Day three of this experiment in curbing my rage and I am feeling pretty dang good.
It could be due the fact that my office was pretty much empty today so I was able to sit in my little corner undisturbed without a single annoying email or phone call. It was like Christmas.
So I guess I really don't know if it is working or not because I didn't have to deal with any real people today. It is quite possible that a single human interaction could have turned me into a ranting banshee. Maybe I should just avoid people. I could go live in a cave.
But it would have to be a pretty nice cave...with heating...and plumbing...and tv and stuff.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
A Pain in the Jaw
If you aren't familiar, Ashley Disease is a mysterious collection of symptoms whose only connection is that Ashley has all of them. It is characterized by headaches/migraines, nausea, lactose intolerance, non-specific pain, nose bleeds, hyper-flexible joints, teeth that eat themselves, general clumsiness, etc.
But lucky for me, I get to add a new symptom to my list. I have Temporomandibular joint disorder or TMJ (I guess it is really a bundle of symptoms, but whatever). Basically it is another one of those horribly debilitating ailments that can't be fixed. Yay.
Apparently this is something that my dentist figured I always had, but since I never complained, he never said anything. And then, almost a year ago, while getting one of those teeth that ate itself crowned in the way way back of my mouth, there was a pop and some real discomfort. But I didn't complain. Apparently, I should have because I had dislocated my jaw, which, over the next eight months would crack and pop and grind and hurt and build up loads of scar tissue in my face until I finally complained.
Since then, I have seen three specialists, gone to physical therapy on a weekly basis and been put on an all liquid diet. They have told me to try and not talk, given me loads of drugs and tried to get me to drop two grand on a mouth guard that "probably won't work."
But there was one thing that they all swore would cure me: eliminate stress. Are you effing kidding me?!?! What? Quit my job and hire a personal assistant? Too bad if I were to do that I would be stressed because I don't have a job and have to pay my personal assistant.
But lucky for me, I get to add a new symptom to my list. I have Temporomandibular joint disorder or TMJ (I guess it is really a bundle of symptoms, but whatever). Basically it is another one of those horribly debilitating ailments that can't be fixed. Yay.
Apparently this is something that my dentist figured I always had, but since I never complained, he never said anything. And then, almost a year ago, while getting one of those teeth that ate itself crowned in the way way back of my mouth, there was a pop and some real discomfort. But I didn't complain. Apparently, I should have because I had dislocated my jaw, which, over the next eight months would crack and pop and grind and hurt and build up loads of scar tissue in my face until I finally complained.
Since then, I have seen three specialists, gone to physical therapy on a weekly basis and been put on an all liquid diet. They have told me to try and not talk, given me loads of drugs and tried to get me to drop two grand on a mouth guard that "probably won't work."
But there was one thing that they all swore would cure me: eliminate stress. Are you effing kidding me?!?! What? Quit my job and hire a personal assistant? Too bad if I were to do that I would be stressed because I don't have a job and have to pay my personal assistant.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
A (Late) Resolution for 2011:
Blog more. Bitch less.
Well, not really...since most of this blog is all about ranting and raving, so if you take out the bitching...that would be nothing...kinda like what I posted on this thing in 2010 (Seriously. Two posts?!?)
But maybe...just maybe...if I write it down here I will express less bitterness in my real life. Probably not. But worth a try.
Not a lot has changed since March of last year...just that Boyfriend+ is now Hubby and we moved in with my parents. Weeeeee? :|
Yeah, you heard me. We moved in with my parents...back into the room I had with pink and purple flowers on every surface when I was four years old. And we brought our roommates with us. Six grown adults and two beastly dogs all under one roof. Sound like fun?
It hasn't been as bad as you are imagining...I promise. In fact it hasn't been bad at all. Mom does our laundry for us and we all take turns with dinner. It is almost like a little cooperative commune...without the body odor.
You might ask why we would move out of our perfectly serviceable house as newlyweds and go live with the 'rents. The answer is mostly because we are slobs.
Our house is on the market and basically we can't be trusted not to spill red juice on the white carpet. (Seriously...three separate red juice incidents...it looked like a crime scene up in there).
Well actually our house isn't on the market...but it is sitting there, waiting for that special someone to sweep her off her feet. House is on the rebound since we had the perfect suitor who wooed her and brought her flowers and everything and then BAM! Just days before sealing the deal (and Christmas...the bastard) she was dumped. It was a sad time for all, full of ice cream binges and stuffing cookies into our mouths in darkened corners. Not pretty. But we are all healed now and ready to get out there and SELL THAT HOUSE!
Anyone wanna buy my house? Seriously...I'm a newlywed...living with my parents...with four feet between our bedroom doors...this can only go on for so long.
Well, not really...since most of this blog is all about ranting and raving, so if you take out the bitching...that would be nothing...kinda like what I posted on this thing in 2010 (Seriously. Two posts?!?)
But maybe...just maybe...if I write it down here I will express less bitterness in my real life. Probably not. But worth a try.
Not a lot has changed since March of last year...just that Boyfriend+ is now Hubby and we moved in with my parents. Weeeeee? :|
Yeah, you heard me. We moved in with my parents...back into the room I had with pink and purple flowers on every surface when I was four years old. And we brought our roommates with us. Six grown adults and two beastly dogs all under one roof. Sound like fun?
It hasn't been as bad as you are imagining...I promise. In fact it hasn't been bad at all. Mom does our laundry for us and we all take turns with dinner. It is almost like a little cooperative commune...without the body odor.
You might ask why we would move out of our perfectly serviceable house as newlyweds and go live with the 'rents. The answer is mostly because we are slobs.
Our house is on the market and basically we can't be trusted not to spill red juice on the white carpet. (Seriously...three separate red juice incidents...it looked like a crime scene up in there).
Well actually our house isn't on the market...but it is sitting there, waiting for that special someone to sweep her off her feet. House is on the rebound since we had the perfect suitor who wooed her and brought her flowers and everything and then BAM! Just days before sealing the deal (and Christmas...the bastard) she was dumped. It was a sad time for all, full of ice cream binges and stuffing cookies into our mouths in darkened corners. Not pretty. But we are all healed now and ready to get out there and SELL THAT HOUSE!
Anyone wanna buy my house? Seriously...I'm a newlywed...living with my parents...with four feet between our bedroom doors...this can only go on for so long.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Unmotivated
You know that place where there is WAY too much to do, but you would just rather not...I live there.
Between work, planning a wedding and just plain life stuff, my time is more than spoken for.
But last night, instead of cutting out tiny paper flowers for my invitations or the millions of other diy-diculous things I have put on my plate, I napped...kinda right straight until morning.
Don't even get me started on stupid crap like taxes. Who has the time and energy for that nonsense?
I suppose I should just suck it up because everyone else has the same crap to do. But I'm pretty convinced that my brand of crap is particularly crappy.
Between work, planning a wedding and just plain life stuff, my time is more than spoken for.
But last night, instead of cutting out tiny paper flowers for my invitations or the millions of other diy-diculous things I have put on my plate, I napped...kinda right straight until morning.
Don't even get me started on stupid crap like taxes. Who has the time and energy for that nonsense?
I suppose I should just suck it up because everyone else has the same crap to do. But I'm pretty convinced that my brand of crap is particularly crappy.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Update
I started this entry with the obligatory "long time, no blog," but that is lame...so let's skip that part.
I am a busy lady. And on my priority list, blogging falls right below brushing my hair, and I can't remember the last time I even did that. But I am testing a hypothesis that my cathartic bitching here makes me a more pleasant person to be around in real life.
If I can make myself in any way less of a pain in the ass to the people that I love...I am down.
So here goes...
Let me catch you up on what has happened since my last post...which was...holy hell...a year ago! Time flies and all that.
Well, I'm still with Boyfriend, but we have given him a promotion. That's right, we are getting married in August. Weeee! In light of his upgraded status, I should change his name to Fiance (said with some silly french accent and written with some silly french accent mark that I can't find on my keyboard), but I find few words as obnoxious as that one, so instead we will call him “Boyfriend+,” until the big day.
In preparation for the biggest day of my life (seriously…this is gonna be some crazy circus of wedding...just ask my mom) I, of course, went dress shopping. When the girl at the first bridal boutique suggested that I might be better suited at the big and tall bridal shop down the road, I decided it was diet time.
My super special diet involves lean protein with tiny amounts of fruits and veggies. Sounds good...in theory. The day they handed me the list of things that I was allowed to eat, I snorted out loud. Hmmm...fish...turkey...pork (bacon doesn't count)...eggs...basically everything I don't eat. There were a grand total of two things on the list that sounded mildly appetizing to me...chicken and fat free cheese. The problem is that fat free cheese doesn't sound too bad...until you realize that all the cheese that you believed to be fat free, was really just low fat. In fact, fat free cheese is some heinous cheese knock off. Imagine the consistency of tofu with less flavor and orange food coloring...that sounds tasty compared to fat free cheese. But then again, chicken breast isn't exactly my ideal replacement for my Lucky Charms. So yeah...the diet it is working...that’s what happens when you can't eat anything. Oh yeah...and the gallon of water a day. Do you have any idea how much freaking water that is?!?! A lot of freaking water. I don’t even like water…is that wrong? But I do think that is helping with the weight loss because I have to get up to pee every ten minutes.
So here I am, a year later…20 pounds lighter, a year older, getting ready to marry the man of my dreams and happier than ever.
Life is good...but that doesn't mean I have to stop complaining does it? We will get right on that tomorrow (or maybe the next day…don’t want to be too ambitious).
I am a busy lady. And on my priority list, blogging falls right below brushing my hair, and I can't remember the last time I even did that. But I am testing a hypothesis that my cathartic bitching here makes me a more pleasant person to be around in real life.
If I can make myself in any way less of a pain in the ass to the people that I love...I am down.
So here goes...
Let me catch you up on what has happened since my last post...which was...holy hell...a year ago! Time flies and all that.
Well, I'm still with Boyfriend, but we have given him a promotion. That's right, we are getting married in August. Weeee! In light of his upgraded status, I should change his name to Fiance (said with some silly french accent and written with some silly french accent mark that I can't find on my keyboard), but I find few words as obnoxious as that one, so instead we will call him “Boyfriend+,” until the big day.
In preparation for the biggest day of my life (seriously…this is gonna be some crazy circus of wedding...just ask my mom) I, of course, went dress shopping. When the girl at the first bridal boutique suggested that I might be better suited at the big and tall bridal shop down the road, I decided it was diet time.
My super special diet involves lean protein with tiny amounts of fruits and veggies. Sounds good...in theory. The day they handed me the list of things that I was allowed to eat, I snorted out loud. Hmmm...fish...turkey...pork (bacon doesn't count)...eggs...basically everything I don't eat. There were a grand total of two things on the list that sounded mildly appetizing to me...chicken and fat free cheese. The problem is that fat free cheese doesn't sound too bad...until you realize that all the cheese that you believed to be fat free, was really just low fat. In fact, fat free cheese is some heinous cheese knock off. Imagine the consistency of tofu with less flavor and orange food coloring...that sounds tasty compared to fat free cheese. But then again, chicken breast isn't exactly my ideal replacement for my Lucky Charms. So yeah...the diet it is working...that’s what happens when you can't eat anything. Oh yeah...and the gallon of water a day. Do you have any idea how much freaking water that is?!?! A lot of freaking water. I don’t even like water…is that wrong? But I do think that is helping with the weight loss because I have to get up to pee every ten minutes.
So here I am, a year later…20 pounds lighter, a year older, getting ready to marry the man of my dreams and happier than ever.
Life is good...but that doesn't mean I have to stop complaining does it? We will get right on that tomorrow (or maybe the next day…don’t want to be too ambitious).
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
The Curse of the Print House
I am cursed.
That is the only explanation that I can come up with.
As a graphic designer (and a bit of a control freak) I like to be highly involved in the printing of my creations. But every effing time I take a new project to the printer I cringe. I cringe because I know, that somewhere, no matter how carefully I tread, the whole thing is going to go to hell.
Two Christmases ago I had a brilliant idea for this amazing die-cut greeting card. I slaved over the file and blistered my fingers cutting out my own die cut to make sure it would work. I brought it to my printer and asked him, "are you SURE you can do this?" I was willing to simplify if he told me it was too intricate. But he said it was fine and we proceeded. After the piece was printed and out to be cut...I got the call. "Umm...we can't do it. Oh and by the way, we are going to delivery on December 20th." (plenty of time to have 900 people sign them and have them mailed to people before they leave on holiday). Ugh.
Then there was the direct mailer of early 2008. A very unique concept with a accordion fold unlike anything you have ever seen. Once again I asked if this was doable and suggested that maybe we would need and envelope to mail it. I was assured that it was fine, that two little tabs would hold it all closed. When the piece was delivered it had two of the most ginormous wafer seals you have ever seen. They were 4-inch diameter stickers with no perforation. They were so violently sticky that the entire piece was literally impossible to open. Awesome.
My most recent story involves a new printer that came highly recommended by a fellow designer. The idiot took a month to print my job (it was supposed to be a week) and then shorted me 700 pieces and sent all of it to the wrong address. Roar!
What the hell did I do to deserve this? Hmmm? What?!?!
That is the only explanation that I can come up with.
As a graphic designer (and a bit of a control freak) I like to be highly involved in the printing of my creations. But every effing time I take a new project to the printer I cringe. I cringe because I know, that somewhere, no matter how carefully I tread, the whole thing is going to go to hell.
Two Christmases ago I had a brilliant idea for this amazing die-cut greeting card. I slaved over the file and blistered my fingers cutting out my own die cut to make sure it would work. I brought it to my printer and asked him, "are you SURE you can do this?" I was willing to simplify if he told me it was too intricate. But he said it was fine and we proceeded. After the piece was printed and out to be cut...I got the call. "Umm...we can't do it. Oh and by the way, we are going to delivery on December 20th." (plenty of time to have 900 people sign them and have them mailed to people before they leave on holiday). Ugh.
Then there was the direct mailer of early 2008. A very unique concept with a accordion fold unlike anything you have ever seen. Once again I asked if this was doable and suggested that maybe we would need and envelope to mail it. I was assured that it was fine, that two little tabs would hold it all closed. When the piece was delivered it had two of the most ginormous wafer seals you have ever seen. They were 4-inch diameter stickers with no perforation. They were so violently sticky that the entire piece was literally impossible to open. Awesome.
My most recent story involves a new printer that came highly recommended by a fellow designer. The idiot took a month to print my job (it was supposed to be a week) and then shorted me 700 pieces and sent all of it to the wrong address. Roar!
What the hell did I do to deserve this? Hmmm? What?!?!
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
An Open Letter to the Postmaster
Dear Postmaster,
With a title like yours, one might assume that you take responsibility for the actions of your workers...but not me. I know better than to assume...because to assume...makes you an asshole (or something like that).
I have always been kind to the postal workers of America. I give chocolates to my mailman around the holidays. I write my addresses as legibly as I possibly can. I even subscribe to the USPS magazine for goodness sake.
Monday was a tedious day for me. I carefully formatted, double- and triple-checked my mailing labels while my helpers diligently stuffed these cute little cardboard coasters into 1250 even cuter envelopes. Then boyfriend and I spent hours affixing the labels to the envelopes. The tiny pieces were posted and sent out yesterday, lifting a great weight off my shoulders. I was happy, knowing that people would get their happy little invitations well in advance of the March 9th event.
But then...today...the horror.
The letters were returned for inadequate postage. WTF?!?! Seriously, you raised prices again? Because OMG, soon it will be cheaper for me to jump in my personal jet and deliver each piece of mail my damn self.
But no. A trip to the Redwood City Post Office proved...um...informative?:
So our choices were...just suck it up and cover the effing thing in postage...or fight. So...this evening we are planing a guerrilla attack of post boxes across the bay area. They might have been able to stop our giant crate of invitations, but if we spread out and sprinkle the things from San Jose to San Francisco...they won't have a chance.
I think the reason that people "go postal" is that occasionally a person (like a real one...with a soul and a brain) falls into this dreaded career path and when they realize that they are surrounded by zombies who have already snacked on all their coworkers' brains and they decide to take them out.
So postmaster...master of all post...please...I don't even know...don't hire stupid people?
Thank you.
With a title like yours, one might assume that you take responsibility for the actions of your workers...but not me. I know better than to assume...because to assume...makes you an asshole (or something like that).
I have always been kind to the postal workers of America. I give chocolates to my mailman around the holidays. I write my addresses as legibly as I possibly can. I even subscribe to the USPS magazine for goodness sake.
Monday was a tedious day for me. I carefully formatted, double- and triple-checked my mailing labels while my helpers diligently stuffed these cute little cardboard coasters into 1250 even cuter envelopes. Then boyfriend and I spent hours affixing the labels to the envelopes. The tiny pieces were posted and sent out yesterday, lifting a great weight off my shoulders. I was happy, knowing that people would get their happy little invitations well in advance of the March 9th event.
But then...today...the horror.
The letters were returned for inadequate postage. WTF?!?! Seriously, you raised prices again? Because OMG, soon it will be cheaper for me to jump in my personal jet and deliver each piece of mail my damn self.
But no. A trip to the Redwood City Post Office proved...um...informative?:
Us: (holding up the returned letter) What is wrong with this?
Grouchy Postal Employee: Um...nothing.
Us: Then why was it returned?
GPE: (taking the letter from us) Ohhhhh...well it is a CD (please note assumption).
Us: No it isn't.
GPE: (feeling up the envelope) Yes it is (notice the reassertion of the afore-mentioned assumption). So you have to put 75 cents more on it.
Us: But it isn't a CD.
GPE: Yes...I feel a CD (ok...u are an ASS).
Us: No...it is a coaster. Look (we fold it in half).
GPE: How am I supposed to know that?
Us: We are showing you...can we mail it now?
GPE: No. Not until you put 75 more cents.
So our choices were...just suck it up and cover the effing thing in postage...or fight. So...this evening we are planing a guerrilla attack of post boxes across the bay area. They might have been able to stop our giant crate of invitations, but if we spread out and sprinkle the things from San Jose to San Francisco...they won't have a chance.
I think the reason that people "go postal" is that occasionally a person (like a real one...with a soul and a brain) falls into this dreaded career path and when they realize that they are surrounded by zombies who have already snacked on all their coworkers' brains and they decide to take them out.
So postmaster...master of all post...please...I don't even know...don't hire stupid people?
Thank you.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
For the Love of...
So yeah...it’s been awhile.
I've been busy, and frankly nothing has really been inspiring me enough to sit down and drop the million or so things that I should be doing to blog for my four loyal readers (whom I talk to everyday anyway).
Over the past few weeks I dismissed the yellow "protect marriage" signs that have popped up around town. I have scoffed at the people standing on street corners in the name of their church. I completely underestimated the religious right...this is, after all, supposed to be the most progressive state in the union.
I think I mostly just couldn't believe that there could be enough people who are ignorant enough to pass such an injustice in today's world.
The propaganda was outlandish, claiming the amendment was about schools, children and freedom of speech (that last one really made me go WHA?). It was about discrimination and I find it ironic that in election that broke down years of racial discrimination, that a new brand popped up in its wake.
While people cheered around me for the dawn of change, I couldn't celebrate. I felt a lump in my throat as I watched the numbers of California's proposition 8 come in. The popular vote is in favor of altering our constitution to eliminate rights for a group of people, based upon a religious ideal that marriage is between a man and woman.
Our forefathers came to this country and wrote our laws to avoid religious persecution. We have a separation between church and state. How then, can the largest argument in favor of prop 8 be that God created Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve? Maybe he did, but that has nothing to do with our legal rights.
I have been saying for awhile now...and I know it makes me sound like a leftist nut...that marriage should removed from the law altogether. If the church wants to take claim over the word "marriage" and its definition...by all means, take it. Let us make civil unions REALLY have all the rights of marriage and change its label. If you want to be married in the church...go for it, but the state won't recognize it until you get your civil union license.
I wish I had realized how close this was going to be. I would have done more...because people...we just amended our constitution to eliminate rights...what is this 1918?
I've been busy, and frankly nothing has really been inspiring me enough to sit down and drop the million or so things that I should be doing to blog for my four loyal readers (whom I talk to everyday anyway).
Over the past few weeks I dismissed the yellow "protect marriage" signs that have popped up around town. I have scoffed at the people standing on street corners in the name of their church. I completely underestimated the religious right...this is, after all, supposed to be the most progressive state in the union.
I think I mostly just couldn't believe that there could be enough people who are ignorant enough to pass such an injustice in today's world.
The propaganda was outlandish, claiming the amendment was about schools, children and freedom of speech (that last one really made me go WHA?). It was about discrimination and I find it ironic that in election that broke down years of racial discrimination, that a new brand popped up in its wake.
While people cheered around me for the dawn of change, I couldn't celebrate. I felt a lump in my throat as I watched the numbers of California's proposition 8 come in. The popular vote is in favor of altering our constitution to eliminate rights for a group of people, based upon a religious ideal that marriage is between a man and woman.
Our forefathers came to this country and wrote our laws to avoid religious persecution. We have a separation between church and state. How then, can the largest argument in favor of prop 8 be that God created Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve? Maybe he did, but that has nothing to do with our legal rights.
I have been saying for awhile now...and I know it makes me sound like a leftist nut...that marriage should removed from the law altogether. If the church wants to take claim over the word "marriage" and its definition...by all means, take it. Let us make civil unions REALLY have all the rights of marriage and change its label. If you want to be married in the church...go for it, but the state won't recognize it until you get your civil union license.
I wish I had realized how close this was going to be. I would have done more...because people...we just amended our constitution to eliminate rights...what is this 1918?
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Let Me Tell You What it is Like to Have 17 Bug Bites on One Arm
It sucks.
Beneath my sleeve lives an angry colony of bumps that constantly remind me of their presence. And for some reason, they decided to concentrate themselves only on my right arm. I have a total of 18 mosquito bites at this very moment and all but one are located on my single arm. And really the annoyance of said bumps is not the worst of it.
Having a mess of bug bites on your arm is something akin to having leprosy I am finding. I tried to wear a short sleeved shirt to work yesterday for easier itching access, but all I found were looks of horror at my bare arm. “It is just a bunch of bug bites,” I would tell them as they backed away nodding and running out to get a fresh small pox vaccine. Seriously…its not my fault. I can’t help it if my blood is so nutritious and delicious that bugs come from miles around to suck it. It isn’t an STD that I am wearing on my arm here. I guess the incessant scratching is a problem too. Apparently people have a hard time focusing while someone is itching the flakes of dry skin off their body and into your morning coffee.
You try having SEVENTEEN MOTHER-EFFING bug bites on a single extremity and see if you can resist the urge to scratch! Gosh.
Beneath my sleeve lives an angry colony of bumps that constantly remind me of their presence. And for some reason, they decided to concentrate themselves only on my right arm. I have a total of 18 mosquito bites at this very moment and all but one are located on my single arm. And really the annoyance of said bumps is not the worst of it.
Having a mess of bug bites on your arm is something akin to having leprosy I am finding. I tried to wear a short sleeved shirt to work yesterday for easier itching access, but all I found were looks of horror at my bare arm. “It is just a bunch of bug bites,” I would tell them as they backed away nodding and running out to get a fresh small pox vaccine. Seriously…its not my fault. I can’t help it if my blood is so nutritious and delicious that bugs come from miles around to suck it. It isn’t an STD that I am wearing on my arm here. I guess the incessant scratching is a problem too. Apparently people have a hard time focusing while someone is itching the flakes of dry skin off their body and into your morning coffee.
You try having SEVENTEEN MOTHER-EFFING bug bites on a single extremity and see if you can resist the urge to scratch! Gosh.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Two Tickets To The Looney Bin
Monday morning, 8:00 a.m. I took Gus in for his annual puppy exam. They told me mostly stuff that I already know…he is a fatty and stuff. Then I started mentioning stuff about how he cries like it’s the end of the world in the car and how he is scared of the kitchen floor and the vet was like…um…crazy?
Now I know that I am crazy. I came to that realization a long time ago and I am fully comfortable with my wacky ways. But when the doc suggested puppy Prozac to fight my pooch’s apparent clinical depression and anxiety…I had to wonder…did I make him lose his mind?
People often note the similarities between pets and their owners, but usually that is some flappy-jowled old man with a bull dog or something. But is it possible that the similarities are more than skin deep? Because God knows that I have a chocolate brown block head with crazy wrinkles, but is it possible that he has acquired my insanity as well?
Well, at least I’ll get to bring him with me when they commit me.
Now I know that I am crazy. I came to that realization a long time ago and I am fully comfortable with my wacky ways. But when the doc suggested puppy Prozac to fight my pooch’s apparent clinical depression and anxiety…I had to wonder…did I make him lose his mind?
People often note the similarities between pets and their owners, but usually that is some flappy-jowled old man with a bull dog or something. But is it possible that the similarities are more than skin deep? Because God knows that I have a chocolate brown block head with crazy wrinkles, but is it possible that he has acquired my insanity as well?
Well, at least I’ll get to bring him with me when they commit me.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
A Little Design Help
Learning to work with people is hard. There are a lot of little nuances to co-worker relationships that make collaboration difficult. This is not about one of those little things…this is just about stupid people and stupid stuff…two things for which I have zero tolerance.
Being a graphic designer…I make things “pretty.” A lot of my co-workers get offended by that word, but as long as you appreciate my ideas as well, I am perfectly happy to make it “pretty.” You might be surprised to know how many people care about the aesthetics of the wrong stupid shit. I mean seriously dude…you should ask my help picking out some non-pleated pants before you ask for my help to make your email “pretty,” because all I am going to do is change it from Comic Sans and delete that heinous clip art.
How would you feel if you were asked to create a collection of 50 bajillion icons for some stupid internal application and all but one were great, but this one kinda resembles a gall bladder, so could you please go back and do it over? Well no thank you very much. I would rather not waste more of my time because some random person who just had their gall bladder removed, thought an icon that I made looked kinda like a gall bladder (maybe if you turn your head and squint while on crack).
While we are raging about design-related irritations…lets discuss the design sophistication of email stationery. As much as I love puppy feet, I don’t necessarily think they are an appropriate choice for your law firm’s professional correspondence. I can see that if you are say…an engineer…that a graph paper background might seem like a stylish choice…but it isn’t. It is ugly. And when I get your emails I die a little inside. Less is more people…really…black text on a white screen is absolutely in these days. And while we are at it…animated gifs of little butterflies or belly dancers as part of your electronic signature…also mildly inappropriate. Here is a desperate plea to Mircosoft: “Stop producing these hideous backgrounds, it is like giving a loaded gun to a kid in a black trench coat…it is going to end badly.”
Ok…so now that I have worked myself into a flurry, I just need to express a few more things that annoy:
Cause…The More You Know…the less I will want to spoon my eyes out.
Being a graphic designer…I make things “pretty.” A lot of my co-workers get offended by that word, but as long as you appreciate my ideas as well, I am perfectly happy to make it “pretty.” You might be surprised to know how many people care about the aesthetics of the wrong stupid shit. I mean seriously dude…you should ask my help picking out some non-pleated pants before you ask for my help to make your email “pretty,” because all I am going to do is change it from Comic Sans and delete that heinous clip art.
How would you feel if you were asked to create a collection of 50 bajillion icons for some stupid internal application and all but one were great, but this one kinda resembles a gall bladder, so could you please go back and do it over? Well no thank you very much. I would rather not waste more of my time because some random person who just had their gall bladder removed, thought an icon that I made looked kinda like a gall bladder (maybe if you turn your head and squint while on crack).
While we are raging about design-related irritations…lets discuss the design sophistication of email stationery. As much as I love puppy feet, I don’t necessarily think they are an appropriate choice for your law firm’s professional correspondence. I can see that if you are say…an engineer…that a graph paper background might seem like a stylish choice…but it isn’t. It is ugly. And when I get your emails I die a little inside. Less is more people…really…black text on a white screen is absolutely in these days. And while we are at it…animated gifs of little butterflies or belly dancers as part of your electronic signature…also mildly inappropriate. Here is a desperate plea to Mircosoft: “Stop producing these hideous backgrounds, it is like giving a loaded gun to a kid in a black trench coat…it is going to end badly.”
Ok…so now that I have worked myself into a flurry, I just need to express a few more things that annoy:
- Times New Roman
- Powerpoint transitions that involve checked flags or pieces of pie
- Yellow text on black backgrounds
- Buttons with bevel, embossing, gradients AND drop shadow (just cause you can open Photoshop doesn’t mean you should use it)
- Microsoft WordArt…it is neither legible nor art…so don’t
- Pastel rainbow excel spreadsheets
Cause…The More You Know…the less I will want to spoon my eyes out.
Monday, August 18, 2008
What A Weekend
Let me tell you, because I know you are DYING to hear all about it.
On Friday night boyfriend and I decided to take my parents out. We bought them dinner and took them to see Journey to the Center of the Earth 3-D! Other than Captain EO, 3-D kinda sucks balls. It always gives me an immense headache and then you try to take off your nifty space-age plastic glasses and the triple-vision of the screen without them is even worse. I have to tell you though; they have made some technological advancements in 3-D technology. You still have to wear those sexy glasses, but the lenses aren’t blue and red, they look fairly normal (for a cheap version of a blues brother). Also, they saved the really crazy pop-out stuff for special occasions, and the movie looked pretty normal the rest of the time. I was pretty impressed, how could I not be with a Brandon Fraser movie?
Saturday was my pseudo-aunt’s 30th wedding anniversary, so the most awesome Boyfriend ever flew the four of us up to Napa for lunch. While they went off and have there romantic lunch, Boyfriend and I sat at the bar and ate…a lot. We watched all the Olympic skull racing that one would want to see (and more…considering that nobody would really want to watch skull racing) and hung out for a few hours. It was nice, our waitress was a spaz, but that was ok cause she kept filling up my diet coke every time I drank more that an inch out of the glass. She was my favorite and got a big fat tip.
We got home from our bay airplane tour (which made me appreciate not living in SF all the more, because lets just say that all we could see of SF was the tippy top of Sutro Tower and as fluffy as those clouds looked from the top, they probably just made things cold, sad and depressing gray below) and began to pack for our next prospecting mission (next weekend). We packed our backpacks and went over our scenarios of “what if we see a bear” or “what if I fall down” and the rope tied around my waist and the large machete that Boyfriend is bringing along ended those conversations quickly.
On Sunday, we woke up at the buttcrack of dawn…make that more like the taint of dawn, because there is no light to be seen at 4 am. We drove in sleepy silence to the Santa Cruz harbor to go fishing. Aboard a friends fishing boat, I quickly found cover from the cold in the cozy little cabin. I napped until it got warm…that took awhile. When the sun came out, so did I and I actually caught TWO fish. One was too small and I released him back to his home. The other one was not the biggest, but he was the prettiest, and in my world of non-fish eating…that is way better. I got sunburned on my face…again…proving once and for all to me that the sunscreen that I have used on the last three outings is ineffective. Burn me once…shame on you…burn me three times…I need to buy new sunscreen.
On Friday night boyfriend and I decided to take my parents out. We bought them dinner and took them to see Journey to the Center of the Earth 3-D! Other than Captain EO, 3-D kinda sucks balls. It always gives me an immense headache and then you try to take off your nifty space-age plastic glasses and the triple-vision of the screen without them is even worse. I have to tell you though; they have made some technological advancements in 3-D technology. You still have to wear those sexy glasses, but the lenses aren’t blue and red, they look fairly normal (for a cheap version of a blues brother). Also, they saved the really crazy pop-out stuff for special occasions, and the movie looked pretty normal the rest of the time. I was pretty impressed, how could I not be with a Brandon Fraser movie?
Saturday was my pseudo-aunt’s 30th wedding anniversary, so the most awesome Boyfriend ever flew the four of us up to Napa for lunch. While they went off and have there romantic lunch, Boyfriend and I sat at the bar and ate…a lot. We watched all the Olympic skull racing that one would want to see (and more…considering that nobody would really want to watch skull racing) and hung out for a few hours. It was nice, our waitress was a spaz, but that was ok cause she kept filling up my diet coke every time I drank more that an inch out of the glass. She was my favorite and got a big fat tip.
We got home from our bay airplane tour (which made me appreciate not living in SF all the more, because lets just say that all we could see of SF was the tippy top of Sutro Tower and as fluffy as those clouds looked from the top, they probably just made things cold, sad and depressing gray below) and began to pack for our next prospecting mission (next weekend). We packed our backpacks and went over our scenarios of “what if we see a bear” or “what if I fall down” and the rope tied around my waist and the large machete that Boyfriend is bringing along ended those conversations quickly.
On Sunday, we woke up at the buttcrack of dawn…make that more like the taint of dawn, because there is no light to be seen at 4 am. We drove in sleepy silence to the Santa Cruz harbor to go fishing. Aboard a friends fishing boat, I quickly found cover from the cold in the cozy little cabin. I napped until it got warm…that took awhile. When the sun came out, so did I and I actually caught TWO fish. One was too small and I released him back to his home. The other one was not the biggest, but he was the prettiest, and in my world of non-fish eating…that is way better. I got sunburned on my face…again…proving once and for all to me that the sunscreen that I have used on the last three outings is ineffective. Burn me once…shame on you…burn me three times…I need to buy new sunscreen.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Operation: Save-A-Chute
Our mission (and of course we chose to accept it) was to find the remnants from Operation: Drop-A-Chute. We gathered intel from a stump on a hill over-looking the canyon…it was there…we saw it…and it looked pretty much intact. The beauty of a reconnaissance mission is that you don’t actually have to DO anything. Mostly you find out what you want to know and then you get to play.
So that is what we did.
With the charade of finding a better route to the site we rode all over. We desecrated some graves, did a little trespassing, almost broke our necks several times, popped a tire and bent a rim…all in all a good old time.
Later that evening after the men had dropped me off, loaded me full of pain killers for my bruised and broken body and taken off again, I began to hallucinate. Every small noise in the bushes was an axe murderer and I knew it. So to busy my paranoid mind, I built a fire. Too bad the men had also taken all the matches and lighters away with them. So I tried to start the fire by banging two rocks together, but they were less like rocks and more like dense clumps of dried clay and just sorta crumbled. I tried rubbing two sticks together, but I did NOT have the patience for that shit. Finally I drew on the knowledge that boyfriend has imparted on me over our two glorious years together….grabbed a paper towel, dowsed it in gasoline and lit it with the car cigarette lighter. Boyfriend was so proud and I was pretty pleased with myself too…especially since my fire scared away the axe murderer.
So that is what we did.
With the charade of finding a better route to the site we rode all over. We desecrated some graves, did a little trespassing, almost broke our necks several times, popped a tire and bent a rim…all in all a good old time.
Later that evening after the men had dropped me off, loaded me full of pain killers for my bruised and broken body and taken off again, I began to hallucinate. Every small noise in the bushes was an axe murderer and I knew it. So to busy my paranoid mind, I built a fire. Too bad the men had also taken all the matches and lighters away with them. So I tried to start the fire by banging two rocks together, but they were less like rocks and more like dense clumps of dried clay and just sorta crumbled. I tried rubbing two sticks together, but I did NOT have the patience for that shit. Finally I drew on the knowledge that boyfriend has imparted on me over our two glorious years together….grabbed a paper towel, dowsed it in gasoline and lit it with the car cigarette lighter. Boyfriend was so proud and I was pretty pleased with myself too…especially since my fire scared away the axe murderer.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
You Learn Something New Everyday
So Boyfriend has decided to become a prospector (it is actually kinda cute as I imagine him growing a long beard and giddily shouting “Eureka!” while doing a jig over his gold pan). So the logical first step in prospecting is to fly over in your private plane and drop 300 pounds of gear into your canyon of choice.
Boyfriend found his parachute on ebay and it arrived balled up in a garbage bag. Now you would think this might be a problem, since neither Boyfriend nor I have ever packed a parachute, but nah…we got this.
After watching a 3 minute video on youtube about how to fold the thing, we spread the 38-foot monster army green parachute on the green grass in the pitch dark night and began folding. We were pretty impressed with ourselves. We even found a high-tech solution to the lack of parachute sack by stuffing it into an old pillow case and stapling the sides. Genius. Look at us. We went from parachute packing virgins to mother-effing professionals in two hours flat. Sunday’s lesson was complete.
On Monday, Boyfriend went to actually perform the drop. And as the duffle bags crashed down from the plane with not even a partially-deployed chute, we learned the daily lesson: that you can’t learn how to pack a parachute from a youtube video.
Somewhere down there in that canyon Sasquatch is snacking on MREs and enjoying Boyfriend’s well-fitting shoes that surely fell out when the bags hit the rocky bottom at 200 mph and split open like melons. You know what they say…big feet…parachute-packing failure.
Boyfriend found his parachute on ebay and it arrived balled up in a garbage bag. Now you would think this might be a problem, since neither Boyfriend nor I have ever packed a parachute, but nah…we got this.
After watching a 3 minute video on youtube about how to fold the thing, we spread the 38-foot monster army green parachute on the green grass in the pitch dark night and began folding. We were pretty impressed with ourselves. We even found a high-tech solution to the lack of parachute sack by stuffing it into an old pillow case and stapling the sides. Genius. Look at us. We went from parachute packing virgins to mother-effing professionals in two hours flat. Sunday’s lesson was complete.
On Monday, Boyfriend went to actually perform the drop. And as the duffle bags crashed down from the plane with not even a partially-deployed chute, we learned the daily lesson: that you can’t learn how to pack a parachute from a youtube video.
Somewhere down there in that canyon Sasquatch is snacking on MREs and enjoying Boyfriend’s well-fitting shoes that surely fell out when the bags hit the rocky bottom at 200 mph and split open like melons. You know what they say…big feet…parachute-packing failure.
Monday, July 28, 2008
500 Degrees
This past weekend had an unintended theme: Burned
I would say that 85% of my body is covered in various flavors of burns.
It all started Friday night at the pizza spot when Boyfriend answered my starving plea to FEED ME with a steaming hot slice. As he reached across the table to serve up the pepperoni yumminess, I should have brought my plate up, but I was too hungry to lift my hand. It was slow motion as the piece of pizza reached my plate and slipped off the side and onto my arm…face down. Do you have any idea what it feels like to have 500 degree cheese and sauce gooped on your forearm? Let’s just say, it doesn’t feel so good. So as I jumped around on one foot (after falling from my arm, the pizza fell on to my flip-flopped foot) I watched the blisters pop up on my saucy arm.
Saturday’s activities included dressing my wound and stuff.
Sunday, I went to the lake with Boyfriend and Gus. It was super fun and I donned my 45 SPF lotion that was purchased less than a month ago. Boyfriend even helped me reapply after a few hours in the sun. But apparently that wasn’t enough. I am now my favorite Crayola shade of Lobster Red. Luckily, since I burned myself on Friday, I didn’t get sunburned in the large rectangular patch on my forearm where my bandage rested.
I would say that 85% of my body is covered in various flavors of burns.
It all started Friday night at the pizza spot when Boyfriend answered my starving plea to FEED ME with a steaming hot slice. As he reached across the table to serve up the pepperoni yumminess, I should have brought my plate up, but I was too hungry to lift my hand. It was slow motion as the piece of pizza reached my plate and slipped off the side and onto my arm…face down. Do you have any idea what it feels like to have 500 degree cheese and sauce gooped on your forearm? Let’s just say, it doesn’t feel so good. So as I jumped around on one foot (after falling from my arm, the pizza fell on to my flip-flopped foot) I watched the blisters pop up on my saucy arm.
Saturday’s activities included dressing my wound and stuff.
Sunday, I went to the lake with Boyfriend and Gus. It was super fun and I donned my 45 SPF lotion that was purchased less than a month ago. Boyfriend even helped me reapply after a few hours in the sun. But apparently that wasn’t enough. I am now my favorite Crayola shade of Lobster Red. Luckily, since I burned myself on Friday, I didn’t get sunburned in the large rectangular patch on my forearm where my bandage rested.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Fatty Fat Fat Fat
You know how you have those days where your normal pants feel like your skinny pants and as you button that top button you wonder if they were mistakenly put in the dryer on high heat? And you have to do squats and lunges before you can bend over to put on your shoes? And you look in the mirror and see your puffy face and tell yourself that you are just bloated and that in a couple days that will all be gone?
Yeah…this is not one of those days. I thought I went through all those girlish-figure changes back in college when I discovered that I could no longer eat ice cream for breakfast, lunch and dinner. But let me tell you, the wardrobe that fit me just fine a month ago…not so much anymore.
“Oh you’re just being dramatic,” you might say. But no, I have proof. Yesterday, I wore a cute little blouse that I have had forever. Unfortunately, I couldn’t button it, but I wore it anyway (layering is my friend). It has these cute little cap sleeves with button closures. I sat at my desk typing away and I noticed that I was making more and more typos. My arms were falling asleep. I looked at my arms ballooning out of my sleeves and realized that if I didn’t do something fast…I might have to amputate. You won’t even believe what I had to do…I unbuttoned my little decorative buttons on my cute blouse. Do you hear me!?!? I had to unbutton my mother-effing sleeves!?!? There is fat and then there is so fat you have to unbutton you sleeves fat.
So if muffin tops and camel toes ever come in fashion, give me a call, I would be happy to give you some pointers.
Yeah…this is not one of those days. I thought I went through all those girlish-figure changes back in college when I discovered that I could no longer eat ice cream for breakfast, lunch and dinner. But let me tell you, the wardrobe that fit me just fine a month ago…not so much anymore.
“Oh you’re just being dramatic,” you might say. But no, I have proof. Yesterday, I wore a cute little blouse that I have had forever. Unfortunately, I couldn’t button it, but I wore it anyway (layering is my friend). It has these cute little cap sleeves with button closures. I sat at my desk typing away and I noticed that I was making more and more typos. My arms were falling asleep. I looked at my arms ballooning out of my sleeves and realized that if I didn’t do something fast…I might have to amputate. You won’t even believe what I had to do…I unbuttoned my little decorative buttons on my cute blouse. Do you hear me!?!? I had to unbutton my mother-effing sleeves!?!? There is fat and then there is so fat you have to unbutton you sleeves fat.
So if muffin tops and camel toes ever come in fashion, give me a call, I would be happy to give you some pointers.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Hell On Wheels
Uncoordinated. Disoriented. Unbalanced. Anxiety-ridden. Injured.
These are just some of the adjectives that can be used in concert with the thought of Ashley on a bike.
Saturday was a day of miserable chores and errands and accomplishing things…everything that a Saturday shouldn’t be. So to get work-happy Boyfriend to let us stop raking, I knew I had to find something ultra-fun and wacky. I suggested a bike ride. It might not seem wacky to the average human, but to those who know me, suggesting physical activity is seriously out-of-the-box for me.
I donned my newly-purchased helmet (which I have contemplated just wearing all the time) and hopped on my sister’s bike (which I stole) and we were off. Well…Boyfriend was off…it took me awhile to get going. We took the back roads as long as possible…but the moment came where we had to ride along the busy street for like a block and a half. Illegal or not…I rode on the sidewalk…because I don’t have a death wish and prefer to live thank you very much.
TEN MOTHER-EFFING MILES LATER…we returned to this busy section of road on the way home. I cautiously led the way along the sidewalk, trying desperately not to fall as I bumped over the canyons that city officials would call sidewalk cracks. I looked ahead and noticed that the sidewalk narrowed in front of me as there were a bus stop. I started to “eeeeeee” quietly in a high pitch to myself and tried to focus on going straight. Just then, a beastly bus jumped out of nowhere (well…not nowhere…he was slowly pulling to curb for the last block…but scared the poop out of me nonetheless). I visually measured my handlebars. I visually measured the sidewalk between the bus and the bus stop…and with my constant swervy path, I was not going to fit. I stopped quickly as I sidled up alongside the bus. But when I went to set my left foot down I tipped and stepped off the curb. Simultaneously, I attempted to throw my other leg over the bike to steady myself. But my foot (those of you who know me also happen to know that I have very large feet that are a huge tripping hazard in the most normal situations) got caught on the center bar and I turned toward the bus to catch my falling self.
The resultant position involved me, one leg off the curb, the other folded up under me, with my knee wedged between the bus and the bike, both hands slipping down the side of the bus while my face (and particularly my nose) smushed against the window.
Needless to say…it was neither comfortable nor fun. What it was…embarrassing…as the passengers gawked at me and the driver asked me if I was ok.
Yeah…I suck at bikes. Boyfriend and I are going to stick to places from now on where I can’t run my face into parked buses.
P.S. I realize that my description may be lacking, so I drew a little illustration to clarify. Enjoy.
These are just some of the adjectives that can be used in concert with the thought of Ashley on a bike.
Saturday was a day of miserable chores and errands and accomplishing things…everything that a Saturday shouldn’t be. So to get work-happy Boyfriend to let us stop raking, I knew I had to find something ultra-fun and wacky. I suggested a bike ride. It might not seem wacky to the average human, but to those who know me, suggesting physical activity is seriously out-of-the-box for me.
I donned my newly-purchased helmet (which I have contemplated just wearing all the time) and hopped on my sister’s bike (which I stole) and we were off. Well…Boyfriend was off…it took me awhile to get going. We took the back roads as long as possible…but the moment came where we had to ride along the busy street for like a block and a half. Illegal or not…I rode on the sidewalk…because I don’t have a death wish and prefer to live thank you very much.
TEN MOTHER-EFFING MILES LATER…we returned to this busy section of road on the way home. I cautiously led the way along the sidewalk, trying desperately not to fall as I bumped over the canyons that city officials would call sidewalk cracks. I looked ahead and noticed that the sidewalk narrowed in front of me as there were a bus stop. I started to “eeeeeee” quietly in a high pitch to myself and tried to focus on going straight. Just then, a beastly bus jumped out of nowhere (well…not nowhere…he was slowly pulling to curb for the last block…but scared the poop out of me nonetheless). I visually measured my handlebars. I visually measured the sidewalk between the bus and the bus stop…and with my constant swervy path, I was not going to fit. I stopped quickly as I sidled up alongside the bus. But when I went to set my left foot down I tipped and stepped off the curb. Simultaneously, I attempted to throw my other leg over the bike to steady myself. But my foot (those of you who know me also happen to know that I have very large feet that are a huge tripping hazard in the most normal situations) got caught on the center bar and I turned toward the bus to catch my falling self.
The resultant position involved me, one leg off the curb, the other folded up under me, with my knee wedged between the bus and the bike, both hands slipping down the side of the bus while my face (and particularly my nose) smushed against the window.
Needless to say…it was neither comfortable nor fun. What it was…embarrassing…as the passengers gawked at me and the driver asked me if I was ok.
Yeah…I suck at bikes. Boyfriend and I are going to stick to places from now on where I can’t run my face into parked buses.
P.S. I realize that my description may be lacking, so I drew a little illustration to clarify. Enjoy.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
They See My Rollin' They Hatin'
My sister hates animals. I know...what kind of a person hates animals!?!? I love animals. I even thought I wanted to be a vet until I learned about the horrors of fecal smears and stuff. In addition to animals, I love funny things. My sister, does not love funny things. I know...what person doesn't like funny things!?!? The only things that she laughs at in relation to humor and animals is when misfortune befalls them, like falling into some sort of body of water or getting bonked on the head so hard that they can't walk right. Needless to say when I showed her this gem...her reaction went something like this:
Beverley: a cat laying on a computer is not that funny.
ashley: rolling qwerty…
that is sooo funny
Beverley: it's ridin
ashley: whatever…do you get it?
we be ridin dirty
but riding qwerty
Beverley: qwerty is a keyboard?
ashley: look at the top left 6 keys
Beverley: i don't see any keys
just cat
ashley: no
the one you are typing on
do you get it now?
Beverley: top left keys
esc?
f1?
ashley: the letter keys
Beverley: oh
ashley:
q
w
e
r
t
y
Beverley: i see that
ashley: so the cat...
is ridin qwerty
like ridin dirty
Beverley: wow.
that is so not funny
ashley: omg
i dont even know you anymore
Monday, May 12, 2008
Rollin Dirty
By day, I am mild-mannered (mostly) Ashley. But what you might not know is that I have an alter ego…Smashley, the heroically amusing drunk. People get jealous of other people who have had the honor of meeting Smashley. The legends of her escapades are told to captive audiences, longing for a glimpse of this creature.
Well…this weekend Smashley came out.
I went to Pismo with Boyfriend and the Rollin Dirty crew. It was a wind-blown, sleep-deprived mixture of motors, alcohol and offensive language. On Friday night, I rolled off the back of Boyfriend’s quad and nearly broke my neck. On Saturday, I sat on the beach for most of the day while the boys tried to break their necks. But on Saturday evening, I got a little brave…or stupid. I asked Boyfriend to show me how to jump. I just wanted a little one. Just a little tiny one. He chose some ridiculously steep dune and I lost momentum halfway up the thing. He told me to hit it faster. Apparently I did. When I came off the top of that hill I had the sensation of floating through the air. When I landed I looked back at Boyfriend, staring in disbelief. He showed me my tracks…I had jumped 25 mother-effing feet. I, being me, burst into tears and started shaking and we promptly rode back to camp where Boyfriend bragged to his friends and I poured myself a drink.
This was the first inkling that Smashley was lurking about. After finishing an entire bottle of margaritas it became obvious that she was present and accounted for. She danced like the little monkey for the crowd and passed out sometime shortly before dawn.
Morning came, and I got to deal with the repercussions of that crazy bitch. So, if you go to Pismo and you see a bunch of evenly spaced sand mounds near the end of the beach…beware…Smashley makes me sick…a lot.
Well…this weekend Smashley came out.
I went to Pismo with Boyfriend and the Rollin Dirty crew. It was a wind-blown, sleep-deprived mixture of motors, alcohol and offensive language. On Friday night, I rolled off the back of Boyfriend’s quad and nearly broke my neck. On Saturday, I sat on the beach for most of the day while the boys tried to break their necks. But on Saturday evening, I got a little brave…or stupid. I asked Boyfriend to show me how to jump. I just wanted a little one. Just a little tiny one. He chose some ridiculously steep dune and I lost momentum halfway up the thing. He told me to hit it faster. Apparently I did. When I came off the top of that hill I had the sensation of floating through the air. When I landed I looked back at Boyfriend, staring in disbelief. He showed me my tracks…I had jumped 25 mother-effing feet. I, being me, burst into tears and started shaking and we promptly rode back to camp where Boyfriend bragged to his friends and I poured myself a drink.
This was the first inkling that Smashley was lurking about. After finishing an entire bottle of margaritas it became obvious that she was present and accounted for. She danced like the little monkey for the crowd and passed out sometime shortly before dawn.
Morning came, and I got to deal with the repercussions of that crazy bitch. So, if you go to Pismo and you see a bunch of evenly spaced sand mounds near the end of the beach…beware…Smashley makes me sick…a lot.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Fail.
I took a test today. A test that was completely unnecessary. A test that I volunteered to take. A freaking HARD test!
Well, if the subject line didn’t give it away…I failed. I knew I was going to fail. I had no doubt in my mind. I had dreams of big fat failure. I ate failure for breakfast.
I’ve failed tests before. Not a big deal…accounting…that was a nice fail. But that was the result of zero studying…I didn’t even go to class. Not the case this time. I studied…I went to every class. Apparently, I’m just an idiot now.
I wish I could blame it on the coughing guy in the test.
I wish I could blame it on the guy who shushed the coughing guy every single time he coughed.
I wish I could blame it on the freezing temperatures in the testing facility.
I wish I could blame it on the archaic “computer” that I took the test on.
Most of all…I wish my failure more like this…at least then we could laugh when I recovered from my concussion.
Well, if the subject line didn’t give it away…I failed. I knew I was going to fail. I had no doubt in my mind. I had dreams of big fat failure. I ate failure for breakfast.
I’ve failed tests before. Not a big deal…accounting…that was a nice fail. But that was the result of zero studying…I didn’t even go to class. Not the case this time. I studied…I went to every class. Apparently, I’m just an idiot now.
I wish I could blame it on the coughing guy in the test.
I wish I could blame it on the guy who shushed the coughing guy every single time he coughed.
I wish I could blame it on the freezing temperatures in the testing facility.
I wish I could blame it on the archaic “computer” that I took the test on.
Most of all…I wish my failure more like this…at least then we could laugh when I recovered from my concussion.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
I Might Have to Kill Myself Now
This is a statement that I make more often that I should. I have never thought too much about it. But recently, my feisty coworker has brought it to my attention that such comments are inappropriate, as many people commit suicide. Now I don’t fully agree with this argument, because who cares…those people are dead…I didn’t really say that (It's ok…I’m already going to hell). So I have respectfully resolved myself to only use my suicidal hyperbole in the most serious situations.
Today I had such an instance.
I was staring blankly at my igoogle page when I noticed a quote that struck a chord with me. I could not agree with the poignant sentiment more. And it makes me want to jump off the bridge:
Today I had such an instance.
I was staring blankly at my igoogle page when I noticed a quote that struck a chord with me. I could not agree with the poignant sentiment more. And it makes me want to jump off the bridge:
“If I answer questions every time you ask one, expectations would be high. And as you know, I like to keep expectations low.”
President George W. Bush
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Nothing Like It
There really is nothing like stepping into a warm pool of vomit. Really…I would know…I just did it. Apparently Talulah’s stomach upset from the other night has continued. I just walked around the corner to fill the doggie water bowl and like a horrible car wreck…it was all slow motion. I lifted my foot and was in the process of setting it back down when I noticed the damp and chunky look of the linoleum. I couldn’t stop it…it was already in motion. I landed my foot square in the middle of the puke and splashed it all up my other leg.
Awesome.
I have to go take a shower now before I go see my celebrity sister in her show.
Awesome.
I have to go take a shower now before I go see my celebrity sister in her show.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Relegated to the Mailroom
I have skills. Not being cocky…but I paid good money to institutions to amass said skills and I have a resume that proves it.
It isn’t that I am not willing to do tedious and brainless jobs like say…oh I don’t know…address and stuff 2000 invitations in 24 hours, but seriously…that sucks.
And it’s not like I don’t have 50 bajillion other things to do with my time since my boss went on maternity leave for FIVE (omg) months. And it’s not like there aren’t several people who clearly have time on their hands but don’t want to help, or if they do help, move so slow that it makes me want to jump up and down and do it my damn self.*
Luckily, boyfriend is not a snail and is ultra helpful so I only had to stay up until 10 doing it.
On the upside, I managed to not get any papercuts...so…that makes it a lot less annoying.
*perfect example of skills: proficient usage of the double negative
It isn’t that I am not willing to do tedious and brainless jobs like say…oh I don’t know…address and stuff 2000 invitations in 24 hours, but seriously…that sucks.
And it’s not like I don’t have 50 bajillion other things to do with my time since my boss went on maternity leave for FIVE (omg) months. And it’s not like there aren’t several people who clearly have time on their hands but don’t want to help, or if they do help, move so slow that it makes me want to jump up and down and do it my damn self.*
Luckily, boyfriend is not a snail and is ultra helpful so I only had to stay up until 10 doing it.
On the upside, I managed to not get any papercuts...so…that makes it a lot less annoying.
*perfect example of skills: proficient usage of the double negative
Monday, April 28, 2008
Honey! I'm Home.
Those who know me well know that I don’t do “domestic.” I may be crafty, which can sometimes be mistaken for domestic, what with the quilting and knitting and stuff, but these are very different characteristics. For example:
Cleaning: If there is a pile of steaming crap in the middle of the floor I might pick it up, but only if it is in my way and really stinky.
Cooking: Why the hell do you think packaged foods were invented?
Dishes: Oh HELL no! Paper plates.
But ever since Boyfriend moved in (yes big step big step) I have been feeling all…domestic-y. Actually, we are both fully embracing the domestic lifestyle. I have never…not one day in my life…made my bed. Bed is made everyday now. I go to the grocery store like 2-3 times a week…wtf…I HATE the grocery store. I cook dinner, I scrub pots, I even thought about cleaning a toilet (don’t worry I didn’t get that crazy).
The other day I putting the laundry in the washer…long before I reached my last pair of undies…and I looked out the window and saw boyfriend mowing the lawn. Gasp…when did I become Mrs. Cleaver…and if that is the case…when do I get to stop working and eat bonbons all day? Hmm?
Cleaning: If there is a pile of steaming crap in the middle of the floor I might pick it up, but only if it is in my way and really stinky.
Cooking: Why the hell do you think packaged foods were invented?
Dishes: Oh HELL no! Paper plates.
But ever since Boyfriend moved in (yes big step big step) I have been feeling all…domestic-y. Actually, we are both fully embracing the domestic lifestyle. I have never…not one day in my life…made my bed. Bed is made everyday now. I go to the grocery store like 2-3 times a week…wtf…I HATE the grocery store. I cook dinner, I scrub pots, I even thought about cleaning a toilet (don’t worry I didn’t get that crazy).
The other day I putting the laundry in the washer…long before I reached my last pair of undies…and I looked out the window and saw boyfriend mowing the lawn. Gasp…when did I become Mrs. Cleaver…and if that is the case…when do I get to stop working and eat bonbons all day? Hmm?
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Sheeeeeeeeeees Baaaaaaaaaaaaaack!
Miss me?
Of course you did. *hug*
Forgive my week-long…I mean month-long…holy-shit-has-it-been almost-three-months?-hiatus.
“Where have you been?” You might ask, “Something very important must have happened to pull you away from your ten faithful readers.”
Not so much actually. I’ve just been feeling lazy. Yep…that is it…my big excuse.
But I am back and fully committed to my regular posting schedule. I have so many stories to tell you all:
How about the one where I managed to inadvertently turn Gus into a racist dog? Or how Talulah puked on my bare foot just 3 hours ago? Or how that whole school thing from my previous post makes me (on my best days) want to spoon my eyes out and change careers altogether because I am a talentless waste of space who make hideously-literal and over-commercialized excuses for design?
But we will save those stories for another day…
Of course you did. *hug*
Forgive my week-long…I mean month-long…holy-shit-has-it-been almost-three-months?-hiatus.
“Where have you been?” You might ask, “Something very important must have happened to pull you away from your ten faithful readers.”
Not so much actually. I’ve just been feeling lazy. Yep…that is it…my big excuse.
But I am back and fully committed to my regular posting schedule. I have so many stories to tell you all:
How about the one where I managed to inadvertently turn Gus into a racist dog? Or how Talulah puked on my bare foot just 3 hours ago? Or how that whole school thing from my previous post makes me (on my best days) want to spoon my eyes out and change careers altogether because I am a talentless waste of space who make hideously-literal and over-commercialized excuses for design?
But we will save those stories for another day…
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