A Funny Thing Happened On The Road To Aunty Spinster's.

So I'm sure I might have mentioned that I'm looking for a roommate? Maybe once, or twice, or eleventy billion times.... Well, you know when you're forced in one way that is totally against the way you want for yourself, forced so forcefully that the pressure builds up until--finally--there is this little internal *plink* and something inside you snaps clean in two? Well, it's happened to me about 4 times in the last two months, but the most recent little snap was caused by what happened last night.

It's a really long and funny story, but you know, really long so I'll cut to the heart of it. My actual Landlord brought people over last night to look at the house. This is a change from my roommate search, as this time it required that all persons in said group would parade themselves through All The Rooms in the house. All. The. Rooms. Including my bedroom, which up till this point had been out of jurisdiction, so to speak.

So yeah, I didn't bother to clean it. It never occurred to me that I would need to. And I'm actually kinda glad I didn't. Because while they were in there opening my closet and doing laps around the room, my unmentionables were strewn across the bed in the exact position that I had left them that morning. And I'm not talkin' 'bout the pretty "for company" unmentionables. I can take the smallest amount of pleasure knowing as uncomfortable as I was for them to BE in my ROOM, I'm sure at least one of them was uncomfortable BEING in there.

As they were discussing the relative smallness of the closet, I can only imagine one of them thinking, "Jesus, well we know why the Bra is on the Queen-sized bed, it wouldn't fit in that tiny closet."

The Pull Of The Moon

Yesterday was one of those days when everything is just slightly off-kilter. I had an appointment that went less than smoothly. I went to work, and had to deal with being short-staffed.

And then I finally get home after a long long long day, and my Laurence Olivier collection had finally arrived UPS, and I'm so excited that something finally went right, and that was when LullaBelle decided to escape what she would call her "incarceration." Apparently, having someone feed you on a regular basis, provide you with many sunny window ledges in which to nap, and clean facilities just isn't worth it when that moon pulls to your baser animal side.

I saw her make a mad dash under my roommate's car, and I really couldn't see a damn thing, but I didn't want to go in the house to turn on a light as I was afraid she might take that as an opportunity to run into the street.

So there I am, at 11:30 pm, out in my dark driveway, nearly on my hands and knees pleading, "Please don't do this to me today, of all days, I just can't take any more today, just don't make this difficult for me!" When I hear this, "Uh, are you OK?"

Apparently, I was loud enough that my neighbor, who I've never actually met, heard me and thought I was having some sort of altercation in my driveway. It was super nice that he actually came over to make sure I was alright, I just felt like a total idiot when he saw me on the ground and I'm all, "Oh, yeah, my cat escaped. She's under the car, my cat is. She won't come out. She's really hard to see, but she's under there. Really." If it wasn't against ordinance, I imagine he'd be out first thing working on a privacy fence.

Sing it, Bob Geldof; "Tell me why I don’t like Mondays. I wanna shoo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oot the whole day down"

Had Retail, Now Need Therapy

Dear Old Navy,

May we talk? Just us girls? I don't mean to be rude, but your jeans...THEY ARE STUPID! Why on Earth would you take perfectly normal descriptive labels and exchange them for totally cryptic and meaningless words? Relaxed boot-cut, I know exactly what that means. The Dreamer? WTF?!?

I am neither a 'Diva,' a 'Flirt,' nor a 'Skinny-assed Bitch.' Not only did I purchase a pair of jeans called, 'The Boyfriend,' but also one called 'The Diva.'

{Which, may we stop here and just address how ridiculous idea of 'Boyfriend Jeans' is --I would NEVER wear my boyfriend's jeans. Because my boyfriend is taller and, um, not 'curvy,' and that's the way it is supposed to be. Boys have junk in the front, I have junk in the trunk. There IS a difference.}

Now to 'The Diva,' which also happened to be 3 SIZES BIGGER than the pants I wore INTO the dressing room! This does not make me feel like a Diva. Unless you mean 'Diva' in the Opera Singer kind of way. Then yes, I do feel like a very large woman wailing in hysterics.

Now look what you made me do, Old Navy. You made me say hurtful things about Opera. Now I need to write Opera a letter of apology.

I try to tell myself that it's just a number, but I know the first time I wear them in public I'll imagine my thighs rubbing together in rhythm to "fat.ass.fat.ass." Which is sure to earn 'The Diva' a permanent spot in my closet.

I hate to say it, but your cheap prices may not be enough to heal the hurt I feel.

And now I sound like a country song, It never ends with you, Old Navy!

Brief Glimps Into My Head, Moving Edition

If you've been paying attention (or, let's be honest, if you give a rat's patoot), I am going to be moving in few weeks. In preparation, I have been going through my crap, sorting and purging.

I've learned a little bit about myself doing this. First and foremost, I have too much shit. A lot of it doesn't take up a lot of space, individually speaking. Which has, to this point, been the primary rationalization for Not Throwing It Out. But when you pile a whole bunch of small things together, they will make a mountain. Or a fort. Depending how much time you have on your hands, and how desperate you are to avoid sorting.

Then I opened a box, and found I have credit card statements going back about 7 years. For accounts that no longer exist. And let's not forget to mention the other box I opened last week, that had remained UNOPENED for nearly 8 years. This particular box moved with me 4 times, Without Ever Being Opened. Let's just let that sink in, shall we.

Upon further analysis, I've concluded that the majority of my crap is composed of four primary elements;
Paper (old bills, paperwork, notes, books--many, many books)
Fabric (yarn, yarn, and more yarn, clothes, blankets)
Glass (candle holders, vases, other decorative accouterments)
Plastic (sad to say this is mostly in the form of toys).

I would estimate the collective composition of my crap to be 50% Paper, 35% Fabric, 10% Glass and 5% Plastic. (In case you were wondering, Yes, my day job has been heavy into the data analysis lately. But let's also not forget that I am the Queen of Obsessive Thinking as well as a Master Level Procrastinator. And if I had a visual, I would provide it. But that would just be too much, even for me. I mean, seriously, who charts out clutter in Excel, whether by Bar Graph, Pie Chart, or Line Graph to determine the most visually appealing way to explain said clutter? Certainly not I.)

In conclusion, my only course of action is to Eliminate Useless Crap. I am calling this Operation EUC (pronounced Eyuck, which is pretty much how I feel about this activity). I hate throwing things out. I think I have Pack Rat in my DNA. What if I will use it again? What if it will come in handy at some point in the future (be it 5 days, or five years)? These are forces I'm battling against. And I Shall Prevail! No matter the emotional cost! I will not negotiate with Clutter! The Clutter will not win!

But mark my words, if I ever become famous, future generations will weep for the lost information of my spending habits during college. And it will be a great loss.....

It's The Stupid, Economy

Paul Krugman, he that I adore, wrote a column about Americans spending less. One of the highlights of that article--

"...real spending on durable goods (stuff like cars and TVs) fell at an annual rate of 14 percent. To appreciate the significance of these numbers, you need to know that American consumers almost never cut spending... Also, these numbers are from the third quarter — the months of July, August, and September. So these data are basically telling us what happened before confidence collapsed after the fall of Lehman Brothers in mid-September, not to mention before the Dow plunged below 10,000. Nor do the data show the full effects of the sharp cutback in the availability of consumer credit, which is still under way."

¡Oh, Dios mío

I've often said that working retail can suck your soul, but I recently had an experience that makes me believe that the worst is yet to come. And this ominous feeling I have is, in a round-about way, being confirmed by what Mr. Krugman writes.

Let me 'splain--As we enter this holiday season, people are going to be more limited than ever with their funds. They, as I, will be trying to get the most bang for their buck. But here's the part that has a little more to do with geography. The store I work at has a somewhat difficult and demanding clientele. So, my fear is that their usual sense of entitlement will be magnified by the rough economy, and they will demand even more out of us poor retail slaves.

I'm thinking it's not out of the realm of possibility that some old crone will order me to get her a book, a latte, and rub her wrinkly claw feet while I'm at it.

Air Quotes Of Doom

A majority of blogs that I read have made reference to the last presidential debate. I didn't really want to weigh in on that issue here, as this is a happy place where I laugh at my own misadventures.

When I watched the debate on Thursday, I had an almost physical reaction when John McCain used air quotes when speaking about the "health" of a pregnant woman (I'm sure you've all seen it by now, but just in case, here's the link). I thought, at first, that my reaction was a bit over the top. But after reading the blogs of some very articulate women, I realized that many, many women had the same reaction that I did.

I don't mean to open the can of worms that is the abortion debate. My reaction was on a simple, primal level--and it was this, John McCain must have a very low opinion of women. To simply dismiss an entire gender, and their right to chose to live, burns me up in so many ways......GRRRR.

So, here, I'm saying what many other women are saying--If you have a uterus, think very seriously about the kind of man you want to be our next President.

Two Elderly Gentlemen Discussing Escalator Maintenance

Today got off to a rough start.

I think I totally fried my iPod. ARRGGGHHHHH! Then, pulling the trash can off the curb, I got dirty and had to change. When I got to the office, I realized that I look like I was dressed by a family of clowns--pink and brown plaid pants, kelly green undershirt, and turquoise snowflake turtleneck sweater. If Tim Gunn saw me he would weep at the atrocity.

But as I was walking through Cobo Hall, I overheard two gentlemen discussing the state of the escalator. "The skirt is nice and tight." "Yeah, but this truss is showing a little wear."

It made me smile.

Oh Nips! Yes, I'm Going There.

Yesterday Sweets said to me, "I can't get rid of this headache." My response, "Yeah, my nips hurt earlier, and I don't know why."

Whoa, you say. Why would you say that to a guy? Well, it's OK. We get our periods at the same time, so he totally knows about sore boobs ;)

And without missing a beat he said to me, "Well, I noticed when you get involved in your book group, you start tweaking 'em."

And it just illustrates my gullibility that for 2.5 seconds I seriously had to think--Wait! Did I actually tweak my nips during my book discussion?!!!!?

If You Give a Moose a Muffin....Don't Be Surprised When It Dies Of Sugar Shock

Click on the post title to read the story from The Mining Journal.

Basically, a moose and her calves wondered into downtown Ishpeming and some idiots were following her taking pictures. This mad mob all wanted to see a REAL LIVE MOOSE, and got in the way of the police and DNR. Police had to euthanize the mother moose after it had been herded near a schoolyard by the mad mob.

Here's the thing, I lived in the UP for 4 years, and during that time I saw a REAL LIVE BLACK BEAR, a REAL LIVE WOLF, a REAL LIVE COYOTE. And not once did I feel the need to chase these creatures to get their pictures. And none of those animals is a big as an Effin MOOSE!

Why, WHY would you want to get close to such a massive animal, a massive animal that is in Protect My Babies! mode?

The kicker is some idiots have the nerve to blame police for being forced to kill the animal.

Irregular

Okay, so remember Cuter Than Kanye? Well, today is the Second Day In A Row that I've run into him outside the ladies restroom.

Then I realized that when I'm at the office, I pee nearly the same time everyday. How messed up is that?

Letter To A Douche

Dear Douchebag,

Don't ever call me "Nikita, as in La Femme Nikita" ever, ever again. It is not my name. It is not funny. I do not think it is cool. And no, I've never seen the movie, and really don't care that it's about female empowerment. Which, by the way, you Douche, it is not.

Yes, I do know how to take a compliment. If you say, "Nice pants," I will reply with "Thanks." If you tell me five fucking times in a single sentence that you like my pants, I will have to tell you to shut it.

Seriously, do not talk to me. Please, just don't. The next time you say something douche-worthy, I will post the address to the site where I found this photo. And encourage others to mock.

Sincerely,
Not Nikita, as in La Femme Nikita

Oh No, 3-Oh!

I was sitting sideways on my couch, with my legs stretched out in front of me and crossed at the ankle. I had just done a self pedi and was looking at my cute toes (I swear, I’m not into feet, I just have some cute little piggies!), when I noticed something a little off.

Namely, my calves. They have cellulite. I didn’t even realize this was possible. And no, I will not be posting a picture.

Now, I'm a shapely lass, but I do have my attributes (ahem, meet The Girls). I gained the obligatory college weight, which I've managed to lose. Yay, Me! I don’t make noise when I wear cords anymore (I have this really sweet pair of pink ones, totally cool!).

Then I looked at my cords, and the reason they don’t make noise anymore is because the friction of my thighs has rubbed off the ridges. So. Not. Cool.

So OK, I'll just take the advice of a friend. Her motto is "Better Living Through Chemistry!" But then I find this article:
http://online.wsj.com/article/SB121909632709750943.html?mod=rss_Health

This was when I realize--F***! I’ve got to turn off the Alias and get my fatty calves off the couch! Because if the Wall Street Journal says cellulite creams don't work, then they probably don't work. And because I'm going to be 30 in a couple a months, and I AM NOT going to have cellulite calves in my 30's! (Just a note--This is as close to crisis as I will get about turning 30. I think 30 is going to totally rock!)

The funny thing is, the only thing that could distract me from this personal horror was watching a totally gory movie where people get eaten by cave-creatures! I think I would prefer being attacked by cave-creatures to working out.

Girlie Man

Somebody told me I should see this movie. Actually, she said, ‘I know you don’t like scary movies, but you need to see this scary movie!’ I’m not a fan of scary movies, and I really don’t like gory movies. The movie she was referring to is called The Decent, and yeah, there’s a lot of blood.
So, Sweets mentioned he wanted to see it, and volunteered to watch it with me in the bright light of day. So I found myself again watching a scary movie on Sunday.

And, as far as scary movies go, it was really good. I think what helped, is that he actually jumped higher than me at the really scary parts. And an adult male who sounds a little bit like a girl when he screams, can take the edge off a really terrifying movie.

I Would Have Peed My Pants (If I Had Been Wearing Any)

Let me just put this out there—I am afraid of the dark. Which, thinking about it is ironic, because I like the nightlife, baby. But fundamentally, it rubs me wrong. I need to know things, and you can’t know what’s in the dark. Because it’s, umm, dark. And scary.

Let me set the scene (que Humphrey Bogart noir voice-over):
-It’s 11:30pm Sunday night.
-I’ve been watching scary movies and knitting all day. (There are exactly two scenarios in which -I can watch scary movies—1. It’s a bright sun-shiny day and birdies are chirping, or 2. I have someone to watch them with me.)
-My roommate is in the process of moving out, ergo I am Home Alone.
-I have closed all the blinds (because ScaryDarkThings might be looking in) and turned on all the lights (so ScaryDarkThings can’t lurk in dark corners).
-I decide I’m finally ready for bed, and go to take a shower.

And this is when my entire block lost power.

I’m half-naked, in my bathroom, and the lights go out. Again, did I mention I’m afraid of the dark? And I had been watching scary movies all day. Alone.

I froze in attack position. It was like, instinctual or something. Then several thoughts hit me at once—
‘shit.’
‘clothes? Where are my clothes? I can’t look for a flashlight, in the dark, nekked!’ (by the way, I found my bra three days later on the kitchen counter. I seriously have no idea…)
‘maybe if I reach down and grab a kitty tail, they can lead me out of the bathroom, like Lassie or some shit’

I fumbled along the hallway (which by the way, I don’t remember that f***er being so long) to the kitchen hoping to find a lighter. Lucky for me, it was a full moon. But, out of my irrational fear of monsters, I had closed all the blinds (‘cause seriously, some dudes just found a Bigfoot carcass, that shit could be real and looking in my windows! http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2008/08/080818-bigfoot-dna.html ).

I managed to open the blinds, found a lighter wand, made my way to my bedroom and lit some candles. Yay, me!

An hour later, the power was back on and I had to leave the cave of protective blankies and turn off every light I had turned on ‘cause I am a big, fat, Chicken!

So, a few things I have learned—
I do not like living alone.
I would not make a good spy (insert appropriate sad smiley here).
Cats are not comforting in a crisis like this--they are super stealth, and have night vision.

But I’m not as big a chicken as I thought (the proof is the fact that I didn’t just drop into the fetal position on the bathroom floor!).

The Day The Lawn Won

This weekend was kinda rough. Last week we had a tree limb fall off of it's big happy host tree and on to our entire back yard, taking the power lines with it. (I'll tell you what a party is--live wires in your back yard! w00t!)

Anyway, it seemed that everyone from the power company guys to the tree guys to the neighbor man had some snarky comment for our LandLady, and it's not what you would think. Every stranger to enter out backyard made some statement as to the condition of our grass. Yes, I know it's long. Ha Ha, your kid would get lost back here. I GET it. If you'd be so kind as to cut the very large tree limb up and remove it from our yard, I will mow it. And no, I don't need to borrow your chainsaw.

So, this weekend I mowed the lawn. At least I tried. What started out as a pleasent enough afternoon of a movie, a light lunch and plenty of water in prepration, turned into some cheezy B-movie horror flick.

To begin with, waist-high weeds and a mulching push mower are not exactly a match made in heaven. Blisters ensued. Also, the mower clogged. At which point I turned it off, and (really, this part is genius) ran my fingers along the blade. Yes. Ran. My. Fingers. Along. The. Blade. This was followed by me starring at the blood dripping from the tip of my finger. I went into the house to clean and bandage my wound, was hit by the frigid air of the blessed AC, and proceeded to the bathroom. So, I'm running my hands under the water and this bitch just won't quit bleeding. All the blood in combination with the temperature change, and I nearly passed out. Bathroom tile cool and good, being verticle bad.

Finally, I recover enough to decently clean my finger, and I'm reaching for the anticeptic-that slips out of my hand, bounces off the counter, launches my glasses into air to smack on to the tile and snap in two. They snapped in two!

Now, I'm mad. The lawn will not win! I go back outside to finish the job. And I'm out of gas. Damn you, unseasonably wet summer causing lush green fast growing lawn!

Oh no no no no no no no....Please, God NOOOOO!!

So much has happened in the last week, I was having a very difficult time deciding what to post. Then I saw this article in the New York Times, and it felt like the world's axis tilted a little.



"Strawberry Shortcake was having an identity crisis. The “it” doll and cartoon star of the 1980s was just not connecting with modern girls. Too candy-obsessed. Too ditzy. Too fond of wearing bloomers. So her owner, American Greetings Properties, worked for a year on what it calls a “fruit-forward” makeover. Strawberry Shortcake, part of a line of scented dolls, now prefers fresh fruit to gumdrops, appears to wear just a dab of lipstick (but no rouge), and spends her time chatting on a cellphone instead of brushing her calico cat, Custard. Her new look was unveiled Tuesday, along with plans for a new line of toys from Hasbro.”--By BROOKS BARNES, Published: June 11, 2008


I feel a little violated, my childhood has been pillaged for profit. "Updating" characters is the newest strategy for toy companies because certain recent characters have not been selling. Could it be that even children are tired of this constant commercialism of our culture. TV as babysitter, teacher and even parent? Does anybody else see what is wrong with this picture?


Don't get me wrong, I'm not a prude. I just think that childhood should be full of innocent imagination and creative thinking. Running around OUTSIDE and learning things like ovens=hot pain, and mud=way fun.


Now, if you will excuse me, I feel the need to unpack all of my Strawberry Shortcake dolls and breathe deeply of their sugary sweetness. And Rose Petal Place. Man--they better not mess with my Rose Petal Place.