---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.
