second shower I had to take last night just to scrub off the cigarette smell.
So I made it through the holidays, none too worse for wear, despite the fact that there's still one more thing I need to do ...
I hear there's some more presents with my name on them, just begging to be opened.
Patiently Waiting
How is it that I am awake first on Christmas morning, while my (almost) 8 year old daughter is still sleeping peacefully upstairs in her bed?
Wasn't she supposed to wake me up at six this morning, so I could grumble to her "It's too early go back to sleep."?
Oh ... Never mind. I hear the pitter patter of little feet sounding like an army running down the stairs.
Merry Christmas!
Wasn't she supposed to wake me up at six this morning, so I could grumble to her "It's too early go back to sleep."?
Oh ... Never mind. I hear the pitter patter of little feet sounding like an army running down the stairs.
Merry Christmas!
And To All a Good Night ...
Holidays can take a lot out of you.
They can wear you down.
Make you an emotional mess.
Make you miss home.
Make you miss family.
They can tie your insides in knots.
Make you second guess your gift giving options.
Make you worry that what you got is not good enough.
Make you compete.
Make you spend more money than you have.
They can cause havoc and catfights around the Christmas tree.
Make you miserable.
Make you gain a few pounds.
Make you angry and sometimes make you sad.
They can make you thankful.
Make you smile.
Make you laugh.
Make you silly.
They can make memories that will last forever,
The kind you cannot capture on film.
The holidays are what you make them. Make them well.
Merry Christmas everyone.
They can wear you down.
Make you an emotional mess.
Make you miss home.
Make you miss family.
They can tie your insides in knots.
Make you second guess your gift giving options.
Make you worry that what you got is not good enough.
Make you compete.
Make you spend more money than you have.
They can cause havoc and catfights around the Christmas tree.
Make you miserable.
Make you gain a few pounds.
Make you angry and sometimes make you sad.
They can make you thankful.
Make you smile.
Make you laugh.
Make you silly.
They can make memories that will last forever,
The kind you cannot capture on film.
The holidays are what you make them. Make them well.
Merry Christmas everyone.
Excuse me, Please!
If you were expecting something exciting to happen this morning, rest assured it's safe to go back to sleep. Besides waking up before my alarm clock - which quite frankly is something that doesn't happen too often, bordering on never - there's not a whole heck of a lot to report.
Yesterday - as predicted - was extremely uneventful. Unless of course, one was to consider my run in with some moron in the grocery store, as I was rushing to get some last minutes stocking stuffer's and the ingredients for pumpkin pie. (The only true thing I can bake, and bake well.)
Grocery store etiquette has evidently taken a turn for the worse.
It used to be, that when you went shopping, you were considerate of others. Always taking care to make sure that you were neither (a) blocking the aisle (b) taking too long to select an item from the shelf (c) walking slower than a tortoise in the middle of July and (d) not using any more than 20 coupons per visit, on items that were actually in your cart. And who could forget bonus points for check writers who had their checks prewritten prior to reaching checkout ...
Now I don't normally care to shop on my lunch hour, since it takes me 15 minutes both ways to get from point A (Work) to point B (Store). With less than a half hour to shop, it takes both a plan and a good pair of running shoes to accomplish my list in record time.
But there's always someone.
Because there is never a time that you can go to a store, without running into that special someone who makes your whole shopping experience one long downward spiral into hell.
For me it was a grubby old man, in a red and black checkered hunting jacket, who with help from his equally annoying wife, managed to tie up at least 3 other people, aside from myself, by blocking all traffic through a major aisle.
Not one to be too shy when certain social situations call for action, I used my best polite, but firm voice to bring their lack of judgment to attention.
"Excuse me please," I said, gripping the handles of my cart as my foot tapped impatiently.
But my request garnered no response.
I tried again, this time a little louder, a little more insistent, "Excuse me please."
Once again, I was completely ignored. Be nice, be polite, maintain calm exterior, I whispered to myself, as I grew more and more annoyed with Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. OK ... On the count of three ... One ... Two ...
"Excuse me," I said, this time much louder and dropping the please altogether as I moved my cart towards the direction I wanted to go.
It was at that exact moment that Hunting Jacket chose to acknowledge my presence. Giving me a don't bother me bitch look, he turned his body, catching his hand on my moving cart as I hustled by him.
A part of me wanted to feel bad when I heard him yell "Ow!". But just as I was turning around to offer a small smile of apology, Hunting Jacket began to howl a long list of adjectives in my direction. Any sympathy I might have felt went right out the window. And though I wanted to yell back a couple of rude comments of my own, I just kept going.
A very wise decision, since this time of year my bail money stash is at an all time low.
Until later.
Yesterday - as predicted - was extremely uneventful. Unless of course, one was to consider my run in with some moron in the grocery store, as I was rushing to get some last minutes stocking stuffer's and the ingredients for pumpkin pie. (The only true thing I can bake, and bake well.)
Grocery store etiquette has evidently taken a turn for the worse.
It used to be, that when you went shopping, you were considerate of others. Always taking care to make sure that you were neither (a) blocking the aisle (b) taking too long to select an item from the shelf (c) walking slower than a tortoise in the middle of July and (d) not using any more than 20 coupons per visit, on items that were actually in your cart. And who could forget bonus points for check writers who had their checks prewritten prior to reaching checkout ...
Now I don't normally care to shop on my lunch hour, since it takes me 15 minutes both ways to get from point A (Work) to point B (Store). With less than a half hour to shop, it takes both a plan and a good pair of running shoes to accomplish my list in record time.
But there's always someone.
Because there is never a time that you can go to a store, without running into that special someone who makes your whole shopping experience one long downward spiral into hell.
For me it was a grubby old man, in a red and black checkered hunting jacket, who with help from his equally annoying wife, managed to tie up at least 3 other people, aside from myself, by blocking all traffic through a major aisle.
Not one to be too shy when certain social situations call for action, I used my best polite, but firm voice to bring their lack of judgment to attention.
"Excuse me please," I said, gripping the handles of my cart as my foot tapped impatiently.
But my request garnered no response.
I tried again, this time a little louder, a little more insistent, "Excuse me please."
Once again, I was completely ignored. Be nice, be polite, maintain calm exterior, I whispered to myself, as I grew more and more annoyed with Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. OK ... On the count of three ... One ... Two ...
"Excuse me," I said, this time much louder and dropping the please altogether as I moved my cart towards the direction I wanted to go.
It was at that exact moment that Hunting Jacket chose to acknowledge my presence. Giving me a don't bother me bitch look, he turned his body, catching his hand on my moving cart as I hustled by him.
A part of me wanted to feel bad when I heard him yell "Ow!". But just as I was turning around to offer a small smile of apology, Hunting Jacket began to howl a long list of adjectives in my direction. Any sympathy I might have felt went right out the window. And though I wanted to yell back a couple of rude comments of my own, I just kept going.
A very wise decision, since this time of year my bail money stash is at an all time low.
Until later.
The Checks in the Mail
4 day weekends just don't last as long as they used to.
I'm thinking I could kill - or at least seriously maim - Joey for beating me to the vacation board last week and taking both today and tomorrow off, leaving me with last Thursday and Friday.
Though it was great to have those two days to finish up my Christmas shopping, he managed to claim himself 9 days off in a row, by popping his initials in the place where he knew I was about to write mine! Cheeky bastard!
And since we all know that 9 days are better than 4, that makes him scum in my book.
But alas, it's off to work I go. To enjoy a long, excruciating day of being bored and taking, well maybe, a few calls to pass the time, in-between whatever book I'm planning to read while hiding behind my computer.
Since half the office isn't going to be there, I hardly think anyone will care too much today. Maybe I should bring a deck of cards ...
I'm thinking I could kill - or at least seriously maim - Joey for beating me to the vacation board last week and taking both today and tomorrow off, leaving me with last Thursday and Friday.
Though it was great to have those two days to finish up my Christmas shopping, he managed to claim himself 9 days off in a row, by popping his initials in the place where he knew I was about to write mine! Cheeky bastard!
And since we all know that 9 days are better than 4, that makes him scum in my book.
But alas, it's off to work I go. To enjoy a long, excruciating day of being bored and taking, well maybe, a few calls to pass the time, in-between whatever book I'm planning to read while hiding behind my computer.
Since half the office isn't going to be there, I hardly think anyone will care too much today. Maybe I should bring a deck of cards ...
Lucky Numbers 3, 7, 12, 24, 27, 33
Be prepared for sudden, needed, and happy change in plans!
I'm feeling a little L2K* right about now. As if something is afoot, and I'm just sitting here waiting for the ceiling to collapse down on my head, in order to knock some sense into me.
So if you know, whatever it is that I don't know, do me a favor and fill me in.
This has been a recording.
*L2K = Last to know
I'm feeling a little L2K* right about now. As if something is afoot, and I'm just sitting here waiting for the ceiling to collapse down on my head, in order to knock some sense into me.
So if you know, whatever it is that I don't know, do me a favor and fill me in.
This has been a recording.
*L2K = Last to know
When Little Sisters Rebel
My eldest sister Amy, doesn't like to be mentioned on NWTLO, unless it's in a complimentary way. In fact, every time the two of us get into a catfight, her last response is always, "And I don't expect to read any of this on your blog!" As if she actually expects me to concede to her wishes.
"Writer's prerogative," I say, using my best bratty little sister about to stick her tongue out tone. "Don't irritate the person with the pen." Or keyboard, I think smugly to myself.
So Amy called last night, just as I was finishing my rounds.
Door locked ... Check. Christmas lights off ... Check. Heat turned down ... Check. Answer ringing phone ...
I paused, trying to consider the benefits of answering, tallying up my choices.
It could be someone annoying ... Too late for a telemarketer ... Mom's probably sleeping by now. Dad wouldn't call. Haven't spoken to Brenda in weeks. Jodi's at the SU game and then going out with friends. Audrey's on the road home from Maryland ... Shit.
"Hello." I said, grabbing the phone just before the fourth ring would have triggered the machine.
"Where you been all day? I've been trying to call you."
"Out."
"You've got to check your email."
"Why?"
"Cause I sent you something."
"Is this another one of those forward things?" I asked, my voice going up an octave. "Did you cut and paste? Does no one listen when I tell them not to send me forwards? They're not funny. They're annoying. And yes ... There is a difference."
"Shut up for a second. It's not a forward. It's just something I got ya."
"Let me guess ... You've found the man of my dreams on some singles website again? I thought I told you I wasn't interested."
"Come on," she pleaded. "Give it a chance. It could work out this time."
"Like it's worked out ALL those times before? No ... I don't think so. I'd like to enjoy my Christmas this year."
"You don't know what you're missing."
"Oh yes I do," I countered. "I'm missing out on disappointment, heartache and rejection. Thanks but no thanks. I can depress myself well enough on my own."
"I just want you to be happy this Christmas."
"I am happy. Tra la la la laaaa la la la laaaa ... And a partridge in a pear tree. See ... Happy."
"Fine," she said, sounding equally frustrated as I was feeling. "I just thought you might actually want to go out on a date before this year is over. But if you want to be a spinster, who am I to stop you?"
"Maybe I want to be a spinster. Did you consider that? Why is everyone so concerned with whether I'm dating, seeing or simply pining after some guy. Maybe I'm happy with just the way I am. Maybe I like being able to call the shots all the time and not have to worry about what someone else will think or say. Maybe men are just more problems then they're worth. Maybe ..."
She interrupted. "Fine. I'll butt out. It's all on you. But don't come crying to me, when you're 80, living all alone in a run down house and the neighborhood kids walk on the other side of the street just to avoid you."
"Fine." I answered.
"Fine," She replied.
"Talk to you tomorrow?"
"Yeah."
"Alright."
"Goodnight."
"Ciao."
"Writer's prerogative," I say, using my best bratty little sister about to stick her tongue out tone. "Don't irritate the person with the pen." Or keyboard, I think smugly to myself.
So Amy called last night, just as I was finishing my rounds.
Door locked ... Check. Christmas lights off ... Check. Heat turned down ... Check. Answer ringing phone ...
I paused, trying to consider the benefits of answering, tallying up my choices.
It could be someone annoying ... Too late for a telemarketer ... Mom's probably sleeping by now. Dad wouldn't call. Haven't spoken to Brenda in weeks. Jodi's at the SU game and then going out with friends. Audrey's on the road home from Maryland ... Shit.
"Hello." I said, grabbing the phone just before the fourth ring would have triggered the machine.
"Where you been all day? I've been trying to call you."
"Out."
"You've got to check your email."
"Why?"
"Cause I sent you something."
"Is this another one of those forward things?" I asked, my voice going up an octave. "Did you cut and paste? Does no one listen when I tell them not to send me forwards? They're not funny. They're annoying. And yes ... There is a difference."
"Shut up for a second. It's not a forward. It's just something I got ya."
"Let me guess ... You've found the man of my dreams on some singles website again? I thought I told you I wasn't interested."
"Come on," she pleaded. "Give it a chance. It could work out this time."
"Like it's worked out ALL those times before? No ... I don't think so. I'd like to enjoy my Christmas this year."
"You don't know what you're missing."
"Oh yes I do," I countered. "I'm missing out on disappointment, heartache and rejection. Thanks but no thanks. I can depress myself well enough on my own."
"I just want you to be happy this Christmas."
"I am happy. Tra la la la laaaa la la la laaaa ... And a partridge in a pear tree. See ... Happy."
"Fine," she said, sounding equally frustrated as I was feeling. "I just thought you might actually want to go out on a date before this year is over. But if you want to be a spinster, who am I to stop you?"
"Maybe I want to be a spinster. Did you consider that? Why is everyone so concerned with whether I'm dating, seeing or simply pining after some guy. Maybe I'm happy with just the way I am. Maybe I like being able to call the shots all the time and not have to worry about what someone else will think or say. Maybe men are just more problems then they're worth. Maybe ..."
She interrupted. "Fine. I'll butt out. It's all on you. But don't come crying to me, when you're 80, living all alone in a run down house and the neighborhood kids walk on the other side of the street just to avoid you."
"Fine." I answered.
"Fine," She replied.
"Talk to you tomorrow?"
"Yeah."
"Alright."
"Goodnight."
"Ciao."
A Bottle of Red
I feel like a person who drank too much and went on a public rampage yesterday.
In reality, I had only the smallest sip of red wine. Knowing even as the pungent liquid touched the tip of my tongue, I would find it completely disgusting. Puckering up my face in sensory overload, I squinted against the foul brew and set the glass as far away from me as possible. All the while silently vowing to myself that I will stop trying to be something that I am not -ad nasueam, ad nasueam - and stick with what I know ... Bartles and Jaymes, fruity flavors for the girl who likes her kool-aid with a bit of a kick.
The whole wine issue tends to shock people, and they go all Alice in Wonderland on me, peering down their noses and standing back on their haunches, like the caterpillar on top of his mushroom as he spouts "Who are you?"
Taking in my dark hair and dark eyes, though somewhat pasty complexion - thanks to my Mother's fair skinned muddy mix of ancestry and heritage - they look me up and down, sharing a look of singular disgust on their collective waspish faces.
"And you're supposed to be Italian?" they sneer, amused by their own nastiness. As if my preferring a wine cooler to some uncorked bottle of grapes 80 years past its prime is a crime too detestable to speak of in the upper echelons of their society.
That's when I go for the total shocker, pulling the ace from my sleeve, as I casually say, "I'm not Catholic either."
Holy Mary Mother of God! How can this be so? What sacrilege is this, to have a last name like mine, ending itself in a vowel and not have the good grace to be of the Catholic faith.
But I digress. In fact I digress a lot.
I was talking about what happened yesterday and why it is I shouldn't be let out of the house, let alone set loose on polite society.
I'm convinced it was something in the air yesterday. Or maybe something to do with watching my money flow through my hands like water on the river Kwai. Either way, it was fairly evident that I was in a weird, playful sort of mood, which resulted in me flirting with every male within earshot.
It all started with the guy outside of Barnes and Nobles who I said, if one were to look quick enough, reminded me of Orlando Bloom in his Pirates of the Caribbean phase rather than his kickass blonde elfin archer look from LOTR. My sister Jodi was to quick to point out that one would indeed have to look very quickly to come up with the same assessment.
From there it was over to PetSmart, where I was impressed by the number of live fishes swimming happily in their tanks. And then proceeded to almost take out a full shelf of open topped betas as I was examining what sad creatures they truly are, stuffed into the tiniest plastic cup of water known to man.
It was about this time that I saw it. Two horny little lizards going at it while some guy and a clerk stood nearby discussing his purchasing options.
I looked at Jodi, grinning like a deranged lunatic as I put my hands up in front of my face. "Holy shit. That's a little too animal kingdom for me," I said laughing, drawing the attention of both men, who took note of the in house porno playing out in the lizard cage and my wise deduction that it was incredibly rude to stare.
And then it was off to Best Buy where I proceeded to impress some short little man with curly brown hair, over my excitement of having found West Side Story on DVD for only ten dollars, the last present on my list of got to gets for my nephew.
He was like "Yeah. That's cool man," and for a moment I considered sharing a congratulatory high five in the middle of the aisle with him before moving on.
Jodi and I buzzed over to the mall next where I (a) teased a man with a weird head massaging contraption about the promiscuity of lice, (b) proceeded to have a long conversation with the guy at American Eagle on how he was handling the holiday rush as well as asked him if he would sing Christmas songs on request and (c) made strange clucking noises every time a decent looking fellow passed us by followed by a Mmm hmmm purring at the back of my throat.
But nothing quite compares to my performance at Blockbuster where I accidentally insulted a clerk by saying that I just couldn't understand who would want to sit through 2-1/2 hours of some horse movie. How was I supposed to know that one of his favotire movies was Seabiscuit? And what kind of name is Seabiscuit for a horse anyway?
He of course wanted to know what it was that I had against horses. Besides having been bitten by one once, crying over Black Beauty, and being green-eyed with envy when my two younger sisters got horses after years of my being the only one begging for them, I assured him that there was absolutely no reason for my apparent apathy towards horses. I simply didn't want to watch them on tv.
Trying to distance myself from the conversation, Jodi and I spent the next five minutes looking for a decent movie, with me afraid to make any more comments less I should offend anyone else who proclaimed to have a favorite movie. We finally settled on two things, Bringing Down the House (my choice) and something else (Jodi's choice).
For some strange reason - Friday night - the checkout line was long and wouldn't you know it, the horse loving clerk was hot on my tail to prove his point.
"I bet you didn't like Mr. Ed either," he sneered.
I raised my eyes, meeting his challenge. "I'm not into talking horses," I said.
He seemed taken aback. "Well, what about The Muppets?"
I moved my hand in the motion of a puppet. "Just a hand under a piece of cloth," I said. "Nothing more and nothing less."
From the look on his face I expected him to call me a cruel harlot. "Kermit?" he whispered.
"Puppet," was my reply.
"What about Scooby? Are you going to say Scooby wasn't real now either?"
By now the people in line were starting to stare at both Jodi and I and the Blockbuster freak boy. Some were laughing, while others tried to pass it off as if they weren't listening at all.
"Scooby was a cartoon," I sighed, wondering what it was he was hoping to prove.
He looked at me in disgust. "You probably don't even like animals," he spat, turning his nose up in the air.
And then I said the unthinkable. Carried away on a tangent, I uttered the very words that no single girl of my age and supposed sensibility would ever think to utter in public.
"I have a cat. And she loves me. And when I go home at night, I talk to her all the time," Jodi's eyes bugged out of her head as she listened to me ramble.
"You talk to your cat?" The evil freak boy asked. "What do you talk to your cat about?"
I thought about it for a moment as the entire store waited for my reply. "I can't tell you," I stuttered. "My cat's possessed and she'd kill me if I told you."
Suffice it to say, I will not be going back to Blockbuster anytime soon.
In reality, I had only the smallest sip of red wine. Knowing even as the pungent liquid touched the tip of my tongue, I would find it completely disgusting. Puckering up my face in sensory overload, I squinted against the foul brew and set the glass as far away from me as possible. All the while silently vowing to myself that I will stop trying to be something that I am not -ad nasueam, ad nasueam - and stick with what I know ... Bartles and Jaymes, fruity flavors for the girl who likes her kool-aid with a bit of a kick.
The whole wine issue tends to shock people, and they go all Alice in Wonderland on me, peering down their noses and standing back on their haunches, like the caterpillar on top of his mushroom as he spouts "Who are you?"
Taking in my dark hair and dark eyes, though somewhat pasty complexion - thanks to my Mother's fair skinned muddy mix of ancestry and heritage - they look me up and down, sharing a look of singular disgust on their collective waspish faces.
"And you're supposed to be Italian?" they sneer, amused by their own nastiness. As if my preferring a wine cooler to some uncorked bottle of grapes 80 years past its prime is a crime too detestable to speak of in the upper echelons of their society.
That's when I go for the total shocker, pulling the ace from my sleeve, as I casually say, "I'm not Catholic either."
Holy Mary Mother of God! How can this be so? What sacrilege is this, to have a last name like mine, ending itself in a vowel and not have the good grace to be of the Catholic faith.
But I digress. In fact I digress a lot.
I was talking about what happened yesterday and why it is I shouldn't be let out of the house, let alone set loose on polite society.
I'm convinced it was something in the air yesterday. Or maybe something to do with watching my money flow through my hands like water on the river Kwai. Either way, it was fairly evident that I was in a weird, playful sort of mood, which resulted in me flirting with every male within earshot.
It all started with the guy outside of Barnes and Nobles who I said, if one were to look quick enough, reminded me of Orlando Bloom in his Pirates of the Caribbean phase rather than his kickass blonde elfin archer look from LOTR. My sister Jodi was to quick to point out that one would indeed have to look very quickly to come up with the same assessment.
From there it was over to PetSmart, where I was impressed by the number of live fishes swimming happily in their tanks. And then proceeded to almost take out a full shelf of open topped betas as I was examining what sad creatures they truly are, stuffed into the tiniest plastic cup of water known to man.
It was about this time that I saw it. Two horny little lizards going at it while some guy and a clerk stood nearby discussing his purchasing options.
I looked at Jodi, grinning like a deranged lunatic as I put my hands up in front of my face. "Holy shit. That's a little too animal kingdom for me," I said laughing, drawing the attention of both men, who took note of the in house porno playing out in the lizard cage and my wise deduction that it was incredibly rude to stare.
And then it was off to Best Buy where I proceeded to impress some short little man with curly brown hair, over my excitement of having found West Side Story on DVD for only ten dollars, the last present on my list of got to gets for my nephew.
He was like "Yeah. That's cool man," and for a moment I considered sharing a congratulatory high five in the middle of the aisle with him before moving on.
Jodi and I buzzed over to the mall next where I (a) teased a man with a weird head massaging contraption about the promiscuity of lice, (b) proceeded to have a long conversation with the guy at American Eagle on how he was handling the holiday rush as well as asked him if he would sing Christmas songs on request and (c) made strange clucking noises every time a decent looking fellow passed us by followed by a Mmm hmmm purring at the back of my throat.
But nothing quite compares to my performance at Blockbuster where I accidentally insulted a clerk by saying that I just couldn't understand who would want to sit through 2-1/2 hours of some horse movie. How was I supposed to know that one of his favotire movies was Seabiscuit? And what kind of name is Seabiscuit for a horse anyway?
He of course wanted to know what it was that I had against horses. Besides having been bitten by one once, crying over Black Beauty, and being green-eyed with envy when my two younger sisters got horses after years of my being the only one begging for them, I assured him that there was absolutely no reason for my apparent apathy towards horses. I simply didn't want to watch them on tv.
Trying to distance myself from the conversation, Jodi and I spent the next five minutes looking for a decent movie, with me afraid to make any more comments less I should offend anyone else who proclaimed to have a favorite movie. We finally settled on two things, Bringing Down the House (my choice) and something else (Jodi's choice).
For some strange reason - Friday night - the checkout line was long and wouldn't you know it, the horse loving clerk was hot on my tail to prove his point.
"I bet you didn't like Mr. Ed either," he sneered.
I raised my eyes, meeting his challenge. "I'm not into talking horses," I said.
He seemed taken aback. "Well, what about The Muppets?"
I moved my hand in the motion of a puppet. "Just a hand under a piece of cloth," I said. "Nothing more and nothing less."
From the look on his face I expected him to call me a cruel harlot. "Kermit?" he whispered.
"Puppet," was my reply.
"What about Scooby? Are you going to say Scooby wasn't real now either?"
By now the people in line were starting to stare at both Jodi and I and the Blockbuster freak boy. Some were laughing, while others tried to pass it off as if they weren't listening at all.
"Scooby was a cartoon," I sighed, wondering what it was he was hoping to prove.
He looked at me in disgust. "You probably don't even like animals," he spat, turning his nose up in the air.
And then I said the unthinkable. Carried away on a tangent, I uttered the very words that no single girl of my age and supposed sensibility would ever think to utter in public.
"I have a cat. And she loves me. And when I go home at night, I talk to her all the time," Jodi's eyes bugged out of her head as she listened to me ramble.
"You talk to your cat?" The evil freak boy asked. "What do you talk to your cat about?"
I thought about it for a moment as the entire store waited for my reply. "I can't tell you," I stuttered. "My cat's possessed and she'd kill me if I told you."
Suffice it to say, I will not be going back to Blockbuster anytime soon.
Out of Body Experience
Day 2 of Pre-Christmas vacation and KC has just been successfully put on the bus for school.
I am alone. Completely. Absolutely. Positively. Wonderfully. Alone.
I'm exhausted though.
I had such weird dreams last night, that I actually woke up happy to be awake. This in itself very unusual. But then again, so is riding an escalator over acres of green grass and being able to see the top of Carousel Mall from a gazillion miles away, while your sister and Mother are busy slamming doors in each others faces.
From there you've got evil beings hiding out in closets thinking about possession. 13 open graves dug in the dirt right around the corner from the dorms you lived in when you were in college. And a weird notion that a gothic experience in the middle of your dreams secretly translates that you desire to wear coal black lipstick and die your hair midnight black in your waking life.
And who could be surprised when you're old friend Jay reappears wearing a burgandy beret with his leather jacket, upset over a recent breakup with his boyfriend?
Have I mentioned that I'm glad to be awake this morning?
But I have more to do today than just stay home desperately trying to keep my eyes open. There is last minute shopping needing to be done and even though I know I shouldn't, I'm stopping at Barnes and Nobles before heading back home for the day.
I will not buy myself a gift. I will not buy myself a gift. I will not ... Buy more than one gift for myself.
I am alone. Completely. Absolutely. Positively. Wonderfully. Alone.
I'm exhausted though.
I had such weird dreams last night, that I actually woke up happy to be awake. This in itself very unusual. But then again, so is riding an escalator over acres of green grass and being able to see the top of Carousel Mall from a gazillion miles away, while your sister and Mother are busy slamming doors in each others faces.
From there you've got evil beings hiding out in closets thinking about possession. 13 open graves dug in the dirt right around the corner from the dorms you lived in when you were in college. And a weird notion that a gothic experience in the middle of your dreams secretly translates that you desire to wear coal black lipstick and die your hair midnight black in your waking life.
And who could be surprised when you're old friend Jay reappears wearing a burgandy beret with his leather jacket, upset over a recent breakup with his boyfriend?
Have I mentioned that I'm glad to be awake this morning?
But I have more to do today than just stay home desperately trying to keep my eyes open. There is last minute shopping needing to be done and even though I know I shouldn't, I'm stopping at Barnes and Nobles before heading back home for the day.
I will not buy myself a gift. I will not buy myself a gift. I will not ... Buy more than one gift for myself.
Shoveling Snow
Oh my God!
I can see my driveway!
Oh happy day!
If he'd only done this a little sooner, maybe I could have saved myself the 10 dollars I shelled out this morning, buying my very own snow shovel. (Perfect holiday gift for self = shovel. Who knew?)
Yes people. I am the proud owner of one bright flourescent orange shovel, complete with safety grip, gauranteed not to break for at least 8 years.
I was so excited when I got home (the first time) that I shoveled my own parking spot, feeling like girl accomplishment. It must have been the signal the plow guy was waiting for. Because the very moment I left, he finally came back around - 3 days and 18 inches later - to finish the job he started early Monday morning.
I bet he even had a good laugh, all the while thinking to himself, "That stupid girl. I plow driveway as soon as I see her buy shovel. Call me stupid, eh."
But who cares? It's done! It's done! Now if only it would stop snowing ...
I can see my driveway!
Oh happy day!
If he'd only done this a little sooner, maybe I could have saved myself the 10 dollars I shelled out this morning, buying my very own snow shovel. (Perfect holiday gift for self = shovel. Who knew?)
Yes people. I am the proud owner of one bright flourescent orange shovel, complete with safety grip, gauranteed not to break for at least 8 years.
I was so excited when I got home (the first time) that I shoveled my own parking spot, feeling like girl accomplishment. It must have been the signal the plow guy was waiting for. Because the very moment I left, he finally came back around - 3 days and 18 inches later - to finish the job he started early Monday morning.
I bet he even had a good laugh, all the while thinking to himself, "That stupid girl. I plow driveway as soon as I see her buy shovel. Call me stupid, eh."
But who cares? It's done! It's done! Now if only it would stop snowing ...
Pandora, you jaded girl
Post temporarily offline.
While we may be sorry for the inconvience, it's probably safer to say that we're not.
While we may be sorry for the inconvience, it's probably safer to say that we're not.
Breaking Up Is Hard To Do
Sean and I are over.
I don't know how to break this to you, but Sean and I have officially called it quits after precisely 30 seconds of dating.
He seemed to take it well, despite the shock - and of course - the inevitable disappointment he felt over being dumped by yours truly.
But out of the goodness of my heart, I did try to let him down easy and explained to him, that it wasn't his lack of one testicle that was the reason for our split.
We just didn't have anything in common, I told him. And quite frankly, I didn't see much point in trying to make something out of nothing at all. Or rather making love out of nothing at all, I said, remembering my recent listening to Air Supply.
He of course was crestfallen. Begging - no pleading - for me not to dump him, wanting me to give him one more try. But it was useless.
"Sean," I said, softening my voice to a barely discernible whisper, "You and me ... We're just not meant to be together ..." I paused for a moment, listening to him sobbing uncontrollably, hysterical with laughter. "Some people are just meant to be friends. And Sean, I consider you my friend, my dearest friend. I know this is going to be hard, but I think you can understand, that this is for the best."
The poor man could barely speak, let alone draw a full breath of air as I crushed his dreams of happily ever after.
"You'll find someone else." I continued, "Someone who'll love you like you deserve to be loved. Someone who will agree with you that The Bitch is Back by Elton John, is indeed a love song. Someone who'll be ok with the blow up doll you keep beneath your bed, and you calling her Mom in the middle of the night. It just can't ..." I paused for effect, "Be me."
And so ends yet another year of emotional turmoil with one more short lived relationship flushing itself down the drain. Perhaps 2004 will be a better year for me. But that dear readers, remains to be seen.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
And what did Sean have to say about all this, you ask?
"The bitch is back is a love song and I love that bitch."
Sean'O
I don't know how to break this to you, but Sean and I have officially called it quits after precisely 30 seconds of dating.
He seemed to take it well, despite the shock - and of course - the inevitable disappointment he felt over being dumped by yours truly.
But out of the goodness of my heart, I did try to let him down easy and explained to him, that it wasn't his lack of one testicle that was the reason for our split.
We just didn't have anything in common, I told him. And quite frankly, I didn't see much point in trying to make something out of nothing at all. Or rather making love out of nothing at all, I said, remembering my recent listening to Air Supply.
He of course was crestfallen. Begging - no pleading - for me not to dump him, wanting me to give him one more try. But it was useless.
"Sean," I said, softening my voice to a barely discernible whisper, "You and me ... We're just not meant to be together ..." I paused for a moment, listening to him sobbing uncontrollably, hysterical with laughter. "Some people are just meant to be friends. And Sean, I consider you my friend, my dearest friend. I know this is going to be hard, but I think you can understand, that this is for the best."
The poor man could barely speak, let alone draw a full breath of air as I crushed his dreams of happily ever after.
"You'll find someone else." I continued, "Someone who'll love you like you deserve to be loved. Someone who will agree with you that The Bitch is Back by Elton John, is indeed a love song. Someone who'll be ok with the blow up doll you keep beneath your bed, and you calling her Mom in the middle of the night. It just can't ..." I paused for effect, "Be me."
And so ends yet another year of emotional turmoil with one more short lived relationship flushing itself down the drain. Perhaps 2004 will be a better year for me. But that dear readers, remains to be seen.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
And what did Sean have to say about all this, you ask?
"The bitch is back is a love song and I love that bitch."
Sean'O
An excuse
Stacey was unable to blog this morning due to flagrant misuse of snooze alarm as well as her wish to respond to commentary left on said commentary blog.
Stacey apologizes for her lack of responsible time management and wants you to know that even now by typing this, she will surely be late for work and the people who pay her to be there on time.
Stacey is not upset however, as considers it to be fair play for not receiving Christmas bonus this year. Considering even sitting with feet up on desk today, just to prove the point.
Stacey also thinks talking in third person is very smarmy and is a key element in recognizing personality defects, and should only be used in dire and extreme situations when talking about yourself in third person is absolutely necessary for survival. Having come to the conclusion that this is not one of those times, Stacey will now log off her computer and go to work, whilst thinking of the error of her ways.
Ciao for now.
Stacey apologizes for her lack of responsible time management and wants you to know that even now by typing this, she will surely be late for work and the people who pay her to be there on time.
Stacey is not upset however, as considers it to be fair play for not receiving Christmas bonus this year. Considering even sitting with feet up on desk today, just to prove the point.
Stacey also thinks talking in third person is very smarmy and is a key element in recognizing personality defects, and should only be used in dire and extreme situations when talking about yourself in third person is absolutely necessary for survival. Having come to the conclusion that this is not one of those times, Stacey will now log off her computer and go to work, whilst thinking of the error of her ways.
Ciao for now.
Quick Fix
I got home tonight to find that ...
Our moronic plow driver failed to come back and do a better job cleaning up the mountain of snow in our driveway.
Even though his reckless plowing left me no choice but to wade through 3 feet of snow this morning, make like Mario Andretti, and floor the gas in order to get my car out, I did indeed make it to work, though subsequently 7 minutes late exactly. Thanks to said lateness, office gossips were quick to pounce on me as I walked in the door, questioning as to where and what I was doing and with who.
Rather than make something up, I simply rolled my eyes before heading to my office, my sneakers squeaking all the way down the hall, until I stepped over the carpeted divider, where I quickly hung my coat and scarf and settled in for the day.
I spent the rest of the morning doing all sorts of nonessential things, attempting to look polished and professional each time my boss walked past my door, having learned last year that looking busy is truly the key to being left alone. Seeing that I was hard at work - playing free cell on my computer - boss was more than happy to walk on by, then stop and question me as to what it was I was doing.
But even free cell got a little boring after a while, as you can only win just so many times before the whole thing becomes terribly redundant. So I opted for doodling. Sketching giant barren trees on an equally barren landscape until I ruined my sketch by trying to use a blue highlighter to add color. So I tossed it out and spent the next five minutes wondering what else I could do, briefly considering making a flip book of a guy diving off a pier on a book of posties, until I realized that it would take far more attention to detail than I was willing to give it at that very moment.
Luckily my friend Mike, also knee deep in the state of boredom, picked that precise moment to call. For the next hour, we went back and forth discussing our views on politics, the state of the world, and the declining economy until I finally had to call an end to it, as I was suffering from a severe headache brought on by logical thinking.
After that things just sort of fizzled out, which was probably very good considering that my head hurts just as bad as it did then as it does now. And though I doubt it will make much of a difference, I think I'll take a couple of advil, find a comfy spot and call it an evening.
Sweetest of dreams until tomorrow.
Our moronic plow driver failed to come back and do a better job cleaning up the mountain of snow in our driveway.
Even though his reckless plowing left me no choice but to wade through 3 feet of snow this morning, make like Mario Andretti, and floor the gas in order to get my car out, I did indeed make it to work, though subsequently 7 minutes late exactly. Thanks to said lateness, office gossips were quick to pounce on me as I walked in the door, questioning as to where and what I was doing and with who.
Rather than make something up, I simply rolled my eyes before heading to my office, my sneakers squeaking all the way down the hall, until I stepped over the carpeted divider, where I quickly hung my coat and scarf and settled in for the day.
I spent the rest of the morning doing all sorts of nonessential things, attempting to look polished and professional each time my boss walked past my door, having learned last year that looking busy is truly the key to being left alone. Seeing that I was hard at work - playing free cell on my computer - boss was more than happy to walk on by, then stop and question me as to what it was I was doing.
But even free cell got a little boring after a while, as you can only win just so many times before the whole thing becomes terribly redundant. So I opted for doodling. Sketching giant barren trees on an equally barren landscape until I ruined my sketch by trying to use a blue highlighter to add color. So I tossed it out and spent the next five minutes wondering what else I could do, briefly considering making a flip book of a guy diving off a pier on a book of posties, until I realized that it would take far more attention to detail than I was willing to give it at that very moment.
Luckily my friend Mike, also knee deep in the state of boredom, picked that precise moment to call. For the next hour, we went back and forth discussing our views on politics, the state of the world, and the declining economy until I finally had to call an end to it, as I was suffering from a severe headache brought on by logical thinking.
After that things just sort of fizzled out, which was probably very good considering that my head hurts just as bad as it did then as it does now. And though I doubt it will make much of a difference, I think I'll take a couple of advil, find a comfy spot and call it an evening.
Sweetest of dreams until tomorrow.
Every Time It Snows
I've decided this morning, that the guy who plows our driveway must be the biggest idiot on earth, if not the greediest son of a bitch on the face of the planet.
He annoys me. Him and his plow barging in at all hours to scrape a driveway clean, regardless of the fact that all he really succeeds in doing, is blocking each and every single car in with a heaping pile of snow, wherever it is they were lucky enough to park.
It doesn't matter to him that 3 in the morning is not the smartest time to plow, considering EVERYONE IS HOME, leaving no place for his plowed snow to go. All that matters is he get us done, so he can move on to his next job, where presumably the money pays much better than whatever chump change our landlord has promised him.
The guy is a nuisance. Waking me up every time he decides that early morning plowing is the way to go. A couple of times, I've flickered on my lights to let him know he's disturbed the peace of at least one individual living in our complex. But if I had to hazard a guess, I would say that he's not the type who cares. Slimy toad!
Sometimes I wonder why everyone associated with hands on maintenance where I live, is more than a few french fries short of a happy meal, when it comes to doing their job, and doing it well. Considering how much money we all pay in rent, this penny pinching seems a bit ridiculous to keep hiring two bit chums whose only purpose in life seems to be to irritate the residents.
But now I must go dig out my car, in hopes that the door has not frozen completely shut so that warming it up this morning, doesn't take the jaws of life to get the damn thing open.
Meanwhile, the tele has reported that KC's day is off to a much better start than mine ... She's got no school.
He annoys me. Him and his plow barging in at all hours to scrape a driveway clean, regardless of the fact that all he really succeeds in doing, is blocking each and every single car in with a heaping pile of snow, wherever it is they were lucky enough to park.
It doesn't matter to him that 3 in the morning is not the smartest time to plow, considering EVERYONE IS HOME, leaving no place for his plowed snow to go. All that matters is he get us done, so he can move on to his next job, where presumably the money pays much better than whatever chump change our landlord has promised him.
The guy is a nuisance. Waking me up every time he decides that early morning plowing is the way to go. A couple of times, I've flickered on my lights to let him know he's disturbed the peace of at least one individual living in our complex. But if I had to hazard a guess, I would say that he's not the type who cares. Slimy toad!
Sometimes I wonder why everyone associated with hands on maintenance where I live, is more than a few french fries short of a happy meal, when it comes to doing their job, and doing it well. Considering how much money we all pay in rent, this penny pinching seems a bit ridiculous to keep hiring two bit chums whose only purpose in life seems to be to irritate the residents.
But now I must go dig out my car, in hopes that the door has not frozen completely shut so that warming it up this morning, doesn't take the jaws of life to get the damn thing open.
Meanwhile, the tele has reported that KC's day is off to a much better start than mine ... She's got no school.
What Price Freedom?
The house is quiet, save for the tele set at low volume so I can listen to breaking news of Saddam's capture. Normally on a Sunday morning, I'm not too quick to let the outside world inside. Preferring instead to feel that my home is a safe haven, world's away from the madness and chaos of societies that refuse to live together in peace.
And as I'm watching it, the Iraqi people dancing in the streets, the one thing that strikes me funny - though not in a ha ha sort of way - is the kind of weapons they carry around in a haphazard manor, firing every so often straight up into the air. But no one ever flinches whenever one of these shots is fired. Which tells you just how adjusted they are to hearing them - loud and too often. Perhaps it would not be a bad idea to discuss gun control when democracy is brought forth to the table.
Still I wonder where the women are? The little girls? In a street parade full of revilers I have seen only one woman, draped in black veil, clapping her hands in the background, a henna tattoo on her wrist. I wonder what freedom will mean for her.
But like clockwork, KC has realized that I am awake and has made her own way downstairs this morning, where she is not so patiently waiting for me to finish with this blogging business of mine and make her breakfast.
Happy French Toast Day - despite the fact that KC has requested pancakes this morning.
And as I'm watching it, the Iraqi people dancing in the streets, the one thing that strikes me funny - though not in a ha ha sort of way - is the kind of weapons they carry around in a haphazard manor, firing every so often straight up into the air. But no one ever flinches whenever one of these shots is fired. Which tells you just how adjusted they are to hearing them - loud and too often. Perhaps it would not be a bad idea to discuss gun control when democracy is brought forth to the table.
Still I wonder where the women are? The little girls? In a street parade full of revilers I have seen only one woman, draped in black veil, clapping her hands in the background, a henna tattoo on her wrist. I wonder what freedom will mean for her.
But like clockwork, KC has realized that I am awake and has made her own way downstairs this morning, where she is not so patiently waiting for me to finish with this blogging business of mine and make her breakfast.
Happy French Toast Day - despite the fact that KC has requested pancakes this morning.
Beware the Fruit That Falls From the Pineapple Tree
KC is being positively snarlish this morning, having once again woken on the wrong side of the hemisphere. Being that she is not a morning person, I wish my daughter would take full advantage of a Saturday and sleep til noon, rather than rise with the chickens at dawn.
Instead she gets up, making more noise than should be humanly possible at an absolutely inane hour, before trudging into my room to tell me some juicy little spot of information she thinks I ought to know. This morning, armed with a local advertisement from A.C. Moore - craft store extraordinaire - I woke to the smell of a freshly printed paper being held close to my face, a small finger pointing out an object on the page.
"A rock tumbler, Mommy," she breathed, taking a moment to point out the bold yellow and red writing, "Look ... It says it's on SALE. Do you think that I could get one for Christmas?"
Afraid to open my eyes for fear of the sunlight streaming into my window, I squinted at the page, murmured something unintelligible and attempted to go back to sleep. KC however was not prepared to be ignored.
"Mom," she said, pausing for the slightest of moments as she waited for my reply. Getting none she opted to try again, raising her voice a decibel this time. "Mom ... Mommmmm ... Mommmmmmm!"
"Oh for God's sake what?" I asked, irritation evident in my voice.
Like a little bull, KC pointed again to the picture. "Can you please get me this for Christmas?"
Not a morning person myself, I was not prepared to be accommodating in the least little bit, answering her in the most noncommittal fashion I could think of - a sort of evil parent's revenge trick if you will.
"We'll see KC." I said, pulling the covers up closer to my head. "Now let Mommy sleep a little bit longer. Play quietly in your room, or go downstairs and watch cartoons. Mommy just needs," I covered my mouth to stifle a yawn, "to sleep a little bit longer before she can face the day."
Disappointed she shuffled back out into the hall, her flannel blanket dragging dejectedly behind her. Stopping once, to look back behind her, her big brown eyes imploring like that of an orphan puppy in search of an owner, I waited for her to whimper.
"Go." I urged her more gently this time. "I'll be up in a little while." I said, even as I knew full well that going back to sleep had stopped being an option 10 minutes before. "Oh well." I sighed to myself, planting my feet firmly on the floor. "Tell me more about this rock tumbler."
Instead she gets up, making more noise than should be humanly possible at an absolutely inane hour, before trudging into my room to tell me some juicy little spot of information she thinks I ought to know. This morning, armed with a local advertisement from A.C. Moore - craft store extraordinaire - I woke to the smell of a freshly printed paper being held close to my face, a small finger pointing out an object on the page.
"A rock tumbler, Mommy," she breathed, taking a moment to point out the bold yellow and red writing, "Look ... It says it's on SALE. Do you think that I could get one for Christmas?"
Afraid to open my eyes for fear of the sunlight streaming into my window, I squinted at the page, murmured something unintelligible and attempted to go back to sleep. KC however was not prepared to be ignored.
"Mom," she said, pausing for the slightest of moments as she waited for my reply. Getting none she opted to try again, raising her voice a decibel this time. "Mom ... Mommmmm ... Mommmmmmm!"
"Oh for God's sake what?" I asked, irritation evident in my voice.
Like a little bull, KC pointed again to the picture. "Can you please get me this for Christmas?"
Not a morning person myself, I was not prepared to be accommodating in the least little bit, answering her in the most noncommittal fashion I could think of - a sort of evil parent's revenge trick if you will.
"We'll see KC." I said, pulling the covers up closer to my head. "Now let Mommy sleep a little bit longer. Play quietly in your room, or go downstairs and watch cartoons. Mommy just needs," I covered my mouth to stifle a yawn, "to sleep a little bit longer before she can face the day."
Disappointed she shuffled back out into the hall, her flannel blanket dragging dejectedly behind her. Stopping once, to look back behind her, her big brown eyes imploring like that of an orphan puppy in search of an owner, I waited for her to whimper.
"Go." I urged her more gently this time. "I'll be up in a little while." I said, even as I knew full well that going back to sleep had stopped being an option 10 minutes before. "Oh well." I sighed to myself, planting my feet firmly on the floor. "Tell me more about this rock tumbler."
Hark the Herald Angels Sing
There's a tree standing in the middle of my living room.
A big fluffy, pine smelling tree with long green needles, waiting patiently, standing tall and proud, for the moment when bows, beads, and Christmas lights, metamorphis its ordinary evergreen branches into something special, something magical.
Bright colored lights the color of candy will glow warm and inviting to the cars that pass us by, while KC and I listen to Silent Night, singing along as the snow falls quietly outside. And as we're hanging our oranaments, ever so carefully one by one, KC will tell me this years plan of catching Santa in the act. Some elaborate scheme of camping out behind the furniture, camera in her hand, waiting for an unsuspecting Santa to sneak inside with his bag full of gifts. But I don't worry. Knowing very well, that sooner or later sleeps claims even the best of patient waiters.
And when she goes to bed tonight, I'll retire to the couch tucking my legs up casually beneath me, cup of cocoa in my hand and admire this years tree for the silent, beautiful miracle of Christmas that it is.
A big fluffy, pine smelling tree with long green needles, waiting patiently, standing tall and proud, for the moment when bows, beads, and Christmas lights, metamorphis its ordinary evergreen branches into something special, something magical.
Bright colored lights the color of candy will glow warm and inviting to the cars that pass us by, while KC and I listen to Silent Night, singing along as the snow falls quietly outside. And as we're hanging our oranaments, ever so carefully one by one, KC will tell me this years plan of catching Santa in the act. Some elaborate scheme of camping out behind the furniture, camera in her hand, waiting for an unsuspecting Santa to sneak inside with his bag full of gifts. But I don't worry. Knowing very well, that sooner or later sleeps claims even the best of patient waiters.
And when she goes to bed tonight, I'll retire to the couch tucking my legs up casually beneath me, cup of cocoa in my hand and admire this years tree for the silent, beautiful miracle of Christmas that it is.
Bang on the drum all day
The winds almost blew the house down last night. But here I am. Alive with the house still standing.
Despite my deepest wishes, the 20 foot tree outside my house didn't come crashing down to land on my car. I suppose I should just do what normal people do, and give up on the dream of buying a svelte car with ill gotten insurance money.
Still when the winds start blowing like a wind tunnel of doom, I can't help but hope, that fate would help me out like they have my neighbor down the road. That lucky bastard had two giant trees take out 2 of his cars last time the wind got all crazy, and you should see what he's driving now!
Oh the unfairness of it all!
But I am to work as the hour grows late and later still. It would not do to be late again this morning, when I've been at least 5 minutes late so far all week.
But it is Friday, and one should try their best to be a good employee on Friday, though why this is I do not know.
Despite my deepest wishes, the 20 foot tree outside my house didn't come crashing down to land on my car. I suppose I should just do what normal people do, and give up on the dream of buying a svelte car with ill gotten insurance money.
Still when the winds start blowing like a wind tunnel of doom, I can't help but hope, that fate would help me out like they have my neighbor down the road. That lucky bastard had two giant trees take out 2 of his cars last time the wind got all crazy, and you should see what he's driving now!
Oh the unfairness of it all!
But I am to work as the hour grows late and later still. It would not do to be late again this morning, when I've been at least 5 minutes late so far all week.
But it is Friday, and one should try their best to be a good employee on Friday, though why this is I do not know.
In the middle of a moment
Blogger is having a moment and has decided to post and repost yet again tonights post.
I'm really not a redundant person ... Really, I'm not.
I'm really not a redundant person ... Really, I'm not.
Ain't Reality A Bitch
Thank the lord almighty those ladies on Survivor finally figured out how to play the game!
Just when I was beginning to think that it was hopeless to believe that the women would ever come to their senses, and start voting those smug, cocky little boys off their island, they finally got it together and did just that.
I couldn't help myself. I had to do a dance of joy, right there in the middle of my living room, as I hopped around screeching my exaltations. A picture is worth a thousand words, and between the two, Burton and Jon looked like sulky little boys whose hands had just been caught red handed in the cookie jar.
"Stinkin rats!" I yelled with glee, happy again for the very first time since Rupert was dubiously done in. "Pack your bags Johnny boy. You're going to be the next to go." I shouted, reaching for the clicker to shut the tele off, in order to go scrape something up for a late night dinner.
Unfortunately for me, PB & J was the only thing I could find in my incredibly bare cupboards. Still as far as dinners go, it was pretty sad. 2 slices of bread thinly coated with peanut butter, and squeeze bottle jelly of the purple and tasteless kind, with a side of nothing at all, not even the tiniest drop of milk to wash it all down.
I guess it's beyond time I went shopping and stopped trying to conserve money for Christmas. It wouldn't do me much good anymore anyway. Word came down the wire that my beloved -said with a heavy dose of sarcasm - company has opted not to hand over the Christmas bonuses this year. I'm going to refrain from calling them a bunch of tightfisted bastards as it is the holiday season.
Ahh ... If only I was related to a Griswald.
Just when I was beginning to think that it was hopeless to believe that the women would ever come to their senses, and start voting those smug, cocky little boys off their island, they finally got it together and did just that.
I couldn't help myself. I had to do a dance of joy, right there in the middle of my living room, as I hopped around screeching my exaltations. A picture is worth a thousand words, and between the two, Burton and Jon looked like sulky little boys whose hands had just been caught red handed in the cookie jar.
"Stinkin rats!" I yelled with glee, happy again for the very first time since Rupert was dubiously done in. "Pack your bags Johnny boy. You're going to be the next to go." I shouted, reaching for the clicker to shut the tele off, in order to go scrape something up for a late night dinner.
Unfortunately for me, PB & J was the only thing I could find in my incredibly bare cupboards. Still as far as dinners go, it was pretty sad. 2 slices of bread thinly coated with peanut butter, and squeeze bottle jelly of the purple and tasteless kind, with a side of nothing at all, not even the tiniest drop of milk to wash it all down.
I guess it's beyond time I went shopping and stopped trying to conserve money for Christmas. It wouldn't do me much good anymore anyway. Word came down the wire that my beloved -said with a heavy dose of sarcasm - company has opted not to hand over the Christmas bonuses this year. I'm going to refrain from calling them a bunch of tightfisted bastards as it is the holiday season.
Ahh ... If only I was related to a Griswald.
Rise and Shine
A little bit of an oops on my part this morning, as I forgot to set my alarm last night. I guess I should consider myself lucky that I only woke up a half hour later than usual and can still manage, even at this late time to get myself up and out of here and into work on time.
C'est la vie to another day that could have been spent in bed sleeping.
C'est la vie to another day that could have been spent in bed sleeping.
Close your eyes I want to see you tonight in my sweet dreams
Guess who broke out the Air Supply tonight ... Believe it or not, it was completely unintentional. I was actually rummaging around my messy computer desk looking for something to listen to, when I stumbled on my Les Miserable CD. Opening the cover, I was not the least bit surprised when instead of finding Les Mis, I found Air Supply.
Cue the little light bulb inside my head as I suddenly remembered, Oh yeah ... that's where I put that. As in DUH!
So now as I'm listening to it, I've come to two conclusions.
1. Just because something is on sale, resist the urge to buy it in order to rehash 8th grade memories of boys and rollerskates.
AND
2. There is a fine line between love and stalking, and Air Supply seems to be pushing the envelope.
And because I couldn't resist trying to come up with a clever ending, I hope you'll forgive me eventually for this.
Whether you're lost in love, all out of love, or making love out of nothing at all, just remember there's two less lonely people in the world tonight.
Cue the little light bulb inside my head as I suddenly remembered, Oh yeah ... that's where I put that. As in DUH!
So now as I'm listening to it, I've come to two conclusions.
1. Just because something is on sale, resist the urge to buy it in order to rehash 8th grade memories of boys and rollerskates.
AND
2. There is a fine line between love and stalking, and Air Supply seems to be pushing the envelope.
And because I couldn't resist trying to come up with a clever ending, I hope you'll forgive me eventually for this.
Whether you're lost in love, all out of love, or making love out of nothing at all, just remember there's two less lonely people in the world tonight.
When has nothing nice to say, one should say nothing at all
Have you ever noticed that with the holidays, comes unexpected problems?
Every year it's always something. Some Jeckyl and Hyde routine to cast a damper on the season. Something small, like a molehill quickly making itself into a mountain, and you can only watch it as it balloons far out of proportion.
And then you say something.
Adding your voice to the other braying jackasses, making the situation worse, because upon occasion, when you can no longer control your temper, you go for the jugular. You say things you know are going to hurt somebody else. Because for that one moment after it is said, you feel better. And then the very next you feel awful, knowing you should have just kept your mouth shut and said goodbye.
But apologizing has never been your thing. You're not good at it. You'll wait someone out forever for them to be the one to say that they're sorry first. But even when their sorry and you're sorry, you can never take the words back. You remember, and maybe because of this you've spent much of your adult life living in the past, still hurting over all the things that have already been said.
So I'll give it a day. Cool my head. Clear my mind. And by tonight be able to see that stupidity in human relationships, especially those within your own family, is just as natural as rain falling from the sky.
Until then, I'm just a little black rain cloud.
Every year it's always something. Some Jeckyl and Hyde routine to cast a damper on the season. Something small, like a molehill quickly making itself into a mountain, and you can only watch it as it balloons far out of proportion.
And then you say something.
Adding your voice to the other braying jackasses, making the situation worse, because upon occasion, when you can no longer control your temper, you go for the jugular. You say things you know are going to hurt somebody else. Because for that one moment after it is said, you feel better. And then the very next you feel awful, knowing you should have just kept your mouth shut and said goodbye.
But apologizing has never been your thing. You're not good at it. You'll wait someone out forever for them to be the one to say that they're sorry first. But even when their sorry and you're sorry, you can never take the words back. You remember, and maybe because of this you've spent much of your adult life living in the past, still hurting over all the things that have already been said.
So I'll give it a day. Cool my head. Clear my mind. And by tonight be able to see that stupidity in human relationships, especially those within your own family, is just as natural as rain falling from the sky.
Until then, I'm just a little black rain cloud.
Tell me why I don't like Mondays
My vacation is officially over as of right this very second. Despite my desire to ignore the shrilling alarm clock beside my bed, I only pressed snooze once before sliding out of my lovely little nesting place. Of course, I was grumbling the whole time about the insanity of waking up at such an hour - sure that if there was ever a crime against nature, this was it.
I won't bore you with my weather forecast, those of you who are up on your geography should know that this time of year, the forecast is always for snow, and then more snow, and of course lake effect snow, followed by more snow. I wonder what it would be like to live somewhere warm.
However I am afraid I cannot ponder that thought for too long this morning, as I still have to frost the cake I made for work last night. Guess who got elected to make the cake for the December birthdays? You'd think these people would know by now that my skills in the baking department are severely limited. A fact that could be heard throughout the small town in which I live last night as I was howling in amusement over the over-inflated balloon posing as a cake. I guess I didn't really need to use two boxes.
Oh well. As long as it's edible, no worries here.
I won't bore you with my weather forecast, those of you who are up on your geography should know that this time of year, the forecast is always for snow, and then more snow, and of course lake effect snow, followed by more snow. I wonder what it would be like to live somewhere warm.
However I am afraid I cannot ponder that thought for too long this morning, as I still have to frost the cake I made for work last night. Guess who got elected to make the cake for the December birthdays? You'd think these people would know by now that my skills in the baking department are severely limited. A fact that could be heard throughout the small town in which I live last night as I was howling in amusement over the over-inflated balloon posing as a cake. I guess I didn't really need to use two boxes.
Oh well. As long as it's edible, no worries here.
Have you looked at the stars lately?
I just can't figure out what it is with me and cartoons.
KC is home watching Christmas specials and I'm here balling my eyes out over clay-mation. A fact which would be mighty damn embarrassing if there was anyone else around to witness my emotional breakdown.
Lucky for me, the blinds are closed and my neighbors don't come knocking too often, unless it's to warn me about an unscheduled visit from our "not so handy" handy man. (A man who deserves at least two paragraphs unto himself for me to do him any sort of justice.)
Still there would be no arguments from me, if the guy from #3 were to drop over for a visit and borrow a cup of sugar or get down on bended knee to declare his undying love for me. (Not that I think that that's really going to happen.)
But I do find myself missing the days when my friend Sue lived next door. Whenever I needed something or just wanted to be annoying for no good reason, I'd simply bang on the walls that separated our apartments and wait for her to come out and play.
Sometimes late at night, we'd simply sit together on the cold concrete and look up at the stars. And though I know I said it over a thousand times, as I am prone to do with certain things and certain situations, Sue never shushed me when I would say, "You know ... People just don't look up at the stars enough anymore." She'd simply sit there, nod her head once and say, "I know, Stacey. I know."
KC is home watching Christmas specials and I'm here balling my eyes out over clay-mation. A fact which would be mighty damn embarrassing if there was anyone else around to witness my emotional breakdown.
Lucky for me, the blinds are closed and my neighbors don't come knocking too often, unless it's to warn me about an unscheduled visit from our "not so handy" handy man. (A man who deserves at least two paragraphs unto himself for me to do him any sort of justice.)
Still there would be no arguments from me, if the guy from #3 were to drop over for a visit and borrow a cup of sugar or get down on bended knee to declare his undying love for me. (Not that I think that that's really going to happen.)
But I do find myself missing the days when my friend Sue lived next door. Whenever I needed something or just wanted to be annoying for no good reason, I'd simply bang on the walls that separated our apartments and wait for her to come out and play.
Sometimes late at night, we'd simply sit together on the cold concrete and look up at the stars. And though I know I said it over a thousand times, as I am prone to do with certain things and certain situations, Sue never shushed me when I would say, "You know ... People just don't look up at the stars enough anymore." She'd simply sit there, nod her head once and say, "I know, Stacey. I know."
Just call me Abby ...
Abby: If I was a guy, I think women would like, line up to go out with me. I'm smart. I have a good sense of humor. I make a great living.
Noelle: I'd fuck you.
Abby: Thank you, honey. I know you would.
The Truth About Cats and Dogs is that no matter how hard you try just to be yourself, sometimes it's easier to be someone else.
Waking up this morning, I had no intention of writing such a thing, until I turned on the tele to find one of my all time favorite movies running on Comedy Central. Despite the fact that this movie makes me feel like a walking car wreck, I decided to leave it playing in the background as I did my morning chores.
The premise of the movie, for those of you who have yet to see this 1996 classic, is a tale of friendship, love and mistaken identity. Brian, the leading man, is entranced by a woman he meets over the phone on a call-in doggie doctor line. Setting a date to meet her, things get a bit complicated when Abby arranges for her fabulous model friend to pretend to be her while she plays the frumpy sidekick. Trouble follows of course, when the girls decide to continue the ruse, Noelle handling the in person dates and Abby manning the phones for late night conversations.
Though determined to tell the truth, Abby can't seem to find a way to break the news of her blonde body double to Brian, obsessing that she is nothing much to write home about.
Noelle: I've got something for you.
Abby: (Pretending to read) "Loser guys and how to spot them."
Noelle: No. "Low self-esteem. Are you a victim?"
Abby: (Very softly) No.
Noelle: Wait. Question one - "Do you feel you need to be punished for how you look?"
Abby: I don't need to be punished. I am punished.
Assaulted with both beauty and brains, Brian of course, can't help but to fall in love. Problem is, he has no idea that his leading lady isn't the one and the same person he believes her to be. Unraveling this mess, is a funny, sometimes poignant journey to finding out just what love and attraction is really all about.
But why let me spoil the ending? Rent it, to see for yourself.
Noelle: I'd fuck you.
Abby: Thank you, honey. I know you would.
The Truth About Cats and Dogs is that no matter how hard you try just to be yourself, sometimes it's easier to be someone else.
Waking up this morning, I had no intention of writing such a thing, until I turned on the tele to find one of my all time favorite movies running on Comedy Central. Despite the fact that this movie makes me feel like a walking car wreck, I decided to leave it playing in the background as I did my morning chores.
The premise of the movie, for those of you who have yet to see this 1996 classic, is a tale of friendship, love and mistaken identity. Brian, the leading man, is entranced by a woman he meets over the phone on a call-in doggie doctor line. Setting a date to meet her, things get a bit complicated when Abby arranges for her fabulous model friend to pretend to be her while she plays the frumpy sidekick. Trouble follows of course, when the girls decide to continue the ruse, Noelle handling the in person dates and Abby manning the phones for late night conversations.
Though determined to tell the truth, Abby can't seem to find a way to break the news of her blonde body double to Brian, obsessing that she is nothing much to write home about.
Noelle: I've got something for you.
Abby: (Pretending to read) "Loser guys and how to spot them."
Noelle: No. "Low self-esteem. Are you a victim?"
Abby: (Very softly) No.
Noelle: Wait. Question one - "Do you feel you need to be punished for how you look?"
Abby: I don't need to be punished. I am punished.
Assaulted with both beauty and brains, Brian of course, can't help but to fall in love. Problem is, he has no idea that his leading lady isn't the one and the same person he believes her to be. Unraveling this mess, is a funny, sometimes poignant journey to finding out just what love and attraction is really all about.
But why let me spoil the ending? Rent it, to see for yourself.
After freezing my toes off, though had I thought about it, I could have probably slipped into a pair of sneakers while I was waiting, KC has finally boarded her bus to school.
Closing the door in relief, I took a momemt to shake my head and clear all the bad thoughts of a morning where according to KC, everything was wrong. Right from the start, it was obvious that someone had woken up on the wrong side of the bed - though considering her mood, wrong side of the hemisphere seems more appropriate - and KC was doing everything in her power to let me know it.
Her scrambled eggs didn't taste the same today, to which she suggested that perhaps they were not cooked all the way. And then her coveralls were itchy, the ones she couldn't wait to have with their power puff girl emblem emblazed on the front with glitter from head to toe and she couldn't wear them because then she would be feeling squirmy all day and that wouldn't do because it was a gym day.
From there the complaints ranged from the color of her shirt, to the winter hat that would ruin her hair and my making her stay inside until it came closer to the time the bus would be here to pick her up. Meanwhile I prayed the bus would come earlier than its usual time.
But the bus did come and as she was getting on she turned her head to yell one more thing back to me.
"Don't forget we have a half day today!" she yelled before climbing the stairs of the big yellow monster, the doors closing behind her.
I trecked back to the house, mourning my last official day of freedom. So much for getting out of bed today ...
Closing the door in relief, I took a momemt to shake my head and clear all the bad thoughts of a morning where according to KC, everything was wrong. Right from the start, it was obvious that someone had woken up on the wrong side of the bed - though considering her mood, wrong side of the hemisphere seems more appropriate - and KC was doing everything in her power to let me know it.
Her scrambled eggs didn't taste the same today, to which she suggested that perhaps they were not cooked all the way. And then her coveralls were itchy, the ones she couldn't wait to have with their power puff girl emblem emblazed on the front with glitter from head to toe and she couldn't wear them because then she would be feeling squirmy all day and that wouldn't do because it was a gym day.
From there the complaints ranged from the color of her shirt, to the winter hat that would ruin her hair and my making her stay inside until it came closer to the time the bus would be here to pick her up. Meanwhile I prayed the bus would come earlier than its usual time.
But the bus did come and as she was getting on she turned her head to yell one more thing back to me.
"Don't forget we have a half day today!" she yelled before climbing the stairs of the big yellow monster, the doors closing behind her.
I trecked back to the house, mourning my last official day of freedom. So much for getting out of bed today ...
Well Mom just left and I am sitting here a little worse for wear.
Once again I am completely miserable to see her go and wave her on her way as I think about all the things we still didn't get to do this short visit up.
But that is how it goes.
At least that is what I'm telling myself, since I've never been able to understand why she relocated herself to North Carolina, a place where she has absolutely no ties and no family to speak of, other than a husband who doesn't like the cold.
I suppose that should be a good enough reason. But to a daughter, it really isn't. The sensible side of me knows that she is entitled to her own life, wherever it is she chooses to be. But the selfish me wishes she were closer, no more than an hour or two away, so there didn't always have to be some grand plan to find the time to get together.
I guess I just can't help it. No matter how old I get, there's still a little girl who really just misses her Mom.
Once again I am completely miserable to see her go and wave her on her way as I think about all the things we still didn't get to do this short visit up.
But that is how it goes.
At least that is what I'm telling myself, since I've never been able to understand why she relocated herself to North Carolina, a place where she has absolutely no ties and no family to speak of, other than a husband who doesn't like the cold.
I suppose that should be a good enough reason. But to a daughter, it really isn't. The sensible side of me knows that she is entitled to her own life, wherever it is she chooses to be. But the selfish me wishes she were closer, no more than an hour or two away, so there didn't always have to be some grand plan to find the time to get together.
I guess I just can't help it. No matter how old I get, there's still a little girl who really just misses her Mom.
As this is the first Monday in a very long list of Monday's that I have woken up without the feeling of impending doom hanging over me, I feel the need to both blather and blog on about it.
Mom is sitting at the dining room table writing post cards, enjoying her morning cup of coffee, while I sit here patiently - ok maybe not so patiently - waiting for her to get a move on so we can get our day of Christmas shopping started.
I absolutely abhor shopping, Christmas shopping to be exact. This time of year, people are just plain evil and rude, whether they are pushing you out of their way in stores, or flipping you the bird as they steal your space in the parking lot, because we all know that the holiday spirit takes a flying leap right out the window when people are spending money and searching for bargains.
Except it seems that the only bargains I find, are the ones meant more for me than for someone else. And I have to stand there in the store reminding myself that Christmas is about buying for other people, the whole better to give then to receive bologna that my Mother taught me way back when. Which to my credit, I figured out was her nice way of saying that it's not all about me.
Still when the price is right, it's ok to think a little of yourself and buy that tempting little Christmas treat. After all, no one knows like you know, just how good it is you've been all year.
Mom is sitting at the dining room table writing post cards, enjoying her morning cup of coffee, while I sit here patiently - ok maybe not so patiently - waiting for her to get a move on so we can get our day of Christmas shopping started.
I absolutely abhor shopping, Christmas shopping to be exact. This time of year, people are just plain evil and rude, whether they are pushing you out of their way in stores, or flipping you the bird as they steal your space in the parking lot, because we all know that the holiday spirit takes a flying leap right out the window when people are spending money and searching for bargains.
Except it seems that the only bargains I find, are the ones meant more for me than for someone else. And I have to stand there in the store reminding myself that Christmas is about buying for other people, the whole better to give then to receive bologna that my Mother taught me way back when. Which to my credit, I figured out was her nice way of saying that it's not all about me.
Still when the price is right, it's ok to think a little of yourself and buy that tempting little Christmas treat. After all, no one knows like you know, just how good it is you've been all year.
I forgot to list the things I am thankful for yesterday, so despite being a day late though not a dollar short - since I'm not stupid enough to attempt any sort of shopping today - here they are ... And as usual in random order.
I am thankful for ...
My family ... Even though upon occasion I would like to move very far, far away from all of them.
My friends ... Even the ones who send me forwarded emails, creepy text messages, and ignore me from time to time.
My car ... On it's last legs, it just keeps going and going. Even though I know I don't change its oil often enough, and the engine light has been on for the last 6 months, it forgives me enough not to have broken down to the point where I've ever been left stranded on the side of the road.
My cat ... Considering my impending spinster status, is it any surprise that my cat deserves a round of applause for tolerating me while I cry all over her fur? This would be funny, if it weren't true.
My blog ... Because even when no one else wanted to hear another word, you were always there, a blank page waiting for me to fill. I've typed much, learned little, but at least now have a record of proof that I spend entirely too much time staring at my computer.
And my last round of thanks goes to you, the few regular readers that continually come back for more despite the fact that there are some days - ok most days - where even I know I am boring you to sleep. But thanks ...
And to show my appreciation, I won't even mention that you never leave me any comments though it's fairly easy to do. That would be trite of me to mention, and I am almost never trite.
But alas, that would be the end of my short list of thanks. I have much to do today with Mom's impending arrival this evening. Cleaning an entire house in one day should prove interesting.
I am thankful for ...
My family ... Even though upon occasion I would like to move very far, far away from all of them.
My friends ... Even the ones who send me forwarded emails, creepy text messages, and ignore me from time to time.
My car ... On it's last legs, it just keeps going and going. Even though I know I don't change its oil often enough, and the engine light has been on for the last 6 months, it forgives me enough not to have broken down to the point where I've ever been left stranded on the side of the road.
My cat ... Considering my impending spinster status, is it any surprise that my cat deserves a round of applause for tolerating me while I cry all over her fur? This would be funny, if it weren't true.
My blog ... Because even when no one else wanted to hear another word, you were always there, a blank page waiting for me to fill. I've typed much, learned little, but at least now have a record of proof that I spend entirely too much time staring at my computer.
And my last round of thanks goes to you, the few regular readers that continually come back for more despite the fact that there are some days - ok most days - where even I know I am boring you to sleep. But thanks ...
And to show my appreciation, I won't even mention that you never leave me any comments though it's fairly easy to do. That would be trite of me to mention, and I am almost never trite.
But alas, that would be the end of my short list of thanks. I have much to do today with Mom's impending arrival this evening. Cleaning an entire house in one day should prove interesting.
Save a turkey, hug a friend.
As a matter of fact, hug two friends today just for the extra benefit of copping a cheap feel on this holiday of giving thanks. You never know, there could be somebody out there who just might appreciate you making the kick off to the Christmas season a little brighter than it was before. After all, nothing says loving like pinching the person who put the turkey in the oven, says the girl who got elected to make the pies. So much for blaming it all on the eggnog!
Anyhow, no matter who you are or where you are, have yourself a wonderful Thanksgiving whether you're with family or with friends. And remember, when all else fails you can always go home, unless you're already there.
As a matter of fact, hug two friends today just for the extra benefit of copping a cheap feel on this holiday of giving thanks. You never know, there could be somebody out there who just might appreciate you making the kick off to the Christmas season a little brighter than it was before. After all, nothing says loving like pinching the person who put the turkey in the oven, says the girl who got elected to make the pies. So much for blaming it all on the eggnog!
Anyhow, no matter who you are or where you are, have yourself a wonderful Thanksgiving whether you're with family or with friends. And remember, when all else fails you can always go home, unless you're already there.
The Beginning of Something Beautiful
Just popping in long enough to say I'm officially on vacation. So in other words, don't expect much from me this week ... I'm taking this time off thing to heart.
If I don't see you all before the big turkey day, have a good one.
If I don't see you all before the big turkey day, have a good one.
The Christmas Crawl
God save me from the Christmas season.
If there's one thing that I loathe more than anything else, it has to be shopping in November or December. Today, it took me all of ten minutes to fight my way to the back of WalMart to pick up a gallon of skim milk. But grabbing a gallon of milk just isn't that easy anymore.
Not when you've got a mob of ignorant shoppers before you in a line trying to figure out what it's going to be this week. 1% or 2 ... As for me, it's an easy decision. Skim milk yesterday, skim milk today, and skim milk tomorrow. No thought required. Just check the date and go. If only it were that easy for other people ...
On a Sunday afternoon, buying anything other than a gallon of milk is just asking for trouble. As anyone can tell you, it's a short trip down irritation road trying to manage a cart down as aisle that's too small and too filled with people who don't know how to pick one side from the other.
Middle shoppers are extremely annoying, standing there like stone statues waiting for a sign from God to prod them into action. Completely clueless. Trying to get them to move out of the way is like trying to be anyone other than Moses parting the red sea. It's just not going to happen. I usually offer up a polite excuse me, and when that doesn't work, I act the bitch and move their cart out of my way myself.
If there's one thing that I loathe more than anything else, it has to be shopping in November or December. Today, it took me all of ten minutes to fight my way to the back of WalMart to pick up a gallon of skim milk. But grabbing a gallon of milk just isn't that easy anymore.
Not when you've got a mob of ignorant shoppers before you in a line trying to figure out what it's going to be this week. 1% or 2 ... As for me, it's an easy decision. Skim milk yesterday, skim milk today, and skim milk tomorrow. No thought required. Just check the date and go. If only it were that easy for other people ...
On a Sunday afternoon, buying anything other than a gallon of milk is just asking for trouble. As anyone can tell you, it's a short trip down irritation road trying to manage a cart down as aisle that's too small and too filled with people who don't know how to pick one side from the other.
Middle shoppers are extremely annoying, standing there like stone statues waiting for a sign from God to prod them into action. Completely clueless. Trying to get them to move out of the way is like trying to be anyone other than Moses parting the red sea. It's just not going to happen. I usually offer up a polite excuse me, and when that doesn't work, I act the bitch and move their cart out of my way myself.
So what did Stacey get for her birthday? I hear it's what inquiring minds want to know ...
Perhaps a short list is in order.
Stacey's Birthday Gifts (in order as received)
1. Tori Amos, Tales of a Librarian thanks to my friend Mike who knows no birthday of mine would be complete without getting the new Tori release. I love Snow Cherries From France!
2. Sarah McLachlan, Afterglow courtesy of my sister Amy, Jen, Jamie and Jordan.
3. Elizabeth Berg, Talk Before Sleep. This tear jerker came from Dad, Becky and KC, thanks to their convenient use of my Amazon.com Wishlist. Way to go people!
4. $25.00 gift certificate and membership to the all exclusive Barnes and Noble book discounting club. Can we say Holy Grail?
Credit to sister's Jodi and Audrey for their thoughtfulness. (Although I think they were responsible for providing the idea rather than the fundage since college students aren't reputed to be in possession of too much cash.)
5. Present from Mom currently waiting to be in transit from North Carolina to New York, courtesy of Mom herself ... Which for brownie points alone, is the best gift this year that I can think of.
(It should be noted that while I love shopping at Bernes and Noble, most of my links are courtesy of Amazon. A site I think is much easier to get around and more catered to the things I like. Like you really wanted to know ... Right?)
Perhaps a short list is in order.
Stacey's Birthday Gifts (in order as received)
1. Tori Amos, Tales of a Librarian thanks to my friend Mike who knows no birthday of mine would be complete without getting the new Tori release. I love Snow Cherries From France!
2. Sarah McLachlan, Afterglow courtesy of my sister Amy, Jen, Jamie and Jordan.
3. Elizabeth Berg, Talk Before Sleep. This tear jerker came from Dad, Becky and KC, thanks to their convenient use of my Amazon.com Wishlist. Way to go people!
4. $25.00 gift certificate and membership to the all exclusive Barnes and Noble book discounting club. Can we say Holy Grail?
Credit to sister's Jodi and Audrey for their thoughtfulness. (Although I think they were responsible for providing the idea rather than the fundage since college students aren't reputed to be in possession of too much cash.)
5. Present from Mom currently waiting to be in transit from North Carolina to New York, courtesy of Mom herself ... Which for brownie points alone, is the best gift this year that I can think of.
(It should be noted that while I love shopping at Bernes and Noble, most of my links are courtesy of Amazon. A site I think is much easier to get around and more catered to the things I like. Like you really wanted to know ... Right?)
There is a valuable lesson to be learned about reading books while you are at work. Though difficult to do, it can be done. A fact I proved yesterday, despite constant interruption and irritation that every single time I got to a good part full of sensory overload, my damn phone would start ringing off the hook again.
Now on a normal day, customers don't bother me. I'd even go so far as to say that I'm usually a pleasant person to talk to. But when I'm reading, watch out! I was pratically snarling at the phone every time it rang, and though I tried, it was useless to pretend there wasn't any agitation in my voice.
But despite all this, I finished the 200 some page book by lunch time. A good thing, since I had to go into the city to rescue my sister's car which was stranded on the side of the road thanks to a dead battery.
Until later all. I need to go waste a Saturday.
Now on a normal day, customers don't bother me. I'd even go so far as to say that I'm usually a pleasant person to talk to. But when I'm reading, watch out! I was pratically snarling at the phone every time it rang, and though I tried, it was useless to pretend there wasn't any agitation in my voice.
But despite all this, I finished the 200 some page book by lunch time. A good thing, since I had to go into the city to rescue my sister's car which was stranded on the side of the road thanks to a dead battery.
Until later all. I need to go waste a Saturday.
Tune up those vocal cords people! It's my birthday, and there's only one song I want to hear today.
It's the big 29. And although I do not feel another minute older, less a year I suppose I should feel some grand plan coming together now that I am just a year shy of 30.
A thought I will have to think on more later since I am running very late for work. Toodles all.
(Shhhh ... There's still time to buy presents ...)
It's the big 29. And although I do not feel another minute older, less a year I suppose I should feel some grand plan coming together now that I am just a year shy of 30.
A thought I will have to think on more later since I am running very late for work. Toodles all.
(Shhhh ... There's still time to buy presents ...)
I killed a cat today and I feel pretty damn shitty. I know when it comes right down to it, that when it's between your safety and an animal in the middle of the road, it's the animal in the road that has to go.
I saw him too late to make a difference.
This little tiny kitten, a gray ball of fluff dripping wet watching my headlights approaching, staring straight as me as I tried to break in time to miss him. I tried to swerve, even though I was cautious of roads slick with rain. But at the last second he moved, trying to avoid me as I was trying to avoid him.
I heard the thump as tire and cat collided, and I knew I hit him. And even though I turned around to check and see if maybe I had missed him, I knew he was dead. My headlights illuminating the darkness and his broken body crumpled in the middle of the road. I put my head down on my steering wheel and cried.
I kept seeing the moment right before I hit him, wishing there were some way I could turn back time and take an extra second picking KC up at the sitters, or leave work a minute later than I did. Anything so I wouldn't have been there at the time that kitten decided to cross the road.
But what was worse, was having KC in the car when all this happened. The both of us sat there like ninnies crying our eyes out.
Picking up my cell phone, I almost called my Father, wanting to rant and rave at him for not picking KC up after school and taking her to dance class. Thinking that I could use my anger as a way to appease the overwhelming guilt I felt for killing one of God's creatures. I called my Mother instead.
Mom's are good for making you feel better about bad situations, although I still felt and feel pretty bad over the whole thing. Still I needed to hear someone else say that no animal, cute kitten or not, is worth risking your own life to save.
So even if no one hears it. I'm so sorry.
I saw him too late to make a difference.
This little tiny kitten, a gray ball of fluff dripping wet watching my headlights approaching, staring straight as me as I tried to break in time to miss him. I tried to swerve, even though I was cautious of roads slick with rain. But at the last second he moved, trying to avoid me as I was trying to avoid him.
I heard the thump as tire and cat collided, and I knew I hit him. And even though I turned around to check and see if maybe I had missed him, I knew he was dead. My headlights illuminating the darkness and his broken body crumpled in the middle of the road. I put my head down on my steering wheel and cried.
I kept seeing the moment right before I hit him, wishing there were some way I could turn back time and take an extra second picking KC up at the sitters, or leave work a minute later than I did. Anything so I wouldn't have been there at the time that kitten decided to cross the road.
But what was worse, was having KC in the car when all this happened. The both of us sat there like ninnies crying our eyes out.
Picking up my cell phone, I almost called my Father, wanting to rant and rave at him for not picking KC up after school and taking her to dance class. Thinking that I could use my anger as a way to appease the overwhelming guilt I felt for killing one of God's creatures. I called my Mother instead.
Mom's are good for making you feel better about bad situations, although I still felt and feel pretty bad over the whole thing. Still I needed to hear someone else say that no animal, cute kitten or not, is worth risking your own life to save.
So even if no one hears it. I'm so sorry.
The Corporate World is affeered of bloggers!
According to gossip, an unfortunate fellow blogger lost his job over a picture he posted on his site, deemed as a breach of security by his company's watchdog.
Word of his termination has taken the blogging community by storm, precipitating a How Not To Get Fired From Your Job article in Blogger's self help section.
In an effort to save his job, our blogger extended an olive branch to company officials, offering to delete the post in question from his site. Big Brother however could not be appeased and returned the olive branch with a set of walking papers, proving only that reality can be harsh, when everyone is a critic.
This author has only one thing to say ... Break out the clever pseudonyms!
According to gossip, an unfortunate fellow blogger lost his job over a picture he posted on his site, deemed as a breach of security by his company's watchdog.
Word of his termination has taken the blogging community by storm, precipitating a How Not To Get Fired From Your Job article in Blogger's self help section.
In an effort to save his job, our blogger extended an olive branch to company officials, offering to delete the post in question from his site. Big Brother however could not be appeased and returned the olive branch with a set of walking papers, proving only that reality can be harsh, when everyone is a critic.
This author has only one thing to say ... Break out the clever pseudonyms!
One sentence can make you late for work. Two usually makes me at least 5 minutes past the time when I should have been punching in. Three, well three is bad. Very bad. Three means sneaking in the back door and pretending you've been there much longer then you have. Who? Oh me? No ... I've been here for hours ... Yes. Hours. All the while trying to hide the incredibly stupid grinning crossing your face that says Oh yeah. I'm lying.
Tori Amos's new double CD comes out in stores today. Being that there are only 2 shopping days left, someone in my aquaitance should have picked up my not so obvious hints by now that I expect this present wrapped up before me. Knowing my family as I do, I will not hold my breath. My Father told me yesterday that he was buying my present at BIG LOTS ... I about passed out! Trust me when I tell you, that there is absolutely nothing in that store that I would either (a) want for my birthday or (b) want anyone to even think that I might want something from there for my birthday. We'll have to see.
Shit. This has gone far beyond my three setence limit, and I have yet to wake KC up for school. I'm out people ... Have yourself a slamming two for Tuesday.
Tori Amos's new double CD comes out in stores today. Being that there are only 2 shopping days left, someone in my aquaitance should have picked up my not so obvious hints by now that I expect this present wrapped up before me. Knowing my family as I do, I will not hold my breath. My Father told me yesterday that he was buying my present at BIG LOTS ... I about passed out! Trust me when I tell you, that there is absolutely nothing in that store that I would either (a) want for my birthday or (b) want anyone to even think that I might want something from there for my birthday. We'll have to see.
Shit. This has gone far beyond my three setence limit, and I have yet to wake KC up for school. I'm out people ... Have yourself a slamming two for Tuesday.
Oh God. It can't be Monday ...
I am so not ready to go back to work today. Just when the weekend started getting good, it's over. Done. Finito. The end, there is no more. Wake up sleepy head, it's time for work, it's time for school.
So yesterday, KC, her little friend Nicki and I all went to the movies. It should be noted that taking two seven year olds to the movies is an experience all unto itself, as the girls spent half of the movie paying attention to the screen, and the other half in fervent whispers about some boy named Ryan whom it is believed that KC has a crush on.
(Never "DUH" your Mother my darling. Especially when she has a blog she can post your petite amours on.)
So anyhoo ... We went to see ELF, which to my surprise was actually good. (Normally Will Ferrel just doesn't do it for me.) It was a pleasant surprise.
After the movie, the girls and I hopped over to MCD's, where the girls were invited to help paint the windows with various kiddy designs. KC was thrilled. She absolutely loves to paint, and the funny thing is, she's not half bad either. As I watched, it came to me that I had just stumbled onto a perfect gift to get her for Christmas. (Perhaps if my sister Audrey were feeling generous, she might be willing to donate her old easel to the cause. I'll have to ask her.)
Damn. I just lost half of this post! Oooh how frustrating! Especially since I don't have time to write it all over again or fix all my little mistakes.
KC however wants you all to know that she made the neatest snowman last night, in the shape of Emma the Cat, although we made her pink with food coloring spray. Also, if someone could clue her in on why she shouldn't eat yellow snow, she'd be very interested in knowing.
I am so not ready to go back to work today. Just when the weekend started getting good, it's over. Done. Finito. The end, there is no more. Wake up sleepy head, it's time for work, it's time for school.
So yesterday, KC, her little friend Nicki and I all went to the movies. It should be noted that taking two seven year olds to the movies is an experience all unto itself, as the girls spent half of the movie paying attention to the screen, and the other half in fervent whispers about some boy named Ryan whom it is believed that KC has a crush on.
(Never "DUH" your Mother my darling. Especially when she has a blog she can post your petite amours on.)
So anyhoo ... We went to see ELF, which to my surprise was actually good. (Normally Will Ferrel just doesn't do it for me.) It was a pleasant surprise.
After the movie, the girls and I hopped over to MCD's, where the girls were invited to help paint the windows with various kiddy designs. KC was thrilled. She absolutely loves to paint, and the funny thing is, she's not half bad either. As I watched, it came to me that I had just stumbled onto a perfect gift to get her for Christmas. (Perhaps if my sister Audrey were feeling generous, she might be willing to donate her old easel to the cause. I'll have to ask her.)
Damn. I just lost half of this post! Oooh how frustrating! Especially since I don't have time to write it all over again or fix all my little mistakes.
KC however wants you all to know that she made the neatest snowman last night, in the shape of Emma the Cat, although we made her pink with food coloring spray. Also, if someone could clue her in on why she shouldn't eat yellow snow, she'd be very interested in knowing.
I don't know what it is lately, I just don't seem to have it in me to blog much anymore. When I first started this whole thing, missing a day could pretty much send me in a tailspin of guilt whenever I failed to post. But lately when walking through my living room, I've barely given a glance to the silent computer sitting over in the corner like a delinquent child being punished for having done wrong.
Half of me wants to write, wanting to tell you every mundane detail of how I spent my day, or what I thought as I was driving home from work, or something interesting I saw, like the pond yesterday that was covered with a very thin veil of ice that seemed like a whisper across its surface, and how the tall oak trees looked like sentries surrounding it, their gnarled branches blanketed by a covering of freshly fallen snow. And how if I had had my camera packed away inside my car, I would have stopped, to walk halfway between the road, the trees and the pond to take a picture, capturing the feeling of that moment in the lens of my camera, so that you could see what I saw and find yourself amazed by the things you miss when you close your eyes from really seeing the world around you. The hit and miss beauty of the landscape that is us.
But half of me urges me to be censored. To stop putting so much out there for anyone to read, thinking that maybe I've said too much already as it is.
I regret some of my posts.
The other day, I likened myself to Harriet the Spy, a book I read in 4th grade where the main character, Harriet, goes around writing in a special notebook everything she is thinking and feeling on a daily basis. Her journal becomes a slam book of sorts, and when it falls into the wrong hands, because eventually things like that always do, she begins to realize the danger of saying so many words.
Yesterday at Jamie's play premiere of Alice In Wonderland, I wondered if like Harriet, my notebook had been found out. My ex-stepfather didn't seem too happy to see me or maybe he simply wasn't happy to be away from his home on a Saturday, but his demeanor was cold. I thought back to one of my posts, and all the things I said and wondered for a moment, if his current wife who surfs the internet quite frequently had happened upon my site, and if she had, whether or not she had showed him what I had written.
Given an opportunity like that, I'm quite sure that she wouldn't hesitate to show him all the things I've wrote. I could even tell you what she would say, "I told you that girl was no good, never coming around, barely having two words to say when she is here. She's just a waste of your time."
And she would kill for an opportunity such as that, to get me, the reminder of my mother out of her house once and for all. To rid herself of memories she was never apart of, to kill the invisible family that was left behind, to finally feel like home in a house that was never hers. Yes, she would show him and take great pleasure in proving to him I was not the sort of woman one would want to call a daughter.
And what would I be able to say?
Was I to lie and tell him that he was never a link on the albatross hanging around my neck. Or could I explain that all the hurt and love I had for him existed in a place where only anger could touch? That in all these years I've never forgiven him for choosing the bottle over his family or that when I see him I still want to call him Dad.
Half of me wants to write, wanting to tell you every mundane detail of how I spent my day, or what I thought as I was driving home from work, or something interesting I saw, like the pond yesterday that was covered with a very thin veil of ice that seemed like a whisper across its surface, and how the tall oak trees looked like sentries surrounding it, their gnarled branches blanketed by a covering of freshly fallen snow. And how if I had had my camera packed away inside my car, I would have stopped, to walk halfway between the road, the trees and the pond to take a picture, capturing the feeling of that moment in the lens of my camera, so that you could see what I saw and find yourself amazed by the things you miss when you close your eyes from really seeing the world around you. The hit and miss beauty of the landscape that is us.
But half of me urges me to be censored. To stop putting so much out there for anyone to read, thinking that maybe I've said too much already as it is.
I regret some of my posts.
The other day, I likened myself to Harriet the Spy, a book I read in 4th grade where the main character, Harriet, goes around writing in a special notebook everything she is thinking and feeling on a daily basis. Her journal becomes a slam book of sorts, and when it falls into the wrong hands, because eventually things like that always do, she begins to realize the danger of saying so many words.
Yesterday at Jamie's play premiere of Alice In Wonderland, I wondered if like Harriet, my notebook had been found out. My ex-stepfather didn't seem too happy to see me or maybe he simply wasn't happy to be away from his home on a Saturday, but his demeanor was cold. I thought back to one of my posts, and all the things I said and wondered for a moment, if his current wife who surfs the internet quite frequently had happened upon my site, and if she had, whether or not she had showed him what I had written.
Given an opportunity like that, I'm quite sure that she wouldn't hesitate to show him all the things I've wrote. I could even tell you what she would say, "I told you that girl was no good, never coming around, barely having two words to say when she is here. She's just a waste of your time."
And she would kill for an opportunity such as that, to get me, the reminder of my mother out of her house once and for all. To rid herself of memories she was never apart of, to kill the invisible family that was left behind, to finally feel like home in a house that was never hers. Yes, she would show him and take great pleasure in proving to him I was not the sort of woman one would want to call a daughter.
And what would I be able to say?
Was I to lie and tell him that he was never a link on the albatross hanging around my neck. Or could I explain that all the hurt and love I had for him existed in a place where only anger could touch? That in all these years I've never forgiven him for choosing the bottle over his family or that when I see him I still want to call him Dad.
Quick and easy tonight, since the power has already flickered on and off a couple of times with this freak snow/wind storm.
It took me half of forever just to get home this evening. It felt like I was crawling, my car never going above 30 mph, as I tried my best to see the road in front of me, and avoid all the cars that were lining the ditches. People just don't get it! When it snows like this, you just can't go 55, despite what Sammy Hagar may say.
Idiots!
So I'm cranking up the heat and readying the candles. If I had to guess, at some point tonight the power is going to go, and I'm going to be as prepared as possible.
It took me half of forever just to get home this evening. It felt like I was crawling, my car never going above 30 mph, as I tried my best to see the road in front of me, and avoid all the cars that were lining the ditches. People just don't get it! When it snows like this, you just can't go 55, despite what Sammy Hagar may say.
Idiots!
So I'm cranking up the heat and readying the candles. If I had to guess, at some point tonight the power is going to go, and I'm going to be as prepared as possible.
It's downright silent around here.
Having pointed your attention towards the comment blogger, I thought by now someone would have stepped up to the plate, at least to say hello and we're out here, if no other commentary came to mind. Instead it's like listening to a remake of the sound of silence, and I'm here feeling all alone.
Alone and blogging.
Which is kind of an oxymoron since technically, blogging is a solitary thing, and I really have no right to bitch that there's not a single response lately to speak of. Had I but considered this fact, I might not have set myself up for disappointment when adding this feature to NWTLO. I did however, have faith that my mother would not fail me, and would be one I could count on for a comment, even when my posts were inordinately boring. And yet, Mom has let me down.
What is a girl to do when her entire family drops her in the grease failing to leave comments or send a simple email inquiring as to what she would like for her birthday?
Have I mentioned there are only 8 shopping days left!
Trust me when I tell you, that no birthday of mine has ever gone (1) unnoticed, or (2) off without a hitch. It seems birthdays and me are a recipe for disaster. Something always goes wrong. Take for instance my 25th birthday. A birthday I felt was marking a milestone in the life of Stacey, as I was no longer closer to my teens than I was to my 30's. 25, being such a venerable age, I considered that my birthday present would be something great indeed, an extravagant present from my parents to mark their successful rearing of a responsible member of society.
Instead I got a doll.
Now I know you are all thinking that a doll must have been some well thought out joke planned by my family to egg me on over being such a brat about my birthday. But I kid you not, there was absolutely no joke involved. In fact, my Father was quite proud of himself, thinking he had hit the jackpot this go round with this birthday present.
It was not to be.
To say I was disappointed would be an understatement. But I tried to be cool and tried to keep from saying what I really wanted to say which was, "Is this some kind of sick joke? Or am I really supposed to take this one seriously?" I just looked at the box, a stupefied expression on my face and managed a very small thank you, thinking all the while that I must really be an ungrateful brat to never be happy with a single birthday gift my Father has ever chosen. (Remind me to tell you what he got me in 4th grade, that practically had me in tears.) All the while thinking to myself, that even as a child, not counting Barbies, I was never one to play with dolls, let alone ask for them as any type of gift ever.
So this is what is making me nervous, because I am a brat and nobody other than my Mother, has asked me what it is I would like for my birthday. No one has even mentioned that fact that they took a look at my WISHLIST at Amazon, a place I intentionally directed them to in hopes they might choose something from my list. Instead, I am left with the sinking fear that they have all decided to go it on their own once again, to find me the "Perfect" present.
I have just one thing to say ...
It's never too late to check my list at Amazon people!
Having pointed your attention towards the comment blogger, I thought by now someone would have stepped up to the plate, at least to say hello and we're out here, if no other commentary came to mind. Instead it's like listening to a remake of the sound of silence, and I'm here feeling all alone.
Alone and blogging.
Which is kind of an oxymoron since technically, blogging is a solitary thing, and I really have no right to bitch that there's not a single response lately to speak of. Had I but considered this fact, I might not have set myself up for disappointment when adding this feature to NWTLO. I did however, have faith that my mother would not fail me, and would be one I could count on for a comment, even when my posts were inordinately boring. And yet, Mom has let me down.
What is a girl to do when her entire family drops her in the grease failing to leave comments or send a simple email inquiring as to what she would like for her birthday?
Have I mentioned there are only 8 shopping days left!
Trust me when I tell you, that no birthday of mine has ever gone (1) unnoticed, or (2) off without a hitch. It seems birthdays and me are a recipe for disaster. Something always goes wrong. Take for instance my 25th birthday. A birthday I felt was marking a milestone in the life of Stacey, as I was no longer closer to my teens than I was to my 30's. 25, being such a venerable age, I considered that my birthday present would be something great indeed, an extravagant present from my parents to mark their successful rearing of a responsible member of society.
Instead I got a doll.
Now I know you are all thinking that a doll must have been some well thought out joke planned by my family to egg me on over being such a brat about my birthday. But I kid you not, there was absolutely no joke involved. In fact, my Father was quite proud of himself, thinking he had hit the jackpot this go round with this birthday present.
It was not to be.
To say I was disappointed would be an understatement. But I tried to be cool and tried to keep from saying what I really wanted to say which was, "Is this some kind of sick joke? Or am I really supposed to take this one seriously?" I just looked at the box, a stupefied expression on my face and managed a very small thank you, thinking all the while that I must really be an ungrateful brat to never be happy with a single birthday gift my Father has ever chosen. (Remind me to tell you what he got me in 4th grade, that practically had me in tears.) All the while thinking to myself, that even as a child, not counting Barbies, I was never one to play with dolls, let alone ask for them as any type of gift ever.
So this is what is making me nervous, because I am a brat and nobody other than my Mother, has asked me what it is I would like for my birthday. No one has even mentioned that fact that they took a look at my WISHLIST at Amazon, a place I intentionally directed them to in hopes they might choose something from my list. Instead, I am left with the sinking fear that they have all decided to go it on their own once again, to find me the "Perfect" present.
I have just one thing to say ...
It's never too late to check my list at Amazon people!
OK ... A short one this morning, since I woke up late and I have a horrible neck crink from sleeping oh so wrong, which means that unless I'm looking 45 degrees to my right, any other position is fraught with pain.
KC was sick last night. And I do mean that literally. The poor kid ended up heaving her guts out into the toilet, which surprisingly enough made her feel better in the long run. I ended up sitting with her in her room for a little while, holding a cold compress to her forehead and talking about my plans for redecorating her room, to take her mind off how bad she was feeling, until she finally fell asleep. So much for that being a surprise now.
It's a good thing she has off from school today. I wouldn't want her to lose her perfect attendance over a silly cold. Now if only I could stay home to keep her company, rather than send her off to Grandpa's house.
Later ya'll.
KC was sick last night. And I do mean that literally. The poor kid ended up heaving her guts out into the toilet, which surprisingly enough made her feel better in the long run. I ended up sitting with her in her room for a little while, holding a cold compress to her forehead and talking about my plans for redecorating her room, to take her mind off how bad she was feeling, until she finally fell asleep. So much for that being a surprise now.
It's a good thing she has off from school today. I wouldn't want her to lose her perfect attendance over a silly cold. Now if only I could stay home to keep her company, rather than send her off to Grandpa's house.
Later ya'll.
I am a re-reader. I think I've mentioned this before.
I'm not one of those kind of people who believe that once a book has been read, it's needs to be given over to the local library to line their dusty shelves so someone else can gain the benefit of reading a good book.
Nope. I'm selfish with my books. Ask my Mom.
Even as a child, my books always had a special place. The one thing in my room that I always took care of. Books were like gold, precious pages of pressed ink. I remember just how excited I would be, just by opening a new book, and hearing the small cracking sound as the spine stretched open, unlocking its treasure.
I was the kind of kid who got goofy over book plates.
The "This book belongs to Stacey" in an assortment of designs, that I'd sticker very neatly on the inside cover proclaiming my ownership to hasten its return, just in case I actually let someone borrow a book.
But I almost never let anyone borrow any of my books, and for good reason.
Books have rules.
An average reader doesn't understand the complexities of the attachment issues associated with a true reader. They don't get the gist, that by loaning them a book, it's like trusting them with a small child. And like a small child, you expect to get the book back in the same exact condition it was given.
I know of no other way to better kill a friendship, then by loaning out a book, only to get it back in a condition to deploreable to mention here. After such an experience, I admit I was unwilling to take the chance that my books would ever be treated so callously again, thereby giving birth to the following.
What Not To Do With One of Stacey's Books ... A list.
Bookmarks
Have one, use one!
No dog ears, no upside down tepees to break the spine, no heavy objects set on top of the pages to weigh them down.
I saw this once, and was quite shocked. A glass of water, almost full, set directly in the center of a book, precariously holding the pages down as the reader was off and about doing something else. I couldn't help myself, I removed the glass of water, found a small strip of scrap paper and marked the book where the reader had left off. But I knew, if someone could do that to one of their own books, they wouldn't hesitate to do it to mine.
Improper Book Usage
Speaking of which, my book is not a coaster. When you're not reading, don't think to use it as a beverage holder, bed lift, or appallingly true, a trivet. The only things that belongs on my book is one thing ... Your hands. And they better be clean!
Where not to read my books
In the kitchen cooking spaghetti (sauce), in the bubblebath (suds and water), in the bathroom ... Hey! If you own it feel free to read in the "reading room", but if it's mine, you better find your seat somewhere else!
Stray lines, doodles and other kinds of drawing
And less I forget, pens and/or other writing utensils are expressly forbidden from coming into any contact whatsoever with any part of my book, regardless of any reason.
And finally the contract
I {insert your name here} do swear to borrow this book and follow all of the stated rules above so that upon returning, said book will be given back in the exact same condition as it was given. I promise, that if I fail to return the book or return the book with (a) broken binder, (b)wrinkled jacket and/or cover (c) bent pages (d) water marks and/or other assorted food matter and/or (e) any other assorted damage not listed above but not approved of by owner, that I will (a) replace the book with a new copy or (b) give Stacey money to cover the cost of the damage so she can buy a new copy and (c) never, ever in my entire life ever ask to borrow a book from Stacey again as I failed to adhere to her book borrowing rules and have absolutely no respect for anyone else's property.
I am an illiterate scumbag.
Signed {Your Name Here}
I'm not one of those kind of people who believe that once a book has been read, it's needs to be given over to the local library to line their dusty shelves so someone else can gain the benefit of reading a good book.
Nope. I'm selfish with my books. Ask my Mom.
Even as a child, my books always had a special place. The one thing in my room that I always took care of. Books were like gold, precious pages of pressed ink. I remember just how excited I would be, just by opening a new book, and hearing the small cracking sound as the spine stretched open, unlocking its treasure.
I was the kind of kid who got goofy over book plates.
The "This book belongs to Stacey" in an assortment of designs, that I'd sticker very neatly on the inside cover proclaiming my ownership to hasten its return, just in case I actually let someone borrow a book.
But I almost never let anyone borrow any of my books, and for good reason.
Books have rules.
An average reader doesn't understand the complexities of the attachment issues associated with a true reader. They don't get the gist, that by loaning them a book, it's like trusting them with a small child. And like a small child, you expect to get the book back in the same exact condition it was given.
I know of no other way to better kill a friendship, then by loaning out a book, only to get it back in a condition to deploreable to mention here. After such an experience, I admit I was unwilling to take the chance that my books would ever be treated so callously again, thereby giving birth to the following.
What Not To Do With One of Stacey's Books ... A list.
Bookmarks
Have one, use one!
No dog ears, no upside down tepees to break the spine, no heavy objects set on top of the pages to weigh them down.
I saw this once, and was quite shocked. A glass of water, almost full, set directly in the center of a book, precariously holding the pages down as the reader was off and about doing something else. I couldn't help myself, I removed the glass of water, found a small strip of scrap paper and marked the book where the reader had left off. But I knew, if someone could do that to one of their own books, they wouldn't hesitate to do it to mine.
Improper Book Usage
Speaking of which, my book is not a coaster. When you're not reading, don't think to use it as a beverage holder, bed lift, or appallingly true, a trivet. The only things that belongs on my book is one thing ... Your hands. And they better be clean!
Where not to read my books
In the kitchen cooking spaghetti (sauce), in the bubblebath (suds and water), in the bathroom ... Hey! If you own it feel free to read in the "reading room", but if it's mine, you better find your seat somewhere else!
Stray lines, doodles and other kinds of drawing
And less I forget, pens and/or other writing utensils are expressly forbidden from coming into any contact whatsoever with any part of my book, regardless of any reason.
And finally the contract
I {insert your name here} do swear to borrow this book and follow all of the stated rules above so that upon returning, said book will be given back in the exact same condition as it was given. I promise, that if I fail to return the book or return the book with (a) broken binder, (b)wrinkled jacket and/or cover (c) bent pages (d) water marks and/or other assorted food matter and/or (e) any other assorted damage not listed above but not approved of by owner, that I will (a) replace the book with a new copy or (b) give Stacey money to cover the cost of the damage so she can buy a new copy and (c) never, ever in my entire life ever ask to borrow a book from Stacey again as I failed to adhere to her book borrowing rules and have absolutely no respect for anyone else's property.
I am an illiterate scumbag.
Signed {Your Name Here}
I am far from being girl accomplishment this morning, having far more to do than having got done yesterday.
I, as hard as this seems to believe, am easily distracted. A trait my friend Linda takes great pleasure in reminding me of.
Last week, she ordered everyone not to speak to me, until I had answered her question. Standing in front of me like a bull dog, as I hemmed, hawwed and then finally pointed out my answer on the sheet.
"Thank goodness!" she exclaimed with a weary sigh. "This taking two hours to pick out what you want to have for lunch is getting ridiculous, especially considering that you always get the same thing."
I gave her a cheeky grin.
Candy laughed. "Let me guess ... A grilled cheese sandwhich and the chicken soup from Knuckles?"
The two looked at me, anticipation on their faces, waiting for my reply. I dared not disappoint.
"You know, you two can be really annoying." I said in a mock huff, attempting to flip my short hair with attitude as I strode out of the room, their laughter following me.
Halfway down the hallway, I turned back quick enough to yell,
"And just for the record, I don't always get the soup!"
My comment immediately followed by more laughter.
"Only because they don't have it everyday!" they countered back. A good point to be sure.
It's a bitch being predictable.
I, as hard as this seems to believe, am easily distracted. A trait my friend Linda takes great pleasure in reminding me of.
Last week, she ordered everyone not to speak to me, until I had answered her question. Standing in front of me like a bull dog, as I hemmed, hawwed and then finally pointed out my answer on the sheet.
"Thank goodness!" she exclaimed with a weary sigh. "This taking two hours to pick out what you want to have for lunch is getting ridiculous, especially considering that you always get the same thing."
I gave her a cheeky grin.
Candy laughed. "Let me guess ... A grilled cheese sandwhich and the chicken soup from Knuckles?"
The two looked at me, anticipation on their faces, waiting for my reply. I dared not disappoint.
"You know, you two can be really annoying." I said in a mock huff, attempting to flip my short hair with attitude as I strode out of the room, their laughter following me.
Halfway down the hallway, I turned back quick enough to yell,
"And just for the record, I don't always get the soup!"
My comment immediately followed by more laughter.
"Only because they don't have it everyday!" they countered back. A good point to be sure.
It's a bitch being predictable.
And it's another Saturday morning here in Wonderland.
Yet today, there'll be no wondering as to what I'm going to do. KC's room is in dire need of motherly assistance, and just as soon as I've had breakfast and tossed today's first load of laundry into the dryer, I'm going in ... Though chances are I may never come out.
The girl has yet to learn the art of picking up and putting away, a trait, some would say she inherited right from her mother. But I've gotten better, albeit it's a slow progress. Just look inside my laundry room and you'll see how far I've come along. Once you wouldn't dare open that door for fear of laundry spilling out the moment you touched the knob. Now, you can walk inside without having to wonder which pile is clean and which pile is dirty because there are absolutely no piles anywhere to be seen. Yes, this is a proud moment and one my Mother would be happy to see.
Speaking of my Mother ... With her impending visit looming up for the end of this month, it's really no wonder at all, what has spurred this latest round of cleaning frenzy. For once, it would be nice if my Mother could come up for a visit and not have to help me out putting my life back together by attempting to organize my chaos. This is my goal. A nice relaxing visit, with no worries and no cares.
And since there is no time like the present ... I'm going to get to going. Have yourself a wonderful day.
After post note ... Birthday/Xmas Ideas ... See bottom of page or tune in to Amazon where my wish list is fully stocked and ready to go. (Have I mentioned I am shameless when it comes to my birthday yet?)
Yet today, there'll be no wondering as to what I'm going to do. KC's room is in dire need of motherly assistance, and just as soon as I've had breakfast and tossed today's first load of laundry into the dryer, I'm going in ... Though chances are I may never come out.
The girl has yet to learn the art of picking up and putting away, a trait, some would say she inherited right from her mother. But I've gotten better, albeit it's a slow progress. Just look inside my laundry room and you'll see how far I've come along. Once you wouldn't dare open that door for fear of laundry spilling out the moment you touched the knob. Now, you can walk inside without having to wonder which pile is clean and which pile is dirty because there are absolutely no piles anywhere to be seen. Yes, this is a proud moment and one my Mother would be happy to see.
Speaking of my Mother ... With her impending visit looming up for the end of this month, it's really no wonder at all, what has spurred this latest round of cleaning frenzy. For once, it would be nice if my Mother could come up for a visit and not have to help me out putting my life back together by attempting to organize my chaos. This is my goal. A nice relaxing visit, with no worries and no cares.
And since there is no time like the present ... I'm going to get to going. Have yourself a wonderful day.
After post note ... Birthday/Xmas Ideas ... See bottom of page or tune in to Amazon where my wish list is fully stocked and ready to go. (Have I mentioned I am shameless when it comes to my birthday yet?)
In exactly 13 days I will be turning 29, and I am not the least bit happy about it.
Despite the usual complaints about aging, my biggest problem with turning 29, is all the things I haven't done. The things that I promised myself would be done by a certain age. With 30 just around the corner, it's all I can do to feel that this final year in my twenties, won't be one that leaves me feeling as if I'm cramming for a test that I've no hope to pass.
Last night, I decided to have a conversation with God, to get some answers about where it was I was supposed to be, but all I got was silence on the other end of the phone. God doesn't tend to give up the gossip when it comes to finding the right path, expecting us instead to figure it out on our own. But I was a bit miffed, wanting to know why I'd been struggling to hit all the curve balls, when so many other people get a straight shot down the middle.
And then I felt instantly guilty, remembering that for all my complaints, that there was another complete list of things in my life, that God had blessed me with. And I was thankful ...
But still there was this nagging feeling of wanting something more in my life than what I have and I wanted to ask God, well how about it and why not? And I wanted to be told an answer, given an epiphany, as I was standing there, waiting for the golden light to shine down on me like it always happens on Touched By An Angel. But the trumpets didn't blare, and the light, well it was the normal 60 watt shining in my living room.
Despite the usual complaints about aging, my biggest problem with turning 29, is all the things I haven't done. The things that I promised myself would be done by a certain age. With 30 just around the corner, it's all I can do to feel that this final year in my twenties, won't be one that leaves me feeling as if I'm cramming for a test that I've no hope to pass.
Last night, I decided to have a conversation with God, to get some answers about where it was I was supposed to be, but all I got was silence on the other end of the phone. God doesn't tend to give up the gossip when it comes to finding the right path, expecting us instead to figure it out on our own. But I was a bit miffed, wanting to know why I'd been struggling to hit all the curve balls, when so many other people get a straight shot down the middle.
And then I felt instantly guilty, remembering that for all my complaints, that there was another complete list of things in my life, that God had blessed me with. And I was thankful ...
But still there was this nagging feeling of wanting something more in my life than what I have and I wanted to ask God, well how about it and why not? And I wanted to be told an answer, given an epiphany, as I was standing there, waiting for the golden light to shine down on me like it always happens on Touched By An Angel. But the trumpets didn't blare, and the light, well it was the normal 60 watt shining in my living room.
The problem with taking a sick day off in the middle of the week, it that it kills your drive to go back to work and finish it out.
Unfortunately, I can't seem to shake the sense of duty I have to go in today, being that it is Thursday and all, which is why I will be readying myself momentarily to face the day ahead. Still to be quite honest, I am feeling worse now than I did all day yesterday and I am quite sure that talking will soon be a thing of the past as I can no longer feel my throat, except for a dull ache.
But a day convalescing on the couch, doesn't interest me too much either. I spent most of yesterday, washcloth slapped across my forehead, wondering when it was that daytime programming took a swan dive into the garbage dumpster.
After clicking my way through 70 channels and back, I was horrified to find, that there really wasn't anything on that appealed to me enough to watch. Deciding on the lesser of all evils, I tuned in to TLC, watching their "Stories" ... The Make-Over, The Dating, The Wedding, The Baby. Otherwise known as people whose lives appear much better than yours crammed into a single half hour.
By the time I tuned out, mild depression was sinking in and I did what I should have done from the start, and stuck my nose into a book, tossing the remote to the far corner of the room. (Take that TLC!)
I did however have interesting dreams last night, which may have been induced by the grape tasting cough syrup and the halls vapo rub I had slathered across my neck. Since it's almost time to head out, I'll have to give you the long story short version later. Hopefully I'll remember enough by the end of the day to write down in words the extreme weirdness of my subconscious.
Now to go find a box of Kleenex ...
Unfortunately, I can't seem to shake the sense of duty I have to go in today, being that it is Thursday and all, which is why I will be readying myself momentarily to face the day ahead. Still to be quite honest, I am feeling worse now than I did all day yesterday and I am quite sure that talking will soon be a thing of the past as I can no longer feel my throat, except for a dull ache.
But a day convalescing on the couch, doesn't interest me too much either. I spent most of yesterday, washcloth slapped across my forehead, wondering when it was that daytime programming took a swan dive into the garbage dumpster.
After clicking my way through 70 channels and back, I was horrified to find, that there really wasn't anything on that appealed to me enough to watch. Deciding on the lesser of all evils, I tuned in to TLC, watching their "Stories" ... The Make-Over, The Dating, The Wedding, The Baby. Otherwise known as people whose lives appear much better than yours crammed into a single half hour.
By the time I tuned out, mild depression was sinking in and I did what I should have done from the start, and stuck my nose into a book, tossing the remote to the far corner of the room. (Take that TLC!)
I did however have interesting dreams last night, which may have been induced by the grape tasting cough syrup and the halls vapo rub I had slathered across my neck. Since it's almost time to head out, I'll have to give you the long story short version later. Hopefully I'll remember enough by the end of the day to write down in words the extreme weirdness of my subconscious.
Now to go find a box of Kleenex ...
Somebody sneezed on me, and now I'm feeling sick.
My throat is scratchy, I have a cough, and my eyes are turning into giant pools of water. I want to stay home.
But I have to go to work.
If I don't go, they'll think I'm faking it. If I call in, they'll say all I wanted was a day off in retaliation for Saturday's inventory debacle. If I don't show, someone will have to go into my office, and try to decipher the mess of organized disaster stacked up in piles on my desk.
If I don't go, when I go back, I'll be given over to the dogs, made fun of for letting a few sniffles bring me low. Teased and tormented for an entire day, to make up for an entire day of being gone.
This is how it is. This is how it always is.
So I'll go to work, and I'll sputter and cough, and sneeze on someone else to pass the germs around, just so they can blame me, when they start feeling as bad as I do (without all the guilty feelings about calling in) proving my fortitude as I stand there wavering in the face of ultimate devotion as one by they one they come up to say, "Ooooh Stacey ... Not looking good today. You feeling ok?"
And I'll just nod my head and simper some comment out into the air, while making sure to breathe in their direction.
*** After Post Note ~ 5 Minutes Later ***
Work? Who needs to stinking go to work? This girl is taking the day off with pay, and taking some much needed R & R.
Until later all, maybe I'll post again over a bowl of chicken noodle soup.
My throat is scratchy, I have a cough, and my eyes are turning into giant pools of water. I want to stay home.
But I have to go to work.
If I don't go, they'll think I'm faking it. If I call in, they'll say all I wanted was a day off in retaliation for Saturday's inventory debacle. If I don't show, someone will have to go into my office, and try to decipher the mess of organized disaster stacked up in piles on my desk.
If I don't go, when I go back, I'll be given over to the dogs, made fun of for letting a few sniffles bring me low. Teased and tormented for an entire day, to make up for an entire day of being gone.
This is how it is. This is how it always is.
So I'll go to work, and I'll sputter and cough, and sneeze on someone else to pass the germs around, just so they can blame me, when they start feeling as bad as I do (without all the guilty feelings about calling in) proving my fortitude as I stand there wavering in the face of ultimate devotion as one by they one they come up to say, "Ooooh Stacey ... Not looking good today. You feeling ok?"
And I'll just nod my head and simper some comment out into the air, while making sure to breathe in their direction.
*** After Post Note ~ 5 Minutes Later ***
Work? Who needs to stinking go to work? This girl is taking the day off with pay, and taking some much needed R & R.
Until later all, maybe I'll post again over a bowl of chicken noodle soup.
I do not care how the weather is anywhere else but where I am.
I don't know why my Weather Man is under the impression that on a need to know basis, it has become his duty to inform me when it is windy in Chicago, raining in Seattle, or hot and sunny down in Miami Beach, when the only thing that concerns me is whether or not I am going to be freezing my own ass off today.
It's 45 degrees here, cloudy skies and not much hope of seeing any sun, with perhaps snow flurries to be seen later on in the week.
But my weather is not your weather, which you gives you every right not to care about whether or not my outer extremities fall off from the cold, or if my car doors are frozen shut in the morning when I am attempting to leave for work.
So I will not talk about the weather, a dull and boring topic to be sure, and one only brought up in conversation when there really is nothing much else to say. And I have lots to say.
Some people would say that I should say less and not yap my mouth so much. But I think, that if I were to be quiet, they would miss my constant chatter, and after a while silence would seize to be quite so golden.
This could be just my opinion, a somewhat over-inflated sense of self, that I think is true, because I would miss me if I didn't have a voice ... And I think, you would miss me too.
So pardon me, if I don't ask you about the weather.
I don't know why my Weather Man is under the impression that on a need to know basis, it has become his duty to inform me when it is windy in Chicago, raining in Seattle, or hot and sunny down in Miami Beach, when the only thing that concerns me is whether or not I am going to be freezing my own ass off today.
It's 45 degrees here, cloudy skies and not much hope of seeing any sun, with perhaps snow flurries to be seen later on in the week.
But my weather is not your weather, which you gives you every right not to care about whether or not my outer extremities fall off from the cold, or if my car doors are frozen shut in the morning when I am attempting to leave for work.
So I will not talk about the weather, a dull and boring topic to be sure, and one only brought up in conversation when there really is nothing much else to say. And I have lots to say.
Some people would say that I should say less and not yap my mouth so much. But I think, that if I were to be quiet, they would miss my constant chatter, and after a while silence would seize to be quite so golden.
This could be just my opinion, a somewhat over-inflated sense of self, that I think is true, because I would miss me if I didn't have a voice ... And I think, you would miss me too.
So pardon me, if I don't ask you about the weather.
