Now if I could just remember the lyrics to “Sister Christian.”
I can’t sleep. Well, that’s not exactly true. I fell asleep early and now I am awake at 2 a.m. Texted the non-BF to see if he was up: he either (a) is not awake, or (b) doesn’t want to talk about baby goats.
Got on Facebook and liked a bunch of status updates. Some of them because they were funny; mostly because I like it when someone likes my status update. With “like” being such a positive word, I wonder why so much drama goes on in Facebook?
Didn’t get on Live Cams. All the crazy shit goes down in the middle of the day for me because most of the ones I watch are in Europe. I still don’t know why that guy was working topless.
Speaking of hot, the motherfuckers at the Air Watcher Agency (or whatever they call those people who decide it’s an “orange air day”) are smoking crack. Today wasn’t an Orange Air Day. It was a Black Lung Day. I could barely breathe when I took the dogs outside.
I go on vacation soon. I need it in a very bad way. Note to those who look for houses to break into, I have an alarm system, a dog-sitter who is armed and an anti-kick door thingie. Plus, God looks out for drunks, fools and babies, and I meet two of those requirements. Three, if you count the fact that I am quite immature.
Vacation…I’ve worked during every vacation for the last five and a half years. Laptop there, answering emails, not really enjoying – fully enjoying – the time off. So in essence, it wasn’t actually “time off.”
My company owes me about 17 weeks of paid time off, they way I see it. I’ll settle for being “unreachable” during this one. I’m still taking a laptop, just my own. And I will have my iPad, but I still cannot figure out WordPress on that damned thing. I’ll be connected but I am hoping to be too busy to even give a fuck about checking in.
Thank God I am not staying at a clown hotel like I did last year in Europe. I didn’t sleep the entire time I was there. Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right – here I am, stuck in the middle with bags under my eyes.
For about six or seven months now, some bitch in my office building has been taking the roll of toilet paper off the rack and reversing the direction the paper falls. Basically, they are putting it on the rack backwards, which makes pulling the sheets off a bit harder. And, for about six or seven months now, I have been taking the roll of toilet paper off the rack and putting it back on the CORRECT way.
After the first month of this, I finally had to ask the Office Mate if she was doing this.
“Hell no! And I have been changing it back to the right way myself!” I learned that she switches it to the right way when she visits other people’s houses, which is also something I do. The Office Mate thought it would be a grand idea to go make the toilet paper look like they do in hotels.
When this first started – this bullshit about changing the direction of the toilet paper – it happened maybe three or four times a week. The past few weeks, it has been daily. This week – two or three times a day. Today, I finally had enough. But we get out early on Fridays in the summer, so I just said Fuck it and went home.
Monday morning, I am taping up this sign in the women’s bathroom:
Bring it on, honey.
Oh, hell no.
What does that mean???
I’ve been a bit depressed lately because of Mr. Swirly and all, so I thought a little Retail Therapy couldn’t hurt.
Tracking was set up to text me during all phases of shipment, so I knew the packages from last Friday were arriving today. I always make sure the Office Mate knows just in case I am out (I was today). My iPhone dinged at me on my way back to the office from an offsite meeting.
I do know the UPS driver by name. “What can brown do for me?” Make me do a happy dance, that’s what!
I don’t know anyone who gets more excited about the UPS truck driving up than I do.
Unfortunately, the LP dress was slightly too short when I got home and tried it on. By “slightly,” I mean I could lean over and everyone would see my girly bits. Taking it back tomorrow. Sad, too, because it’s the striped nautical dress on top of the stuff in the bag ‘o shit, and I just know the non-BF would have said, “Hey, sailor!“ when he saw me in it.
Four dresses (not counting the girly-bits-showing-dress that I am taking back tomorrow), one pair of cotton/linen pants and a lightweight summer cardigan. $284. Some kind of Magical Online Shopping Discount Fairy showed up at checkout and gave me 40% off, totally unexpected.
So I drive home and stop off at the parents’ house on the way home to get their mail. I pull into my driveway afterward and see this huge box on my front porch. I wasn’t expecting any more deliveries and I always send my shipments to the office in case some hooligan decides to take off with my purchases before I can get home.
Did I drunk-shop again this weekend? WTF?
Several months ago, the non-BF signed me up for Wine Of The Month Club so I could get 5,000 miles on an airline we use. He’s pretty nice like that. He calls them my “rations.”
“Just three shipments, and you’ll get your miles and then I can stop it.”
Um, this is the fourth or fifth one, and normally I only score six bottles.
TWELVE BOTTLES. Count ’em, baby. Count. Them.
This should last me through the weekend. Heh!
I can’t find a fucking theme I like. Nothing is pink enough.
Busy weekend for once. Normally, I just lie around in my PJs and complain that I never do anything, while turning down offers to get my ass out of the house. Anyway…
The non-BF and I had dinner with friends on Friday night (swanky, 5-star restaurant, so I had to refrain from requesting Tabasco sauce). Mr. Tail went to the vet on Saturday, then out to some friends’ house for a dinner at their quarterly Gourmet Club. I ate enough fattening stuff this weekend, I really shouldn’t be eating at all this week. Plus the cocktails! My Booze Belly is growing.
Speaking of bellies, I found this at my parents’ house:
I asked my dad if I could take it home. “I need it for my blog.” He told me he wanted it back. Like it was a prized childhood book, or something. He’s not going to be happy.
I tried to remember what I’d write about on the old non-girlfriend, and all I could remember is a lot of ranting, some lists, and Snarky’s Word of the Day, Bitches. To get back in the swing of things, I’ll do a list today.
21 Things About Me
- I quit smoking at least once a week.
- I exaggerate a LOT, and I love hyperboles.
- I’m a Checker. It used to take me about ten minutes to get out of my house; I’ve whittled it down to five. Progress!
- If the non-BF doesn’t pick up the phone in the morning when I call him, I stalk-call him until he does. This is alternated with texts like “Why aren’t you picking up?” and “I’m sorry if I said something last night when I was drunk,” or “Are you mad at me?” Most guys would run for the hills at the first sign of this behavior but he finds it endearing. At least, that is what he tells me. After he makes fun of me for doing it.
- When I find some article of clothing I like, I buy it in every color. If I really like a particular color, I’ll buy two.
- I’m OCD and a shopaholic.
- Live Cams on my iPad is my current obsession. Well, one of them. I tracked down one while on vacation last year and screen-shotted myself waving at the cam. I also call one guy in Switzerland that I stalk and ask him to wave at the camera.
- It is rare that I eat dinner, or eat after five o’clock.
- Nothing pisses me off more than someone telling me I can’t do something.
- Except people who are mean to animals, children and old people.
- When I was growing up, if someone called me weird, I would cry. Now I thank them.
- I have 12 tattoos. If you met me, you would never guess. I look about as white-bread suburban as they come.
- I have a shrine for my two dead dogs. It’s in my living room. I put kibbles in Mr. Swirly’s bowl, kind of like they do for the Krishna or Buddha.
- My first short story was written at the age of five. It was about a snake I found on my front porch that I turned into a belt. Even then, I was thinking about accessories!
- When I am really mad, my eyes go from dark brown to black. If you ever see that happen, watch out.
- Never underestimate my level of patience. I can out-stare just about anyone. Even a fucking cat.
- My shopping addiction does not end at clothes, purses, shoes and jewelry. My freezer looks like a crazy person lives here.
- So do my bathroom cabinets.
- My favorite numbers are 5, 7, 8, 11 and 13. I am also fond of the number 25.
I leave you with this:
The other night, I went to Furr’s Cafeteria with my parents. I love cafeterias because there are so many old people there. Plus I love to watch people go back for third and fourth plates, piled high with fried shit and gravy. I typically won’t eat for a day after a cafeteria visit. Maybe an apple. Or some CHEESE. It always helps to visit one when my clothes are feeling a bit tight.
Anyway, since my mom discovered the internet the last couple years, she signs up for stuff. (I am supposed to sign up at Furr’s site because she wants more coupons but that really isn’t a high priority now – I will wait until she starts bitching about it. I wonder if she realizes I’ll actually have to be present to use the coupon, and I limit my cafeteria visits to about four a year, you know, after Major Eating Holidays.) She had a coupon for buy-one-get-one-free, so the three of us head off to dinner at four-thirty.
I can’t say anything because I rarely eat dinner anymore, but I kinda felt like I was in a Seinfeld episode.
We get up to the cashier to pay for our dinners and I am standing off to the side, looking to see if there is anything I can make fun of when we sit down, and the cashier asks my mom, “So, three seniors?”
What. The. Fuck. My head snapped around at her so fast I thought I might give myself a migraine.
Okay, so I’m not exactly a spring chicken, but this bitch takes excellent care of her skin and has for years. I get carded for wine on a regular basis.
Me: Um, THREE seniors? I’m not that young but I’m not a senior.
Dumbass And Most Likely Blind Cashier: Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am. I wasn’t looking at you.
First of all, I must be invisible, because I was standing right beside her. Second, to make matters worse, she pulls out the “ma’am” card??? It was depressing.
I think I’m going to throw on a Hollister t-shirt, a pink ball cap and go get carded for booze.