Monday, October 12, 2009
p.s. I'M GOING TO SCOTLAND!! WOO-HOO!!
Monday, October 5, 2009
In this dream I was in a quaint little setting much like that of MTV’s Unplugged set. I was sitting up front in a folding chair and had been pleased (although not excited) that I was about to see another show. It’d been a while.
Oh, I suppose I ought to mention that I’ve always referred to “concerts” as shows.
Anyway, sure enough Pearl Jam comes out and they play “I’m Still Alive.” The dream goes on and so does the song. But it gets to the point where I start getting annoyed and wonder if they’re ever going to play another song. EVER.
Then, as dreams have a habit of doing, I jump into another scene where some other uneventful thing happens… But then the next thing I know I’m back in my seat at the Pearl Jam concert awaiting the arrival of the band, and the whole scenario starts over again.
It was all very “Hotel California” and just too creepy for me, and I was glad when I woke up.
It makes me wonder, though. Is my psyche telling me something? Or maybe I'm just feeling like my life is going around and around in circles? Or maybe it's because Phil mentioned "I'm Still Alive" in his blog? Hm. Yeah, I think I'll just blame it on Phil. ;)
Friday, September 25, 2009
Oh, and here's the kicker: She's a chick.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Now, with this in mind, imagine my glee and jubilation when a friend of mine posted the following link on Facebook:
Yes, my friends! Welcome to the world of the Walmart Creatures, found at www.PeopleOfWalmart.com. I kid you not when I say that I spent about an hour going through each and every one of the photos on that website. And I laughed heartily more than a few times.
I can’t describe the feeling I have about this website. It’s almost as if… as if all these years I’ve been telling people that Bigfoot exists and then BAM! A website appears chock full of photos providing evidence that Bigfoot does, in fact, exist. Only with a hillbilly twist.
I finally feel vindicated.
Ah, life is good once again. Oh yeah, and I just got back from my own trip to Walmart. I admit that I didn’t see Elvis there tonight but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.
(I found this AWESOME pic at http://morbidobsession.deviantart.com/.)
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
1. She speaks my language. For example, the following is an actual conversation she and I shared via Facebook:
Princess: JESSICA! Did you hear?! Hemme Royad and the Dire Rears are coming to the Moore Theater in time for Thanksgiving. I know you've been itching to see them. I'm trying to talk Clam into going... a group date!
JT: I can't wait! She seems eager.
Princess: You think that maybe we could swing some all-access passes to "behind the scene?" I'd like to see what goes on behind the Dire Rears.
JT: That would be interesting. I heard that The Schmears were opening for them.
2. Her house is a reflection of her awesome personality. That’s why I love going there so much! Here is a collection of some random photos I took while at her home over the summer.
(in her front yard)
(kitchen window sill, part 1)
(kitchen window sill, part 2)
(These were born under her kid's bed)
(JT's husband takes their only daughter on a slide ride at the Puyallup Fair)
I have barrels of laughs with JT and her family.
Now if only I could figure out a way for them to adopt me. :)
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Pretty rad, eh? That's a flock of birds on two legs if I ever saw one.
Oh, and for those of you who were wondering, no I'm not dead on the side of the road. And yes, I do intend to continue blogging. It's just that real life has a tendency to catch up with a blogger such as myself and I got a wee bitty overwhelmed. Not surprising when you take into consideration that I've been moving (by myself) into my own apartment, there have been major issues at work, I have sort of started seeing someone, and I'm just plain boring to boot. ;)
Ah but no worries, I've been filing amusing little tid-bits in the back of my mind to pull out for future blogs. But until then, let me know what you think!
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Ugh. Oh my gosh. Holy crapola on a cracker!
Ok, so here’s what happened.
I was spying.
Yes, I know, how lame can a person be? But there’s just something fun about spying on people you are curious about. And usually it’s really easy to do, especially when you know how to find people. Not that it’s all that difficult.
No, I’m not talking about stalking or even trolling. I was just curious. But now my curiosity is going to get me into trouble. CRAP!
(Super Der-Dee-Der Spy, you mean.)
See, I’ve been putzing around on Facebook for the past hour just updating and commenting and blah blah blah. And, of course, that got boring fast. So what did I decide to do? I decided to look up people I’ve met through my job. Ones where I could remember their emails real easily. Ok, only ONE person whose email I could remember easily. But of course Facebook decided to go all crazy on me when I was trying to type in his email.
This is where you picture me typing, then re-typing, then re-typing again while quickly trying to trick Facebook by pushing the Delete button quickly (Stoopid Facebook kept adding crap to the email addy I was trying to type!), all with an annoyed yet focused look on my face.
Then, the next thing I know I’m getting a message saying something to the effect of, “Sorry, we didn’t send an email to that person because they’re already registered with Facebook. We’ve already sent him a friend request on your behalf.”
And I found myself screaming at the computer screen, “NOOOOO! Oh no! Oh NO!!”
I’m pretty sure I’m still hyperventilating.
I thought about sending him a message in which I apologize profusely and insist that it was all some wacky accident involving lots of medication and an enormous brain fart. But then reason started to kick in. This guy doesn’t even have a profile photo of himself posted on Facebook yet. I bet he’s the type who rarely checks his FB, and when he does he’ll probably think I’m just some ho trying to hit him up for some five-dollar-lovin. Ugh. One can only hope.
I’ll definitely let you know how this one turns out.
Monday, July 20, 2009
An hour or so later I leave Charlie's (I had to work in the morning--no late nights for me on the weekends) only to discover that the RAD-MOBILE had parked itself in Charlie's parking lot! I skipped over singing, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME! HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MEEEE!!" After all, my birthday wish had come true.
Rest your eyes on THIS beauty:
Ok, so I decided not to post the one with the entire weiner van in it because both the dude in the window and I had (unfixable) bright red lazer-beam eyeballs. But still. I think this photo alone should prove that the classy "What Up Dog?" mobile was all a gal could wish for on her birthday.
That, and a giant flower balloon that doubles as a giant bobble-head.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
1. He doesn't mind my mood swings.
2. He cries for me from the bottom of the stairs when I get home from work.
3. He doesn't have to be walked.
4. He doesn't defecate in the house.
5. He brings me presents.
Regarding number 5, two days ago I came home from work to find my bedroom COVERED in bird feathers. Apparently he'd finally scored in catching a bird. I hate it when he catches birds, but he's such a crappy hunter that 98% of the time I can rest assured that he's not going to bring anything home. I even keep a bird feeder just outside my bedroom window so he'll have something to keep him preoccupied.
Anyway, not only did I find the bird alive under my bed, but my cat had pulled out so many of its feathers that it couldn't fly. It was just hopping around on one foot (the other had been injured), but doing a great job at keeping away from the cat. I did manage to catch it and release it, although I don't think it lasted the night. Poor thing.
And then yesterday when I got home from work I noticed something distinctly... lumpy in my cat's food bowl. Lo and behold, this is what I discovered:
(It's a small, very dead mole.)
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Hey there, how’s it going up there? Sorry to bother you while you’re governing the universe and all, but I felt it necessary to bring a few things to your attention. I know you know everything so I’ll get right down to it.
My list of “please forgive me for’s” include:
--calling all those drivers dumbasses while on my way to work.
--thinking ill thoughts towards the twenty or so people who called me with the assumption that I’d been the one to turn off their power instead of the poor unfortunate soul who had slammed his car into a power pole, causing it to tumble and cut all power to thousands of others in the area. Because apparently those who work in the leasing office of apartment complexes have access to convenient little on/off switches to every one of the 267 apartments in the community.
--lusting after the adorable little Air Force boy who came in to my office today, all suited up and with genuine blue-eyed innocence emanating from him. Sure he’s legally a man, but the fact that I’m 13 years older than him doesn’t help. Not to mention that I shudder at the idea that he probably thought of me as a “cougar.” [I’M NOT THAT OLD YET, DANGIT!]
--being annoyed at the woman who came in acting all crippled because she’d just had her baby five days ago after only “one hour of hard labor.” And for calling her a wimp, and whiner, and a faker (in my head). And for really REALLY disliking her after being informed that she had been the one I’d heard of who’d been riding around the parking lot on the hood of a car while 8 months pregnant.
--rolling my eyes at the lady who expected me to work when I had obviously closed and locked the office for the day.
--entertaining naughty thoughts while smiling cheerfully at the handsome military men who called me “ma’am” with that sly smile and their sweet southern drawls.
--calling all those drivers idiots while on my way home from work.
My list of “please help me to’s” include:
--be more like you.
--think before I speak and/or act.
--stop lusting after men so much when I know perfectly well that I will never ever date or marry again in my whole entire boring life.
--remember to check for strands of toilet paper hanging out of my pants before I leave the restroom.
My list of “I thank you for’s” include (but are not limited to):
--having more intelligence than a slug.
--reminding me that it’s ok to laugh at myself. OFTEN.
--getting that last minute commission when that gorgeous soldier came in 30 minutes before we closed. You know how much I need the money.
With all my love forever and ever,
p.s. I managed to get almost all of that nasty bird’s yellow/orange chunky poop off my car so you can stop chuckling now.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
I loved that bra. It was my lucky bra. I had my first kiss (ever) with my first boyfriend while wearing that bra. Yeah, we were the best of friends, my bra and I.
One day I got suckered into going to PT for my boyfriend’s ROTC class. I knew that he just wanted me to come along so he could impress me with his physical prowess. But what neither of us expected was his superior “inviting” me to join in on the jumping jacks. And when I say “inviting,” I mean that he barked at me to join or leave.
And being the uber-shy, easily intimidated dillweed that I was at the time, I hopped to!
Unfortunately for me, I was wearing my favorite bra. Yep, my purple pal. Little did I know that my bra was about to betray me in the worst way.
[You’re already imagining it, aren’t you. Ugh, it’s just such a painful memory! So painful, in fact, that I’ve never told a living soul… UNTIL NOW. Not even my best friend. At least, I don’t think I told her. But whatever, you get the idea.]
So there I was, jumping up and down to the drill sergeant’s count along with at least 12 other people, all of them being cute guys—I was the only gal. And then it happened. I don’t know how long I had been jumping before I realized that my girls were a little TOO free. Yes, it’s true. They’d escaped their pretty purple binding and were flopping freely whichever way they desired.
My favorite bra had chosen that moment to “give up the ghost.” Or, to be more precise, the clasp had come undone and I had to scramble to fix my bra and re-adjust the girls in front of all those guys. *sigh*
Oh, and did I mention that I’m a full-figured busty kinda gal?
Needless to say, I was horrified and completely humiliated. And I will forever wonder just how much nipple was visible underneath that thin shirt I was wearing.
(Wow, I had no idea there was a bra made for those whose headlights aren't permanently on "high beam!" *wink-wink nudge-nudge*)
I’ll admit that remembering that terrifying experience makes me giggle to myself these days. But I never went to another PT after that and I never will again. No matter how many hot, sweaty men there may be out there running laps and doing jumping jacks. I’m pretty sure I’ve been scarred for life. Blasted bra.
Am I the only one who is amused by this?
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Isn't it interesting?
Talk amongst yourselves.
(*DISCLAIMER* There were no alterations made to the egg or this photo. It appears in this photo as it appeared to her, once the shell was removed. I, the author of this blog, have no control over what you perceive this photo to be of. Nor am I trying to persuade you see anything other than what is pictured above: a hard boiled egg. I, Princess Consuela Bananahammock, see a delicious hard boiled egg. A very interestingly shaped delicious hard boiled egg that apparently was consumed shortly after this photo was taken. No animals were injured in the creation of this blog.)
Monday, June 15, 2009
In Washington state it is common knowledge that honking your horn is TOTALLY RUDE. Even if someone were to cut you off or push you out of your lane, you just slow down and look appalled. And that’s pretty much it. Yeah, who would’ve thought so many people liked to take it in the butt?
(The hell it doesn’t!)
I personally prefer to use every resource available in order to express my surprise and frustration when such events happen to me. I was able to overcome this absurd “silent rule” us Westies cling to when I moved to the east coast a few years back. And trust me, when you live in a part of the country that is so saturated with crazy drivers you learn to cope. When in Rome, right? So, I adapted and learned how to be an offensive driver. And after having a little old blue-haired lady go through all the trouble of cranking down her driver’s side window just to stick her knobby old fist out to flip me off, I realized that I’d succeeded when my only reaction was to laugh. I mean, who would’ve thought?
(Yeah, sorta like this, only the grumpy ol’ biddy had a fro of curly blue hair.)
Like I said, I just learned how to deal with it. And by that I mean I learned how to ignore it. Nowadays I could give a rat’s ass about someone blowing their horn at me. But after moving back to the Great Northwest, where everyone drives as though they are gossiping (they’re courteous to your face but really they’re figuring out the next best way to stab you in the back), I was reminded that people aren’t quite as aggressive behind the wheel as they tend to be out east.
(Beware of little old biddys with revenge on their minds!)
Or maybe it’s not that they’re less aggressive. Maybe it’s just that they don’t feel the dire need to express their frustrations the way I learned to out east. That being a loud laying-on-of-the-horn followed by a token shouting of, “WHAT THE HELL?!” accompanied by hand gestures that only Italian-Americans seemed to have perfected.
(Ok, so they’re not angry in this pic, but you get the idea. I love how Italian-Americans are so expressive, especially with their arms/hands.)
So, having lived in New York AND New Jersey for so long, I managed to toughen up a bit and grew thicker skin, so to speak. Not a whole lot… heaven knows I’m still a total softie and wimp-noodle inside. But let’s just say that I don’t take as much crap as I used to.
(Wow! As much middle finger as a person could ever dream of!!)
Which brings us to today. Here’s the story.
I was pulling up to the Starbucks drive-thru I always go to. I had the right-of-way, seeing that it was a right turn for me to take to get in line, vs. the left turn that a soccer mom in a giant SUV had to take. We had arrived at the same time and since she stopped I proceeded to get in line. Well, apparently she’s one of those “polite” Westy drivers (see description above). Even though she had stopped to allow me the right-of-way she became irate when I took my place in line ahead of her. Mind you, it’s not like it was a busy time of day. There was a small line but nothing like I’ve seen in the past.
So, because she was pissed off at me she decided to honk the horn at me (just briefly, not even a laying-on-of-the-horn like I’m prone to). I looked at her thinking, “oh, uh-uh!” She was shaking her head at me with a look on her face that was supposed to be of disapproval, but more looked like she was constipated. When she pulled in behind me, I continued to stare at her through my side-view mirror. It wasn’t a friendly stare. It was more of an “oh no you DI’NT!” stare in which I was just daring her to continue with her childish behavior. She saw the look I gave her and, although she was still shaking her head, she avoided my glare by looking down. Ha! Rookie.
(A true soccer mom, she didn’t like me getting in the way of her goal: Starbucks.)
So I sat there in line ahead of her thinking, “What a hoochie!” And I watched her inch up on the butt of my Jeep. And then a truly wicked thought creeped into my head. “Oooh…,” I thought, “I’ll show HER!”
What was this devious plan I was so amused to contrive? Oh, I was going to make her M-A-D! Tee-hee!! I knew that by then she was about ready to shoot me, especially considering how long it took for me to get my drink and load my Starbucks card and pay for everything. Little did she know that I paid for all four of her drinks.
Take that! I know that would’ve only irritated her because she’d have to stop thinking mean thoughts toward me and come to the harsh realization that I was just another person going about my daily business just like she was. SO THERE!
I drove off with my triple espresso con panna in hand and a smirk on my face. She never knew what hit her.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
I’ve recently come to accept the fact that I’m an old man magnet.
Don’t get me wrong, I do like old men. But I like them in the same sense that I like kittens and puppies—they’re cute and sweet as long as they don’t crap on your carpet. But the idea of having a romantic relationship with an old man is the type of thing that would make one’s head explode. It just shouldn’t happen. At least, not with me. Hey, if Anna Nicole wanted to get freaky with an old man, who the heck am I to judge? (Oh, but I do judge. That chick was totally after the geezer’s money. But that’s OLD news now.)
Speaking of, I once had an old Russian guy tell me I looked like Anna Nicole Smith. Actually, he told me that if I’d lose a bit of weight, THEN I’d look just like her. As if that was supposed to woo me or something. The dillweed. I didn’t know whether to be offended or take it as a compliment, to be perfectly honest. But I digress….
The point is: old men dig me. And my reaction has always been: WTF?!
Now, before I go any further I feel it’s necessary to explain that when I say “old man,” I’m not talking about a salt-n-peppery 40-something-year-old man. Oh no. I’d be flattered if that were the case. No, when I say “old” I’m referring to men who are roughly between the ages of 65-88, with their pants pulled up way high so you can see what color socks they’re wearing with their old-man loafers. I’m talking about the old men who tend to lose their sense of smell so that they are completely unaware that they are really just a walking stick of incense, wafting the delicate scent of rancid salami with a hint of moth balls. I’m talking about dudes who have tobacco stained teeth and fingers. Well… those with real teeth, I should say.
(Click on the image to read something HILARIOUS)
You see what I mean?
And the fact that these men are living under the impression that they *just* might have a chance with me really bugs the crap out of me. Oh sure, I’ll play it off by smiling and laughing. Heck, I might even swat them away in a playful manner just to keep them in good spirits. After all, just because there’s no way in hell they’d have a chance with me doesn’t mean that the next Anna Nicole look-alike would turn them down. (You gotta give these guys something to hope for, right?)
But when they start getting vulgar with me is when all bets are off. I will be the biggest bitch to the next one that tries waggling his grotesquely long eyebrows at me.
(Notice the abnormally long eyebrow hairs? Um, yeah.)
And if he even dares to blow a kiss my way in one of those, “hey baby, I’ll meet you out by the golf cart… let me just get a 5-minute head start so I can stow my walker away,” ways, well then I’m going to have to get vicious. And PLEASE, for the love of all that is good in this world, do not invite me for a ride on your motorized scooter. Please.
Sometimes I wish someone my age would come and sweep me off my feet. But he’ll have to get past all the old men reeking of Old Spice and onions. That is, if I don’t beat ‘em off first.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
1. We’ve got the coolest homeless people.
(click on the image to see the artist’s page)
2. We’ve got the coolest freaks.
(click on the image to read about the “Seattle Police are Communist” guy. He’s listed as an actual Seattle landmark, can you believe it?!)
…and don’t forget…
(Dale Chihuly! Click on the image to see his official site.)
3. We’ve got some seriously RAD urban art.
(The Troll under the Aurora Bridge in Seattle. That's a real VW in his hand.)
4. We’ve got some kick-a$$ wildlife/cuisine.
(For-effing-Real. The geoduck--pronounced "gooey-duck"--looks like a clam bit off an elephant's trunk, to put it mildly. But I know what you're REALLY thinking. *wink-wink, nudge-nudge*)
Tomorrow I go in search of Archie McPhee’s to investigate the source of this photo:
(Makes me hungry just looking at 'em.)
Monday, May 18, 2009
I spent hours today reversing what I’d spent days doing exactly two years ago. I called all my creditors to inform them of my name change. It was something I had been putting off because I remembered just how long and tedious the process had been the first time around. But I knew it needed to be done, and what better time to do it than now? Heck, I even went to the DMV to get a new driver’s license.
As I was sitting there at the DMV waiting for them to call my number, I witnessed something so sweet and heart-warming that I couldn’t stop staring. An older woman had just gotten her new license and was walking over to her husband. They were both very small and gray, and matched each other perfectly from what I could tell.
But the thing that really struck me, and made me audibly sigh and giggle, was the fact that the man, whom I presumed was the husband, had stuck his arm out for her. He crooked his arm, smiling warmly, and turned his head to the side in a manner which invited the lovely lady to take his arm. And she did just that, allowing him to accompany her outside. It was the sweetest gesture I’d seen in ages.
And even though I do not expect any man to make the same offering of kindness toward me, I know that I would melt if he did. The fact that he had offered his arm told me that he respected and admired her. The fact that he smiled and willingly did this small act of chivalry told me that he loved that woman. And the smile on her face showed how grateful she was to him for the thoughtful gesture. And I sat there, silently watching this small act of kindness unfold before me, and thought, “What a lucky couple.”
Someday I will be respected and appreciated like that couple did each other. Maybe not in the same ways, but all the same it needs to happen if I am to be truly happy. Over the past few years I’ve learned that it is important for me to have those things in my life. It’s not just a desire, it’s a necessity. And once those two things are in place, love will follow naturally.
Until then, it cannot happen. It will not happen.
And so I wait. Newly divorced, I feel I am born again. If only I had the eyes of an innocent the way I did when I was originally born again. But I have lost most of my naiveté and joyful innocence in the process of gaining invaluable knowledge.
I stand before you today on a foundation built of my own blood, sweat and tears. It is not a smooth surface but pock marked and battered, much like my soul. However, it remains an even stronger foundation than originally anticipated because of its history and experience, trials and tribulations, joys and miseries, and yes, loves had and loves lost. It is mine. I will not be ashamed of it.
I will move on, feet firmly on this solid foundation, eyes focused on the wide open skies ahead of me. And as I inhale the bittersweet air around me, I lift one foot and gently place it ahead of the other. And I progress. One. Step. At. A. Time.
(The eyes of the innocent are always so full and breathtaking. I wonder if I ever had such a deep and meaningful look on my face?)
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Stop looking at me like that.
“Like what?” I couldn’t help it. I was feeling a little defensive.
Like I’m some sort of a freak or something.
“Well…” I said, letting the word trail off, my eyebrows raised as I looked away. It was a good point, after all.
Why don’t you like me?
I glance over, nervous yet again, although admittedly there was a note of fascination in that one glance.
There, sitting on the window sill, sat the ball of nerves talking to me, glaring back with obvious resentment.
You’re ashamed of me, aren’t you.
It wasn’t a question.
“No, not at all! I’m not ashamed, as it were...” I paused, “just a little… um, scared is all,” my voice suddenly sounding higher and squeakier than usual.
“Well, look at you.”
Silence for about 20 seconds.
So, I’m blue. Is that it?
“That’s not it,” I said, shaking my head. This was going to be tough.
*sighing with exasperation* “Do I really have to spell it out for you?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t consume anything that professes to be ‘Sweat.’”
It’s a misspelling! I’m really SWEET! Honest!
“Sorry kiddo, you can’t fool me.”
(And there it shall remain, perched on the window sill above my bed. Taunting me.)
*I’d like to thank Bill for sending me the package of goodies (and oddities) all the way from
Saturday, May 2, 2009
I still plan on blogging on this site, too! But I wanted to get the word out about what it's like to be on the other side of adoption. There's just not enough out there on it. So please, if you don't mind, feel free to follow and support my other blog too. Thank you!
Monday, April 6, 2009
I love my boy more than anything else in this world. He is the most beautiful thing in my eyes, and nothing can change that.
Grant was adopted by my brother and his wife, made official by the courts today. So even though I will always see him as my boy, he is theirs and will be blessed with a life full of opportunities, love, and happiness. I love Dave and Laura and know that this is what Heavenly Father wanted all along. And no matter how much pain and anguish I feel or will feel, nothing will ever change the way I feel about the rightness of it all. I know it.
In the meantime, I will celebrate his life while I work on healing my own.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
(click here to see the artist's page!)
I can't help it. This photo cracks me up! Oh sure, these people are spelling out the word "LOVE" with their bodies, but I had to have that pointed out to me in order to see it.
Of course, the first thing I thought when I saw this photo was, "buncha hippies." I know, I'm so insensitive. But hey, I thought they were trying to be all existential and doing some sort of ethereal hippy dance. Meh, close enough (wink-wink, nudge-nudge).
Still, it's pretty enough. :)
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Even though I know none of those people who found parking spots right up front (seconds before I got there) knew that they were making a pregnant lady’s day just that much harder, I was still upset enough to slam the door when I finally did manage to push myself out of the car. Of course, I was far enough away for anyone to even remotely notice my small act of fury.
But anyone who looked at my face would’ve seen that any light and hope I might’ve displayed previously had been sucked out of me. Yeah, it’d been one of those days.
It was while I was looking like I’d just been hit by a train, a rolling pin, and dragged for a mile over glass that the dude started talking at me. He was passing me in the parking lot when he took one look at my face and then kept looking… doing the up-and-down scan that men tend to do when they’re performing the “routine checkup” on a woman. I had been attempting to ignore him when he started speaking loudly at me:
“Ooh, you’re a pretty lady. REAL pretty lady! You look fiiine!”
Ok, I know the guy had possibly recognized that I’d had a bad day and was probably trying to cheer me up in the one way he could think of. But.. ewwww! When he said, “REAL pretty lady!” he leered, stopping his progression down the parking lot so he could raise his voice and make it known to all that I, the hobbling pregnant lady, was “reeeeeaal pretty.” (*cue creepy, twangy music to the movie Deliverance*)
Even though he probably thought he was doing me a service, he only managed to creep me out. Besides, I’m pretty sure he was a leprechaun. He was at least 10 years older than me, a foot shorter than me, and was wearing a hat that brought to mind Ireland on a cold spring day. Just sayin!
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Before I launch into this incredibly riveting rant about phones, I just want to make it clear that I do understand many peoples’ reasons for using their phones as often as they do. Some feel that the telephone is an essential part of existence, rationalizing that communication is key to any relationship. While I agree that communication is key, I do NOT agree that the particular form of communication has to be via the telephone. With that said I give you my perspective on the use of cell phones, that being the perspective of a non-phone person.
I’ve never been a phone person. Nope. Never. Not even with my family or closest friends. Go ahead and ask ‘em. They’ll be the first to agree with me on this one. Even when I was so infatuated/smitten by a guy that I hoped… no, PRAYED that he’d call me. If by some freak chance the heavens smiled down on me and the dude called, I’d find myself at a loss for words. It’s not that I couldn’t carry a conversation or anything. Truth be told, I'd rather talk in person. However, in these cases it was more that I had so desperately wanted the attention of that particular guy that I was willing to put up with a phone call, as lame as they (phone calls, not the dudes) are.
(The dreaded telephone.)
I think this sort of thing runs in my family, although I can’t be absolutely sure. What I do know is that my father is also not a phone person. A great example of this was when I was on a mission for my church out in Australia for a year and a half. When it came time to make one of the two phone calls home that was permitted each year, I’d called my parents and we talked for a whopping… five minutes before hanging up. This was a complete let-down (although no surprise), considering that my missionary companion had just spent the previous 4 hours on the phone with her family. I’m not even kidding.
(Me at the Sydney airport, eager and nervous to fly back home.)
How the convo went: “Yeah, miss you too, Dad. Yep, still spreading the word of God. Ok, I’ll continue to write. Yeah, ok, love you too. Bye.” *click*
Now, I’ve come to understand one of the main reasons why it is that I am not much of a phone person: I’m a listener, not a talker. People who are “talkers” love people like me because they’ve got a captive audience for however long it takes them to express whatever jumble of a story they feel they need to communicate. And, while it’s nice to know that I am providing a service for my talkative friends/family, it’s also apparent that these talkative souls have no idea how it affects me, the listener. Nope, I’m convinced that they have no clue how it is slowly killing me inside to know that there went another two hours of my life that I could’ve been spending in a more productive manner.
Hey, I’m not trying to be mean. I am merely pointing out the truth. And yes, this is how I truly feel.
And the truth of the matter is this: I do not like wasting my time. This is one of the two reasons why I stopped watching TV almost six years ago. Not only did I see it as a massive waste of time, but I couldn’t afford cable anyway so it wasn’t that difficult for me to just fall out of the brain-draining habit. That’s right, kids! In my book:
Why, in the space of two hours I could have done the following:
--write and publish a blog
--write a letter to both of my grandparents AND make the trip to the post office and back.
--do all of my laundry, make my bed, vacuum my room, and possibly even clean the bathroom.
--go for a walk in Point Defiance while reading (ok, listening) to a great book. [I like this because I’m accomplishing two things at the same time. Extra kudos for me!]
--wash my car, fill the bird feeder, and do the dishes.
--if any friends or relatives were in the hospital, I could go visit with them for a while.
--update my resume, and even apply for a few jobs online while I’m at it.
--go out for hot chocolate (or maybe a Jamba Juice) with a friend or two and, you know, spend some quality time IN PERSON with that beloved soul.
See what I mean? There are other things I’d MUCH rather do with my time than to be stuck on the phone listening to someone else’s life. Instead, I’d much rather LIVE MY OWN LIFE. I know, it’s a hard concept to wrap one’s brain around… but trust me, it makes sense.
(Why, lookie there... I'm living life, and it's even caught on film!)
So, keeping in mind that I’m A) NOT a phone person, B) a listener, and C) annoyed with the waste of time most phone calls tend to be, why is it that I am suddenly being plagued by phone calls?! No, really. WHY?! Why is it that I have people who have started stalking me via phone?
It’s gotten to the point where I feel I’m being victimized. I seriously feel like a victim whenever I’m trapped on the phone for more than a few minutes. It’s as though someone is taking advantage of me in a most intimate manner and has the nerve to be smug about it the entire time. It’s almost as if my very life source is being sucked out of me. And it's extremely draining! Oh, and if there’s some sort of drama involved? Well then, I thank you for adding to my already skyrocketing levels of stress and ask that you please understand that there needs to be a moderation in all things, including phone calls.
I hate being the bitch about it, but there it is. I can’t handle your stress on top of my own. Especially not now. Not when I’m dealing with being 9 months pregnant and hormonal,
NO! I’VE BLOODY WELL HAD ENOUGH.
[*catching my breath and trying not to cry again*]
This would also be the reason why my blogging has slackened recently. See? Nobody likes this much drama! Least of all me.
(Blasted Drama Llama keeps following me around with its wicked grin...)
Soooo… It’s gotten to the point where I’ve decided to take a break from the phone. Actually, my thoughts were more along the lines of “screw the effing phone! I hate that thing and I refuse to answer it.” It’s true I’ve been under a lot of stress lately, and I was finding that the majority of the phone calls I’d been receiving were only contributing to my stress. And, at the recommendation of those I trust, I decided it would be best to freakin’ throw my phone against a brick wall again and again until it shattered into a million pieces, whereupon I would then stomp and trample the bits and pieces until there was nothing left but a fine, blue, powdery substance that was once my cell phone.
But since I don’t technically own the phone I decided to do the next best thing: ignore it.
Surprised? You shouldn’t be. In fact, here’s how I, the non-phone… nay, the ANTI-phone person sees it when you, the phone stalker, calls:
1. You are forcing me to leave whatever it was I was doing at the time in order to satisfy your own needs.
2. If what I was doing at the time was sleeping, then believe me when I tell you that it was much more important than you could’ve known. You may assume differently, but just remember what assuming does.
3. When you decide to call me to see how I’m doing, that’s sweet.
4. When you decide to call me with the intention to see how I’m doing, but end up spending an hour talking about yourself, that’s selfish.
5. If I don’t answer your call, there is always a good reason. Don’t be offended because that’s just a big ol’ waste of time, much like watching TV.
6. If you don’t leave a message, I refuse to call you back. Plain and simple.
7. If I do answer the phone, count your many blessings, but don’t you DARE take advantage of me. Otherwise you’ll find that I suddenly am not taking your calls anymore.
8. If you seriously need to communicate something, those of you who know me best already know that EMAIL is the most efficient form of communication with me. Text messages come in second, unless it’s an emergency, then Texting trumps Emails (sample text: I’m in hospital, can you pick me up?).
9. The whole reason I got a cell phone was in case *I* found myself in an emergency situation. I used to travel a lot and had broken down a few times without any means of communication. Getting a cell phone alleviated any worries that might’ve been associated with that.
10. I REPEAT: the reason I have a cell phone is in case of emergency. In other words, I’m not going to call on a whim because I’m bored or am curious to see how the weather is out your way. No. Should this be a surprise? NO.
Now, if you’re attempting to call me because you are concerned for me then I thank you. But I will also say GET OVER IT. I’m a big girl, am not stupid, and can take care of myself very well. I am nowhere near suicidal (although that could come as a surprise to those of you who’ve met my mother), and would never resort to harming myself. If I happen to be hurt then I will use my most-despised cell phone to call for assistance. *IF* that’s necessary at all. If I’m having a baby, then STOP WORRYING. Women have been having babies since the dawn of time. I’ll survive, but you need to give me my space. Get it?
I do apologize to those of you who have no clue what has triggered this rant of a blog. To you I give a heart-warming THANK YOU! Thank you for respecting my intelligence, space, and independence. Thank you for trusting that I am an adult who can take care of herself. And thank you for just plain reading my blog! I’m super impressed by that alone. ;)
To those of you who have fallen into the phone-stalker category—and there are a few of you—again I do apologize for being a total wonder wench from hell. But considering how far I’ve been pushed, it was only a matter of time before such an explosion was to happen. Please, just back off, ok?
*beaming warmly at all of you*
*…and turning the phone off and tossing it into the closet*
(Just leave a freakin' message.)
Thursday, February 26, 2009
(Cue music: "Oooh Sweet Mystery at last, I've finally found yooouuu!" This photo can be found on DeviantArt.com. Just click here to see!)
Bleh, I think I’m going to be sick.
So I got myself out of the house for a bit. These days I don’t have a whole lot of energy, so I wasn’t planning on going very far. After huffing and puffing my way up the stairs (and subsequently taking a five minute break at the top to catch my breath…), I made my way out the door, into my car, and over to the nearest Walmart. Yeah, thrilling, I know.
Walmart: where the weak-minded and thin-pursed congregate to butt heads and shopping carts with one another. Walmart: where there is no shortage of dim-witted rude people eager to place judgment on you once they’ve succeeded in taking a comprehensive glimpse into your cart to examine its contents. Ahh yes… Walmart. The place everyone loves to hate, but eventually find themselves going back again and again because of those wacky low prices. Curse those everyday low prices and that menacingly cheerful smiley face that adorns every sale sign!
Hello, my name is Carrie and I am a Walmart shopper.
Putting all drama aside, I was pretty dang proud of myself for making it all the way out to Walmart AND having the gumption to actually get out of the car and do the shopping I’d intended to do.* I took my time hobbling down the aisles of the Wal-Mart super store and found myself going over the mental list I’d made of what I’ll need for THE bag. You know, The Hospital Bag… the one thing you hope to high heaven you don’t forget in your rush/panic to get to the hospital when all hell (a.k.a. your water) breaks loose. After all, that was the whole purpose of my errand this evening: to get the goods that will fill my Hospital Bag.
Items on this list included but were not limited to:
- travel toothpaste (I’ve already got the toothbrush and mouthwash)
- small bottle to hold shampoo (because I don’t trust hospital brand shampoo)
- heartburn medicine (a necessity of life for me, doesn’t matter if’m preggers or not
- Ace bandage (for the binding of the bubs… if you don’t know what I mean then you’re not ready to know)
- pads of the maxi sort *sigh*
- Puffs Ultra tissues (I’m expecting a snot storm. Getting teary-eyed tends to lead to snotting on one’s self)
-Snack Wells brand devils food cake snacks (I’ve heard it’s normal to be famished during or after the process of birthing a baby. Go figure.)
…and most importantly…
- Tucks and/or Preparation H medicated wipes
That last item would’ve scared the bejeezums out of me to purchase at any other time in my life. But tonight? Not so much. Let’s just say that I got enough Tucks and PrepH wipes in my cart to make anyone nervous of being within a 10-foot-radius of me for fear I might shoot deadly flames out of my rear.
The mere thought of which made me smile.
But seriously, you should’ve seen the looks I got from the people there at Walmart! When I was in the toiletries section picking out my toothpaste two dudes of a Latino nature strolled by at different times. However, both men managed to eyeball my belly not just once, but at least three times. EACH. Their technique was sloppy, though, as was obvious by the fact that I was staring right back at them to see if they’d actually raise their eyes to my FACE. No such luck. I have to admit that I was a bit amused by the whole thing, though, since they’d obviously taken a peek at all the “feminine protection” items I’d piled into my cart. And by “feminine protection,” I don’t mean a chartreuse flame thrower.
Besides, they probably had no clue they were staring quite as intensely as they had been. And if they were aware, they probably thought they were being sneaky, staring at the big, round, tired-looking Juera.**
Those guys were just the first obvious gawkers of the evening. My favorite of all the gawkers, however, also happened to be the last.
She had passed me in the baking goods aisle where I was contemplating buying more tapioca. As I stood there calculating just how much tapioca I could consume, a mousy-looking woman in a brown trench coat walked by ever-so-slowly, taking her sweet time to examine the contents of my cart (by this time I’d sort of tried hiding the massive quantities of butt wipes I had piled up in my cart under the huge bag of maxi pads. Not that it made any real difference). I also saw how her critical eye then slid over to my pregnant belly.
What was a little surprising was the fact that she took a double-take. And on top of that, I was disturbed by her look of disgust and disbelief. It was at that time that I reached out and grabbed her mousy brown hair and yanked her head back, pulling it down to my belly while shouting, “go ahead, have a good stare! Take it all in because you’ll never know what it’s like with a rat face like that!”
Ok, okaaaay, so I didn’t actually do or say that, although I sure wanted to. Just the thought of it made me smile. But I didn’t do it because that would’ve been rude, and I sort of felt sorry for her having to look so much like a rat.
Instead, I found that I’d unconsciously chosen the same checkout stand as her, and was morbidly amused by her shock that I’d followed her. Yes, she took yet another double-take, only this time she looked at my face, which expressed a deep exhaustion and a fierce, “don’t EFF with me or I’ll set you on fire with my flame-throwing ASS!” look as I glared right back at her.
I smiled for the third time that night as she scurried away. Hmph. Wimp.
(Everybody sing with me: "THE SUN IS A MASS OF INCANDESCENT GAS, A GIGANTIC NUCLEAR FURNACE...WHERE HYDROGEN IS BUILT INTO HE-LI-UM AT A TEMPERATURE OF MILLIONS OF DEGREES! THE SUN IS HOT, THE SUN IS NOT A PLACE WHERE WE COULD LIVE... BUT HERE ON EARTH THERE'D BE NO LIFE WITHOUT THE LIGHT IT GIVES!" *bum bum*)
*Lately I’ve found it incredibly difficult to find the motivation to do those more mundane tasks, like grocery chopping, going to the library, or turning over in bed. You may laugh now, but wait until YOU’RE eight months pregnant and ready to pop. Yeah, that’s right. Suddenly it’s not so funny anymore and you find yourself thinking, “do I really need to wash my hands again? I mean, I washed them the 6 other times I got up in the middle of the night to pee and my hands are bleeding and cracking, they’re so dry. Surely I haven’t gotten that much fecal germ matter on my hands in the brief time it took to trickle out what little pee I could muster, right?” Then, shuddering at the thought of a fleck of rogue fecal matter making it onto your hands which will, no doubt, make it to your face sometime before the next pee break, you sigh deeply and proceed to wash your hands for the 7th time that night.
**According to the Urban Dictionary, a “Juera” (pronounced WHERE-ah, only you roll the ‘r’) is, “a white girl, especially a blonde female. An American girl.” Of course, I didn’t need the Urban Dictionary to tell me this since I’d found out the meaning the hard way. In two words: sexual harassment. I quit that job shortly after what I refer to as The Juera Incident. I’ll never understand why Latinos/Mexicans (whatever the more appropriate politically correct term-du-jour is) fancy us blondes so much.