I can't stop crying

So I've had these great plans to make tunafish salad* for the last few days. One morning I boiled eggs so that they would be ready to be mixed in that evening. But that evening, I checked and I didn't have celery...so I went to the store and was determined to make it the next morning. That's when I realized I didn't actually have any tuna. After slapping my forehead, I sobered up made yet another trip to the store.

This morning, I was excited that I had all of the ingredients. As you (possibly) know, I'm watching what I eat, so I decided to go with a recipe that I found online - which was to add onions in the mix. I've never had onions in my tunafish salad, or at least I don't remember having any, but I've decided that anything that increases the fiber content is good for me. Plus I like onions. And yes, this would be one of the reasons why I "can't get no satisfaction." BECAUSE OF THE ONION SMELL...not because of the fiber content. Sheesh.

Anyway, after making the concoction, I went into the bathroom to put on my make-up. Only to realize that I hadn't washed my hands as well as thought that I did because the onion smell (and dare I say onion juice?) was still on my hands. Once I realized this, I immediately washed my hands again. Alas, the damage has been done. Now all I smell is onions. Also my eyes won't stop watering.

(sigh)

It's not as bad of a make-up day as the one I had last year, but it's close.


*Growing up, we always called it tunafish salad...not tuna salad. I don't know why.

The banana tree

I've shared enough about my workplace for you all to know that it's a tad different than other people's workplaces. The guys that I work with are a little "off." So basically, I fit right in.

One of the things to note about my workplace is that we cannot be trusted to have live plants in the office. It's been proven that when live plants are in the office, they die (just like at my home). Because of this, someone came up with a solution long before I started...and that was to have these fake trees in the office.

Anyway, I'm not quite sure how it started, but one day banana stickers started showing up on the leaves of the tree. When I asked one of the guys at work about it, he just said, "DUH! That that's where bananas come from." I laughed, thought it was super tacky,* but assumed that someone would put a stop to it. Turns out, no one seems to care.

And you know what they say - if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. It just so happens that my daily breakfast choice** fits in perfectly.

P.S. Remember when we were kids and your mom would bring home a bunch of bananas and you would look forward to getting the banana that had the sticker on it? No? Just me? Okay then. Well, the passion for wanting the banana with a sticker on it hasn't faded. At a recent 5K, they gave us bananas to eat and I deliberately picked up one that had a sticker on it. In the store, I'm that person that picks the bunch of bananas that has the most stickers on it. Also, I sing inappropriate songs around them.

*My younger sister used to put stickers on EVERYTHING that she had. Mirrors, cassette tapes, furniture, books, the family pet, or people - it didn't make a difference. At first, it looked cool, but then they got to be all faded, peeled, and cracked. I, on the other hand, decided to preserve my stickers on their original wax paper backing in an album aptly named "Sticker Book." See? Very responsible. Come to think of it, my sister probably had the right idea. She got to look at them more often and they undoubtedly made her happy. Whereas I don't even know where the "Sticker Book" is. Huh. There's a lesson in there somewhere.

**Daily breakfast choice? One toasted whole grain english muffin, 1 tbsp of peanut butter (split between the two halves), topped with banana slices. It's heaven in the mornings.

Yeah, this is a bit awkward...

To catch everyone up, at the beginning of the year, I joined match.com. At that time they had this pitch where if you joined and didn't find anyone you loved within 6 months, you could get six months free. All you had to do was keep your profile active and email five unique users each month. Four out of the six months, I tallied up my email count solely by replying to people that emailed me - saying "Thanks, but I'm not interested." That happened for two reasons: 1) either I was dating someone else at the time - not serious enough to remove my subscription, but serious enough that I wanted to see where it went, and 2) it was easier. :)

So mid-June-ish I fulfilled my 6 month agreement...I received 6 months free and, to my knowledge, I don't have to email anyone each month. So I haven't been on since mid-June, but people trolling the interwebs can find me and send me an email or a wink.

This morning I woke up to see that a guy emailed me. Since you can read the email via your regular mail (you don't have to go onto the site), I was surprised to read this:

Hi I'm {his name}. I was just looking at your pictures and found you have my
dog! hahah not really, but we have identical looking Danes. My guy is {his
dog's name} and he is about 2 yrs old. He looks just like yours. Crazy

Here's the thing. I know this guy. I've met this guy and his dog. I'VE BEEN TO HIS HOUSE.

Now, granted - it was around 2 years ago and I was there for a Great Dane event, but there were only about 15 people at his house. Alright, to cut him a bit of slack, I do look a little different than what I did then. And, I think I actually spent more time loving on his dog (who was a cute and clumsy puppy then) than what any other houseguest should've.

My dilemma is this:

I feel bad when I don't email people back. The messages that I've gotten that say something like "how r u 2nite. wanna chat?" don't necessarily deserve a response...but if people go through the effort of composing an email to someone I kind of figure they should get an email back. And I've met this guy, so I feel like I *should* email him back. BUT if I go to the site to email him back, it will say that I've been active recently...which means that my profile will get placed earlier in someone's search results. And that means that I'm going to start getting emails again from guys.

I don't particularly want this because honestly, I'm dating all the guys I can handle right now. I don't really want to add someone else to the mix.

So...do I owe him an email or not? And if I should email him, how do I say "I've already met you" without making him feel stupid?

Terror via TV

Dude.

Did you know that there is a show called "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant" on TV?

It's true.

And that, quite frankly, terrifies me. Just the *thought* of the phrase is enough to make me sign off any dating site, bite my lip, and cross my legs. Not that I'm doing anything these days that could even resemble baby making,* but GOOD GRIEF! I even have to turn the channel when they're advertising for the show.

I even watched an episode...hoping that it wasn't about what I thought it was about. Alas, it turns out it *is* about women who went 9 whole months, had their periods monthly, didn't "show", didn't have any other symptoms of being pregnant, and STILL had a baby in some devastating situation (abandoned cabin, bathroom of a fast food place, in a clown car, or in their high school gym).

It's the stuff that nightmares are made of. In fact, I've had nightmares that went exactly like that. Only I also had to recite state capitols and their matching states while giving birth in front of my band teacher.


*It's been awhile is all I'm saying.

At least I'm not going to be naked in front of anyone anytime soon

First, you should know that I bruise like a peach. No really. I have lots of bruises on me that I never remembered getting in the first place.

Last night, I went down to my basement* to do laundry. Somehow I turned and slammed into the corner of the stairs where the pointy end felt like it stabbed me in the thigh. It hurt so badly when it happened that I stopped in my tracks that thought, "Well, that sucked." Also, I may or may not have cussed.

I couldn't even lay on it last night...and when I went running this morning I could FEEL the bruise spreading. Sure enough, it's already about the size of a tennis ball.

And it hurts. OMFG, how it hurts. Just my jeans touching it hurts. I swear, it feels hot to the touch.

To make matters worse, it must be at some sort of magical height that EVERYTHING is at, because I have bumped it against my desk, my armrest to my chair, my hands, the wall (when trying to get out of a co-worker's way), and just about everything else you can think of.

It's like it's the black hole of pain.


*I use the word "basement" in the most literal sense. It's 80 square feet of enclosed space, is not finished (such that the crawl space is just dirt), and has wooden planks that barely make up stairs. Also, I'm pretty sure the boogeyman lives there.

Steve Martin was my favorite dentist...

I hate the dentist. Well, I mean, I don't hate all dentists, but I hate going to them. I'm not a therapist, but I'm reasonably sure that my dislike for them stems from my experience with dentists when I was a kid. The dentist that we went to used to STRAP KIDS DOWN IN THEIR CHAIRS. But afterwards we got to play Frogger...so it's a really weird mixture of happiness and extreme terror. Pretty much like my memories of high school.

So basically, I still hate the dentist appointments. Each appointment I lay there with my legs crossed and my hands clasped in some weird death grip across my stomach. I try to remember that if I'm good that they *probably* won't strap me down. Probably.

This morning I went to the dentist for my bi-annual cleaning. If you've been reading me for a while, you might remember my last appointment where I had my teeth cleaned by "The Riddler." I was determined to not have her again...so when I made the appointment, I asked who I had last time and then asked to have an appointment with NOT THAT GIRL.

The hygenist from this morning was nice, gentle, and left me with sparkling, pretty teeth. I wasn't in pain during the exam (for some reason, I always worry that I will be) and she even complimented my eye shadow. She had the appropriate amount of small talk, told me I had a beautiful smile, and at the end of it all, she wanted me to make an appointment for next time RIGHT THEN.

Clearly, she wants me.

Percussion Gun

This song is rattling around in my brain and I heart it.

It's called Percussion Gun by White Rabbits...and it is muy bueno.




It might be because I have a thing for songs that have claps in them. OR because it reminds me of awesome marching band percussion.

Either way, the great thing is that you can download it for FREE (as a video) on iTunes.
I did watch this video once, but because of the swirling of the cameras, I found it difficult to not throw up my breakfast. That was okay by me because I usually just download the free videos and listen to them on my iPod as songs anyway.

You're welcome.

Just bring a gas mask when you visit me

I have a big dog. I have a small place.

One of my greatest fears (aside from being chased by the Honey Nut Cheerio Bee) is that my house smells like dog. You know what I'm talking about...when you walk in and you're all "OMG, just how many dogs do you have and why don't you bathe them?"

Unfortunately, because of my fear, it means that I'm reluctant to have people over to my house. I do brush and bathe her regularly, but I'm concerned that it doesn't really help. When my friends have come over and I've drilled them about the smell, they've relented and said that, yes, it does smell like a dog lives there, but it's not bad.

Here's the problem: I'm not sure if they're telling the truth. Because really? It'd be hard to say tell someone that their house smells like ass (specifically, a dog's ass). And when is having a house smell like dog NOT a bad thing? For the record, when I was in a bigger place, it wasn't ever an issue...my big dog in twice the space somehow dissapated the smell. My other place smelled like the candles and crap that I had around the house or, most often, whatever I managed to burn cook for dinner that evening.

I know what you're thinking, "Just buy Febreeze! It seems to work so well on the commercials that it should be no problem!" And you'd be wrong. I've bought more Febreeze than anyone should in their life time and basically it just ends up smelling like a big dog is wearing flowers.

So, a couple of weeks ago, when I was watching "Pitchmen," I opted to buy "What Odor?" - that spray that Billy Mays pitches. It was invented by a guy who had dogs. He had three small dogs in a house that looks to be about 400 times the size of my place, but hey, at least he knows what odor I'm trying to eliminate. In the show, Billy is spraying that stuff on every smelly surface, sticking his nose in it, and then proclaiming that the smell is gone! The name of the product indicates that the smell simply disappears.

It took a few weeks, but the spray finally got to my house.

While the smell of "dog" has left my house, it has a very strong pepperminty/spicy smell that is in it's place. The smell, while not as offensive as "dog," it isn't exactly pleasant either. So basically, I can't win. In fact, I think that it would be just as successful if I made my houseguest suck on a cough drop upon entering the door or perhaps rub Bengay all over them...as these are some of the few things that replace all other odors.

Am I worrying about something that makes no difference? Have you tried products that work?

You wouldn't like me when I'm angry...

My last name is not hard to pronounce. Assuming, of course, that you have a grasp of the English language.

See, my last name is NOT Kennedy. But I'd take that a million times over someone saying my last name in a way that grates (grates, I tell you!) on my nerves.

So that you know what I mean, let's pretend my last name is Kennedy. People like to spell my name Kenneday and pronounce it as such. They're trying to throw in an extra letter where one simply does not belong. It's not pronounced like that. It's not even spelled like that. In fact, it's spelled EXACTLY the way it sounds and vice versa! But for some horrible reason, people like putting that extra letter there. And wouldn't you know it, but the people that mispronounce it the most are those that I can't exactly tell them that they're doing it wrong. It'd be like me saying, "Excuse me, Mr. Obama, but it's pronounced ..."

So I just sit there. And take it. Until my eye starts to twitch. And before I know it, I'm driving through the Taco Bell drive through just to get a spork so that I can maim someone in an interesting way and hopefully make the news.

At which time, the reporters will likely mispronounce my name.

(sigh)

Only 3 more hours...

I had a great Sunday night, which led me to be supremely tired yesterday morning.

To fix this, I tried to go to bed much earlier last night. But see, there's a cute guy that I wanted to talk to first. And in the middle of him being cute, we started talking about songs that we like. Since I LOVE that kind of stuff, I stayed up to talk to him. THEN I finally went to bed, only to be woken up by horrible storms, tornado sirens, the sound of sheets of rain spilling over my gutters and hitting my back door (and then the knowledge that rain was seeping under my back door). I was up for an hour or two after that just trying to calm down again.

Long story short, I woke up this morning feeling more tired than I was yesterday. I skipped my run, vowing to make it up to myself tomorrow.

I got to work and today has been a shitastic day already. Seriously. Everything I've touched has gone wrong. I've been stressing out more than I usually do (likely due to the lack of sleep).

The silver lining? Because of the storms last night, it's cooler today and that means that I get to run at lunch. It's not the 4 hour nap I so clearly want/need, but it's a way to at least de-stress so I don't kill a co-worker. By accident. Or maybe a little on purpose.

My Facebook friend could be Jesus or maybe a warewolf

Seven and a half months ago, I joined Facebook. Most days, I'm glad I did. Because like I wrote, since joining Facebook, I've been able to reconnect with people that I really do care about. In fact, the person that I mentioned in that post? I'm visiting him next month. In Seattle. With his wife. And their two kids. And he's trying to teach one of them to say "Happy Fun Pants" but it's a little tough for her. I believe she's 11.

On Facebook, I get to write smart ass things like this and this on people's pages. And wow. Sam? If you're reading this? I really am sorry about telling people that you spike your kids' drinks. I mean that you ALLEGEDLY spike your kids' drinks.

Here's the problem...with almost 300 "friends," I'm now getting some friend requests from people that I'd rather not be "friends" with. It's easy to say that you can just ignore them...and I get that. Really, I do. But when I do that, I feel guilty.

Because, what if they're Jesus?

You know what I mean, like that song "What if Jesus Comes Back Like That?" When I was a kid, we were told that we should be nice to everyone because what if it was Jesus coming back to test us to see if we really love people or if we just SAY we do so we can get more communion wine. If we shun Jesus, then we're really going to hell. It's like the mother of all pop quizzes.

As a kid, this concept lived pretty vividly in my brain. I lived in constant worry and guilt that if I didn't smile to the old guy at Wal-Mart that... POOF! Surprise! He's Jesus! And guess what Jesus got me at Wal-Mart? A lifetime of fire AND brimstone.*

That concept is a bit flawed really though...because if you think about it, why would Jesus come back as a hobo or a druggie or something to test us as? If He's so smart and He knows everything, then wouldn't He already KNOW how we're going to react?

You know, now that I think about it, it's a little silly to fear people because they might be Jesus.

It might make more sense to tell kids that you should be nice to everyone because some people are werewolves with a thin layer of people-skin on top. And if you're not nice, the werewolves will eat you.

First, it's a concept I think kids can get understand. Second, I think it might have a higher success rate, because while there's only one Jesus, there could be many werewolves. Third, it'd still get people to wear crosses around their necks - only this time for protection, instead of proclamation. Or are crosses supposed to ward of vampires?

Whatever, my point is, I feel passive aggressive by ignoring people's friend requests.

Perhaps I can ask them if they ARE Jesus first... if they're not, I'll just ignore them. Because Jesus can't lie, right? If it IS Jesus, I'll totally accept His friend request. Because after all, if that person IS Jesus, I kind of want to be able to sing this song sometime and have it be true.



* For the record, I feel that Wal-Mart is already a sort of hell.

Official Rules for the Perilous Puddin' Pig Out

You asked for it...

Now before we get down to it, I need to tell you that I didn't come up with these rules at all. First of all, there are many typos in the thing, including some weird grammar choices. I tried to correct as many typos as possible - with punctuation - but I didn't do anything with the word choices. Since I have actual work to do today, I just typed the damn thing, even down to using numbers instead of spelling out the word, as what is on the sheet. Since I have English teachers that read this blog, I highly recommend you taking a shot of whiskey before reading this. Trust me...

Secondly, had I come up with the rules? They would've been a lot funnier. But because they're men, they wanted to handle it themselves.
======================

Official Rules and Release for the 1st Annual* "Perilous Puddin' Pig Out"

1. This is to be a timed event. The time shall be 1 hour.
2. 24 closed cups of pudding shall be set in front of each competitor.
3. The winner will be determined by most cups consumed in one hour or if all competitors finish their allotted 24 cups, the winner will be determined by the fastest time.
4. An automatic win will be given if a competitor can finish his 24 and then reach into his adversary's stack, snatch away a 25th cup, and finish the 25th cup from said adversary's stock pile. This will be known as the "Puddin' o' Shame" victory.
5. All pudding must be kept within the confines of the competitors for at least 30 minutes after completion of the 1 hour alloted time. Any purging of pudding will be considered forfeiture and victory will be awarded to the non-purging party.
6. If all competitors "give up the goods," a draw will be declared with no winner being named.
7. A standard will be established for a "clean cup." This standard will be in view of both competitors. Any cups in question of being cleaned will be judged by an impartial 3 person panel. All judgements are final and no whining will be permitted.
8. Utensil will be competitors choice, including and up to no utensil at all.
9. Competitors shall sit side by side facing the spectators. This has been established by, and with respect to, the "Nathan's Hotdog format."
10. Water may be used to lubricate the gullet during the 1 hour competition.
11. No physical contact between competitors will be permitted during the 1 hour, but it is encouraged and appreciated before and after.
12. Taunting and "smack talk" is required up to, during, and after the competition.

I hereby being of sound mind and fantastic specimen of competition eating body, freely engage in this eating contest. I understand that the results of consuming massive quantities of pudding could include (but is not limited to): projectile vomiting, sugar coma, or even death. I agree to hold {our company's name} and any of it's employees harmless in the event that any negative impact befalls me as a result of my participation in this event.

And then it's signed by the two competitors who have the nicknames of "Jus' Puddin'" and "Sir Eats a Lot."

===============

I think it is line 10 that is cracking me up the most.

But you know, the guys that are doing this are pretty damn funny. They're taking it really seriously... in fact one of them is going to start stretching out his stomach with tonic water the week before.

You should've seen them trying to eat the six saltines in a minute, it was intense. WAY more intense than saltines ever should be.


*Yes, I know. How can it be a 1st Annual?

From the folks who brought you the pudding challenge

Yesterday at lunch, one of the guys said that you burn more calories running than biking. Someone else at the table disputed that.

Long story short? Those two guys are having a foot race today at lunch.

It's a three mile course clearly mapped out and the winner gets bragging rights.

In case you're wondering, I'm not really sure how the winner of the race helps solve the mystery as to which activity burns more calories, but apparently it does. Also, I thought the term "foot race" meant that it was a shorter course, but because they're guys they wanted to prove their stupidity manliness by running more than they ever do.

Yes, you read that right. Neither one of them run or jog.

One of the guys racing is 185 pounds, but he rides his bike to and from work (about 13 miles each way) regularly. The other is 140 pounds, with severe asthma, severe allergies to many pollens found around our building, and he does virtually no physical exercise at all. It may seem cruel to pit these two against each other, but the 140 pound guy? He's totally the one that said that he could beat anyone at the office. He's also the guy that has the jackass award at his desk about 95% of the time. In fact, he's the reason why the jackass has a shirt.

Some people never learn.

Also, if you're really curious about how many calories you burn during activities, go here.

In other challenge news, there have been some pretty articulate rules drawn up for the pudding challenge, which has been renamed as "Perilous Puddin' Pig Out". I personally find them hysterical. Let me know in the comments if you want to see them and I'll post them.

Note to co-workers: manage your diabetes or we will hurt you

A co-worker went into diabetic shock on Monday. The good news is that she is fine...but the bad news is that not many of us knew what to do to help.

So, in an effort to ease people's anxiety, we had a safety meeting yesterday where we went over warning signs of low blood sugar and high blood sugar. You might be interested to know that people with low blood sugar are usually cranky. So, let me just answer the question that I've been asked all day long. NO. I don't have low blood sugar right now.

Anyway, our Operations Manager asked us, "What do you do if the diabetic goes into an unresponsive state?"

And another co-worker said "Give them CPR."

So the Ops Manager said, "No. No, that would be very bad."

At a couple of blank looks, he went on to explain the difference between your heart not beating (and thus needing CPR) and someone passing out (where the person does NOT need CPR, and you should proabably call 911).

I'm just saying, if you're a diabetic and need a job, you probably don't want to work here. We're likely going to make matters worse.

Why I'm glad I work with a bunch of guys

I work with a bunch of guys.

In general, they're not really sensitive. They are smelly and a lot of the conversations in the lunch room revolve around topics that I would be embarrassed to talk about in front of my mom. Also, I can't say the words "duty" or "number two" without being interrupted with people saying what I just said and giggling.

A few months ago, we had a saltine eating contest - where a lot of people tried to eat 6 saltines in a minute. And trust me, after seeing it NOT happen, please know it is a LOT harder than it sounds.

Today, Larry was in the lunchroom talking about his pudding cup. And no, that's not code for anything.

Somehow the conversation spiraled and people started placing bets on how many pudding cups they could eat in an hour. Anyway, lunch ended with the agreement that we're going to have a pudding eating contest between two people who would rather eat pudding until they puke than let the other guy win.

Rules have been established. The pudding funding has been approved and the time of day has been determined.

All that's left is the crying. Oh, and the vomiting of pudding.

It's going to be great.

Just so you know, I'm totally imagining you getting kicked in the nuts right about now

I listen to "The Savage Love Podcast" featuring Dan Savage on a regular basis. It's an out loud sex advice podcast and it's been vulgar, entertaining, funny, and actually very informative. I highly recommend it if you're willing to think outside of the box (no pun intended) and are able to withstand multiple cuss words in any given podcast. A friend recommended it to me and I'm so glad she did! It makes traffic jams much more bearable.

In fact, I enjoy the podcast so much, that I've started listening to his archived podcasts. The one that I was listening to yesterday featured a doctor that talked about everything from debunking myths about sex and our bodies to the dangers of not refrigerating mayonnaise. I have to say that in my mind, this guest doctor is hot and sexy. Mostly because I think that smart, dorky guys can be pretty damn hot and sexy. What can I say? I'm a nerd like that.

ANYWAY, Dr. Hot-n-Sexy Science guy was saying that there has been a point in time where every man has wished that they didn't have a scrotum. And I was a little shocked to hear this...I mean you hear about penis envy all the time, but guys not wanting their junk? Why, that's just insane!

And then he went on to talk about how men have this thought usually about the time that they're doubled over on the ground after getting kicking in the jimmies.

Somehow, that made me feel better. I mean, this definitely falls into the category of TMI, but let's just say that for the next few days, picturing guys from work getting racked and writhing on the ground will help me feel better about hating my uterus a lot. It'll help me to not feel so alone in this pain. And I'll be honest, it might even cheer me up.

You're welcome.

At least it's keeping my mind off the 50 thousand mosquito bites on my body...

The electrician that I hired to come to my house on Friday didn't exactly give me great news. Even though there is nothing wrong with the wiring now (every connection is sound, everything is hooked up correctly, and nothing is "hot" that shouldn't be), he was able to tell that the wiring is very old and brittle and it may catch fire. And that diagnosis goes for every room in my house - not just the one that I have the fan in. His advice? Either get smoke detectors in every room of my house and prepare for a fire or totally replace all of the wiring in my house. It could cost a couple of hundred dollars to fix it. Worst case scenario, it could cost 15-20K. Let me say that again, IT COULD COST ME 15 to 20 THOUSAND DOLLARS. That's US dollars, not Monopoly money. I know because I asked him, just to be sure.

(sigh)

Basically, the house IS up to code, electrically. I mean, not 2009 code, but to the code standard of when it was built, in 1882*...and I'm not shitting you, apparently that's "good enough." Houses don't need to be up to the code of today's standards...they just have to be up to the code of whenever it was that the electrical was last worked on. This means that your house? Yeah, it's probably got shoddy electrical work too.** Because of this weird rule, the past owners aren't on the hook and if I opted to sell it today, I wouldn't be on the hook. Apparently possible spontaneous combustion just one of the perks of buying an older house. I think that's one of the things that give it "character."

You need to know that there is some weird Electricians Honor Code thing that involves them having to replace/fix all things that they mess with.*** So he can't open the ceiling and start figuring crap out in there without fixing it. At first, I thought the guy was totally making this crap up, but to be honest, he did not seem to have a sense of humor so I think it's unlikely that he is pulling my leg.

So to understand the situation better, I asked a bunch of questions - like:
1) What are my options?
2) Can you just re-route the new wire without having to fish the wire along the existing stuff?
3) Can you give me a better price range than $500 - $20,000?
4) Do you know the muffin man?
5) Would you and your wife be willing to adopt me?
6) Can I move into your house anyway?

After asking those questions, I paid the man and really kept repeating this mantra: "Just wait until he leaves to start crying."

And although I did cry when he left, I also called for help. I called my realtor, I called friends, and I basically have come to the conclusion that in reality, my situation is really no different than what it was 60 days ago. It's just that now I KNOW that I have crappy wiring.

I'm sure you all might roll your eyes when I say this, but I just don't feel like anything is going to happen. The truth is, the wiring really hasn't changed...and this guy is probably just covering his ass. He can't say that it won't happen again because if he does, and my house burns down, he'll have to deal with a crazy red-headed lady. And really...who has ever wanted that? Okay, OTHER than Desi Arnaz?

The plan?
1) Get smoke detectors in every room, call my security service and have them monitor the smoke detectors and have them route to the fire department if they go off.
2) Possibly send things of great sentimental value down to El Paso with my mom when she visits this weekend.
3) Find a new job - one that pays a lot more than the one I have currently and then sell this place.
4) Start playing the lottery.
.....a) Win the lottery
.....b) Sell this place.
5) Consider joining the nunnery and then sell this place.



*Yes, my place was built in 1882. Is it bad that I had no idea that they had electricity back then? OMG. I just googled "When did electricity become common in homes?" And the answer is in the 1930's. Which means that this electrician is a big, fat liar. Or Google is just fucking with me. It's likely both. But since I have a commenter who knows the PV=nRT equation and how it relates to yogurt urping, I'm hoping that s/he will enlighten (haha) me on the history of electricity, specific to when it was put into houses in Denver. I need you! After all, I really didn't pay attention in school history or science class.

**Yes. Your place might go up in a ball of flames too. Join the club! We meet at my house. During the meeting, I serve lil' smokies and beer. Also crackers with Cheez Whiz (not imitation cheese spray spread) because it's a classy club. The dues are only $15-20 thousand dollars per person. Please make checks payable to: Anne Not-Kennedy. If my house starts fill with smoke at any time, please gather your belongings and exit the premises calmly and quickly.

***It also possibly involves them wearing cloaks at night and chanting. Which means that they might be monks. Or not. It turns out that I really didn't pay attention in religious studies class.

This post is more about Scooby Doo than I had originally intended...

'Member when I told you that I live in a possible fire-laden death trap?

Well, it's true. Or maybe it's true.

See, the thing about me is that I'm lazy about a lot of things. Like my eyes had to get really bad before I had them checked out by Dr. Chester Roe III.* So I just wait until the pain of staying the same is worse than the pain of change. I suppose that a part of me is hoping that whatever the problem is, it will just go away. Unfortunately, this is hardly ever the case.

So back to my death trap of a place, I actually have been using the fan while I'm at home and then turning it off when I'm not. Mostly because I would be okay with taking my chances and dying in a ball of flames, but I don't want Chassis to have to endure that. Although that only-use-your-fan-sometimes plan isn't exactly what I had wanted when I thought about putting ceiling fans in, it's really not all that bad. I've adjusted to it.

BUT...

My mom is coming in town next week. And I love my mom. I do. It's just that I don't want our time spent to consist mostly of her "helping me understand" the importance of having sound wiring. Her "helping me understand" sometimes feels like "smothering" and I'd like the time that we're spending together to be fun and not spent with me sticking my fingers in my ears shouting "LALALALALALA!" Because I'm five.

So I've called a certified electrician. In fact, he is going to be at my house this afternoon with hopefully all the tools necessary to fix the problem. I called him yesterday to confirm, and also to help him understand that I'm really hoping that it can be fixed in two hours. Because please, I've got plans tonight.

I'm just praying that my place doesn't have to have all new wiring run. I mean, I want it to be safe and all, I just don't want to have to update it. So PLEASE, say a prayer, meditate, salivate, channel positive energy, rub your crystals (no, that's not code for anything - but you can do that too if it'll help) WHATEVER just make sure that you send good juju my way around 3ish.


*Seriously, don't you think that that sounds like a creepy old man from Scooby Doo? He's even older and lanky. He didn't say anything like "and I would've gotten away with it too if it wasn't for you meddling kids!" but then again, I didn't rip a mask off his face either. YET.

P.S. Speaking of Scooby Doo, I'm thinking about being Daphne from Scooby Doo for Halloween. I think it'd be fun. Especially if I can bring Chassis along.

P.P.S. Yes, I'm thinking of costumes for Halloween already. Because "Sock Thing" wasn't exactly a hit.

P.P.P.S. Also, in case you're wondering, my headaches and eyesight are better since the last time I went to visit Dr. Roe. So I think I'm fine. See? This is a scenario when waiting it out would've been okay. Unless I have MS or a brain tumor. But I probably don't.

P.P.P.P.S. Awww man, I just read the last post that I linked to. I already made the Scooby Doo joke. (sigh) CRAP.

It's what's on my mind today

Wow.

Who knew I could write a simple post about France and then get all sorts of comments and emails from caring, concerning people? Apparently you did. The dialogues that I've had offline have actually helped me recognize that there is much more under the surface that I need to deal with.

That's right. This crazy person that I represent on my blog? Apparently under that crazy, I'm a whole helluva lot crazier. I KNOW! Just when you thought that I couldn't get more attractive...

Actually, it's been such a blessing to have that revelation. Because now that I've acknowledged it, I can go about fixing it. But it's also a bit daunting. I honestly thought that I had dealt lots of crap. And it's frustrating to realize that the issue is just as present and that I didn't deal with it - or at least not all of it. Not unlike that "Whack-a-mole" game.

At any rate, this morning I received a particularly touching email that was full of sweetness and no judgement or preachiness (hear that, MB?). And so many emotions welled up that I almost started bawling right then and there.

So here's what I'm thankful for... the sun that helped get my happy ass out of bed so I could go on a run, that I read the email before going on my run, and that I could work through some of the anxiety on the run prior to coming to work. Also, that my iPhone Nike+ system worked with me, because honestly, sometimes it doesn't. AND that I haven't endured things in my life that are much, much worse. After all, it's not like I'm Mariah Carey. So really, I have a lot to be thankful for.

I know. This post isn't funny. It isn't uplifting, and it isn't what you come here for. But it *IS* me...and really, since this post isn't about pants, I guess it does belong in my blog.

So, thanks for bearing with me in my not-so-very-funny posts, too.

I'm scared of yogurt

You might be thinking that it's the lactobacillus acidophilus, but you'd be wrong.

It's that when I go to open the individual packages of yogurt, my container always urps on me. You know... it like barfs a little. Plus it makes the sound of farting.

So basically, my yogurt is rude.

You'd think that with all of our technology advancements that we've made, there would've been a better way to package yogurt already - without all the farting and urping. OR that they'd come with instructions on how to NOT have that happen. But no. It's like prison, I tell you.

In fact, I think that this is a clear representation of how "the man" is trying to keep us down.

I would rebel, but to be honest, I enjoy my yogurt too much to take such a strong stance. So the only hope I have of not being urped on is to open it away from my body. This means that I either spray co-workers with yogurt splatter or (as is usually the case when I have a snack at my desk), I spray my screen with it.

And I don't have to tell you that white goop on a screen looks bad. Especially at work.


I still don't eat Yoplait though because their commercials still make me want to scream so I don't have to hear the annoying "banter."

I don't want to be France

I was having an interesting discussion last night about past relationships and how I, apparently, have some issues with past relationships. Shocking. I know. I'm not going to beat myself up about this, because I think that that is pretty normal for someone who is 32. Everyone has baggage... and I think that the healthy thing to do is to try to shed as much of that as you can. To get rid of it completely, is impractical.

So, this person that I was talking to about this is a history buff. You should probably know now, that I am, most assuredly, not a history buff. I was much more interested in daydreaming about Vanilla Ice to pay attention in history. Besides, if it repeats itself like everyone says, why can't I just catch up when it actually happens again?

Since you may not be as up on history as he is, I'll give you the same short lesson he gave me. Apparently, France had gone through World War I and it sucked. So when WWII came around, they planned for and strategized for a war just like the first one. They analyzed each battle and tried not to repeat the same mistakes. For instance, they didn't dump the tea in the harbor, Paul Revere didn't light any lanterns, and they didn't pick officers like Colonel Mustard to be in charge again. Remember, this is before the time that the slaves were freed. What happened (as I'm sure you can tell) is that by preparing to fight a war in the past, they were completely unprepared for the challenges of a new war. And that made them pansies. Which, as you know, is how french toast came to be called FRENCH toast.

At least, I *think* that's how the story goes. I was too busy trying to remember what comes after "Stop, collaborate and LISTEN. Ice is back with a brand new invention..."

Anyway, the lesson that I've learned from our conversation is that if I approach new relationships prepared to face the same battle, I lose out on all the stuff I really *should* be fighting about in the new relationship. You know, like taking out the trash, and which set of in-laws we have to suffer through get to spend Christmas with.

To be honest, I thought that I had shed a lot of the baggage I had about a certain subject. I thought that I had approached new relationships wary of the same thing happening, but that that was to be expected. Instead, I realized that I was like France. I've spent time gearing up to fight the same, painful battles that I had before. By being so careful that I would never be hurt in the same way, I'm missing out on some of the fun and joy that is the single life.

I realized that I don't want to be France. And that perhaps taking things as they come (versus trying to plan ahead for every possible obstacle) may be the best way to do things.

See? History - it's growing on me.

Seriously, Billy Mays has to stop aka Yes, I'm that dumb

So I watched a marathon of "Pitchmen," a reality show starring Billy Mays and his pal Anthony Edwards Sullivan this past weekend. To be fair, it was only 4 episodes.

My thought process was that it would be something "on" that I could watch that I could brainlessly ignore. I don't watch a ton of TV anymore, but having this on in the background meant that I could have Billy scream at me from the TV. It made me feel that things were right with the world again.

Anyway, these 4 hours of my life were the most expensive 4 hours I've ever spent watching TV. No matter what product they were pitching, I felt that I HAD to have it. The personal shark repellent? I NEED that. Especially in Colorado. MightyShine? Why, yes, I *do* have tarnished silver that I'd like to enjoy again and clearly they are not as shiny as they *could* be. A windshield wiper that works primarily in Florida and is not at all effective in snowy and icy conditions? For the love of all that is holy, CAN'T YOU SEE HOW MUCH I NEED THAT?

Usually I reserve that sort of behavior for when I'm up late at night drunk and feeling like my life has no value.* However, the downside to being in this mindset is that I lack ambition. When I'm in that state, I typically feel that to go to get my phone, dial the number or to pick up my laptop and type the URL is just too much effort. Especially when that effort could be better spent licking the Cheetos residue off my fingers.

So you can understand, then, why in my weakened non-inebriated state, I HAD to buy these items.

I think there is a clear lesson here, kids. Drinking saves money. You should go home and do that right now.


*Yes, yes, I'm kidding. Of course I have value. It's approximated at $19.95 plus $9.95 shipping and handling.

P.S. There was an episode for the "DualSaw" that I swear I almost bought in hopes that the hot Frenchman came with the tool. Because OMG, I would've bought anything that that man sold. Especially if said item was the shirt off his back.

Definitely the 'stache

I feel weird.

I know what you're thinking...so let me just qualify that statement with: I feel weirder than I normally do. I KNOW! It's scaring me too.

Basically, I feel like I have about 5 bazillion things are swimming in my brain right now that I want to blog about, want to get your opinion on, or even want to vent about. But I can't, for the life of me, put these serious-ish things down to be immortalized forever via the interwebs. I start to blog about the serious stuff, but instead all the wants to be typed out is: Look! A bright shiny object!

For instance, I really want to write about my decision, or indecision rather, to go back to get my MBA. I feel deeply conflicted about this and am overcome by concerns that I might not be making the right decision. I mean, what if I pick the wrong college? What if I SUCK at school because I've been away for so long? Do I really have the time to commit to taking classes? Do I have enough #2 pencils? What if I think that a boy in class is cute...can I still pass him a note or do should it be done via text these days? What does GMAT stand for anyway? So instead, I want to close off that section of my brain - and forget anything remotely tied to these areas of concern. Sometimes it's best to let areas of worry simmer on the backburner for a while.

However, avoiding all the "stuff" I'm pre-occupied thinking about, leaves me with pretty much only one remaining question bumbling around in my brain. And that is: Which you like better, The Alex Trebek without a mustache or the one where he's sporting a big, bushy mustache?

So, after I get done processing every last little thing about any decision I'm making these days, you'd best be prepared for some funny, funny stuff. I could do what usually works in these situations - drink until all the static silences. But since it's 9 AM, I feel like that might be a bit drastic, even for me.

So until then, please let me know your Trebek preference. It's all I have these days, people.

Wait, what??

You know how when people blog about their dreams and you'd rather stick a sharp pencil in your eye rather than read all the nitty gritty details?

Me too. I hate that.

So anyway, last night, I had a bunch of dreams that were filled with really horrible situations. I could get all philosophical about them, or I could just tell you that it sucked. Hard. I woke up and just couldn't shake all the crappy stuff that happened in them. :(

Anyway, my mom sent me an email asking how I was doing...and I was grumpy and still groggy. So I basically said that to her and explained why.

This is her response:
==============
I am so sorry about the nightmares. Hope that you will have pleasant dreams tonight!! It is nasty when you cannot shake them off. If I could help let me know.

I hesitate to say something but - - check into the possible effects of having an electrical pole so close to your home.
Love,
Mom
=========
Great. So now I have to worry about power lines being the cause of my nightmares AND that cheerleading may kill me at any time.

Seriously, do any of you guys know what she's talking about? Because if I can blame more things on that (tardiness at work, mixing up words, or mis-matching my outfits), I'm game.

I don't know where to look

I've written before about how we have IM at work.

Well, one of our receptionists has set her picture of a blooming rose. Sounds nice, right?

WRONG.

I won't say exactly what it looks like, but let's just say that Georgia O'Keeffe would probably pick this as her IM picture as well.

In reality, I'm sure that she has no idea what people must see when we look at it...she's probably completely unaware. But I still feel dirty.