Coolest Greatest Most Excellent Thanksgiving Day Ever

When people asked if I could go home for Thanksgiving this year (which I couldn't), I was still excited because it meant I could have two turkey dinners - one with the MF's parents and another one on Saturday with his aunt and cousins.

But I got up this morning and something just didn't feel right, and I was making juvenile mental attacks on his family all day, and I knew that it wasn't anything they were doing wrong - they're wonderful people - it's just that they're not my family. And so when I irritably texted "Save me" to P, she thought she was doing a good thing by calling back with my little niece on the line to cheer me up, my niece who, when I asked her what she ate for Thanksgiving responded by singing a song to me. "Mary had a little lamb, Cah-ween." And it was so precious and so dear, that when I hung up the phone I couldn't bear to make eye contact with anyone, only stare at the little photograph I have of her, when MF's mom asked, "You're really missing her, aren't you?" and I had to run out of the kitchen before bursting into tears, because I should be with my family tonight.

On the drive home I thought about that Thanksgiving when P was working at John Herr's Grocery and had to ring up an old man's cold cut turkey and loaf of bread, which was just about the saddest thing I could ever picture, but here I am now, at home by myself, eating ramen - ramen that is cold and leftover from last week, because I just didn't have the appetite for turkey today.

Shut your stupid pie hole, Beyonce!

On NPR on the way home from work, there was a program about how pop music has a different share of the market now than they had a decade ago, about how fans are no longer interested in full albums but in great singles they can buy separately and load into their ipod, and how sound clips on commercials and TV shows get just as much exposure and attention as cable TV networks.

Then the dude played two examples of "great" pop singles that are out now. One was Pink, the other Beyonce. I actually started crying in my car, and not because the songs were beautiful. These were the worst, brainless, trite, idiotic lyrics I'd ever heard, and I knew that there were some girls in this country who actually think these kinds of songs are empowering.

The line, for example, "If you like it, you should've put a ring on it" is NOT empowering. It just reinforces the same dependent/materialistic/traditional ideals our culture needs to overcome.

She totally didn't even write that song herself. You know a stupider man wrote it for her.

Tisn't the Season

My parents really mean it this year: no gifts. At least nothing store-bought. They say this every year, they really do, and we always end up going overboard with gifts and last-minute shopping and spending and it turns into a huge present-party every Dec. 26th. But this year they mean it, and considering what's happened to our family in light of the housing/credit/mortgage crisis, we're actually listening to the parents this year.

My first response was pissy. I was just thinking, you know, I am the one who is far away and it's really hard for me to do the IOU coupon book doohickey, with the Good-for-one-Netflix-movie-night and the I'll-cook-you-dinner coupons. But then I thought about it a little longer, and realized, I can do a couple cutesy things for my family, and never have to worry about Christmas shopping.

Let me repeat that: I am not Christmas shopping this year. In fact, I get to avoid the mall scene until after the new year. It is so freeing and so empowering, to know that I am not a part of the commercialism of Christmas, at least this year.

I might actually stop to enjoy the Christmas season for the first time since I was a kid.

I may have sold out.

At my work, they have it where employees can try out a certain new product and rate it, or comment on it, or use something at home and compare it to other things, and they will compensate you for your time and effort by either giving you products or vouchers or actual money.

Well everyone has their price, right?

So here is my question: How much would someone have to pay you to do the following: Use this certain shampoo for two weeks as you normally would. When you wash your hair Tuesday morning however, you are not allowed using conditioner. Then you can't wash until Friday. From then on, you may only wash your hair 3 times per week, only with their shampoo, with no conditioner or styling products, or anything. You may (and must) only wash Tuesday, Friday, and Sunday mornings. Again, I have to restate, no conditioner. Or hair gel. Or anything. You keep this up for another 2 weeks.

Name your price.

Liberty Mutual Hates Me

Those commercials for insurance or whatever they're selling, where they play touching Hem songs while they show a person doing a nice thing for a stranger, then one of the on-lookers does a nice thing for another stranger, and so on and so forth, reminiscent of Pay It Forward... Those commercials make me bawl like a baby. Every time I see one.

Well I thought it was over, but they aired a new commercial where the handicapped woman in a wheelchair wheels herself out in the rain to get lifted onto a bus on her way to the voting booth. I am a mess again. Why do they do this to me?!

I'm voting Abock Abamma

While I realize that it is probably NOT cute, but rather annoying to people who are not my family, my sister taught her daughter to say she's voting for Obama. Although she can't really say "Barack" right. It was awesome.

On the other hand, the last time I talked to S she could only say hi repeatedly and still didn't understand how the phone worked. But last night she said, "Hi Bean how you doin' -- good?" And then she wouldn't get off the phone and I kept saying "Bye-bye" but she would say, "No, I'm talkin' now. Where are you -- at work? I'm at Grammy's. Where's D? Is he at school? P and P are at work. Are you at work? Hi. Hi. I'm at Grammy's. Hi."

After 20 minutes I had to hang up on her because she wouldn't give the phone back!

Creeps, Coworkers, Motives, and Naivete at 28

One of the younger people I work with asked if I wanted to grab lunch after the gym today, but I already had a sandwich so he suggested we meet for dinner on the way home. His kid was with his ex wife for the night, and I thought he just wanted someone to eat with.

After an uncomfortable conversation about both politics and religion, he asked, "Okay, here's one for you: Where's the craziest place you ever had sex?" I'm sorry, I thought I was having a quick weeknight dinner with a coworker, not trying out for the next episode of Blind Date.

I looked at him and said, "I haven't." He was confused and didn't understand, so I clarified, "I never had sex."

He followed by asking how many times my boyfriend cheated on me. As if I would deserve to be cheated on because I didn't give it up. He also referred to MF as "your Indiana boy" rather than by his name.

"I have some crazy stories about dirty, dirty bad girls that would shock you." I suggested he save that for his guy friends, who might be more interested to hear those stories.

Then the check came, and he insisted on splitting it in half even though I am in the mindset that you pay for what you ordered. Whatever. I will pay twice what I owe just to get out of that restaurant and drive home. But then my fortune cookie read, "Don't put off today what you can do tomorrow" or something like that, and he said, "I think your fortune cookie is telling you to have sex with me."

Two Funny Things for a Tuesday

1. I went to Blockbuster to return my late DVD and asked the dude if they charged late fees. He said there are no late fees, unless I kept it more than a week. In that case, I would have to either buy the movie or pay a $1.25 "restocking fee."

So basically I rented a DVD and if I returned it late, there would be a $1.25 late fee.

2. I tried on my fake vampire fangs and they are no bigger than my current fang teeth. I was totally made to be a vampire.

Great Music... and Idiots

Sometimes I get my paws on a new album, one that I devour, one that encapsulates my soul, one that I can't stop listening to, on my laptop, in my car, in my office, on the walk from one building to another. I take 10 minutes to burn something to a CD or put onto my mp3 player because I just can't bear tearing myself away from the sound for a couple minutes. One that I lose a full night of sleep, lying in bed and clicking repeat every time it finishes. And I get up in the morning, fully aware that I haven't slept, but what keeps me going is that I know I can keep listening to this music in the car on the way to work, and while at work between meetings and while I'm eating lunch at my desk and on the drive home from work... And the lyrics are deep and incredibly moving, and the melody is new, and the music is hushed and downplayed, and it just begs for someone else who loves it as much as I do to have a listen, so that we can talk about it.

No one I work with gives a shit about music.

I told an officemate today that I heard some new music I loved. He asked me if it was off Britney's new album. No, it wasn't. He wanted to hear it anyway.

I let him have a listen to one of the songs.

"This seems like the type of thing you have to be in the mood for. But it sounds very relaxing."

I deeply regret letting an ignorant uncultured fuck listen to and comment on my music.

Sunday Football

I don't really like the game, but being in a Fantasy league it gives me something to do on an otherwise quiet Sunday afternoon.

I have one major problem though, with football. I am not a germophobe or anything, but when I see those dudes lick their hands between plays, it just goes right through me. I don't know what about it bothers me so much. I guess I picture what they must be tasting. Like a combination of dirt, grass, sweat (theirs and other people's)... it is so disgusting to me, and I wonder what their mothers think when they see their sons licking their dirty hands on national TV.

On a side note, I realized today that most of the NFL players are younger than me. Like most of these dudes were born in like, 1985 or 1986!!!! What the @#$#$^%#???!!!

Things I'd Like to Eat Right Now

After my "Surprise! Your tooth cracked in half from eating a breakfast bar, you're getting a root canal!" a lot of people at work joked, "Oh, just stay on the liquid diet, if you know what I mean har har har!" But seriously, it is crazy how much of a desire I have to actually chew. I have been sustaining myself on soup and bread dipped in soup and fake mashed potatoes and milkshakes for over 2 weeks now. I would kill to even chew a fucking piece of gum. They're not putting the crown on for another 2+ weeks and I'm going insane.

Top 10 Things I Dream of Eating (IN A PARTICULAR ORDER):

10. That can of Chef Boyardee spaghetti and meatballs in the cupboard
9. Microwave Popcorn
8. Cheesesteak, Provolone With
7. Tortilla chips and salsa
6. A Salad. I swear - Just a regular salad!
5. A Sugar Daddy - In all honesty, I have lost 3 teeth from Sugar Daddies, and I know full well I can never eat one again. But I still love them.
4. Sweet Corn
3. Candy Corn
2. A Charms Blow-Pop
1. A GIANT STEAK MEDIUM RARE STRAIGHT FROM THE GRILL

As a side note, after all these years I finally have "dental insurance" but learned recently that they will pay only 50% of a "reasonable charge" (which they have deemed "reasonable") for whatever dental work I receive. Which means I get basically nothing toward my actual dental bills.

And... my tooth hurts.

Poem I liked.

I was sharpening my chain saw when they called me from Washington, D.C., to ask me how to fix the economy.

This request focused my thoughts, or the lack of 'em, to such a fine point, I gave my 14-inch Echo an edge it never had. Good enough for cutting half a cord at least, to keep the wood stove going through October. I love not paying the oil company a nickel. Except for the half-gallon of gas and the chain oil, but I'm fixin' to make the thing run on plum brandy. I've got a plum tree.

Ah, where were we? The economy, yes: $700 billion is more than enough money to buy every able-bodied American a chain saw, a solar-powered generator and a stake in a communal well and windmill. Also, red dirt and plum trees. That would probably only cost about $100 billion, and you can use the other $600 billion to buy everybody their house outright.

Now everybody can own their house and be green and self-sufficient, and can go back to whatever they were doing before the world ended: watching TV. Except for me. I was sharpening my chain saw.

So I go back to it, and I see a line of refugees coming up the road to move in with me. Oh my God, it's the '70s again. All my deadbeat friends — dead and alive — are being chased out of their homes and heaven for not owing any money. They are debt-free in a world that can't exist without interest rates. The dead are especially egregious in this regard; you can't squeeze even an extra penny out of them.

Oh, no, now that they are getting closer, I don't even think it's people from the '70s: It's people ... from the future!

It's worse than I thought: These are people independent from foreign oil, carrying solar-powered chain saws, full of American ingenuity. After the bailout, they owned their own homes, they didn't pay into a corporate energy grid, and they didn't worry about food because they grew it on the roof. They didn't drive, because they didn't have any jobs to drive to, and every garage in America was the site of an invention that was so darn beneficial nobody needed anything from the store.

Without worries about money, without a job, and with extra space in the garage to grow food and invent, these people forgot about the stock market, stopped borrowing money, even forgot how to shop — in short they stopped being American. These un-Americans got their exercise raking the compost instead of circling the mall; they home-schooled their children and were never again embarrassed that their kids knew more than they did. Heck, they were in heaven, the place where the pursuit of happiness leads to when you stop pursuing it.

Such self-sufficiency made the economy grind to a halt, so the government had to do something again: They called in the Army to chase everyone out of their self-contained greenhouses.

And now they are coming up the road to my place because I'm a poet, and I live in a compound defended by polygamist haikus.

"What did you do wrong?" I asked the first of the refugees to get over the palisades.

"Nothing," he said. "We just got out of debt and stopped watching TV! So the urge to buy things on credit disappeared. So they sent in the troops. First thing they did was to put a 40-inch plasma TV in every room and fixed it just so we couldn't turn it off. Just like in Orwell, only with much sharper images. They are calling this the Second Bailout, or the Bail Back In."

"At least the Second Amendment is safe," I said. "Nobody took away your guns, and the Founding Fathers didn't say anything about TV."

And with that, my chief haiku welcomed them thus:

make yourselves at home

you won't be bailed in or out again

you're safe in Second Life

"I'll try to find ya some and I'll bring 'em to ya!"

George W. Bush's Address of the Economy

Otherwise known as, HOLY SHIT NOSE WHISTLE


So George, you mean to tell me that people recently took out loans they couldn't afford to repay? Fascinating. Also, get off my TV you nose-whistling idiot moron.

TMI (...not Three Mile Island)

The Woman in my office welcomed me back from my day and a half in NYC and after I told her how everything went, she filled me in on how she was doing and how she's been having a rough couple of days herself, how her kids have been acting up, etc. How it was especially trying for her because, she muttered under her breath, "It's that time of the month."

You can imagine how it is to be in my line of work... actually maybe you can't. We're all fucking ragging at the same time. Indeed, she no longer finished the phrase "time of the month" that a dull ache sunk into my abdomen and I compiled a mental inventory of the date, what products I had at home, and what products I'd seen in the Women's room the last time it'd been stocked.

Sure enough.

Damn it.

Sad Monday

I was at Oktoberfest in a crowd of thousands of Kentucky rednecks listening to a coverband play Mellencamp when P called to tell me that Grampa died. She didn't have to say it -- all she said was, "Frances called with bad news tonight." I took it as fact, put it in the back of my mind, and called Mom when I got home to figure out what I should do and when.

Spent the rest of the weekend on the phone and on Mapquest finding plane fares. Emailed my manager to ask if I could take off a few days for travel, woke up this morning and got ready for work as usual, plopped in my office, started my computer, etc. When H came in she asked, "Have a good weekend?" I said, "Yes, but... my... grandfather died." And I broke into tears. I don't know why. I guess it was the first time I said it out loud, and it is just so strange how saying something out loud is what makes it real. She was all, "Sweetheart, go home! What are you doing here? That's your family! Go home!" and she went to the admin's office to bring her in so they could tell me in unison to go home. I was a wreck, clearly unable to think/function, so I went home. I bought my ticket, finalized everything, and then realized I had nothing else to do so I went back to work. It was a parade of people coming in to tell me how sorry they were, and although I really appreciate it, hearing those apologies over and over made me feel worse.

I think they all wanted me to leave because my presence made them uncomfortable. Can we talk to her about it? Should we talk to her at all? Should we ask questions? Does she want to be left alone? But most of all, it all made them remember when their own grandparents died. Coworker after coworker were telling me stories of when their grandparents died and where they had to travel and how they had to become an emotional support for their own parents - maybe for the first times in their lives.

Another thing to mention about today is that I work with wonderful people. I am so happy to work for a company full of caring, loving people.

Don't bother calling me...

My cell phone was stolen tonight.

I sent a text message from inside my car on the way home from work (STOPPED AT A TRAIN TRACK, MIND YOU) and then popped into the store to grab a few things before going home. I brought my phone inside with me (since the last thing I texted was "Call me!"), and set it down on the counter to pay. It was crowded as hell in there, and I was NOT in the upstanding neighborhood where I live. Walked out to my car, drove part way home, and realized I left my phone there. So I turned around and drove back. It was gone. It was on vibrate, to make matters worse.

They took me into the manager's office to watch the past few minutes of surveillance footage, and we saw me walking up to the cashier, then some fat black woman blocked the view of what happened - me setting the phone down and someone picking it up. IT WAS CROWDED.

The manager wanted a number where I could be reached in case they find it. Well, can't help ya out there!

Mostly I'm upset about the pictures.

You know, maybe there is some lesson I still have to learn. My photo card died during our trip to Belize and I was distraught. It happened again! Photos I wanted to keep forever and ever are no longer mine. What is God trying to teach me and why am I being so stubborn?!

It woke me up to realize how much I loved that phone. And everything on it. I learned, God! Now give me my phone back, please.

But the other thing that's difficult is that I'm living alone and it was my outlet to humankind. I scream tonight and no one hears me. I want to talk to my sisters and I can't.

I would've been eligible for an upgrade anyway (since my phone is 2+ years old) but I saw online that I am late on my first ever payment by 3 days. So I think I lost my eligibility.

Life fucking sucks.

What I truly think of Sarah Palin

She's got to lose those glasses. They're ugly as sin.

Also, who named those kids?

One Giant Leap for Bean-Kind

Guess what I did just now! I grilled! By myself! No one was even watching!

Okay so I went out there with meat, and I opened the propane tank and I lit it myself! And I put the meat on, and I watched it and poked it, and when it was done, I turned off the grill!

I am alive and unburned! No one even watched me to make sure I didn't mess it up!

Eff you, "Today!"

Ready to beat my head against a wall because my officemate talked nonstop for FOUR HOURS this morning, I was happy to have a reason to leave -- so I programmed Ferdinand and drove across town to the meeting site. Then I spent 40 minutes trying to find the damn conference room, eventually giving up and driving back to my site.

Then I was trying to prepare for my first ever meeting with one of the big director people, and could not focus because of the obnoxiously loud jibber jabber going on in my office.

I just decided, just now, that I am going to start blogging about this woman in my office. She is obnoxious. She makes loud, often emotional personal phone calls at work. There are 3 other people in our office, yet she lacks discretion of any kind. She is loud. I cannot function when she is in there.

Her nose whistles.

She sighs habitually.

She is stressful.

I have recently identified her as having a complex about needing others to notice that she works hard. There are several techniques she has perfected to communicate her hard work to the officemates.

If people aren't paying attention to her, she sighs more frequently and repeatedly picks up her mouse and sets it down, as if to say, "Do you all hear me fervidly mousing?" If people are holding a brief meeting in the office that doesn't involve her, she sits at her computer humming and muttering to herself. As if to say, "I'm not working with you but, please note, I am working."

At 5:00 pm, when the last of the hourly peeps have just about all gone home, she feels like it's okay to begin her customer service and/or personal phone calls. Last week she was having a heated argument with her ex-husband. Tonight she was fighting with the cable company.

She sits about 8 ft. away from me.

So anyway, I finally leave work after all this bullshit today to volunteer at this big event they were having in town, only to show up and learn that they were finished with the job I volunteered to do.

So I drove back to work. I don't know why I went back to work. I just did.

And I went to put my bag in my trunk and noticed that a bottle of power steering fluid had erupted, most likely due to the heat, and saturated the carpeting in my trunk with flammable gunk which is probably impossible to clean off.

I'm done.

I Had Our Perfect Weekend, John!

JR and I used to joke about our Perfect Weekend. One of these weeks, it was just bound to happen. The chores would get done. We'd see the people we wanted to see. We'd feel good. We'd sleep enough. No catastrophes. No worries. No speeding tickets, bad weather, car problems, heartbreaks, disappointments. No lame friends bailing out at the last minute. No wardrobe malfunctions, cover charges, or lost luggage. The more weekends we were alive, the greater the probability we'd experience The Perfect Weekend.

I almost feel guilty for having two of these in 2008. With starving children in Africa, for crying out loud. And I had two just this summer.

The first happened by accident. I was so fed up with work, with the I-can't-take-this-for-another-day mentality that I spent one of my (5!) precious vacation days one Friday driving back to Bloomington. We pissed around, polished off a bottle, spent Saturday afternoon at a crappy lakefront beach, and just slept. It was amazing, ca. summer vacation 1995.

This past weekend was unreal, though. It was the 10 year high school reunion. So strange, being grown, dragging luggage into my parents' house, scanning my bedroom walls covered with Tiger Beat cut-outs of Leonardo DiCaprio and Jared Leto, and then joining my parents on the deck for dinner and drinks. But we talked, all four adults, and it was fun! And the reunion was even better than I imagined, the birthday party for two-year-old little S was hilarious, and the housewarming party for J&C was comforting. The relaxing, love-filled conversation during the trek back to the Midwest, and the falling asleep on Sunday night, feeling worn-out, feeling sleepy, feeling loved, feeling close to family even though I'm far away... It felt so much like being a little kid again. And I guess that's what The Perfect Weekend is, that we're always striving for.

I guess the Olympics are over.

Now what am I supposed to watch?

Chemists walk fast.

And I mean, really, really fast. Like, we almost run. And I feel like I'm trying to keep up with the dude walking with me, but he probably also feels like he's trying to keep up with me.

Maybe it's about competition.

But my new shoes are beat to hell and I walk alone most of the time. When no one's looking I secretly jog.

Maybe it's more about not wasting time.

Most Uncomfortable Moment of the Day

I decided to get a trim even though it would delay my hair donation thingy, because I just can't deal with these split ends. I found a coupon for a free haircut at one of those scary strip-mall chain haircut places, so I went there after work.

I took a seat in the waiting area, and they called one of the two women sitting next to me and led her into the back for her haircut.

She came out a few minutes later and told her friend, "She can't cut my hair. It's because I'm black." The employee came out behind her and said, "I told you I don't have a lot of experience but I am willing to try to cut it if you don't mind me practicing on you."

The woman asked for the corporate phone number and for the employee's name.

I felt so bad for both of them.

Olympics

I'm waiting to see Men's Beach Volleyball. Is there such an event?

The years go fast and the days go so slow.

I need vacation.

I'm going to be old soon, and I'll look back at this whole "work" thing and regret how much time it took away from my youth.

The Ladies' Bathroom at Work

... very often smells so, so unladylike.

Memory of Pamela I just had on the drive home from work

When she was like 10 she got a pet mouse and named it Monie. After Monie Love. Because she really liked that song Monie in the Middle. That mouse got a strange skin disease that we thought was fleas, and Mom and I would take it out of the cage and douse it in flea bath with Q-tips and cotton balls every couple of days. In retrospect, that was really gross. After months of scratching and biting bumps on its skin, the mouse had hardly any fur left.

Then it died, so Pamela told the kid she babysat to bury it. The kid buried it in Mom's flower bed and left its rigor-mortis tail sticking up out of the mulch.

Dirty Old Men

When I think hard, I get hot. And I sweat a lot. And when I work, I am thinking a lot and therefore sweating a lot. So I wear sleeveless shirts at work. Not all women wears sleeveless shirts at work, and I realize I'm pushing the limits of our dress code ("Business Appropriate") but I do wear nice pants, dress shoes and earrings and makeup and everything. So I feel quite appropriate with my appearance every morning when I walk out the door.

I have a mock turtle sleeveless red polka-dot top that I absolutely adore. I've been complimented on this shirt several times. I actually bought a red polka-dot bra to wear with the shirt (same shades of red and white, same sized polka dots, even!), to be conservative so that if anyone ever got an accidental peep into my shirt hole, they wouldn't be able to differentiate between shirt and bra.

I work with a dirty old man. This dirty white-haired 47-year-old man is on his second wife, having dated a 21-year-old coworker between marriages. He has offended me several times by what he's said and where he's looked in the 4 months I've worked at this job.

Said man and I were participating with several other coworkers in a fun, building-wide event. I was wearing my festive red polka-dot top. We were all standing in a crowd in the lobby, waiting for winning raffle numbers to be chosen, when he touched my bare shoulder and whispered in my ear, "Your bra matches your shirt nicely." I paused, and said, "Don't look at my bra." Then I turned and walked away. I didn't wait to hear who'd won the raffle.

He didn't speak to me the rest of that day and called in sick for the past two days. I think I've gotten my point across -- the point being that I don't want him looking at my boobs.

I don't know if I should tell HR.

If a female coworker would've approached me in the bathroom and said the same exact thing to me, I would've thanked her. But seriously, why the hell do older men think that compliments about a boob-holders are even marginally appropriate?

Bejing and the Olympics

I caught the tail end of the story on NBC news tonight about the image that the Chinese government is trying to portray during the Olympics this year. But I heard the dress code:

No pajamas

No white socks with black shoes

And no more than 3 colors at the same time.

What the hell?!

And then they showed hundreds of very young Chinese girls learning how to smile perfectly so they can be "pleasing servants" for Olympic visitors. Yeah... now that's going to portray the right image to Westerners.

Mystery of the Hyde Park Santa

Every Tuesday night I hope I can stay up late enough to see him. He comes on Tuesday. Because it's Trash Day Eve. So far I stayed up late enough only once, but he was so swift and silent in his visit that I didn't notice he came through.

He's old like Santa, and he carries big sacks of stuff on his back like Santa, but he's not really Santa because he doesn't bring gifts. He's the one who takes all the cans out of recycling bins. I've seen other neighborhood santas. Some of them carry the sacks. Some push the carts from Kroger. I imagine it's a full-time job being a neighborhood santa. It's also a job that requires a lot of walking, and I feel bad when I see one of them who doesn't walk too well. I guess most of them don't really walk well, and might be better suited for a sit-down job. Anyway, I haven't seen ours yet. I cut myself on a can last night, smooshing them for him so he could fit more into his sack. Maybe tonight will be the night.

Idea for a TV Show

Okay, first, you get a bunch of dumb Americans who've led sad, crappy lives, who finally found something - a talent or a skill - they think they're good at. Next, (and here's the kicker!) you bring in a mean and nasty British dude who yells at them and criticizes them when they screw up.

It'll be hilarious!

Jeopardy

It wasn't even a Celebrity Jeopardy...

The category was "Elemental my Dear Watson" and the question was, "This element, used as a fuel propellant in some spacecraft, is also found in some luxury car headlights."

And the dude rang in and said, "What is Halogen?"

HA!!!!!!!!! HA HA HA HA HA!!!!!!!!!!

Thesis

Hardbound copies of my thesis were finally delivered the other day. I'd honestly forgotten about them when they came, and started playing, "Guess the Present" with the unopened package for a while - shaking it, feeling how heavy it was, reading all the words on the box, etc., after carrying it in from my doorstep. What a let-down when I opened the box.

Anyway, it's nice to see everything in print, looking professional. B and G agreed it's customary to send one copy to your thesis advisor, as a thank-you present, or something. I guess it's a tradition. But all the ones I'd seen on my advisor's shelves were printed paper copies held together by those plastic binder rings. Maybe his shelf is telling... how his "style" (if you can even call it style) of advising involves completely ignoring his students during their final six months or so prior to their defense because he has no advice or job contacts.

I will never forget the meeting he scheduled with me about six weeks before my defense. He began, "You have no job offers yet, so what is it you're doing wrong?"

He never even offered to keep me on as a postdoc, for financial security alone. I was unemployed for FOUR LONG MONTHS. No paychecks. Nothing. I had to buy my own health insurance. And I'm supposed to send this guy a bound copy of my thesis that cost me ~$100 to print?!

I just talked myself out of it. Thanks, Blogspot. The book's mine.

Awkward Office Moments Part 1

A coworker came in to return a DVD I'd loaned him over the weekend, and B turned around to see what we were talking about.

"I lent him this movie to watch. It's one of my favorites. If you ever want to borrow it, just let me know." And before I even told him the title of the movie, B said, "Yeah... I probably won't have time."

I need my own house.

I played music for the first time in my house tonight, through my living room DVD player/TV and I turned it way, way up, so that I could hear it from the kitchen, and I was feeling good and singing loud and rolling out my pie crusts and generally being happy. I was having a good voice day.

My phone rang, and it was my upstairs 30-something shut-in of a neighbor, asking me to turn my music down.

And it crushed me. And now I feel like a poop.

It was Indigo Girls, of all bands, and I'm pretty sure she's one of "those" types. Figured she wouldn't mind how loud it was. But her girlfriend is over so maybe it interrupted a lingerie pillow fight.

Car-Dreaming

The janitor came in our office at 6:00 to empty our trash cans and we got to talking. Eventually he asked if I was married or a mom. When I told him I was neither, he said, "Well, you probably don't want to have kids soon. Gotta get established first. Some women'd wait 5, 6, 7 years before they have kids."


On the drive home tonight, I was thinking about 5, 6, 7 years of not having kids. 60, 72, 84 months. 84 would-have-been people. 84 half people. People who will never be created. People who will never live. They were all girls. One of them had Nanny's big brown eyes. Most of them had blue. One was platinum blonde, and one was blind. One of them had eleven toes. One of them was autistic. One was a mathematical genius. One had Jennifer's nose. And voice. Most of them were small, but one grew up to be very tall. One had perfectly straight bright white teeth. A lot of them had my temper. One had mom's dimple, in the middle of her right cheek. One was painfully, heartbreakingly shy, like Grampa used to be. A few had Nanny's legs, the way they looked when she was a teenager, before all the bruises and atrophy, before she needed surgery and skin grafts on her shin. One of them needed glasses as a toddler. I hope she would've outgrown it. One was dyslexic. One wore a size 6 shoe.


And now I'm just thinking... How fortunate we all are. What are the chances, you know? And I'm thinking that I'm so glad that my sisters and I were the few who came out alive.

Olympix

I was watching the women's one mile run trial and I swear I did not see a single boob on any of the runners. I don't think any of those twigs get their period. Ever. Also, the winner ran a 4:05 mile.

Happy Birthday, America!

There aren't any really good fireworks displays around here so instead I wanted to celebrate by watching Team America again. But I just can't bring myself to rent the DVD from Blockbuster for the 6th time. I should've just bought it the first time.

Maybe my neighbors will set off some Roman candles or something.

World's Most Annoying Noises

For the love of God, please just sneeze. Don't repeatedly gasp for air, cover your face, and then make that inhuman and anticlimactic stifled hiccup/growl/snort noise because you're trying to hold in a sneeze.

And if I can hear your throat muscles squeezing down each and every gulp of coffee you're swallowing, you drink things the wrong way.

And if I'd had an audio recorder today, to replay the surround-sound symphony of whistling noses, I would've uploaded the file and posted it on Youtube and gotten a thousand hits plus a record deal. Because damn. It was unreal.

I am a 12 year old boy.

I was off-site for a short course yesterday and today. By 3:00 this afternoon, my attention span started failing and my mind drifted off somewhere wonderful when I was abruptly brought back into the classroom because a woman behind me asked the professor, "Do you know how far it penetrates? Have you done any penetration studies to measure how far the penetration goes?"

I had to cover my mouth and think sad thoughts so I didn't explode with laugher. Then I started making a list of all the commonly used terms in chemistry that make me extremely uncomfortable:

1. Penetration
2. Cleavage
3. Slit
4. Stopcock
5. Bung
6. Roots Blower
7. Orifice
8. Aperture
9. Ball-and-Stick Model

...Come to think of it, I feel like I've blogged about this before.

Happy Thought

I met B's wife for the first time the other day. She's one of those pleasant, peacefully happy types and she has a beautiful face etched by a lifetime of genuine smiles.

I told B how much I enjoyed talking to her, and he said, "I don't play the lottery because I've already won twice. Once was when I got married 29 years ago. The second time was when I started working here."

These critics are full of crap

Brokeback Mountain is a terrible movie.

I don't know if it was the initial violent drunken gay sex scene or the ongoing sexual and physical abuse of the women that horrified me worst, but it doesn't really matter. This is awful. I'm only finishing the movie because I already paid for it, and I figure nothing else they're going to show will haunt me as much as what I've already seen.

Poopsicles?

I got durian-flavored popsicles from the ethnic grocery because I wanted to see what all that fuss was about on The Travel Channel.

Good God... They taste like a frozen puree of an orange creamsicle and a salted onion. Sorry Bourdain, but I guess we're not MFEO after all.

Another Severe Weather Alert

For the love of God and all that is holy and good, please please please stop raining.

If not for the poor homeless people and bankrupt farmers, then please, do it for me, so that people at the lunch table will be forced to find something else to talk about.

I want a family.

Today I got up early, hit Ikea, 3 different malls and a Blockbuster. I was out walking and shopping for 8 full hours. I have slightly pink skin, one fabulous new top, a bag full of B&BW crap, and a Juno DVD.

I noticed today, though, several mothers in the malls pushing strollers with retarded kids in them. I'm not trying to be mean or disrespectful, but I saw 3 children with down syndrome, one child who was a dwarf, and another who had a visible mental handicap. All 5 mothers looked like they were maybe a few years older than me. Mid 30's or so.

I am so angry that having children at an older age increases the risk of having an unhealthy child.

Why am I worried about healthy children when I am still an unmarried 27 year old virgin?!

Or, wait, maybe that is why.

It's true.

Usually I get home from work and talk to the MF on the phone for a while and then we'll type online. Then I'll start getting ready for the next day. On the weekends, it fucking sucks. If the MF isn't coming out to visit I don't know what the fuck to do with myself. I walked to Kroger's and back tonight for a bottle of 7up.

He called for the first time in two days, while I was in the middle of writing this stupid effing blog entry, but could only talk for 10 minutes because he's on vacation with his family in the middle of buttfuckingnowhereland and the mosquitoes were eating him alive so he had to go back into whatever cabin he's staying in wherever the hell they are.

I need a fucking friend in this town. And yes, fine, you all win, and I will say it, for the first time since I moved here in April. The first time I am admitting it, even to myself:

I am lonely.

Green Thumbs

My sisters, mom and niece were out to visit this weekend. We went to Ikea and I bought a palm tree because they were on sale. J's palm tree died about a week after she bought it from the Ikea out by her but, for some reason, I thought I might want to try keeping one alive.

My mom called around 8:00 to let me know she was finally home from the drive, and I told her I'd re-potted the tree, and that it looked pretty healthy in the kitchen.

"Well, talk to it a lot. I told it today that you would."

What really keeps a tree alive, and is my mother depressed because she probably talked to my tree more than she talked to me this weekend?

More about money

What the hell is a 401K and should I have one?

Wealth, Health, Happiness, and an Audi TT

I thought a new car and wardrobe came with a new job.

What they don't tell you is that when you start working you won't have time to shop for new clothes, your starting salary doesn't come as a lump-sum check on your first day of work, student loan bills rise from the dead ISO your checkbook, and that saving for a down payment on a house appears nearly impossible.

I'm praying the Honda keeps going at least another 5 years.

And I thank God I have the implied "I'm a scientist" excuse for dressing frumpily at work.

Interns are Killing Me.

I was downtown at a short-course for business writing all day today. We were on the 11th floor of the GH, in a modest-sized classroom, sitting at tables that made up 3 legs of a square, with the professor walking around lecturing from the middle. We were encouraged to bring our laptops because there were three 15-minute periods of time during the 8-hour workday designated to practicing writing X or Y type memo. The rest of the day, most people half-closed their laptop lids, or put them away altogether, which I saw as a polite way to communicate to the professor that we were listening. Another polite thing that most people did was to look at the professor while he was talking.

The freaking girl next to me – who made it very well-known that she was an intern – kept her laptop open the entire time. Mainly because she was using it. I read one email she was writing to someone, who I assumed to be a roommate or at least a fellow intern, something about “chocolate covered strawberries and vanilla ice cream or mozzarella cheese with tomato and basil.” Then she signed on to a communication program similar to Instant Messenger to ask an intern how she liked the movie she saw last night. Then she started composing a mass-email to all the interns about an upcoming white water rafting trip. The next thing she did was the last straw for me, and the reason I’m posting any of this anyway. She freaking checked her Myspace page. Come on. Come on! A professor is lecturing 4 feet away from you, at a course that the company spent several hundred dollars for you to attend, and you feel compelled to see if one of your e-friends filled out some hot new survey.

Also another one of her emails said something like, “Here is an old version of my resume which helped me hope it helps.”

Now there’s someone who needs to be paying close attention during a course on writing.

For the love!

Insecurities

Top 5 things I'm insecure about, in no particular order:

5. Lacking any sense of fashion whatsoever
4. Seemingly having the wrong hair style/cut at any given time
3. Looking younger than I am (because of #4 and #5)
2. Lacking any sense of interior decorating
1. My cooking tastes horrible

I realized tonight that I'm not insecure about any of those things in my life I have zero control over. Such as my height, my crooked teeth, my skin... I don't care if I smile big and people see my crooked teeth. I am very much okay with being 5'2" even though my head was the most popular armrest in grades 6-12. When I get a zit I don't cover it up. Instead, I pick at it for months until it scars. But aren't most people insecure about things they can't change?

I could read magazines to improve on most of the things I feel so self-conscious about. But I don't. What is wrong with me?

I need new socks.

I know I do. I know. I am well aware that little colored socks with cats and dogs and candy canes and tool shapes and watering cans are not commonly worn by professional women at work. I know this. I do not like most of these socks. In fact, the majority were gifts from my mom on holidays. However, until I get some free time (and some energy) in the evening to drive to the mall before it closes, these are the only socks I have.

If one more person makes fun of my socks at work, I am going to cry.

Today it was an intern. A fucking ignorant 19-year-old intern, who had the audacity to even make a comment about anything relating to my appearance.

But it wasn't the kid's comment that really hurt my feelings. It was the teasing coming from my peers that really upset me.

One of those days...

I hit snooze twice. I got to work 10 minutes later than I wanted to. I was running around like a madwoman, quietly pissy, all frigging day. Building to building, carts and boxes and samples and what-have-you, editing this, and dealing with that. Walking to the bathroom to cry because I don't understand LOD and don't have the patience to ask someone. Running to the bathroom to cry when my officemate took her 11th personal call of the afternoon and I can't think straight when someone behind me is yelling at her kid on the phone. My feet and ears were fucking killing me. I FUCKING HATE WEARING HEELS!

I threw my hands in the air and packed up early. I had three VERY heavy grocery bags full of crap that I have to work on this weekend, plus another bag full of baby products I got for my sister, AND my wheeled laptop case, and I struggled with numb wrists and fingers dragging all that shit down the sidewalk, through several parking lots, down the hill, through the other parking lot, and realized I parked somewhere else today. I must have traipsed through the entire fucking campus and climbed two small mountains trying to find my car. I was in tears, 30 minutes later when I finally spotted it.

One of those days that so many things have gone wrong, you just know you're going to get into a car accident or something. Instead, I reached the train tracks in time to wait for, not one but, two trains to pass. And I'm all huffy and pissy, waiting for the trains and thinking about how sore my feet are from walking so far in heels.

And then I see this man limping very slowly on the sidewalk. Probably mid-80's, hunched over and sideways, in a collared shirt with one empty sleeve, swaying, and one arm clutched close to his body that doesn't move at all.

And I was done pitying myself for the day.

Today I was insulted by the garbage man.

I was in the supply room cutting 165 strips of paper with that paper-cutting machine thing, because I was volunteered to be on the planning committee for this luncheon next week. I was trying to mentally calculate how many hours of my precious weekend will be designated to putting together all this crap, half listening to one of the women from legal in the hallway politely ask the garbage collector to please empty the Restricted Paper bins every Tuesday as per their contract. He refused to empty the bins until they were at least half full, and if he was called to empty them on a day other than Tuesday, their department would be charged a fee. She reminded him that the legal department has a need for certain documents to be disposed of in a certain time frame, and that they are on a budget and would like to avoid those recurring fees.

He replied, "Well that contract is signed by lawyers, if you want to see it. And my wife works with lawyers, too, so I know how it is to work with you people."

Then he turned to me and said, "You must have a lot of time on your hands."

Indiana Jones and the Caribean Sea

On the walk back to the building after lunch yesterday, N and I were talking about movies we'd seen recently. She mentioned that her 6-year-old wanted to see the new Indiana Jones movie, so the entire family watched all the old Indiana Jones flicks so he could get an idea of the background. He decided he wanted to be Indiana. She bought him the hat and the outfit, and she told me that every day, she has to lay the outfit on his bed next to his school clothes so he can come home and put the costume on and play Indiana Jones.

I laughed so hard, and she told me she's trying to get him involved in some kind of acting group, but it's tough because he's only a kindergartener.

Today the topic of "motion sickness" came up at the lunch table, and N and I exchanged sea sickness stories from snorkeling trips we'd had.

She said, "You know, I bought my son a snorkel, and he's been snorkeling in the bathtub every night. He wanted to snorkel in the YMCA pool but they won't let him because he's not SCUBA certified yet, but when the neighborhood pool opens up he'll be able to snorkel in that pool."

Then she mentioned, "I'm not allowed to wash his Indiana outfit because he wants it to get beat up and dirty so it's more authentic."

I need to find myself a wife.

You know? Someone to pick out my clothes for the morning and feed me and clean up after me.

Wait a second... Maybe what I'm actually looking for is a stay-at-home-mom.

I realized that I spend half of my life at work. Yes, this includes my 30-minute round-trip commute and the 45 minutes I spend at the site gym after work. But still. 7:45am until 7:45pm and it will only get more depressing when it starts getting darker later and earlier.

I have a few precious hours to myself every evening, and for the past two evenings the time's been eaten up being on hold with Time Warner for screwing with my internet service.

I'm trying to figure out how my current situation feels different than when I was in grad school. I was working the same hours in grad school - I totally was! But I guess I didn't feel guilty about shopping online whilst taking mindless data, or making a personal phone call here or there. I could run to the bank over lunch, or schedule a Health Center visit during the day and just walk there and walk back to the lab. Plus, the MF was cooking dinner for me all the time.

One of the (several hundred) new hires sent out a new-hire-wide email on the server advertising that her 20-year-old kid sister was finished with college coursework for the summer and had come to live with her until August. She is willing to provide babysitting/housesitting services to any coworkers until then. I was tempted to reply. "Please, dear college student, be my personal nanny. Cook dinner for me and iron my school clothes... Please? I will pay you... a lot..."

On a somewhat satisfying note, I went to do some online banking this evening and noticed I got paid today. And I was all, "I'm rich, bitch!"

Hair and crap like that

I want to donate 10" to Locks of Love or whatever it's called. Only problem is that I have awful, awful, ugly, terrible split ends and the amount of hair I'm willing to get chopped is currently about 9 inches. Should I just deal with the ugliness of split ends for another few months or can someone recommend a good place to get a trim that's cheap? Also, do I need to cut a 10" braid off myself or do salons around here participate in the program?

Please help because my hairs are feeling ugly.

Happy Birthday! I'm so sorry!

Today was N's birthday and the Birthday Club organized a half hour to meet in her office, have some cake and juice, and wish her well.

When it was about time to light the candles and sing, about 5 people asked me where B was. He is musically inclined. I had no idea what I was about to experience without B in the room.

Someone started the song. I don't know who, but it started out as a complete non-melodic drone, almost like a slow, muffled chant, which grew increasingly quieter as the song progressed, and became nearly silent by the time we got to the part where we say her name, because no one knew if we'd be calling her by her whole name or her nickname.

It was about the most depressing birthday moment I've ever witnessed in my life, and to top it off, after we stopped singing/chanting, the British dude in the office got a couple words into the second verse, we all looked at him, and he quit. But you know, at least he sang those couple words because it gave us something to talk about, we 15 people in the office standing awkwardly and avoiding eye contact. We could talk for 2 minutes about how British people sing another verse.

Then like 3 people clapped when she blew out the candles. I wish I had a video camera, because it was so damn depressingly awkward that it could've been an episode of The Office.

American Gladiators

Does anyone think that one dude is hot? That one with the Ken-Doll face and those legs that are each the size of my entire body and boobs way bigger than mine? Is he hot? Or does he just freak people out?

Because he gives me the creeps.

People who annoy me

These aren't just mild annoyances, these are things that drive me absolutely insane to the point I want to scream and squeeze and shake people into submission:

People who spend 10 minutes cutting their salad with a knife and fork before eating it

People who say "irregardless"

People who say "supposebly"

CHRONIC SNIFFLERS

People who take it upon themselves to inform smokers that smoking is unhealthy

People who don't pronounce the L in words that rhyme with "old" such as "hold" and "cold"

People who define an acronym with a series of acronyms

VEGETARIANS*

Uninformed, uneducated, ignorant, outspoken members of ANY political party

Parents who enable/encourage their high-school-aged kids to drink/do drugs/be promiscuous/break the law and essentially encourage them to grow up to be equally awful adults

Lazy women who play the "damsel in distress" card to get men to do their work for them

Coworkers who think SEX is an appropriate topic to discuss at the lunch table with the New Hire



*Choosing such a diet for religious reasons is perfectly respectable and commendable. But the rest of you? Come on. Stop trying to prove a point, because none of us care. Eat a frickin' steak to remind yourself how good it is.

Happy thought for a Wednesday

I saw a squirrel, a canary, a wren and a dove sitting around a dish of seeds my neighbor put on his porch, all eating together.

There was quite a bit of chatter/tweeting but I don't know what they were talking about.

Support

A few weeks ago I started noticing posters in the hallways and in the women's bathrooms advertising the "Women of Young Babies" group meetings and I wished had a little kid so I could meet some women my age to talk about something we had in common. The other day those posters were replaced by "Weight Watchers" posters. For a split second I wished I were involved in Weight Watchers because, you know, at least I'd have some people to eat lunch with.

Why can't there be a "Normal People" group, where we meet and talk about how our day went, and have lunch together sometimes and just be friends? Why isn't there a "New Hire" group or a "Young Scientist Lunch Club?"

I don't need another "Work-Life Balance" seminar because, you know, my life is work right now. I have nothing to balance.

List

Top Some-odd Regrettable Purchases from my Recent Past:

Shorts with text on the butt in 2001
Four ugly Ikea pillows in 2002
A car without keyless entry in 2003
An elliptical trainer in 2004
Sub-par digital camera in 2005
Economy-sized cheap laundry detergent in 2006
Three dresses I'll never wear again from the VS catalog in 2006
Two more unreturnable dresses from one of those stores on Kirkwood in 2006
White white white running shoes in 2007
An obnoxiously gigantic laptop case with wheels in April

...I'll add to this as I see fit.

Stupid sky.

Hey, how about some rain?

Vancouver?

The invitation came in the mail today. "Colleen and Guest." I admit, I had doubts I'd actually be invited, even after the "Save the Date" arrived toward the end of last summer. Now, he is a great friend of mine, who I haven't seen in God knows how many years. We interned together 3 different semesters/summers and he's one of my favorite people in the world. I even took a weekend road trip with John to see him in Memphis in 2005. I guess that answers my question - I haven't seen him in 3 years. His fiance, who I assume is planning this whole shindig whilst simultaneously preparing for her research proposal at Vanderbilt, overlapped internships with me for a brief stint at good ol' DuPont. I think she's lovely. I am so honored to be invited to the wedding.

I've never been to Vancouver. I want to go.

Problem being: Flights are long and expensive, and if the BF comes with me (I wouldn't go without him) I will want to buy his plane ticket (zero chance of this happening) and pay for the rental car and several nights in a hotel. A long weekend will cost, as a rough estimate, $1600 and 4 days for the two of us.

The additional problem is that I have 5 vacation days this year. I need to take at least one to attend my 10-year HS reunion (which I'm helping to plan) and another 3 between Christmas and New Year's. How much vacation time can I spend going to this wedding?

I've never been to Vancouver and I want to go.

I fully expect this couple to attend my wedding, if/when that might happen. If they didn't come I would throw a fit. I think the world of these people.

I have never traveled somewhere and come home wishing I hadn't gone.

I can't read what I'm typing.

So please excuse any typos.

I got back from the eye doctor around 6:45pm tonight and am just starting to get my vision back. Gil was instant messaging me in 40 point font, probably as a joke but, believe it or not, that's what I needed. I still look like a frightened cat in the mirror and it's been almost 3 hours.

The optometrist, who looked quite young, called me sweetheart a few times, and talked to me in a sing-songy voice, "Okay? Now I'm going to ask you to put your chin right here hun, and look at the doctor through those silly big glasses! Now look down at your little toes!" He actually said "little toes." When he noticed that something appeared abnormal around my optic nerve, he asked me, "Does anyone else in your family have a history of glaucoma?" I said no and waited there while he wrote in my file for about three minutes. Silent. He took photographs of my nerves and compared them to a database that spit out something about it being within healthy limits. I couldn't quite make out what was wrong since he was speaking to me in babytalk. "This is the part of your eyeball that talks to your brain. And if you look at something and it doesn't talk to your brain, it's like, 'Hey! I didn't see that!'"

Please. I didn't appreciate being spoken to like that when I was 5.

Anyway, the peepers are still better than 20/20, I don't need glasses, and I don't think glaucoma is something I'm going to worry about. They used to tell Poppy he was going to get glaucoma for years, and he's 62 and still doesn't have it. He didn't wear glasses until he was in his 50's either. I told him on the phone today, "I got your eyes, Pop. Your eyes and Mom's teeth." He said, "Well, that's a shame."

Two Happy Thoughts for a Monday

There is a woodpecker who lives in my backyard and I hear him going at that tree every day when I get home from work. I assume it's male, and it pecks really fast so I think he's just a teeny tiny pecker.

Dinner tonight is 10 McCain's smiley fries, and it makes me so happy to see all those little guys smiling up at me from the plate. :-)

A flameless candle is actually a lightbulb, Glade.

We need a new word that means "wireless."

No one says "horseless carriage" anymore. We shouldn't call it "wireless internet."

Goings-on at Hyde Park Hallmark

I was looking at the poor selection of Mother's Day cards after the gym, not able to get as weepy as I would've liked because I left my tissues in the car. Anyway, a woman stepped closer to me and bent down to reach for a card when, what I thought was a coat draped over her right arm, licked me. I didn't know dogs were allowed in stores. I guess there's a fine line these days between "pet" and "accessory."

Next, a 60-something-year-old couple moved closer, and the snooty-looking woman pointed to a card she was holding, showing her husband, "Well that's a very German spelling of 'daughter' - it's d-a-u-G-H-t-e-r." Her husband pointed to another card and said, "They spell it like that here, too. I think that's how you spell daughter."

Age-ism

At a Kroger's in Bloomington, several months back, I was loading about six weeks' worth of groceries onto the checkout counter on a Saturday afternoon. When I put a bottle of whiskey on the belt, the middle-aged man behind me had the balls to ask, "Are you old enough to be buying that? It's for your father, isn't it?" I replied, "I'm older than I look." He made a couple more jokes, to which I replied, "I haven't lived with my father for over 10 years." The cashier, who heard the banter between the two of us, explained, "I'm still going to need to see your ID." Fine. I handed it to her and she said, "Wow, you do look much younger than that." I hope like hell she didn't tell the man behind me my age.

A few days later I drove my Honda to Firestone for an oil change. I had been going to the same Firestone for the five years I lived in Bloomington, so they've had my car on file and seen me there countless times for oil changes and tire changes and various what-have-yous. I handed my keys to the same man I'd seen every time I'd gone in, and he said, "Thanks, kiddo. We'll have your car ready in about an hour."

KIDDO?!

At my new job, about six of us females were having lunch together, and I pointed to a group of awkward intern-looking-folks who were carrying trays to the dishwasher and asked, "Did new interns start working this week because I've seen a bunch of those kids walking around." Kate laughed and said, "Some of us might consider you a kid. What are you, about 23?"

The next day, a coworker messaged me with a comment about how the pictures of "that little girl" on my desk couldn't have possibly been my daughter because I "couldn't be 30 years old." I asked, "How old do you think I am?" He replied, "Just a guess... 22?" I said, "You realize I was in school for 9 years before starting here." "Yes, I realized that but I thought you looked young."

Who the fuck am I - Doogie Howser?

Tonight, I was carded at the gas station for buying cigarettes. This is the last straw. The cashier read the birth date on my license and said "Oh, whoops." (And the first person to give me hell for enjoying and savoring the occasional cigarette because I should know better is going to get it. I do know better.) Point is, I am five feet tall. Not gonna grow any more. Doesn't mean I'm 12. I have long hair. Also doesn't mean I'm 12. In fact, I was probably done growing by the time I turned 12, and I'm tired of being judged and treated based on my height and the length of my hair. I have the smile lines. I carry myself like a 27-year-old should. I walk well in heels. I speak well. I don't know what more I can do to portray myself like and be treated like an educated, adult woman.

Any advice is welcomed.

I finally did it!

I've somehow become a breakfast person. I don't know how this happened, since I never used to care much for breakfast, or anything relating to mornings, at all. On the weekends I got in the habit of sleeping until noon, waking up hungry, and running to Subway or Taco Bell for lunch. Now that I'm on a normal-person schedule, I can't stay awake past 10:00pm (don't tell Jennifer!) and today I woke up at 7:15 without an alarm.

On the drive to Ikea, I kept wanting to stop at a restaurant but they were all closed. I parked in the Ikea lot at 10:07am, 7 minutes after the store opened its doors. The lot was only half full. I knew I wouldn't be able to spend two hours shopping on an empty stomach so I made a beeline to the cafe and got the "regular breakfast," no bacon, double potatoes. French toast is actually pretty good, which I learned today.

I had that full-sized ironing board in my cart about 20ft. from the check-out. But I took it out and stuck it in a random furniture aisle. I left with a new garlic press, a meat tenderizer, a wall-clock (which I hung above my fireplace and looks amazing), a corkscrew (I am 27 and this is my first corkscrew), a set of coasters, a set of knives for Mom, and a table runner that ended up being too short which I need to return.

I went to Target afterward for curlers and a utensil holder. And I saw a full-sized ironing board and I bought it. I just bought it. I put it in my spare room, which I can finally use because they installed the new carpet today. I have a spare room and a standing ironing board. I feel like such an adult.

Degrees of greenness

I brought my reusable bag to the Hyde Park Kroger and felt like the biggest douche in the world carrying it inside. I kept silently chanting, "I'm carrying a tote, I'm carrying a tote" in my head.

Walking by all the striped-shirt-designer-jean-wearing, "I see a dermatologist for my complexion" type dudes carrying a couple of totes under one arm, holding a hand of their bleached blonde, fully made-up anorexic girlfriends. Not sure what they were more proud of.

Maybe if I get a big enough purse I can hide it until I use it.

Morale?

The hallway walls by my office are filled with giant close-up photographs of some of the most beautiful people in the world. Smiling, cuddling... women snuggling little diapered babies, couples nuzzling, friends hugging... and every time I walk by I have to stare. I remind myself that these people are models and that they are faking it. But they are just so damn beautiful and they look so damn good that they actually make me feel happier when I walk by.

I'm not sure why they're there.

Absentee ballot.

I got paid today for the first time since I graduated in December. I paid more in taxes this month than my monthly Research Assistant salary.

It was almost enough to convince a woman to vote Republican. But not quite.

Mythbusters

We've all wondered, hoped, wished...

But the truth is, if you get broadband internet installed in your home, cable TV does not automatically come through the outlet unless you pay more.


I have heard, though, that if you subscribe to cable and internet first, then you call to cancel only cable you'll still get it. You just have to return the box.

The "C" Word

In Dublin, Mom and I rode the LUAS Red Line a few times to "save ourselves some walking" but really we rode for the experience of it all. The third trip or so, we actually sat down, in two facing seats and she started telling me about when she was in the doctor's office recently for a physical and was asked whether she'd want to "do something" about her smile lines and crow's feet. She was appalled. "I earned those. Those lines are a part of who I am, from smiling and laughing for over 60 years." She talked to me about looking in the mirror and seeing the lines in her face, and not really remembering a time when she didn't have them.

I dialed Mom's cell phone after work Friday because I wanted to ask her the best way to get rid of ants. She didn't answer, but called me back a few minutes later when I was trying to nap on the couch before the BF arrived for the weekend.

I tried to keep the conversation short because I needed to clean up and straighten up and get to the grocery so I'd actually have something to eat for dinner. I was about to say bye, and she said, "I have something I want to tell you, okay?" and her voice got that tone in it, that extremely uncomfortable tone she always gets when she tells us very terrible news, or warns us of something frightening that is about to happen. I knew it was going to be something "medical" about one of us.

"I'm going to have some surgery done next month. I don't think it's a big deal..." And she went on, telling me the details and the medical terms, all of which I've already forgotten, because I wasn't listening in the first place, because all that I heard was that Mom has skin cancer. In the office they asked her to smile so they could take note of where to put the stitches in order to mimic her natural smile lines, and she's thankful that it's on the left side of her face because, she joked, if it were on the right side, she'd lose her dimple. "It's a good thing I'm not vain."

She almost had me convinced that it would be a simple, minor procedure. But at the end she told me, "It's only about the size of a dime."

I have lived here eleven days.

I got home from work today around 5:45pm, parked, picked up the box of flowers delivered to my doorstep, dropped my bags, changed my shoes, checked directions on Mapquest and went back out to my car to find the post office so that I can get stamps to send a letter to Adaline. In the 5 or so minutes I was inside, my across-the-street neighbor had stuck a note under my windshield wiper:

"Hello, Neighbor!

Please don't take any offense, but it is much easier for every-one if we only take one of the parking spaces in front of my home.

Thanks a lot,

Tim (scribble scribble I'm important)"

I wish I could post a photograph of my residential street. There are driveways, and there are spaces to park on the street. The street parking is never remotely close to being full. Today, due to my "negligence," "Tim" was "forced" to park approximately 10 feet away from his "home." That he "rents." I guess if you suck in and hold your breath, two cars can squeeze between those two driveways. The tail end of my car blocked his usual parking spot. And the overprivileged snot had to walk 10 extra feet to go home, and then felt the need to walk another 10 feet to put his note on my windshield.

I wanted to leave a note on his car saying, "Please feel free to park in front of my home anytime you need to. Because the street belongs to all of us and I don't mind walking a few extra steps to my front door."

Also, "everybody" is not hyphenated.