Operation Pink Herring

Tis the Season to be Bitter

So, internet. I've been a sucky blogger lately, haven't I? That's been pretty much due to a lack of anything interesting happening in my life for the past few weeks, coupled with the fact that I think there's only so much grinchitude that can be expressed on one web page before people start to suspect that your heart really is made of coal, isn't it? Well coal makes diamonds, people.  So here it comes. My last holiday rant. I promise.

We've established that my office has a quadruple-triple-gadzillion times the normal amount of holiday spirit. Now, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I'll prove to that my coworkers are just batshit insane.

I'd like to submit as Prosecution's Exhibit A, a list of the holiday activities that have, thus far taken place:

1. Secret Santa "12 Days of Christmas"
2. White Elephant
3. Several games during Christmas breakfast, including guess how many hershey kisses in the vase and who has a sticker under the chair, you get a prize
4. Adopt-a-Family
5. Several people brought gifts for THE ENTIRE (35+ PEOPLE) OFFICE
6. Abuse of holiday cards
7. Individual gifts for people in our smaller office sprung on me yesterday. I THOUGHT WE HAD AN UNDERSTANDING, PEOPLE.

Last night I had to go out and scavenge for gifts for my small work group, because apparently people did not get the memo that we weren't gifting each other this year. I swear, we did talk about this, and everyone agreed that it was just too much, none of us needed a holiday photo frame or candle, so we'd just forgo any gift exchange. Then, after work on Tuesday, one girl whips out this bag filled with thoughtfully chosen gifts for each of us. The next day, another woman brings in gifts, sheepishly saying that she would feel guilty not reciprocating Tuesday-girl's gifts, so here you are, happy holidays. Which means that last night, I had to go out and look for something "thoughtful" and "not ugly" for four people that I thought were the only not-totally crazy people in this office. Then I got home and remembered that have no more scotch tape. So I used duct tape and lugged my ugly, overpriced, totally not thoughtful gifts in to the office today, only to find that Tuesday-girl and Wednesday-woman are BOTH out sick. Sick?? I don't care if you're sick, get your asses in here, I HAVE GIFTS FOR YOU, ASSHOLES!

I hope everyone likes the doggie treats I bought for them while I was out buying a new collar for Max. I especially the coworker who doesn't have a dog likes her gift. Hey, they were apple cinnamon flavor, they can't be that bad.

Prosecution's Exhibit B:

Now, the one thing that I love about the holiday season is Christmas cards. I just finished sending mine out, and I'm actually feeling a sense of loss. What am I going to do while I watch three Tivo-ed episodes of Law and Order every night now? How am I going to let all my friends and family members know I love them? I guess I could just, you know, pick up the phone or write an email or something, but that's just not as much fun. I have a serious love of the handwritten word, as well as an addition to pretty paper products, which is probably why Barnes and Noble is still in business. You want to know where my paycheck goes? Barnes and Noble. Coffee, books, and paper products all under one roof. It's a money-sucking heaven.

So I have nothing against cards. What I do have a problem with is waste, needless obligations, people pushing their religion on me, and ugly things. When I find no less than 8 cards with an ugly ass bird or deformed snowman on them, saying things like "May the Lord Bless You on This Sacred Day, Amen (The Bible 456:23), with nothing written inside but "To Jen, From Me", I have a problem. If you have nothing to say to me, then please do waste your money and the life of a tree by giving me a card.

Yesterday I got a card that just said "For you" It was signed by "Barb" There is no one by that name in my office. I have no idea where it came from, and obviously Barb did not know my name with enough certainty to risk writing it on the envelope.

But possibly the best one was from today. It was hand delivered, with a long explanation about why it had no envelope, and how it was handmade with love. On the front, it had a poem, apparently written by The Aspiring Artist herself:

For Those

Who

Question

God's Love

for

Winter's

Frost

Inside, in banner font, was printed: MERRY CHRISTMAS!! HAPPY NEW YEAR!!

I suppose I should just be happy she limited herself to a total of four exclamation points.

Exhibit C:

As I was just eating through the seventeenth little bag of candy left in my mailbox, I bit into what I thought was a carmel-filled Hershey kiss. Instead it was filled something that tasted EXACTLY like cough syrup. Blech. I'm not sure how that ties in the rest of this, but I can't stick around and think about it, because I must go wash out my mouth with Diet Coke now.

Exhibit D:

As a joke, one of the coworkers that I mistakenly thought was not totally crazy (before she brought in gifts on Wednesday and thus became Dead To Me), received what I believe to be the Ugliest Christmas Sweater Known to Mankind in the mail.  One of the companies we work with, which is run by a very fashionable, exuberantly gay man, came down for a visit and witnessed the atrocities that most of our office-mates wear during December.  We're talking reindeer with flashing red noses on a sweater.  One person had on a sweatshirt with kittens and puppies wearing santa hats on the front, and the rear of the animals printed on the back, so as to give the illusion that these poor, innocent animals are extending through her very body.   So, this fashionable man thought it would be funny to buy the most hideous Christmas sweater he could find on Ebay, and send it to us.  And let me assure you, it was hideous.  My not-totally insane coworker had it slung over her chair so that we could take a picture of her wearing it with my phone later, and no less than three people who stopped by remarked, in all seriousness, on how beautiful her sweater was, and even asked where she'd gotten it. 

This has made me rethink every compliment I've ever gotten on my outfits at work.  I think I need to go home and burn my entire wardrobe.  Come to think of it, people were fawning over my hair the other day.  The hair that I never brush and wash twice a week.  The hair that I squish down with a hat on the way to the office, even when it's warm out, to make it look "styled".  I guess I need to shave my head, too. 

I honestly cannot take any more of this.  So, I would ask you, ladies and gentlemen, to please convict my office of Holiday Insanity in the First Degree, and consider a life's sentence of being forbidden to wear clothing themed around any one day of the year, including any materials that draw into question the spatial properties of baby animals. If you don't find them guilty, and tell me that I'm not the only one who thinks this is OUT OF CONTROL, I am going to need to call in sick for the entire month of December next year.

So, I promise, that was my last Christmas-bashing post. Tomorrow I start my 10-day vacation from this place, and hopefully I will return well-rested and brainwashed and will not have to endure any more insanity for the next 11 months. We'll be heading to New Jersey on Christmas day, and then to Vermont to visit Joel's family on the 27th. Wish me luck. I hear it's not 45 degrees in December there, which is a real shame.

I'm not sure how much I'll be posting until we get back, but "not much" would probably be a safe bet. It's hard for me to find time to sit down and actually write something when there's food to be eaten and TV to be watched.

Happy Holidays, whether you're celebrating the birth of the Savior, or just having a couple of days off of work. Here's to hoping there's no snow to be seen and global warming keeps the temperature about 50.

Ms. Grinch Over-and-Out

It's beginning to feel a lot like... spring

Yesterday it hit 70 here in Baltimore, which is pretty much my idea of awesome.  I have always said that I would be perfectly happy with a winter that never dropped below 40 degrees and so far, that's what I've been granted this winter.  I hate snow.  I hate winter.  I'll take 4 months of grayish, 45-degree days ANYTIME.

But it sure doesn't feel like Christmas is in less than a week.  Is it the warm weather, or the fact that I've only purchased one Christmas present (for the office "White Elephant" game)?  I'm not sure, but I like it.

On Friday, I will begin a 10 day vacation  Holy crap.  10 days!  It doesn't feel like I'm leaving on a 10-day vacation.  Before our real vacation this summer, I was in a frenzy the week before, making sure United hadn't scammed us on our "free" tickets, making sure priceline hadn't scammed us on our "bargain" hotels, trying to figure out how the hell we were going to get from Seattle to Portland, looking for someone who would come over and shove a pill down Max's throat once a day, and trying to finish as much work as humanly possible so that my coworkers would not be totally screwed.  On the morning we left, I raced to the library to return a book that would be overdue by the time we got back, only to find that I was wrong about the time the library opened.  I didn't have time to wait because I was already late, and if I waited there for the 10 extra minutes until the library opened, we wouldn't have arrived at the airport an hour and a half before our flights, and I would have officially melted down.  After I pleaded with a girl on the street to return my book for me when the library opened (oh yes, I did), I sped to Joel's work and in my frenzy to leave NOW NOW NOW I forgot the sunglasses that I'd bought especially for that trip in the car. 

This "vacation" is quite different.  For one thing, my recent position adjustment at work has left me with almost nothing to do.  I'm organizing files from two years ago.  I'm cleaning my desk with sanitizer wipes.   I'm scouring craigslist hourly to see if anyone has found Henry.

Our house is already spotlessly clean after the Attack of The Crazy last week, so I don't have to do my normal pre-trip house-scrubdown.

We're not driving anywhere, so I don't have to worry about whether the oil needs to be changed in the car, or whether my new AAA card will be here in time.   My dad is picking us up and dropping us back off at the train station, so I don't have to worry that I will forget to take out cash to pay for a cab.

I've replaced just about everything in my stolen wallet, including a new license with only took me 40 minutes go get at the MVA.  They didn't even want to see the folder brimming with proof of my identity.  Not even the passport, or the credit card statements, or the utility bills.  They just took my $20 and made me a new license.   My new credit cards are here.  My yoga studio AND my coffee place both replaced my pre-paid cards.  And I didn't even have to beg.

All in all, things seem too easy.  Aren't the holidays supposed to be hectic?  I like it this way much better.

Attack of the compulsive cleaning

Still no Henry.   Still very sad.   And worried.  Still haven't canceled his vet appointments for next week.  Still hoping he'll turn up.   

The upshot is, when I am nervous and/or upset, I organize.  My living room is about as clean as it has ever been, because I've been up past 1am every night cleaning and rearranging things.  The laundry is done, folded, and put away.  I even dusted.  And vacuumed.  And then dusted again.  You think I'm kidding, but you're wrong.

It's a really good thing that Joel is coming home from the business trip he's been on all week today, because I think the neighbors are getting annoyed with my going outside every hour and calling a cat that was never even mine to begin with.  He should be home around 2, and for once, he doesn't have to go straight from the airport to the office.  He has the whole afternoon free.  Last night I asked him what he was going to do with all that glorious free time, and Joel said, "Well, I guess I'm going to be looking for a cat, right?"

I fell a little more in love with him at that moment.

How to Lose a Cat in 10 Days

I felt really bad keeping Henry locked up in the bathroom all day and night, even though the vet warned me how highly contagious ear mites are, and how important it was that I kept him away from my other cats.  Henry hated being stuck in there, and no matter how many times I told myself it was better than being in a cage at the animal shelter or out in the street, I still felt bad about it.  So I called the vet yesterday to ask if the mites were a danger to humans, and if I could at least take Henry into the bedroom with me at night so he wouldn't be so lonely.  The vet said that was absolutely safe, as long as I kept my other cats from face-to-face contact with him.  I figured that would be no problem at all, since Max and Madison have expressed no interest in going anywhere ever since we got a new couch for the the first floor.  Hey, now they can comfortably ignore their cat beds AND be closer to the food bowls -- why come upstairs?

I was so excited to "tell" Henry he could come out at night from now on.  I even decided to move up his neuter surgery, even though it would cost a little more (because I wouldn't be combining two visits) so that he could freely roam the house the very second the ear mites were gone, without intimidating Madison with his manliness (and without "marking" all over the house). 

As soon as I got home from the gym, I ran upstairs to give Henry the good news.  I opened the bathroom door, ready to block him from trying to run out and hump Max's leg, and was surprised when he didn't jump up to greet me.  I was even more surprised when I didn't see him anywhere.  Then I noticed the window.

I had left the window cracked open an inch, because with all his "marking", the bathroom was getting really smelly, despite the fact that I changed Henry's linens more in three days than I've changed our own sheets and towels in a month.  Our windows can open either from the bottom or the top, and the screen slides up and down to cover whichever area you need.  I cracked the top of the window so that Henry wouldn't scratch the screen, because I've learned a thing or three thousand after a few years of indoor-cat caretaking.  And thing #1253 that I learned is that cats sometimes like to scratch the hell out of window screens, because cats are insane.

At some point during the day, Henry managed to climb to the top of the window (I have no idea how he managed this), pull the window open (again, no idea how he did this), push the screen down (impossible, you'd think), and jump the 10 feet to the ground (did I mention this was on the second story?).  Apparently I should have named him Harry, after Houdini, because I'm still not sure what he did is physically possible.

I called Liz pretty much hysterical, and we looked all over the neighborhood for him, shaking containers of food.  We attracted every neighborhood cat except Henry, and finally gave up at 9pm. 

I put Henry's bed (Max's rejected bed, since Max prefers to sleep on leather couches and rest his head on a delicately fluffed throw pillow) outside, with a bowl of food.  Maybe he'll come home after he's done with his Bachelor Party Humpfest, just in time for vet appointment I had scheduled for Monday to get him neutered and microchipped.   

Maybe he went back to his old home. 

Maybe he already found a new home.

I guess I should take down all those "Found Cat" posters we put up last weekend.  Or maybe I should just get a marker, and cross out all the "Founds" and write "Lost Again" on my way home. 

Bad News Weekend

Um.  So I found this cat.  And it turns out, he's kind of awesome. 

I took this picture with my phone while we were waiting at the vet's office for the results of his feline leukemia and AIDS tests.  After several years of dragging Max the Greased pig to the vet, it was a little strange to see a cat just chill on the vet's table and take a nap.  You know, instead of cowering in a corner of the carrier and peeing. 

I've named him Henry, after the protagonist in The Time Traveler's Wife, which is a book that you MUST read, because it is awesome.  In the book, Henry DeTamble involuntarily time-travels, and often ends up cold and lost, which is why I though Henry would be a fitting name for an awesome cat that I found lost in the cold.

And before I go on any more about how awesome this cat is (because really, he is the coolest cat I've ever seen), I should tell you that I really am trying to find his owners.  I put an ad on craigslist with his description on Friday, and I've been checking the "lost pets" ads every day.  I filed a report with the SPCA and the local vet, and I had him scanned for microchip on Saturday morning.  On Saturday afternoon, Joel and I put up 30 fliers in the area where I found him.

So I am doing my due diligence, but since no one is coming forward, is it so terrible that I've named him and begun convincing Joel that three cats really isn't so bad?

Henry checked out healthy, except for a nasty case of ear mites.  I was so relieved that he didn't have any terrible diseases, because I think we all know that I can be a bit of a hypochondriac, and I managed to worry myself into a pretty good frenzy on Friday night, because I'd already become so attached to him.  He's confined to the bathroom that we don't use for the next week, until the ear mites are gone, and I'm having him neutered ASAP.  Did you know that non-neutered cats "mark" their territory?  I did.  Did you know that "mark" really means "pee on"?  This I did not know.  In one weekend, Henry has managed to stink up that bathroom worse than Joel and I have in the past three years.  And we eat a lot of Mexican food, if you know what I mean.

So for now Henry is living in our newly painted bathroom, and I've just been wiping the room down with Clorox sanitizer and washing his towels every day.  Pretty much, he has moved into the Hyatt.  Henry is anxious to come out and play, but I'm hoping that ten days of quarantine will give Madison enough time to get used to his smell (which is quite strong, until we get The Snip done), so that when Henry is finally released from his hotel/prison, we won't have a reenactment of Max and Madison's first meeting.   

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

In other news, someone stole my wallet on Friday.  I guess if you find something, you lose something, huh?  The universe sure didn't think this one through though, since it was hard to pay the vet bill for the cat I FOUND without my WALLET.

Do you know who stole my wallet? 

Could you please ask them to give it back?

PLEASE?  Because I've been calling the MVA for an hour, and their line is still busy, and I really don't feel like spending my entire day off on Friday standing in line to get a new license.

Seriously, please give me back my wallet.  I'll trade you for a really cool cat.  Or a fluffy, surly cat.  Your choice. 

Good News Friday

Yesterday I finally got up the nerve to have a talk with my boss that I've been wanting to have for awhile, but I've been too chicken to actually do anything about it.  See, I have this problem, where when I get really nervous, my face turns bright red, my voice starts to crack, and sometimes my hands even start to shake.  It's all very professional.

But finally, after saying I was going to do this for 6 weeks, I did it, and the result is that my job is re-classified and I no longer have to do the part that I hate.  Joel and I celebrated last night by ordering Chinese food and opening a bottle of wine we'd been saving, while I wore a pair of fabulous fleece sweatpants that I just got back from the dry cleaners -- because I got them hemmed.  That's right, I got a pair of sweatpants hemmed.  It ain't easy being short.

So, I have a sort of new job, Joel also has recently gotten a sort of new job, and my brother just got a bona fide new job.  And, it's Friday!  Hooray!

We also got a vat of assorted popcorn delivered to our office yesterday, 1/4 of which is caramel popcorn, which is my favorite kind. 

And my coworkers just went out to pick up Chipotle for lunch.  Life is pretty good for a workday.

**********************

In Crazy Cat Lady news, I found a cat on the way to work today.  Oh great, here she goes again, why can't she walk past an animal on the street without bringing it home?  That's what my mom is thinking right now, and rightly so.  It's true that I do often "find" cats on the street, as there are quite a few strays and indoor/outdoor cats in our crowded urban area.  But just last night I watched a pretty terrible episode of One Tree Hill that was some kind of take-off of It's a Wonderful Life, in which Chad Michael Murray's dead uncle convinces him that everything we do shapes the life of others, even if it seems insignificant, so it's important to be "the best you you can be".  They took a tour of Christmas Future, to show how if Chad Michael (is it bad that I don't even know what his character's name is on the show?) hadn't come into Sophia Bush's life (she's "Brooke", at least I know that much), she would have ended up "so angry" and also dressing like a Goth hooker.  It's important to be the best that you can be, which is a slogan that they ripped off from the army, but we'll let that go since the whole episode was a vaguely relevant, poorly done ripoff of a Christmas movie.

So, this morning, I was walking to work, and I passed a cat sniffing around in some garbage.  I stopped to pet him, as I do with all the cats I see, because I am a crazy tree-hugging hippie animal freak, (in case you hadn't realized yet), and instead of running under a parked car or carefully evaluating me, the cat jumped into my arms.  I petted him for a few moments, and then put him down and started walking, since I was already really late for work.  He followed me for two blocks, crying.  It was just over 20 degrees out, and I couldn't leave him there.  So I thought, What Woud Chad Michael Murray do? and brought him home. 

Joel was still home, and he helped restrain the hissing furball that Madison morphs into when he sees another cat, while I set up New Cat in the bathroom.  Let's hope he fares better than the last animal I tried to save. 

Happy Friday, internet.  And if anyone is interested in adopting a very friendly tabby brown cat who will be fully inspected by my vet this evening.... well, Chad Michael Murray would be very pleased.

A philosophical discussion of the Gilmore Girls

I started watching 7th Heaven and Gilmore Girls at some point during college, and I hated them both so much that I actually loved watching every episode.  For me, there is a fine line between a show that just plain sucks, and a show that is so awful, whose plot line, dialog and characters are just so ridiculously unbelievable, that it's awesome.  I believe it has to do with the writers saying to themselves, "You know what?  This is TV.  It's not real.  Everyone knows it's not real.  So let's have some fun with it." 

Like, for example, soap operas. 

(Dear Lord, I am about to admit that I sometimes watch soap operas).

So I used to watch Days of Our Lives with my mom.  My mother got hooked on the show when she was pregnant with me, and we used to watch it together whenever I had a day off from school over a lunch of tuna sandwiches.  So I feel sort of a special connection with the town of Salem and all it's voluptuous, cunning inhabitants.  That being said, I got to see an episode a few weeks ago when I had the day of of work and I was at the gym at 1pm.  All I could think was, wait.... didn't they have this EXACT plot line two years ago?  LAME.  And then I changed the channel and watched My Super Sweet Sixteen instead.

As much love as I have in my heart for DOOL and that crazy Stephano, I just don't care anymore.  It doesn't matter who's got amnesia, because Marlena will hypnotize them and help them get their memory back, and it doesn't matter who's dead, because for goodness sake, PATCH just waltzed back from the dead.  The problem is, they try to make it seem real, and then they go bringing people back from the dead.  Not gonna happen, people.

I might be the first person in the history of television to make this statement, but I think Passions got it right.  If you've stumbled onto Passions during your channel surfing, you've probably wondered who slipped LSD into your Diet Coke, because holy crap, is that a monkey dressed as a baby?  Is his name precious?  And is that a MERMAID?  Why, yes.  Yes it is. 

Passions embraces the fact that it's a soap opera, and goes above and beyond the usual recycling plot line.  So Marlena was once possessed by the devil and had to be exorcised on Days?  Passions will see your exorcism and raise you one Rosemary's baby.  So you say Stephano faked his own death for the umpteenth time?  Well, Timmy, Tabitha's talking, walking doll (rest his soul) used to take breaks to make mar-timmies for everyone.  Everyone except for Teresa, of course because she was pregnant after she got knocked up by Ethan's father, and then she drugged and date-raped Ethan and pretended the baby was his, and then when she was found out, she locked Ethan in a garage and refused to let him out until he had sex with her.   Top that.

A quote for the wonderful IMDB sums it up pretty well: 

How is it that I hate this show so much, yet, at the same time, know all of the characters' names? Simply, once you're hooked, you're just like those dead fish that got dumped on Ethan. You can't stop watching this show. You keep watching because you can't understand how it can get worse and worse, every day.

Easily the most insulting, sexist, and horrible shows on TV today (and that, dear friends, is a big, bold statement.) It's all those things and, just incidentally, totally entertaining.

If you're going to make a soap opera, make it a soap opera.  Don't insult us by pretending it's "real".

All that was a buildup to my recap of Gilmore Girls, if you can believe it.

I once heard someone say "I used to be friends with her, but I really don't like the person she's become", and I thought that was pretty much the meanest thing you could say about a person.  It's worse than hating someone because they made out with your boyfriend or stole your favorite CD or crashed your car.   Think about it: I don't like the person you've become.  If someone said that to me, I would be crushed. 

I don't like the person Rory Gilmore has become.

I used to hate her for being boring, and for being so freaking smart, and for having those impossibly witty and fast dialogs with her annoying mother.  And then she went to high school, and had some real problems, and I started to like her.  And then she met Dean.  I loved Dean.  I still love Dean, now that he's on Supernatural.  I loved Jess, and I loved that Rory left Dean for Jess, because that's the kind of stuff that teenagers do.  It was real.  As real as TV can be.

And then she went to college.  I thought that Rory getting sucked into Logan's circle, stealing the boat, dropping out of Yale, not speaking to her mom for months, living with her grandparents and working for the DAR was BRILLIANT.  Brilliant.  Because that's the kind of stuff that happens in real life.  Mothers and daughters fight.  The smartest, brightest private-schooled kids sometimes drop of college.  Life gets crazy.

So, Gilmore Girls went from being one of my love-to-hate shows, along with Seventh Heaven and passions and Law and Order: Criminal Intent, and slowly it grew on me until it became a pure love-to-love show, on the level of Smallville and Supernatural, and God save me, Sex and the City. And now it seems that it has come full circle.  I watch it because I want to see how much more it can suck.  I want Lorelei to be married to Luke, not Christopher, or at the very least for the measly fight scene to have landed Christopher in the hospital or something.  I want Rory to dump Logan and stop acting like a member of the Young Aristocrats Who Are Friends With Annoying Twiggy Girls Club.  I want Jess and Dean back on the show, but only if it would not interfere with the brilliant new shows they're moved on to, because Gilmore Girls best not be messin' with my Heroes and Supernatural.  Hell, no.  GG, you can't even go there any more.

The only one I still like is Emily Gilmore, who has always been my favorite character on the show.  If she starts going soft on me, it's all over.  I'm going to have to break up with this show just like I did with Lost.

(Which means I'll still totally watch, but I won't be proud of myself).

A new twist in the never-ending parking saga

I drove halfway to work this morning, which is something I do when I have to go somewhere right after work or if I'm really, really, really late.  I drive 4-5 blocks towards my office, park the car, and walk the rest of the way.  This saves me about 5 minutes of walking time on the way home, and another 5 minutes of driving time to reach the highway.  At rush hour, those 10 minutes can save half an hour.  The difference between hitting I-83 at 5:15 and 5:30 is unbelievable.  Just in case you're wondering, and your probably not, I stop at halfway not because I like to do things half-assed (although I certainly do, at times), but because after the halfway point, we enter 2-hour parking zone.  So I would either need to move my car every two hours (no thanks, I'd prefer to use that time for visitng the coffee shop or the diet coke machine), risk a ticket/tow (been there, done that), or pay to park in one of the overpriced garages (I am morally opposed to PAYING for the privelige of coming to work).

I only do this on a Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday, because there are street cleaning signs on one side of my preferred street on Thursday, and on the other side on Friday, which means I will likely spend more time looking for a spot than it would take me to walk all the way in.  The city has not actually cleaned that street in the two years I've been walking to work, but they are amazingly precise about giving out tickets for parking in the street cleaning zone.  Every Thursday and Friday, the meter maid is there at 8am sharp, and I can actually gague how late I am by how far she's made it up the street when I walk past.  If she's still on the third or fourth car, I'm early.  If she's halfway up the block, I'm on time.  God forbid, if she's already left, leaving a little white and red ticket on every windshield on the block, well, crap.  I'm late.  Again.

I decided to park on the block before the street cleaning block today, even though that puts me one block farther from work.  I couldn't see any open spots ahead while I was stopped at the light, and there was a nice big space right next to me, so I took it.  I pulled my car right up to the No Stopping in Front of This Bus Stop sign, so that another car could fit behind me.  I'm nice like that. 

I put The Club on my steering wheel, gathered up all my crap, hit the Lock button on my key chain, and I'd just started to walk away when a lady waiting at the bus stop started hailing me down, yelling, "Miss!  Miss!  Excuse me!  Miss!"

My heart sank, and I was sure she was going to tell me that my engine had been smoking or alarm lights were going off all over my car (on the outside?  I have no idea how that is possible, but in my mind my car might have been giving off some sort of Morse code with the non-working blinker), because I KNEW it was sounding funny this morning, damnit, I really am going to have to take it to the dealer, I hate my stupid car.

But, surprisingly, she wasn't trying to tell me that my car has developed conscienceness and is now able to alert bystanders to it's plight.

"You might not want to park there," she said.  "They give out tickets for parking in the bus stop."

I looked back to make sure my front bumper wasn't poking past the sign, and it wasn't.  I was pulled right up to the sign, not an inch past it.  A damned fine parking job, if I do say so myself.  I thanked the woman for her concern, but pointed out that I wasn't actually in the bus stop.  See, I'm right behind the sign, and the red arrow points forward.

"I'm just sayin'.  They give out tickets here for blocking the bus stop.  I live on this block, the meter maid was just by," she replied, folding her arms over her chest.

"Um, I'm not in the bus stop".

"I'm just sayin'.  It's an expensive ticket, too."

"But.... I'm not.... in the bus stop..."

"Well, I'm just sayin'.  Don't be surprised if there's a ticket on your car when you come back."

"But...huh?"

The saddest part of this conversation is that I moved my car.  That crazy woman is probably riding the bus right now, patting herself on the back for being such a good samaritan.  I, on the other hand, was late to work.

Again.

Sleep, Drugs, and Rock and Roll

I've written about my recurring insomnia before... in fact, I think one of my first posts ever was about how I hadn't slept in days.  But it's been a while since I've felt the need to cry on the internet about how tiiiired I am and how much I just want to sleeeep and how I actually resent my cats because they can just sleep whenever they want to, all day everyday, and they never have to sit in front of a computer chugging coffee all day, hoping that tonight they'd be able to actually FALL ASLEEP.  I'm happy I've avoided that for some time, because HOLY GOD WOMAN, get a grip.  There are worse problems in the world.  Plus, it always seems easier to minimize a problem when it seems to have gone away.

For some reason, I couldn't sleep on Saturday night.  I get what I call "the itchies" sometimes, and that's usually one of the indicators that I'm not going to be falling asleep that night.  You know the feeling you get if there is a loose hair on your skin, how that feeling of an invisible force touching your skin is absolutely intolerable, although not at all painful? (Oh please, you all know there are hairs floating around your house, NO ONE vacuums every day). (Or every week). (Or every month).  That's what The Itchies feel like.  All over my body.  And if you're thinking that The Itchies sounds like a toddler's television show starring maggots and earthworms, I'd like you to know that I very much agree, but you try coming up with a better name when you haven't slept in three days and your boyfriend asks you why you are thrashing around in the bed like that.  The Itchies.  They'll kill you, man.  Once I get them, it's all over.  I could take enough benadryl to knock out an elephant, and still not be able to fall asleep.  Trust me, I've tried it.

I've learned to deal with insomnia, and that's a good thing, because it used to involve a lot of crying on my part.  First of all, can you imagine how boring it is to lie in bed, in the dark, waiting to fall asleep for 3 or 4 hours?  After the boredom becomes intolerable, I move on to frustration and tears over WHY CAN'T I FALL ASLEEP?  JOEL HAS BEEN SLEEPING FOR 4 HOURS.  THE CATS ARE SLEEPING.  THE WHOLE WORLD IS SLEEPING AND I'M SOOOO TIRED AND I WANT TO SLEEP TOO, WAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH! 

Joel is always very kind to me when I can't sleep, which is one of the reasons I love him so much.  He is able to take the information that I haven't slept, and see that as the reason that I'm being a whiny bitch the following day.  He's able to say "why don't you go and get some coffee and we'll talk about this later" when I'm getting ready to throw a tantrum over his placement of the remote control on glass part of the new coffe table when I TOLD HIM NOT TO PUT IT THERE OMG WHY DON'T YOU EVER LISTEN TO ME YOU DON'T REALLY LOVE ME.  This amazes me.  It's so... mature.  Now, that's how a 26-year-old should act.  In fact, he often makes the coffe himself and then presents it to me, like an offering to the volcano goddess who is about to explode and bring destruction and misery down upon the peasants who have displeased her by not sacrificing enough goats and virgins during the last full moon.

I take over the counter sleeping aids every night, and for the past several months, that's been enough to keep me insomnia free.  And then my body caught on to that trick, and they stopped working on Saturday night.  And Sunday night.

I really should call my doctor and make an appointment to get on some sort of prescription sleep aid, since the OTC drugs don't really work anymore.  But for some reason, I just don't want to.  I've been meaning to do this for years, but I still haven't gotten around to picking up that phone and making an appointment.   I don't relish the idea of being on another drug for... how long?  Forever?   I'm already on several prescriptions for the adult acne I've been blessed with, and although they have worked miracles (I haven't had a zit since I started on them), I just hate being on so many drugs.  It makes me fear for my 80 year old self.  It makes me worry about what I'll do if I don't have insurance for some reason.  It's ridiculous, but I just don't want to get on a Rx sleep aid.

I think it's time to buck up and just do it. For I slept last night, and it was glorious.  I would like to feel that good every day, even if it does mean another pill every night.

Happy Tuesday, internet.  Hope you all got a great night's sleep.

A Comcast Story

9am:  Comcast wakes me up with a courtesy call to confirm our service appointment between 10am and 1pm.  I manage not to bark at them, even though I was up all night with my old pal insomnia.

10am:  No Comcast.

11am: No Comcast.

12pm: No Comcast. I tell Joel I am going to the grocery store, although the only real reason I'm going is to raid the Starbucks inside it. 

1:30pm: I return from the store with groceries and coffee, hoping to find two shiny new cable hookups sticking out of the walls.  No such luck.  Joel calls Customer Service to see what's going on.  They say that the repairman is running late, but he's still coming and we'll get a call when he's on his way.

2:30pm: Another courtesy call, informing us that the repairman is on our way and will be at our house in 30-40 minutes.

4:00pm:  Still no Comcast.  I call Customer Service again.  Am told he's on his way.

5:30pm: Joel wants to give up.  He is afraid if the guy comes now, he will do a shoddy job because he just wants to go home.  I say pish-posh to that, this is a matter of principle.  Call Customer Service again.  Am told he's on his way, and that I will receive a $20 credit for his tardiness.

6:00pm: I paint the office.

7:00pm: I start making dinner, and call Comcast again.  I ask where this repairman is coming from, as he's been "on his way" for the past 4.5 hours.   I joke that he's probably  been driving around our neighborhood,  looking for a parking spot that whole time.  Customer Service guy claims the repairman is on his way.  I demand an approximated time, and am told he will be there in 10 minutes.  As a bonus, we will receive a $20 credit for his tardiness.  I point out that I was already promised this $20 credit, but he "doesn't see that in the system" and enters it again.

8:00pm:  Comcast man shows up.

8:05pm: Comcast man says he does not have the proper equipment to do the job and leaves.

THE END.

(PS: Happy Birthday to my favorite 26-year-old.)

GRINCH ALERT

So. Maybe it's just me, since I've been called "bitter" a time or two, but I think Christmas has seriously gotten out of hand. For example, one of my coworkers has been playing the All Christmas, All the Time radio station in her office for a full two weeks. I was under the impression that is was the earliest acceptable time to begin putting up Christmas decorations and singing Christmas songs was the day after Thanksgiving -- and even that seems like pushing it. I have no problem with some Christmas songs; in fact, I adore God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen (especially the Barenaked Ladies version), and I'll even sing along to The Emancipated Mimi's All I Want for Christmas Is You, if I'm in the right mood. But hearing Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer and I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus for eight hours a day when we're still 24* full days away from the day of The Blessed Event is getting on my nerves. To say the least.

*Side note: 24 is coming back in January! Just saw an ad last night**

**While I was watching some things MY WONDERFUL TIVO had taped for me. Sorry, just had to pimp the Tivo some more. It is the single best invention since... well, ever.

And then there's the shopping. For the presents. I thank the sweet baby Jesus that Joel, my family, and I have been able to come to a cease-fire agreement on this front, because otherwise I'd be going crazy already. Joel's birthday is next week, three weeks before Christmas, which means that I have to come up with two present ideas for The Man that Has Everything in the same month. And then my brother's birthday is in the beginning of January, and my mother's is in February. Luckily, Joel and I agreed not to do presents for Christmas, since my birthday is also very near December 25th***

*** I am trying very, very hard not to freak out. I am OK with turning 26. I've been saying I'm 26 in my head for two months already, in preparation. But I still don't feel 26.

So anyway, I've called a gift armistice with Joel, and with my brothers, which helps a lot. My friends and I agreed to forgo all gifts years ago, and instead we all get together during the holidays for a wine-filled, diet-busting, make-the-waiter blush-with-our-lack-of-modesty, dinner during the holidays years ago, which is probably why I love my friends so much. So now there's just my parents, and oh yeah: THE OFFICE.

I think my office is a little more... involved than normal with the Christmas Crazy. Not only do they do a 12 Days of Christmas Secret Santa thingy, they also have a White Elephant Game. And then they all give each other personal gifts, as well. I got sucked into The Twelve Days of Hell the first year I worked here, because I'd only been working here for a few weeks, and I felt bad saying no. Besides, how bad can it be?

Bad. Really Bad.

If you are lucky enough to participate in The 12 Days of Crazy, you get assigned a name of someone else in the office. Then, each day, starting on December 1st, you have to give them a gift. And it has to be secret. They are very big on the secret part. You can't just leave it in the person's mailbox, oh no... beacuse someone might SEE YOU! You can't write their name on it in your own handwriting, because they might be able to sneak into your office and steal something off your desk to compare it to, and figure you out! Last year people were making up elaborate poems and giving false hints and having other people deliver their gifts, all in order to throw their giftee off track. People came in on days they'd called in sick just so their person wouldn't be able to figure them out.

Here's an email that went out last week:

Just a reminder that SECRET SANTA starts on Friday Dec.1st. It includes the weekends!!! You can bring in three on Friday or one on Friday and then three on Monday. That means that the are 12 gifts to be given to your Secret Santa person, plus on the 13th the big gift. Do not hand your gift to you person.....have someone else deliverer it for you so that it stays a SECRET!!!!!!!!! Leave it on their desk when they are away, leave it in their mailbox........Have lot's of FUN!!!! Then the big Gift for your Secret Santa bring in on the 13th and just put their name it. If anyone is still unclear call me..............

And here's another that went out yesterday:

Tomorrow is the Big Day!!!!!!!!

The first day of Secret Santa!!!!!!!

Three gifts tomorrow or if you want bring in three on Monday!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And on Monday, I would bet Rudolph’s red nose that the rain of emails saying “OMG, THANX 2 MY SECRET SANTA, UR THE BEST I LOVE THE CANDLE THANKS ITS EXACTLY WHAT I WANTED!!!!!!!!!!1!1” will begin pouring into my inbox.

When the illustrious twelve days come to a close, we’ll have our Christmas breakfast, were the Secret Santas will be revealed, and then we’ll play the White Elephant Game, which I would describe except I can’t remember the rules, because I was so busy trying not to burst out laughing that I couldn’t really pay attention. It’s sort of like Asshole, which I actually have no idea how to play, because every time I re-learn it, I’m drunk. Man, the Christmas breakfast would be a lot more fun if I were drunk. I should really look into that this year.

I always thought that Secret Santa was invented to take the place of giving gifts to all your coworkers/family/fellow citizens. But apparently I was wrong. Because in my office, everyone in my smaller team also gives gifts to each other. I was completely shocked by this my first year, because OH MY GOD, DO YOU PEOPLE EVER STOP? And then I had to lie and say that I forgot my presents at home, make a crazed trip to Pier One, and then bring my crappy gifts in when the office re-opened.

And this year, we’re also “adopting” a family and buying gifts for them…. Which I think is totally awesome. And I contributed to in a flash.

The thing is, I actually love Christmas. I love getting together with my family, and seeing old friends when we’re all back in New Jersey. I love having time off from work to relax and cozy up with a cup of hot chocolate and sit on the couch and watch movies all day because it’s too cold to go outside. I just hate the commercialization of the holidays, there I said it. It sounds so trite when you say it like that, doesn’t it?

Nothing reminded me of how crazy people get, and how sad it is than standing outside a Best Buy at 4:30am, watching eye each other up, mentally trying to calculate who they could knock over in order to get to the Nintendo Wiis first.

IT'S ALL MADNESS, MADNESS I TELL YOU! DON'T BE SUCKED INTO THE LIGHT! BURN YOUR CREDIT CARDS NOW!! THE END IS COMING, YOU MUST REPENT!!!1

Yikes, sorry about that I feel a little woozy. I think I need to go sit my hypocritical, judgemental rear on my commercially produced couch and drink some wine that I probably got as a Christmas gift last year. And maybe hum a non-denominational holiday tune or something.

...but we’re still not getting a Christmas tree. I still stand firm in my belief that two indoor + indoor tree = not a good idea. And we don’t have space. Maybe if Santa brings me a bigger house (preferably with more than one closet and a breakfast bar)…. maybe then we’ll talk.