Babies in China Need Homes

Pregnancy . . . it's a wonderful thing. A time to excitedly prepare for the baby's arrival, a time to pick the perfect name, a time to glow. Oh, and it's a time to throw up in your trash can next to your desk at work.

I don't want to puke anymore. I don't want to feel my stomach churning every day. I don't want to eat something every 2-3 hours to try to prevent puking. I want to lose weight, not gain a ridiculous number of pounds per month. I simply want to feel normal again.

Pregnancy is not for me in any way, shape or form. Having a child that genetically, physically and mentally resembles my husband and me is overrated.

After all, orphan babies all over the world await adoption. What the hell was I thinking?

Hiatus

How many months does it take to get me to blog again?

Apparently the answer is four.

What can I say, crap got in the way. Life got busy. I have had a few interesting experiences in the last four months - some even worthy of documentation. Yet, I didn't take the time to put fingers to keyboard and get that info. out. Pity. I guess. Maybe not. Maybe the world is better off not knowing.

For those interested, I will give a short list. The imporant stuff, if you will.

Highlights July 26 - November 17

• School started.
• Confirmed pregnancy.
• Celebrated 10th wedding anniversary.
• Husband had surgery (A-OK).
• Saw Weezer and Foo Fighters (excellent, worth every penny and more).
• Won title of faculty homecoming queen at school (so proud).
• Threw up a lot - pretty much every morning (seems to be subsiding).
• Ate a lot to prevent nausea (ongoing).
• Gained weight (ongoing).
• Celebrated daughter's 3rd birthday.
• Trick or treated with Harmony Bear (still trying to eat the crapload of candy).
• Got deathly ill with devil virus (not the medical name). Lost 3 days of life.
• Had a garage sale (made $145).
• Purchased iPod because it was totally necessary. 60 GB should be enough. Yes, it plays video. Want to watch?

I think that sums it up pretty well. Currently I am trying to decide if my habit of putting commentary in parentheses after each statement is cute or annoying. Not an easy decision. I will need to spend further time in contemplation. As I continue that, I think I will switch on the ol' iPod for inspiration.

Who's into Porn?

My taste in movies does not necessarily match that of my friends and family. I often seek out the lesser known, independent films. I give them a try. Sometimes they're great, and I am glad I discovered something worth watching. Other times I see a few not-so-good ones. Since my viewing preferences don't usually fit those of my brothers, I really should quit trying to pass on my eccentric movie tastes to them. I continue to recommend films to them anway, hoping they will see one and actually like it. So many great films are out there - I just want to share the good movies with people I love. Why can't they see that?

It started when I told my brother to watch Fargo. C'mon, it's a good flick. He hated it and told me so. I figured he would love Swingers. Again, he informed me it sucked. I recommended Memento to both of my siblings. They didn't like that either, but they never actually started at the beginning and watched it all the way through - kind of a problem with that movie. I made them both watch Frailty and The Salton Sea in my company. The smartass remarks went on for days. Now it's just a family joke that whatever I say is good probably isn't, especially if my brothers have never heard of it. So uncultured. So un pop-cultured. Poor souls.

So tonight I was telling my brother about Wonderland, which is based on a true story. I am so a sucker for that. For some reason I truly love stories that have truth in them, even if it is only a little bit. One of my recent book purchases describes the truth and myth behind 100 movies. So I brought up the movie, and my brother said he hadn't ever heard the title. He said, "It's probably like that other one - The Salton Sea." After reminding him that that was a very good film, I described Wonderland which is about four people bludgeoned to death in California in 1981, a case that involved John Holmes who was a famous porn star. I didn't know anything about this guy and his films before watching the movie.

My brother said, "Oh, like I haven't heard of that guy."

I replied, "Have you?"

Laughing, he said, "Yeah. Haven't you?"

I said, "No."

"Well, I guess you're not as into porn as I am," he said.

"I guess not."

Aside from the fact that my brother's trivial knowledge of porn stars is disgusting, I realize something else. I have solid evidence now. I have always wondered why my very own brother wouldn't enjoy the same types of movies as I. It's because he likes different movies, a totally different type of movies.

That's just gross.

I Need to File a Claim

The Happy Train crashed. I should be in the hospital with severe injuries considering the extent of the crash. Since it was all just a metaphor, I am not. Instead, I am sitting here eating peanut butter off of a spoon at 4:52 in the afternoon knowing full well I will be eating my evening meal soon. I call it supper even though some of you assholes out there call it dinner.

Even worse, I have almost made a conscious decision to just eat whatever the hell I want. I say almost because I then think of how I cute I actually looked when I was trying on the new school clothes I bought yesterday. Yes, teachers go school clothes shopping. Anyway, I do not want to gain five pounds before school starts. Ok. I guess I am back to eating better . . . for now.

So, damn life. Damn the depressing parts of it. Damn the little things that set me off and pissed me off. I am sorry, folks. The Happy Train travels no more. Find your own good time transportation. It's official. I am in no condition to offer people companionship or direction on the road of positivity.

Oops. I screwed up.

30

So what you're telling me then is that I'm old?

All right. Ok. I think I can wrap my mind around that.

Yep. Old. Thirty. I know it's true because that's what my profile says. I see it right there on the screen, in print.

30.

I don't care much because today is DAY 6 of my new positive me. I have to tell you, I am doing well with it. I am not just saying that to come off good or make myself feel better. Less complaining, no depressing thoughts, more looking at what's good in life. Happiness abounds in my house and in my mind. I am working to keep it that way too.

Hey now, c'mon, jump on the Happy Train with me. It will be fun. I have no idea where the hell it's going, but you can come along. I promise good times (I really have no way of promising anything, but it sounds nice and adds a whole new level to the sales pitch).

Does the Thermometer Go That High?

We bought a handy-dandy indoor/outdoor thermometer that provides us with the temperature in and out (duh), the humidity, the moon phases (why?) and a 10-24 hour forecast (shown with a little picture at the top). Man, this sucker is really cool. Reasons this is a necessary item in Phoenix:

1. You get to see the forecast without watching the irritating weather people (no offense, meteorologists of the world).
2. Blazing sun graphic (said forecast) reminds you what the next day will bring.
3. You just might see a negative humidity reading. What?
   -3%?
4. You see that the thermometer really does register 119.3.
5. Daily you can call yourself a dumb ass for moving here (or staying here).

So, you see, it's really a good purchase after all. Can I have my $45 back, please?

Yes, We're Packing

One of my bestest friends and I went out shootin' (as they say out there) at the shooting range. We went out for Thursday, Ladies' Night and had a kick-ass time.

I should say that my friend and I are similar but different. Wow, that sounds very stupid. Let me explain. She is more risk-taking than I. She doesn't care what other people think. I try to impress and hate to disappoint. She does what she wants and what makes her happy. I do what I want sometimes but usually try to make other people happy. We balance each other out very well because we meet in the middle. Also, we influence each other just enough to help one another see the other side.

Having said that, I should have expected we would have an interesting night, but I went in figuring we would go out, get our firearms, set up targets, perfect our stances, take aim and target shoot. After all, that's what I did when I went out for the orientation by myself. Instead, she loaded her magazine, held the gun with one hand, turned her head toward me (not the target) and fired off the 10 rounds as fast as possible. Under duress, I, too, fired away with lightning speed. Then I returned to my watchful, careful stance.

We were having a great time. She was firing like crazy while I was carefully aiming to hit the bullseye. She then said, "Ok. Now we're going to hold it like this (picture gangsta movie style) like we're shooting out of a car window."

"No way," I said. I was worried they were going to kick our asses out of there. Afterall, we were using their guns and had promised to take firearm safety seriously as we were ushered into the Annie Oakley Sure Shots.

"Hold it with your left hand and shoot like we're criminals stealing a car," she demanded.

Peer pressure is alive and well - even at age 29 (almost 30, damn it). I finally agreed to hold the gun with my left hand and shoot (but I refused to hold it sideways). It made me nervous though. Hey, I don't do anything with my left hand, let alone shoot a gun.

Our night at the range proceeded from there to Grand Theft Auto and then a little later, Grand Theft Auto: Spanish Version.

I admit, it was fun as hell. We were laughing our asses off. We were at a shooting range in 110 degree heat with safety glasses and ear protection pretending we were gangstas firing our 9s. Pretty damn funny. That's what she's good for - making me relax and forget what other people think. I need that. I need that a lot.

It Builds Up

All right, I am just going to say it - I hate cleaning the shower. I have always disliked it because it is a job that lacks enjoyment. The task is difficult. I realize I make it more difficult because I allow too much time to pass in between cleanings. Even so, it sucks.

I never really can get all the soap scum off the fiberblass walls and floor. Isn't that material supposed to be easier to maintain versus other products? Well, it's not. I rinse. I squeege. I have tried the clean shower after spray. The ineffectiveness of that is not worth the cost and effort. I have purchased soaps that produce less scum - yes, they make them. I have waxed the walls. I have done all I can to try to make the job of keeping it clean an easy one. However, I have failed. It's not easy. In fact, it's impossible.

The soap builds up and the interior gets a little dull and dingy. I can't prevent it. As I cleaned it today, I really wondered why I bother. I couldn't get it sparkling. It will just get crappy again. Showering in it with soap makes it so. Some really smart chemist or cleaning agent engineer needs to invent a body soap that also works as a shower cleaner - not too weak, not too harsh. I am sure they can do it. I have bought all the other crap. I will gladly buy that.

Until the magic cleaner comes on the market, I think I will just continue to let it build up and shower in the scum. After all, it is soap. It can't be that bad.

An Open Letter to the Makers of Sensodyne

Your extra-whitening version of the wonderful Sensodyne is a magnificent product. I am writing this just so you know how much your company, GlaxoSmithKline, has helped me make it through a difficult time in my life.

My mouth has caused me pain for nearly one month now. I have returned to the dentist twice and finally feel I am on the road to recovery. This is certainly due to the drilling away of the irritatant filling but also, more importantly, to the wonders of your toothpaste for those of us who suffer through the sensitivity. Hot, cold, sweets - no matter - Sensodyne tackles them. Of course, it doesn't work immediately. But in time, I have noticed a splendid difference. If a drop of a cold beverage or, heaven forbid, ice cream lands upon my tooth, I can now handle the temporary pain. I quickly remove the culprit and my mouth returns to its semi-normal state.

The extra whitening aspect will surely make my pearly whites more presentable. Again, it's not immediate. I must wait for the results. I didn't think I necessarily needed the "extra whitening" but I could not find the "whitening" product, so I will make do.

Surely a large number of people also take advantage of the benefits of your toothpaste. I am sure none will mind if I thank you on their behalf and mine. Thank you, makers of Sensodyne. You make my life worth living. For that I am grateful.

Date with Death - Stood Up -

My maker and I just slightly missed out on the opportunity to share an afternoon cup of coffee.

That’s right, I could have died today. The death car, as I like to call it, came speeding and sliding around a blind corner north of my neighborhood. I was heading north, on my way to the evil Wal-Mart, when I thought I was going to die. The 1997-99 Pontiac Grand Am was red in color, quite fitting considering my blood could have blanketed the asphalt. Oh the symbolism. The two bastard teenage boys nearly ran off the road, regained control then sped past me as I desperately hugged the shoulder, slowing down to about 10.

Obviously I lived. They missed me by about 100 feet. This turned out to be one of those “what if” situations. What if I had been driving the normal 10 over the speed limit? For some reason I consciously adhered to the 25 mph residential speed limit. What if I had left the house 30 seconds earlier? I could be dead.

This was serious. The reason I know this is because I actually worried first about my life and not the damage the car may have sustained. That’s a tell-tale sign for me.

Gals with Guns

For a little recreation last night, I took part in Ladies' Night. No, it wasn't at a local watering hole. Rather, a group of us got together out at the shooting range.

No, I am not kidding. Each Thursday is Ladies' Night, specifically for Annie Oakley Sure Shots at the shooting range north of Phoenix. I attended a one hour introduction to firearm safety with about nine other women. Then we hit the range where they gave us 50 rounds of .22 ammo and our pick of revolvers, semi-automatics or rifles. I chose the semi-automatic Ruger. I did pretty well. I hadn't shot a gun since I went out shooting in the woods with my brother in Georgia. Of course, I don't think the targets were more than 10 yards away, so I should have done all right.

Now that I am a member of the Sure Shots (a firearm program for women, by women), I can shoot free Thursday nights from 7-9. I can use their guns, but I am thinking about getting my own piece. I have to do some shopping around though.

The interesting group of volunteer women out there who help make the program possible range from older, mature women who looked fairly normal to one woman who possibly had received a gunshot wound to the head in 1986 which left her stuck with feathered hair, thick green eyeliner, tight jeans, sequined top and a lacy scarf tied around her waist. Odd group, those gals. Helpful though - I have to give them that. Debbie, from the 80s, even let her newbies shoot her "baby Eagle." I have no idea what it is, but it's loud.

The coaches gave us information on upcoming special sessions at the range. They offer a pistol class and a rifle class and some other programs. I laughed when one woman mentioned the machine gun class. She didn't crack a smile. I swear as she was listing the types she said something about an "Israeli made" machine gun. Why? Why would we need this? I have no idea, but it's likely a rare experience. I may look into it.

Guess I will report back after next Thursday. I do plan to go back. Guns are fun.

Self-diagnosis

I think I speak for a few of us when I say we have a tendency to fall into the self-diagnosis trap. We read about some ailment, see the symptoms, compare them to our situations and realize we are afflicted. Most of us don't do this everyday (those people are hypochondriacs for crying out loud), but some of us run across a plausible disease, and we sometimes see a link.

I don't usually fully diagnose myself as having the problem at that moment. Instead, I see the warning signs and realize I will likely contract the disease before too long. I go into this long description because I am telling you all right now, before it even happens, I will catch MRSA. What the hell is it, you all gasp. Oh, just a little infection that is resistant to most antibiotics and can take on a flesh-eating form.

Actually, I am pretty safe when it comes to this because I wash my hands, bathe, use soap, don't share towels, etc. I made it almost all the way through the People article (a damn reputable source for medical advice) without fear or worry. I scoffed at the poor, dirty souls who became infected. Then I read the quote from a Dad whose sons both contracted it. Al said, "If your kid has a painful pimple, see a doctor. Don't wait, because MRSA won't."

I put the magazine down and thought to myself, "I've had painful pimples. Hell, I have one right now" - the kind that develop deep under the surface, turn red and swell a little.

Life can just be so damn miserable. Not only am I a 29- (soon-to-be-30) year-old with constant bouts of acne, but I am going to die from it. I write this not as a sad mourning of my life but a warning for those of you out there with pimples that hurt. Good luck and good riddance.

My Teeth, My Pain

Yanking out each tooth in my mouth, one by one, is an inviting thought right now. I visited the dentist for the third time in less than three weeks today. Obviously I am not yet satsified with the outcome of these visits.

It started so innocently, routine really. I had a small cavity in my back molar, top left side. I went in for the filling, a small one, the dentist said. It went fine. No problems. Then the pain hit. My jaw ached and cold and/or hot made me cringe. I tried to deal with it and made myself deal because we went on vacation. What could I do there? I took shit loads of ibuprofen, that's what I did.

We arrived home Sunday, late. At 10:30 am Monday, I was in the dentist's chair getting an adjustment. I had to go back today for another adjustment. Both sides of my mouth ache. I can't explain it. The dentist can't explain it. The x-ray showed the tooth should be fine. She uttered the miserable words - root canal. Yet she said that seemed improbable. So, here I sit with the pain, the ache, the dull gnawing sensation.

I finally realize why people are afraid of the dentist. Next time I will have more sense.

Dreaming of Days Gone By

My recent trip back to Wyoming has made me miss my carefree childhood and happy high school times. I miss certain parts of living there, which I realized as I spent time taking in the country, breathing the fresh air, spending time outdoors and taking pride in my home state.

This always happens when I go back there. I remember the good times and think that I could recreate them for myself, for my daughter. Of course, that usually doesn't happen, but I imagine it anway.

Wyoming is great. The summer weather is perfect. It was in the 80s or 90s in the day then cooled to 50-60 at night while we were there. Crime is much less. My daughter could walk anywhere, ride a bike all over, without worry. Schools are small, safe and good. Family is there. Good memories are there.

As much as I let the nostalgia reign supreme, I know I could never move back to the small town of my youth.
A few reasons:
1. The wind blows all the damn time - makes people cranky.
2. I would have nowhere to shop.
3. Winter.
4. Zero professional sports teams reside in the state.
5. The closest large airport is over 3 hours away.
6. Mosquitoes.
7. I couldn't find a job.
8. If I did find a job, it would pay $10,000 less a year.
9. Everything is run-down or will be that way soon - stores, houses, schools.
10. You can't recreate the past (to quote Nick in The Great Gatsby).

It's been six years since we moved to the scorching desert (98 degrees at 9:30 am today). Of course, as one might figure, I have some complaints about here. The fact is, the grass is always greener. I don't care where I live, I am sure I will always think some other place offers better weather, less living costs, a better life. Whether that's the average person's belief or the cynic's belief, I don't know. I just know I usually imagine what is not me, what is not mine, is better.

Woman You Say?

Time away from the home front does wonders. I was able to get out of the house a couple times in the last few days and that truly improved my patience factor. I am happy to report that we are now on day two of peeing in the toilet and wearing panties. She has only had two carpet accidents (even though the house is over half tile) as of yesterday and none today. That, my friends, is good news.

I spent a large chunk of time and over $100 at the bookstore the other night. I love bookstores. I know not all people get as excited as I do about books, but I can't even tell you how much I anticipate and cherish looking through the titles on the shelves. I picked up a few I was looking for and stumbled upon David Sedaris' Naked. His sense of humor really fits what I think is funny, so I have actually found myself laughing out loud while reading his essays. So good.

I also spent over 2-1/2 hours at the hair stylist yesterday. I was growing my hair long but got tired of it, so I had her cut it short again. It's probably been over a year since I had my hair this short. Certainly it's due to the impending 3-0 that I looked in the mirror and decided I looked old. I have never, ever cared about my age or if shorter hair makes me look older, all that crap. Now, damned if I am concerned about the prospect of hitting 30 and being older. I don't feel like a woman. Even saying the words seems ridiculous. I call my friends girls. Referring to them or me as ladies or women is laughable.

When do I reach the stage where I no longer feel like a girl? Maybe it's the day after 30. I suppose I will find out soon enough - a month and a half to go in the twenties.

From One Extreme to Another

Right now I am at the beginning of an eight week vacation. I have lists of summer to-dos. The house is dirty. Dust bunnies run rampant on the tile, multiplying as quickly as all bunnies do.

I have completed the worst teaching year yet (even worse than the first year). I have gone from beyond busy to obligation-free. I have nowhere to be, no alarm clock to wake me up, no meetings to attend, no classes to teach. It feels good, damn good.

You're wondering what the problem is. With me, as you well know, some negative must exist within this disguised bliss. So true. The negative is now I am lazy. I feel like doing nothing. I did do the dishes, but I have yet to clean the bathroom, vacuum the floor, tidy up the kitchen countertops, etc. The bad part of this is that 1) I feel guilty for the laziness (thank you, Mom), 2) This is a pattern I know too well that leads me into a mode minus motivation (love that alliteration).

I guess I could get off my ass and go do something. Instead, I plan on finishing this post, wasting a few more minutes online then going to watch Days of Our Lives. Yes, it's awful. I know that. Regardless, I am going to watch it. I might as well feed the guilt with a guilty pleasure.

I suppose I will milk this laziness until I absolutely can't stand myself anymore. Then I will go on a cleaning spree and start tackling items on that list of mine. Until then, I recommend you all get a beverage, hit the couch and flip on the tv. Join me. We'll have good times.

Don't Speak Ill of the Ill

For over two weeks I have been battling the ridiculous, unfortunate crud that keeps moving through my body - from headaches to body aches to sore throat to constant cough, I have dealt with it and had enough. That's what I get for working in a germ-infested environment. Dang kids.

Much has happened since my last post. Too much to cover here, so I will talk about the largest tidbit.

I am a stalker.

Yep, you heard it here first. Apparently I have followed some guy around outside of our workplace just to watch him do whatever he was doing (shop, play basketball, what have you). Quite funny considering I actually like to steer clear of this person and really don't have the time to post online, nevermind drive around town following a gross man.

I decided to follow up on this as I don't like being accused of such things. I have a reputation to uphold, after all. Turns out I am not the only stalker. He has others. He might even have voices in his head who tell him who the stalkers are. Seems he is a bit unstable. Now I have no worries of false accusations because the people in charge don't take his comments seriously. Ok. That's good, I guess. Now I will just go about my business and hope he fixates on someone else.

Thank goodness for summer. It can't come soon enough.

Postal Problems

I grew up in a small town - a place where everyone had their own mailboxes on their porches or in front of their homes. Here the planned communities share rows of mailboxes a block away. Kind of a pain in the ass. Really a pain in the ass when the postal carrier puts the wrong mail in the wrong box. Usually I get a piece of mail every now and then that does not belong to me. It belongs two houses down or a street up.

Today none of my mail was mine when I opened the box. I took it all to the guys across the street and expected they'd have my mail. They didn't. Now I wonder where my mail is. Were there three credit card applications in there like normal? Did someone get one and will they send it in? What else of importance could have been in there delivered to who knows what person? I am paranoid, I know, but this state is the highest in the nation for identity theft. Maybe it's due to incompetent postal workers. Hell, I don't know.

Hey, it's Teacher Appreciation Day. Appreciate me.

Southern Style

According to The Birmingham News, a brother (age 44) and sister (age 41), spending the evening relaxing on the porch of the brother's mobile home, became so drunk that they found their minds wandering to dirty thoughts. One thing led to another (as it often does with sibling love), and they wound up inside the trailer having incest sex.

"This sure tastes mighty fine."

"Yessir, I do believe I am gettin' myself liquored up."

"That thar's a purty sunset."

"Sure 'nuf. So, how long ya stayin' fer?"

"Don't know. When's Lorna gettin' off her shift at the Winn Dixie?"

"Not 'til mornin'. She's stockin' them shelves all night."

"Oh. Well, what do ya wanna do?"

"I dunno. What do ya wanna do?"

"I's guessin' we could find somethin' to pass the time."

"Why, how 'bout we play a little game. Jus' liken we was kids?"

"Well, now, that sounds fine, fine."

"Get on over here and show yer big brother how much ya love 'em."

Apparently sis had the chute that her big brother wanted to slide down, so they didn't need silly board games to stay busy. It all went to crap when Lorna (not her real name) got home and found her husband and sister-in-law going at it in the bedroom. Alabama doesn't condone such behavior (as if you would even question such a thing), so they arrested the couple and charged them with felony incest. They both face up to 10 years in jail. The brother had recently been diagnosed with cancer and said he wanted to "go out crazy."

Two final thoughts come to mind here.
One: Though only some southerners spoil it for the rest of the region's citizens, the jokes come too damn easily not to mock these poor toothless souls.
Two: Getting your NASCAR driver's number tattooed on your ass is a better way to "go out crazy" than making the mattress squeak with your sister. Now that's just a darn good life rule. Live by it ya'll.

Unexplained Phenomenon

I decided to take advantage of the lovely 81 degree day and take a walk this afternoon. As I did so, I walked farther north than normal and passed through a neighborhood where I witnessed an inexplicable phenomenon. That's right - the male hangout in the garage.

Three different homes with their garage doors opened revealed little male havens within, equipped with recliners (or reclining couch for one lucky guy), televisions, refrigerators and beer signs on the walls. One garage was spotless with a shiny floor, area rug, stand-alone air conditioner and microwave. One garage was not occupied. Since the garage had a fridge in it, I imagine the only thing that would have caused Jimbo to go in was the need to relieve himself. I saw one guy sitting alone in his garage, about 2 feet in front of the tv, eating a meal off of a footstool. Another guy was sitting in his garage with a couple of his buddies.

These sights had me asking a few questions as I walked by these little hideaways.

1. Is the garage really another living room?

2. Do I actually live in a much larger house? Should I include the garage when I calculate square footage?

3. What causes men to spend their evenings relaxing in the same place most people park cars and store tools, lawn chemicals and bug sprays?

4. What's wrong with the INSIDE of the house? Just too damn comfortable? Doesn't provide a good enough view of the driveway?

5. Do men only do this in Phoenix?

6. Do the women in these households really have that much power that the men can't watch tv and drink beer on the new furniture?

That pretty much sums up the wonderings of my mind. I would appreciate any help in answering these critical-to-life questions.

Hot Stuff

Let's talk temperatures, folks. Mid-90s today in the valley of the sun. Wow, am I ever not ready for the onslaught of heat. I guess I better get used to it because the 100-degree days are just around the corner.

I'm trying to be positive because some people want me to tone down the negativity. Here it goes:

I drove home today and didn't get a flat tire.

I still have a job.

No one stole my car this week (you're right, it's only Thursday).

My hair looks cute today (ok, most days).

I have a nice house.

I have a nice car.

I have never paid a dime to credit card companies for interest.

I've never had to sell myself for drug money. Wait a minute, I have never had to sell myself for any kind of money.

As of the end of May, I will have two months off.

I have full mobility in my legs.

I'm a damn good speller.

Ok, see. That wasn't so hard after all. I actually do feel better. I am going to try to do that more often.

Thanks, chunk.

Cockroach Carcass Clean-up

Do you know how difficult it is to pick up a cockroach carcass off of the floor with a strategically folded piece of paper? Sudden spasms from the writhing insect make the task even more challenging. I don't enjoy doing this, but that's what I had to do at the workplace today. No, I don't work in food service. Thank goodness for that.

As I drove home today, I had a revelation. These epiphanies are golden. I wish they burst into my mind more often. Anyway, it is this. I am a cynic (not the revelation), and sometimes I am a confused cynic. And at times, I might even find myself happily confused. However, I am NEVER just happy. It's this sort of extreme negativity thing. I think I would rather be a bit bi-polar. Then I would at least have heightened happiness. I wouldn't enjoy the inevitable crashes or the nagging need to avoid taking my meds, but this seems somewhat appealing. True negativity dictates my thoughts; my efforts at being positive usually only last a short while. How do I become positive? I don't need to be giddy or fanciful or sprightly. I just want to be happy.

This is for all of you optimists out there. Where's the silver lining? Can you help me find it, touch it, treasure it? Because right now I just want to rip it out, tear it up and shove it in the garbage can.

The Inner-Workings of the Mind

Not THE MIND, in general, but the female mind. I have to wonder why the female mind (my mind) works as it does. Ok, well, I suppose the basic biology course taught me that - hormones and all that other crap.

NEW SUBJECT: Music. I stopped off at the local record store on the way home from work today. It made me feel old because it was full of a few teenagers and this trashy, tattooed, blonde woman who kept talking to her offspring on the telephone loud enough for all music-lovers to hear. I gather they're having spaghetti and garlic bread for supper but no salad. Jimmy doesn't like that, so no salad.

I did buy some CDs while I listened to the woman make dinner plans for the 8 occupants of her mobile home (stereotyping, I know - but I like to do it from time to time). I decided a little punk (Social D) and some 80s was in order. I kid you not, I bought the Vision Quest soundtrack, the Stand By Me soundtrack and wanted Outfield Play Deep. They didn't have that in stock. Jerks. Guess I am feeling like tripping down old memory lane with those choices. Lots of distant memories there. All right, so I have now confirmed that I am old. I have just under 4 months left in my 20s. Where exactly did the time go?

Setting Records

Yes, that's what I'm all about . . . setting records. Achieving high standards no others will be able to attain. I have now posted two, count them, two days in a row. Stupendous work on my part.

In addition, I have started writing again. I really do want to write. I know I have a novel in me, or maybe even a screenplay. I just need the right amount of writing time and inspiration. Maybe I can fit more writing into my busy schedule. It's just real life that keeps getting in the way. Damn responsibilities.

Thank you, Holden, for giving me direction.

No More Drinks on the Open Road

Headline: Montana set to outlaw drinking while driving

Excuse me? Did I read that correctly? Yep, sure did. The Montana legislature is just now taking steps to outlaw open containers for drivers on their highways. Seems certain cities and towns banned it in the city limits, but out on the old two-lanes it's been fine to haul along a six pack, a fifth and a couple of wine coolers. Hmmmm. Ok. Just kind of working this around in the mind here. I think . . . I know . . . these people are stupid (as many people are).

A few of my family members actually live in the great state - you know, Big Sky Country. I don't believe any of them have taken advantage of the freedom to throw back a few while behind the wheel. Apparently some of the militia-men have made sure this "personal freedom" has not been attacked. They put their rifles in the rifle rack, stock the coolers on the floorboards of their pick-up trucks and head out for a drink . . . and probably a hunt for deer, elk, prairie dogs or some such creature.

Well, I am sad to report those frolicking days are over for Montana-ites. So darn sad. I guess they'll just have to drink in the bars or their homes or something. I wonder if they'll need to close the drive-thru liquor stores now. Less business, I suppose.

Ok, Mississippi, your turn to ban drinks in the car (the last state holding out for this God-given American right).

I have to thank those diligent lawmakers in Montana. Way to go (good ol') boys.

Now, I am done.

Friday Night Dimmed Lights

Yet another tired Friday night is upon us, folks. I find it funny that I write to "folks" when I know no one is reading. Silly me. Anyhow, another Friday eve with dimmed lights, ready for a weekend of bus-i-ness and some much needed sleep. Bring it on, I say.

I am searching for the negativity that flows through my veins, but I have nothing to rant about at the moment.

So I say good night, sleep tight. I truly hope bugs don't live in your bed. If they do, don't let them bite. Plus, get a new mattress. Don't go with the pillow-top either. You'll regret it. The sheets never quite fit, and it's too damn tall. You don't want to use a footstool just to get into bed. Am I right? Thought so.

Thanks to those millions reading. Ok, thanks, Holden. Nighty night.

So . . .

My computer is having a technical issue right now. Stupid thing. Since it is now my second, lesser computer, it should be fine. However, I am sick of troubleshooting and just plain tired.

Right now I am putting off the inevitable daily exercise session. No matter, I will get to it eventually. Still, I do realize it's avoidance. I know this and I haven't had any therapy to help me reach this conclusion. I say that is very nice.

I realize in my previous posts I thanked someone at the end. Right now I would like to send a thanks out to the people who piss me off. You select many out there deserve a big forceful, painful pat on the back. I need people like you to feed my negativity. After all, I couldn't possibly live my life as a positive person. So . . . thanks to the jerk who cut me off deliberately yesterday morning (yes, I am still thinking about it a day later). Thanks to the idiot who delayed my leaving work today. Glad my time and patience mean nothing to you. Thanks those who don't think ahead and cause me to do things for them. Extra irritation = good times. Thanks, all of you. Good work, bastards.

Today

is the greatest day I've ever known. Not true, but it is a good line from a Smashing Pumpkins song.

I realize I am nowhere near up-to-date here, but I thought I would add another little posty-posty.

I was just thinking about a person from my past and wondering why we aren't in touch anymore. Why do people so easily just quit corresponding with one another? We shouldn't do that. We should be happy we have people who care for us and care back.

Also, I am tired. As of late, that is the norm around here. I intend to sleep in tomorrow and Monday. Thanks for dying and giving us time off of work, Mr. Presidents. Also, you look good on money. Good job, men.

Farewell, all.

A Beginning

I have now discovered a new way to waste time on the computer. How wonderful. This is especially encouraging since I don't seem to have enough free time dealing with my current responsibilities.

The rain won't stop. This saddens me, but I don't think I care too much. It just adds a little more frustration to the suckiness of life. We can all use a little more suckiness, right? I know I sure can. Thanks, rain.