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[Le Bored]
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Just -what- is going on this summer in this Midwest hell?
I guess spending June, July, and August tending to my plants and embarking on home-related projects won't be so bad.
Oh, who am I kidding? |
[Over a year!]
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It's been over a year since I've posted anything. That's obvious, I know.
And, it's been one of those years that would have been very blogworthy. C'est la vie.
In addition, Blogger has pulled a big ol' switcharoo on me. Let's see if this all works. |
[Keepin' it realer.]
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So, after seriously considering the madness that might ensue when uprooting the upstairs' toilet and vanity and the basement toiletespecially with my house's old (but perfectly good) plumbing, I've decided to hold off on the tiling jobs until after the 30 th. I'm just afraid that all the rush combined with stress and more stress will render disaster of some sort, especially with the old toilet in the basement.
This waytaking care of the floors on my timethings will happen right and with no corners cut. I will, however, need to finish painting and basement bathroom (er, toilet closet). I primed it last night, and there are still some areas where joint cement needs to be applied and/or sanded. And, I'll clean the holy hell out of the existing tile floor and the washtub, so that people have a decent area to wash their hands and whatnot, and spruce up the area with a mirror above the washtub and a campy piece of artwork from Bed, Bath & Beyond or Home Goods. [Note: I looked for campy toilet-closet art today after work, and could find none to my liking! I did, however, get some paint on the walls...and on my arms and in my hair, so that's almost out of the way.]
I feel like a bit of a dork for not being able to get these floors tiled before the party. But, in reality, it's not like people will be roaming my house looking for flaws. Well, they might be. Everything will be outside anyway, and there will be no real reason for anyone to be hanging on the second floor. Even so, I'll dust, make sure the bed is made, hide my prescriptions, and unplug the cable and cable booster. Last thing I need is Amy's kids sneaking into the back room and having a field day with my pay-per-view. Or anyone's kids for that matter. I think there would be some major shit-in-the-pantage if my second cousins decided to raid my Sex and the City DVDs or cruise the On Demand channels for archived episodes of The Sopranos, or Huff (which is turning very Cinemaxy on some levels), or Rome, or Deadwood (just how many times can we say "cunt" or "cocksucker" in an hour? Just how many?).
In other news, I've never had a case of spring fever quite like I have now. Perhaps it's because this is only the second spring since I started working the "eight-to-four" day, and what makes it worse is that I have no vacation in sight as I did this time last year. The earliest I'll be free from Cincinnati's tethers is late June/early July for Summerfest, when I get to Jeannine for the first time this millennium. Sean and I are planning to head to Lollapalooza in Chi-town for a few days in August, and perhaps, perhaps to Toronto for a long weekend in July. We probably won't be driving to Florida until December or maybe November, when Sean can get some days off. Until then, I'll be continually antsy at work, hardly focusing, jittering in my seat, staring into space, and giving very little love to the databases that need my attention. I am going mad. This whole working-for-someone-else crap is wearing on me.
Today, I almost, almost missed teaching, specifically the fact that I always taught early classes and was home by two. Granted, I worked for 15-20 hours a week from home also (and didn't make shit for money), grading papers and whatnot, but I could choose to do those things at 2am if I wanted. I wouldn't mind picking up a couple of classes, perhaps at OCAS, and then tutoring on the side and having two or three Internet or research/editing projects. Someone I'm working for now on the side expressed interest in me building a site for his wife's business. Of course, I simply cannot pick up anything else. I'm giving myself another year or so at my current full-time job, before seeking out the freelance route, again. Perhaps this time it will pan out, if I can land a small part-time gig that provides benefits (will I be selling my soul to Starbuck's? Likely.).
In semi-amusing news, I've got this lovely sunburn where my shirt rides up the back and my pants fall down just below the top of my ass crack whenever I'm working in the yard. Really. Plumber's butt meet farmer's tan. And, man, does it itch. |
[Spring!]
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J-neen drunk-dialed me last weekend, and I told her about my various plant-related exploits, which have been keeping me consumed, away from the Internets, and, I admit, from working.
This, of course, is not good. Amanda needs the extra income from her at-home jobs to pay the bills.
So, I am not only not working on the weekend and during the evenings and making money, but also spending serious cash during repeat trips to Benken's and Home Depot for various flowery things and mulch and weed killer and more mulch and fertilizer.
But c'mon how can you deny giving a hydrangea love?
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[Never]
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I can hear the trains crossing Vine, rather than the demonic voices in my head, so that makes it all better. Which is a huge improvement. 'dem voices in my head have been quite rambunctious lately.
Lessons learned:
Never volunteer to throw a huge-ass family/friends party at your house, thinking it might get vetoed by higher powers. Because it won't. And be warned: Sixtyplus people will be invited, and 60plus people will RSVP "yes." And 60plus people's asses, all in one day, will be using your toilet.
Never think it will be "no big deal" to get two bathrooms tiled within three weeks. Why two bathrooms? Well, you can't have your relatives, the ones who think you're "weird" because you're not a Bible banger and your not married and you're not procreating, thinking you'd settle for the crappy Motel-6-grade linoleum that came with the upstairs bathroom when you bought the house. Also, by tiling the basement bathroom, you are creating the illusion of "not a basement bathroom" to encourage the 60plus people's asses to use the downstairs potty, and not the upstairs potty. Note to self: buy second plunger. Second note to self: People will use the upstairs potty. Lock up your birth control and pain killers.
Never think you are going to spend a "coupla hours" working in the yard. Instead, plan to spend your entire fucking Sunday raking, digging, mulching, overturning, planting, pulling, and mulching some more. Plan to sport the SPF 5957395034573409573409573.
Never think that you will never sell your soul to Home Depot. You will surely owe the store your first child. Never think that just because you have Good Friday off that Holy Week will be holy or good. Never think that just one beer will do it. Never think that shirt is clean enough to wear again. Never think that you can go another day without dusting. Never think it's okay to stick your hand in a rosebush to grab dead leaves. Never put off raking until spring. Never. |
[The Pepsi Challenge]
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So I am making the switch.
Many switches, in fact.
As of April 21, I will no longer be a slave to the phone company, rather I will be the cable company's whipping girl, which is much nicer a title. Sure, sure, if the power goes out, my phone goes out. But I figure I can use that excuse when I get stuck in a phone call going nowhere: just hang up and blame it on the power outage--it'll replace my, "Oh, there's someone calling long distance on the other line," excuse.
I am a Mac person now. I still have a PC and notebook in addition to my Powerbook; perhaps that makes me a wannabe. No matter. The Powerbook was free, so neener-neener.
Soon, when my 3.4 oz bottle of Tresor runs dry, I'll be switching my scent to Hypnose, the new Lancome parfum. Sure, you can't smell me over the Internet, but I thought I would mention it anyway. I've been a fan of the old-school Tresor for years, and still am, but the next time I whip the ol' credit card out at the Lancome counter, it'll be for something different. Why not?
Also, I will be hacking all my hair off this summer. For a good cause, Locks of Love. Besides having hair 3/4 down my back is making me feel very very very very very very very very very very short, especially when it is ironed straight. I look at myself in the mirror while I have my hair down and I look like a total troll. I know Dean will hate me, as I've heard his thoughts on girls cutting their hair. Sorry, dude.
I'm pretty much through with LiveJournal. I still read through my friends' ramblings, but I haven't posted anything on LJ in quite a spell, let alone anything of substance. MySpace is just too addictive as I have come to find out over the last month or so, even though I've been on this trainwreck since the '03 when it was still in Friendster's shadow. Friendster? What's that?
On a side note: The problem with MySpace, however, is the limitations when it comes to filtering posts.
ONE: On LJ one can obviously have public, friends-only, private, and filtered posts. Here, you can only have public, private, or "preferred list" posts. That's it. No special lists that consist of "friends, but not family," or "friends, but not coworkers," et cetera, ad nauseam.
TWO: the problem ALL blog posts show on your main page page. And when a friend tries to read a filtered or private post and gets the very impersonal RED message that reads something like, "this post for preferred readers only, asshat" that friend feels salty, or at least they might.
I digress. |
[Decisions, Decisions]
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Tomorrow night, season two of Huff begins. At ten. The same time as Big Love. For months there is nothing to watch. And now I am conflicted. Do I watch Huff tomorrow, and check out Big Love via On Demand on Monday, or vice versa? This is very serious.
Do I want to see Bill Paxton's naked ass? Or do I want to see Blythe Danner drink? |
[The Top Eight: Episode One - t.rex]
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So. This entry is part of a nine-part series on the top-eight people in my "friends" list. The first eight blogs, obviously, will cover my current top eight. Number nine will introduce my next friend to move up in ranks...and will bid farewell to one of the following: t. rex, Sean, Lacy, BEN, diane, Jessie Fetters, TechNoMad, or Don Vito. And no, none of you assholes will have any say in the matter, particularly those whose e-mails start off as "hey baby" or "is yr tong 4 rl??" That said...
t.rex: I met t. rex when I was in high school. She was a freshman during my illustrious, uneventful senior year at St. Ursula Academy. She, like myself, was a Latin geek, and I think the combination of being in Latin club together and sharing the same lunch bell hooked us two loony bitches up.
I remember there were two incidents when I scared her, as, believe me--at one time long, long ago--the child was timid and a tad naive (really she was, hard to imagine, I know.): One being during "beanie week" at SUA (when freshman are hazed, so to speak) when I, along with my friend Sarah, made her stand on a lunchroom table and sing Jackyl's "She Loves My Cock." The second being the time, around Halloween, when she saw me--ahem, on substances--run out of a haunted house, which she was in line enter, and yell some random shit about the grim reaper being hot. Luckily, t. rex didn't grow to fear me, as I sometimes have that effect on people I make sing or those who see me on drugs.
t. rex was a regular staple at the "cool senior" lunch table, overhearing our woes of feared pregnancies and break-ups and possible drug scores. I think she was there when we rolled a faux joint (with pencil shavings) just to practice--right in sight of a teacher. We were daring indeed!
Several indelible moments involving t.rex from long ago reside in the periphery of my memory, and I sometimes stumble into them while recalling high school or various toga-oriented events. One involves the drive from SUA to Miami (to pick up Sus5an) and to Dayton (to pick up Bil) and to Columbus (to a Latin convention, of course). t.rex had a mix tape, which I still have, and I think Bil, whether she realized it or not, was trying to get into her underage panties. Bil had a mix tape, too, with songs like "Accidentally Kelly Street." I'm sorry I had to put her through that, the four of us crammed in my Dodge along with Bil, his silly mix tape, his five bags and his coffeemaker. And, on top of that, we arrived to the convention late (missing the opening meeting, right?), which I'm sure got t.rex in trouble with Mrs. T., her (and my former) Latin teacher at the time.
Another episode worth mentioning involved her family's 2002 Christmas party, where many, many gin and tonics were consumed, many a karaoke tune was sung, and a joint was shared in the bathroom with the ladies of the t.rex fam. t. rex noted that this was the first time she had ever smoked up with her mom. I noted that this was the first time anyone sitting on a toilet (and actually using it) had ever passed me a joint. I'll stop at that before things get incriminating!
Anyhoo, she is public enemy no. 1 on my list because she was actually the person who persuaded me to enter the MySpace inferno of wanna-be porn stars and unsigned bands. It was through the Web, LiveJournal to be exact, that I met up with her four years ago, after not seeing her since the mid-90s. I credit re-meeting t.rex to scholarly St. Isidore of Seville, the proposed Internet patron. I think it is fitting! |
[Lollapalooza '06]
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So.
Anyone interested in sharing a hotel room with me and Sean in Chicago should let me know. If you are in the Cincinnati area and want to drive up together, even better. If you have schloads of cash, even better-er.
However:
You must not be a freak. (I know, I know, look who's talkin'...)
And you can't be a "naked" person.We all sleep with clothes on. No funny business. YannowhatI'msayin'?
However, depending on your cash flow and your willingness to keep me drunk and fed, the freakiness and nakedness clauses might be null and void. |
[And so.]
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Just now I decided not to tempt fate.
Rather than reheat yesterday's coffee, I made a new pot (decaf, of course, to please the kidneys). However, I chose to not clean yesterday's mug (and there were no others clean), as the kitchen sink is up to its rim in Thursday's pots and pans, and cleaning and drinking from bathroom or basement-washtub water, well, that's just nasty.
Hopefully, the bacteria I'm consuming is the good kind (that helps me digest yogurt despite my years-long dispute with lactose and other milk sugars), or at least its mild-mannered cousin that will decide to take Sunday off and not give me a case of whatever bacteria found in the bottom of a used coffee mug would normally give a gal.
I was up relatively late last night. Until four a.m. or so, knitting while surfing the many channels of shit I actually pay for. Why, pray tell, was I barely able to keep my eyes pryed open Friday night when I was actually out of this house attempting to have, what?, fun.
(You -do- remember fun?, S. once asked me)
I miss the late nights of random trips up I-75 to stop at every Waffle House in sight. The chain smoking. The drunken haircuts. Tripping over the bottles of Colt 45 and Boone's the next morning, while running out the door to miraculously make it to an eight a.m. lecture. Just how did I do that?
I'm not even thirty, and I've tossed in the towel. I grimace at the thought of doing or going or seeing, and shut down easily. I've developed a sort of social paranoia or anxiety, and am perpetually uncomfortable while out, though it's hard to admit it.
I am rarely not working or being productive in some way. And the mere fact that I am not at this moment working for one of my two at-home jobs, when I really should be (the chiropractor bills ain't gonna pay for demselves!), is bothersome. Life has come to a halt, become unbearably boring. And I kick myself: It's clearly my choice!
I'd rather go to the gym, than see a movie or go to a party. I'm in bed earlier than most toddlers. A hot weekend night for me is a trip to Target to buy blinds and, ooh, a large tub of Oxyclean. I drink decaf coffee for crissakes!
I have little motivation, that's for sure to be social. I'm not big on meeting new people (I am a bonafied idiot magnet, most who know me personally can attest to that).
The only people I truly care about are either in other timezones, or consumed with their books and babies and crumbling marriages, or were alienated by me (not on purpose, you see) during the years I confined myself in graduate-school fetters. I'll be old and alone before I know it, and I am scorched by that thought. |
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