Death Has a Blue Face

Any child of the digital age can probably figure out what my headline means. I fired up the old laptop this AM and sure enough, I got me a blue screen of death. Can I have a "boo"? Luckily, I don't need my laptop for much more than checking email and a couple of blogs. Well, there's the StumbleUpon addiction to contend with, but I am hopeful that the withdrawal symptoms will be minimal.

Huh, I was hoping that by logging into Blogger and writing about something, anything, I would be inspired to go off on some random tangent (who me?). I am aware that my posts have been few and far between, but rather than bore all 4 of you with tales of cookie baking, I decided that nothing was preferable to mundane. I also thought about doing a year-in-review post, or something about the holidays, but it all fills me with meh. For your sake, dear reader, I hope that the new year will bring fresh sources of inspiration.

Keep Reading, I Eventually Have a Point

It's been just over a week since my last post and I'm sorry to say that the minutiae of my life has been even more boring than usual. Also, there hasn't really been anything that has raised my ire enough to pound out a couple hundred words. At least nothing that would require a whole lot of backstory that I don't feel like recounting. I'm currently baking cookies. Someone stop the excitement.

In case anyone was wondering, I am officially 30. I had an excellent time out with some friends but nothing super exciting happened. Well, JR managed to loudly announce that she thought I would need a book during my pooping adventure. As we were both reasonably drunk, I was content to let it slide. And there was only one dude around and he was on the phone. Otherwise, 30 feels pretty much like 29.

On the literature front, I have a new author. His name is Jonathan Carroll and he writes beautiful fantasy. But it's not too fantastical. He melds fantasy and reality in a lovely, scary, intriguing way. My dad got me The Ghost in Love for my birthday and I really enjoyed it.

As I was putting my next batch of sugar cookies in the oven, I remembered what I wanted to quasi-rant about - Facebook. A couple of days ago, I girl I used to be very close with found me on Facebook. Now pretty much everyone knows that FB is specifically for finding people you used to hang with. I can't even remember why I started the stupid thing. The reason this particular friend request matters is because my friendship with this girl was somewhat fraught. I'm fairly certain that she thought she was smarter than me (not a huge deal), but she also said that I should find something to do that doesn't involve school because I wasn't very good at it. Ouch, Ms. Ivy League. I let that slide. The friendship ended when I told her I didn't want her as a bridesmaid because I didn't feel we were close enough anymore. I still wanted her at the wedding, but we had drifted apart and there were girls I was closer with. She didn't like being booted and that was about the end of it.

Flash forward a couple of years and I'm in a bar in Fairless Hills. I ran into the older brother of another girl I used to be friends with back in high school. We got to chatting and the brother mentioned that he had called his sister to get my name. The brother knew he knew me (stay with me here) but my name was escaping him. OK, it's going to get more confusing. When the brother called his sister, she happened to be on the phone with the girl I ousted as bridesmaid. What was the first thing she asked him? She asked if I was still wearing my wedding ring. Double owie, bitch. Did you girls have a nice snicker over my divorced state? Did you feel all smug and superior to know that while I was the first to get married, it didn't last? Am I projecting?

So you can imagine how I felt when I saw that stupid friend request - or maybe you can't. Maybe shit doesn't bother you the way it bothers me. My dilemma was whether or not to approve the request. I won't describe the hemming and hawing, it's boring. Ultimately I decided that FB isn't really about becoming bestest friends again. It is about amassing a slew of pseudo-friends who you couldn't be bothered to keep in touch with, or had fallings out. The way it normally work is that I'll get the request, a few emails/wall posts are exchanged and that's the end of it. I've gotten fairly adept at summing the last ten years of my life in about 4 sentences:

Got married, moved to California. Got divorced, moved back to Phila. Got my degree, working in Warminster. Things are quiet.

I don't even care if it sounds boring. It isn't important to me for these people to think my life is super-awesome. The former BFF is married with two kids and I couldn't care less. I will admit that there is part of me that wonders if she added me because she wanted to she if her life was better than mine. From her perspective, of course. I was on guard for catty comments or backhanded compliments. Then again, it has been 10 years. I doubt that she thought about me at all until Facebook reminded her of my existence.

Apparently, Stupid is Worse than Mean

I've earned a small degree of infamy on the 'net for an unintentionally stupid comment I made on a blog. This particular blog will periodically post photos of celebs and we are encouraged to make clever comments about the celeb's hair, outfit, facial expression, etc. The one thing that was always discouraged was body-snarking. I can understand this - most people have had some sort of self-esteem issues over the years. My last boyfriend was super skinny. I called him Stringbean. It took me a while to realize that it wasn't any less bad to tease him about being skinny as it would be to tease someone about being overweight.

Anyway, I did my level best to avoid any body comments. One day, a photo of Madonna was posted. Most of you are probably aware that Madonna is an exercise fiend. She has made no secret of her dedication to fitness. Another commenter said something about Madonna's lack of body fat. I said something about Madonna's visible veins. Veins that were visible because of her lack of body fat. Oy, I got flamed and I got voted worst comment of the day (which I covered in a previous post).

In my defense, I was not maligning Madonna's body. What do I care if you want to do lots of yoga or Pilates or eat a raw food diet? It's your life; live it how you want. I was merely voicing my amazement at her low body fat percentage. I mean, come on, the woman is RIPPED.

I went on the site today and there was a post about making comments about some of the super-skinny celebs. Many people feel that it is their bounden duty to offer this advice: Eat a cheeseburger. There were a couple of paragraphs about the unkindness of body-snarking and my stupid veiny Madonna comment was referred to. For fuck's sake people! I've read some seriously mean-spirited comments on that site and you drag out mine? At worst, it was poorly-worded. Did I say "Ewwwwwww! OMG Madonna is scary skinny? Get that chick a sammich STAT!!!1!!"? Nope, but somehow I got called out.

This stupid mess made me realize that internet relationships, regardless of how good they seem to be, are mostly nothing. I don't know if it is the anonominity or what, but people feel far more comfortable shitting on someone online. Who am I kidding? Of course it's the anonominity. There are no real consequences (the whole MySpace bullying issue notwithstanding). If I had made that comment about Madonna to any of my friends, they probably wouldn't have said anything at all. The certainly wouldn't have jumped all over me with comments like: "Oh yes, she has veins. How passe!" and the like. While I realize that tone is nearly impossible to convey online, give me a little credit people, hmmmm? Do you really think I am unfamiliar with the existence of the circulatory system? After all, it pumps the blood into my occasionally non-functioning brain.

So I will admit to stupidity but I WILL NOT admit to body-snarking. Sometimes people, stupid happens.

Fucking Princess

Of all the presumptuous, high-handed piles of bullshit. You fucking bitch. I will rip out your crinkly, nasty, wannabe "I Dream of Genie" weave. Slowly. One strand at a time. And then I will feed it to you.

Relapse

The sickness is descending on me again.

I don't know if it is because my birthday and the holidays are so near, or if it is because I've been so good for so long. Either way, I can feel it creeping up on me, peering over my shoulder, blowing its sweet breath of temptation in my ear. It makes me itch and yearn and long and desire (OK, three of those are approx. the same thing). I don't know how much long I can hold back. I need the smells, the sights. I need to touch and covet and peruse. That's right, the addiction is pulling me under. I need my Barnes and Noble's fix.

Before you go writing the previous paragraph off as artistic license, it's actually a fairly accurate description of how I feel when the book covetousness sweeps over me. I walk into a B&N and can feel the tension fall away from me. I lovingly finger the books. Oh, that's right, I touch them. I open them up to my avidly hungry gaze. I breathe in their scent. Whew. OK, gimme a minute to collect myself.

Since it is almost my birthday and Christmas, I should hold myself in check. All of my friends and family know of my love for books. I KNOW I will get books, or gift cards for Borders/B&N, but I don't know if I can wait. The lust can sometimes be too persuasive. "Come," it says. "Want me, hold me, touch me, love me." It is a siren call I am all but powerless to resist.

Evacuate

Heh, doody.

Pooping is one of those thing that we take for granted until it stops coming out right. Pooping can be mildly inconvenient, especially for those people who prefer not to poop in public places. Pooping can be loud, quiet, smelly, relatively odorless, uncomfortable, and a relief. If we don't poop, we die.

Ever since I returned from WI, my bowels had been...different. I learned many years ago to wait for the perfect poop. I discovered that forcing a poop usually leads to discomfort and a chapped ass. My guts and I had an understanding - they stayed reasonably regular and I didn't abuse them too often. Unfortunately, something changed.

At first I thought it was the large amount of raw veggies I ingested while in WI. However, the problem continued long past the time that I would have processed the vegetables. My diet was pretty much the same as it always was. Oh, I was pooping, but every session was a struggle and I never felt satisfied. I tried increasing my fiber intake, but that's kind of difficult when you don't have much fiber in the house. I ate more veggies, I drank lots of water. Still, I was dissatisfied.

I finally decided to try a laxative. I was gonna blow it all out and start fresh. JR offered to pick up some Epsom salts for me. I was told by B that Epsom works wonders on recalcitrant guts. I was willing to give it a go. Due to a lack of Epsom that didn't contain shea and/or menthol (its primary use is as a soak), JR got me good ole Correctol. It's a woman's laxative, or so it says on the box. Whatever. If it got the poop out I wouldn't care if it were elephant laxative. Also, in her very thoughtful way, JR provided me with some flushable wipes and a book of Kurt Vonnegut pieces. They both came in handy.

I took my first dose around 10 pm Friday night. The instructions said that a bowel movement would probably happen in 6-12 hours. I figured that I'd split the difference and I'd most likely be pooping aound 8 am. JR came over after work and we chilled for a bit. I decided to take another dose. Maybe risky, but I wanted to be cleared out. I wasn't fucking around anymore. I went to bed around 3 am.

I woke at 8 am and it was imperative that I get to the bathroom - rightstatnow. And then, oh my. Warning: I'm going to try not to be TOO gross, but I am talking about poop here people. You may want to skip ahead.

BLOOEY!
SPLOOSH!
AHHHHHH.

Everything I had packed into my bowels over the last month of so came right on out. I don't know if the fact that I was half-asleep was a factor, but I was feeling no pain. Once I was done with the evacuation (there was surprisingly little mess), I went back to bed for a couple of hours.

And woke up at 10am for an encore.

At this point I figured that I may as well get up for good. Sleep interrupted by frantic voiding of one's guts is no sleep at all. I managed to get some stuff done around the house and made sure to stay well hydrated. There were a couple more sessions, but nothing as spectacular as the first two. Thanks to Cottonelle and JR for saving my ass.

After about 5pm or so, I was done. There was still a bit of discomfort down below, but I think that was more about my uterus than about my guts. I went to a friend's house and did not blow up his bathroom. In fact, I didn't poop again until I got home from work today. It was solid and satisfying.

Way to Tempt Fate, Asshole

OK, my Pollyana, look on the brightside moment is officially over.

My day only got busier. I will have to call 30+ reps to determine if they got their training materials. My favorite North Carolina coworker is being moved to another group, as is my 2nd favorite. Social workers are providing insufficient or incorrect information. When I call them to verify, I find out that I've been bypassed and they don't even NEED my help anymore. Thanks for the update. This isn't even addressing the issue of the social workers who don't call me back.

While it still isn't that bad; it's DEFINITELY worse than it was. I'll have wine now, please.

It Could So Be Worse

I was all set to post something about how annoying my day has been so far. Then I realized that it hasn't been so bad. It's just that when shit starts out not-great (no hot water in apt; had to shower at parents'), it seems that everything that follows after is verging on terrible.

Example: Tiberius (parents' cat) was at the vet last week for urination issues. He got the catheter, the prescription food, the meds, the obligatory "Well, there's this procedure we can do for him..." speech, and was shipped back home. It would seem that he's still having trouble with the peeing so my mom has to take him back to the vet. Not-great, right? But, not terrible either. Luckily my mom was able to rearrange her schedule enough to attend to the Emperor. It will suck if they have to chop the willy, but at least Ti will be healthy.

The other thing I was going to kvetch about was my workday. Boohoo, I have work to do. So sad that I'm not able to sit around playing spider solitaire and reading my book. I think the only valid complaint I have is that I am getting questions from my reps that I don't have clear answers for. They are asking me about things that the program leader should be telling them. It makes me sound like an idiot and I don't like that. Also, the reps aren't very good at framing their questions. I got into a snippy conversation with a rep a couple of weeks ago. When I finally got her to tell me what she meant, I had an answer, the right answer, all ready. Please drug reps, think about your question before you ask it.

As you can see, my day really hasn't been anything too awful bad. Annoying, yes, but not an epic fail. In my defense, it has been so long since I've had more than 15 minutes of work to do. I had forgotten what it feels like.

"The science was sound."

WARNING: Fringe Spoilers ahead.

Fringe is my new guilty pleasure. In case you don't know anything about the show, here's a quick sum-up. There is this thing called "The Pattern" which involves bizarre science, the Dept. of Homeland Security, the FBI, a corporation called Massive Dynamic, a bland Special Agent named Olivia Dunham, a ne'er do well genius and his lovably crazy scientist dad (Peter and Dr. Walter Bishop respectively). The show is nominally about "fringe" science: teleportation, reading dead people's brain waves, super-awful super weapons, etc. What it actually is nonsense - wonderful, crazy, not-science nonsense.

Tonight's episode revolved around a series of seemingly impossible bank robberies. We the viewers get to see the robbers in action. There's some black curtains, a bunch of laptops, and some gobbledygook about having a grid. What this all amounts to is that these robbers can walk through walls. Did I mention that they are all spiffed out in scuba gear? And have to haul themselves into the vault using a rope attached to a super magnet? And one of the robbers gets stuck in the wall?

It turns out that the criminals are stealing safety deposit boxes that were stocked with funky camera-looking things. It also turns out that our very own Dr. Walter had opened those boxes 20-odd years ago (the boxes are based on Fibonacci numbers - go math!) to hide away a device he had made in an insane attempt to cure his son, Peter, of some rare bird flu. Walter created this device in order to reach back to the 1930s and retrieve the only doctor who had ever successfully treated this rare bird flu. Luckily for this bird flu doc, Peter got better all by himself and Walter secreted away his temporal lasso.

Do you see now why I love this show? It's completely preposterous. Walter spent almost 20 years in a mental institution but somehow a good percentage of his research is being used for nefarious purposes, Olivia is sharing her dead boyfriend's memories, the lady who runs Massive Dynamic has an arm that any Terminator would envy and there is a cow in their basement lab on Harvard's campus. The science, my friends, is anything but sound.

Do the Crime...

I am fucked.

Ten days ago, I got pulled over for first running a red light and then, in a move obviously designed to deliberately piss off the cop, I flicked my cigarette butt out the window. I know, I know. Littering is bad. Running red lights; also bad. I'm not here to bemoan the fact that I got caught doing two illegal things. I am here to say, that for the 1st time since I turned 18, I may be in a serious spot of doodoo.

I was all set to make a payment plan with the township to pay off the fines. $400+ is not an amount of money I generally have lying around. I should have been a good doobie and taken care of it the same day I got pulled over. However, I am a procrastinator and apparently even the threat of warrants being issued can't get me offa my lazy ass.

Since I had no intention of telling my parents that I got pulled over, I thought that I oh-so-carefully tucked those stupid pieces of yellow paper into my wallet. Easy to remember where I put them but hidden away from inquisitive eyeballs. Not that my parents are super-nosy or anything. I was just being cautious. Evidently I was cautious to the point of being magic because those fucking things have disappeared.

They are not in my wallet. They are not in my purse. They are not in the bag I take to work. They aren't under the front passenger seat of my car. They aren't in the trash bag in my car. They aren't in the random pile of shit on my table in the apartment. I do not have them, Sam I am.

Still, I wasn't at the despairing point. I figured I could call the township, get directed to the department I needed, have them find me in the system using my last name or license number, and proceed with the payment plan option. I found the number for the muni building, called during my break and was transferred by a nice lady to the department I needed. There was no answer. I tried calling the police department later that day and the friendly man who answered the phone said that I needed to speak to the court. He very helpfully said, "There's a number in the corner of your ticket-". In my head: FUCK. Out loud: "Oh damn, I don't have the ticket right in front of me. I'll call back later." The friendly man said okie-dokie.

I'm starting to panic a bit at this point. I hop on Google and try to find a breakdown of the courts in the township (oh hell, it was Bensalem) to see if I could figure out which court would be handling my situation. Google wasn't especially helpful. I went to the Bucks County site, back to the Bensalem twp and Bensalem PD sites, and some random site that wasn't helpful. Goddamn internets!

Don't think that I'm blaming Google for my troubles. I know I should have taken care of all this at the earliest opportunity, but I still have no idea how my tickets got so thoroughly lost. Even if they had fallen out of my purse at my parents' house, Mom and Dad would have left them in the usual spot. I may have gotten a lecture from Dad about littering, but lectures I can handle. Jail, however, is something else entirely.

Oh, the Heartbreak

Sunday is rapidly becoming my least favorite day of the week. Is it because of the massive amounts of laundry I have to do? No. Is it because I am so burnt out on my job that I can't bear the thought of another week starting? Good guess, but no. Sundays, along with this coming Thursday and the occasional Monday, suck because my beloved Philadelphia Eagles are outdoing themselves in the suckiness department.

Oh sure, the defense still performs (mostly), Westbrook does the best he can (which is pretty damn good), and Desean Jackson has some serious potential, but that's not enough. Our team can't bring the run, I think Andy Reid's brain is being throttled by cholesterol and McNabb has all but given up. Putting Kolb in for the second half of yesterday's game was a brilliant decision - if Reid was looking to showcase how the Birds can fail regardless of who is throwing the ball. I don't know why they bother keeping up the fiction that McNabb, or Kolb, is throwing to his team. Just pitch the ball to the opposting team and then stand aside and let them run it in. Nothing like upping the stats of the opposing team's defense. Some defensive players go their whole career without scoring a touchdown. Not anymore kids! Come to Philly! Score some points!

Anyone who knows me know that I have never been a fan of Donovan McNabb, aka: Fat Ass, Penishead, and Donovan "It's not my fault" McNabb. I feel that McNabb had potential 10 years ago when the Eagles drafted him. I also feel that McNabb never had the necessary fire to become a truly great QB. Yes, I know the man has battled season-ending injuries and come back to play again. However, one needs to ask: Did he come back better? Or even as good? My answer is gonna have to be "no".

A couple of years ago, it seemed that McNabb was well on his way to greatness - draggin my belagured Eagles behind him. My parents and I went to the last regular season game played in the Vet (Birds-Cards). The was the game when McNabb busted his ankle and you know what? He played pretty damn good. I don't remember the final score, but I know the Eagles won. Now that I think about it, that may have been their Super Bowl season. Don't quote me, though.

I am well aware that being a Philly sports fan is an act of raging masochism. Sure, the Soul and the Phillies won championships, and the Wings were good about 10 years ago, but successful sports franchises are few and far between here in Philthydelphia. And don't point out to me all the other cities that haven't brought a championship home in longer than it has been for Philly. I don't care about them. I'm too busy crying Eagles green.

Dunzo

My brief spate of fickleness has passed. I have decided that the thing with K is not going to happen. Obviously feeling "meh" about the sitch was a fairly good indicator that we were not destined for ever-lasting lurrrrrrve. And it probably wasn't a good sign that I got all salty when he asked, nay, told me to try to express my feelings. Sorry dude, you can't express what isn't there.

The following day he was his usual text message-y self. To avoid dealing with him during work hours, I told him I was busy. Later that night he sent me more messages. He asked if everything was OK. I said there was some stuff on my mind and he immediately asked if it was him.

Duh.

No, I didn't say that! Sheesh, what kind of person do you think I am? You know what - never mind answering that. Anyway, I said I needed some thinking time and that we'd talk the next day. He called me right then.

Guh.

Kind of defeats the whole purpose of "time to think", K. I said as much to him and got off the phone rather quickly. Later that evening I felt kind of bad for being shirty and sent him this: You're coming on too strong emotionally and I don't deal well with that. The first part is true. More on the second part later.* I didn't get a reply until the next morning. He said: I knew it was me. I'm sorry.

Oy.

K, if you knew it was you then why did you push it? The reply? I don't know. I'm an idiot. Taking a small amount of pity on him (sorry for the rule #5 violation), I said You're not an idiot. Really, yeah he is. Next came: I'll understand if you don't want to see me anymore. Now, I really should have just nipped the whole thing. Said: Good because I don't want to. However, in my moment of pity, I told him that I didn't know yet if I wanted to see him again. I don't want to see him again. In the spirit of full disclosure, I had a moment the other night where I got a bit skeeved remembering the making out. So all that remains, if I'm going to be a nice(ish) person, is to tell him it's over.

*Here is my more. I'm fine with talking about my feelings if there are any feelings there. It's not always the easiest thing to do, but I'm not going to manufacture an emotional conversation to satisfy your needs.

One last thing. I've been the person who is more emotionally involved before. The key to not completely ruining things is to HIDE IT. Or at least let it leak out sloooooowly. Wait until you are more certain of a positive response. You're probably never going to have absolute certainty, but there are times that work better than others. It doesn't make your feelings less valid, but it (in my experience) makes is less likely to frighten the other person away. This isn't to say that people who have expressed the heavy stuff early have disastrous relationships. If K had been someone else, I may have been all about the gooshy.

Doubtful, equivocal, fluctuating, inconclusive, irresolute, mixed, uncertain, undecided, vacillating, warring, wavering

OK, for serious people - what the fuck is wrong with me? Wait, wait, before you offer up suggestions, allow me to be more specific.

I saw K last night. It was mostly a repeat of Friday night with one distinct difference: I didn't have the giddy, shaky, OMG, I MADE OUT!!!!11! feeling I had Friday after K left. I don't know if it is because the novelty wore off that quickly, or if it is because I got my make-out fix and I'm good for a while or what. I understand that the first flush of infatuation can pass in a blink, but one time? Really?

Maybe it was his refusal to have the sex. I do respect his decision to wait, but dammit, I need cock! He may prefer to take it slow physically, but I'm all about taking it slow emotionally. Don't love me - fuck me. Sure, sure, K says he has had bad experiences with being physically intimate quickly, but don't judge me on your past experiences. Stop laughing. I know everyone does this - yes, everyone, but it still chaps my ass. I do the best I can to separate my past from my present and future. I'm sure it's been mixed results regarding the success of that effort.

K has also taken to sending me "xoxo" texts. I feel that it is way too soon for "xoxo" texts. While his enthusiasm is flattering, I'm a little turned off by the overeager puppy vibe. He says that I'm the one good thing he has to look forward to (we have dinner planned for Friday). Dude, I'm really sorry you got laid off and a summons for jury duty, but please don't put the burden of your happiness on my shoulders. I did not want to go from single to smothered in one easy step. It's too soon to be all tentacle-y.

I realize that I'm being awful picky and ambivalent. I was all about him right up until he came over last night. I still wanted to make-out with him, but that could be because I'm still filling those tanks. He is sweet and nice and smart and occasionally funny. We like a lot of the same things. He's a decent kisser and not shy about telling me what he wants and very eager to please. He likes my cooking and can pick out an acceptable bottle of wine. What's the problem? Is it that he's not normally someone I'd be attracted to? Physically, I mean. Dunno. All I do know is that I need to figure out how I'm going to deal with this. Knowing me, I'll decide tomorrow to tell him it's not gonna happen, and then want him back on Wednesday. Welcome to my life.

Feel Free to Laugh at Me After Reading This

Mmmmmmm, second chances are good.

Since most of you who read this blog are people I talk to on a regular basis, I'm gonna briefly sum up what's been going on with K for the last week.

I felt like a giant tool for blowing him off last Thursday. I mean seriously mental. I was obsessing on having maybe ruined everything. Yes, I KNOW I said I wasn't interested - bear with me here. I decided to apologize for being a jerk and he said "It's OK." Me being the wonderfully contrary person I am, decided that that wasn't enough. I wanted to be back where we were. I missed hearing from him.

At this point I started to wonder if I wanted him to continue pursuing me because of the ego thing (which I believe I mentioned in a previous post). When there was no contact all day Friday, I was a mess. All I could think about was grabbing him and kissing him, potential awkwardness be damned. So around 10pm Friday night I sent him a text saying something along the lines of, yes I'm a tool but I don't want things to be like this. By 11:30 there was still no reply and I figured that was my answer.

OK, this is too detailed. 50 words or less time. He called me, we talked most everyday I was gone. Came over last night for dinner (after getting fired, poor thing), had some good convo, watched The Goonies, made out a whole lot. Yup, you read that right.

I dig this guy. The movie-quoting thing isn't as bad as I thought it was going to be. The kissing was gooood. The other stuff - also good. Nice girls don't kiss and tell. OK, you can stop laughing now.

Familial Obligations

So I'm back from the land of cheese; lovely snowy miserable Wisconsin. Yes, as soon as we drove into WI, it started snowing. Blergh. At least I wasn't driving - though I paid my dues because it rained everytime I drove. Again, blergh.

As nice as it was to be away from work; the trip to WI was more duty than pleasure. I hadn't seen my grandparents since their 60th anniversary party back in '04 or so. My grandfather has been sliding down the slippery slope of dementia - probably vascular, not Alzheimer's. My mom and my uncle had both warned me about the changes to my grandfather, but I wasn't truly prepared for the complete lack of recognition. He doesn't talk much anymore, not that he was ever a chatterbox. That was more my grandma's job. He eats like he's starving and he used to be very precise and fastidious. My grandmother is doing the best she can, but I know it's all very difficult for her. She fusses and dithers and by the end of the second day I was thoroughly tired of being the cheery and good-natured granddaughter. I moved TVs, installed outdoor thermometers, pumped gas, and ate lots of raw veggies (Grandma is a BIG believer in the raw veg). By the time of our departure Wednesday afternoon, I was supremely grateful that my grandmother is not a fan of long, drawn-out good-byes.

I was hoping to have something mature and insightful to say about the inevitability of aging, but really, I am just sad. I'm glad I got to see my grandparents because, let's face it, at 89 and 90, it may have been for the last time.

Fickle, thy name is Carrie G

After my not exciting date, I wasn't getting the same level of contact from K. That was fine with me. With any luck, he sensed the lack of interest/sparks and was willing to let things fade away. Then, for no apparent reason, I couldn't stop thinking about him. Not so much of the "oh, I suddenly loooooove him" variety. More of the "why isn't he pining for me in a visible, ego-boosting way?" variety. Yeah, I'm a bitch. (I also realize that I use quotation marks too much. Oh well.)

Why is it that when he started texting me again, I was annoyed? Wasn't I just thinking that he should be pursuing me regardless? That my lack of interest shouldn't have deterred him? Am I secretly desiring a showdown where I gently but firmly express my lack of attraction? I sure hope not. I suppose I could do what my dad suggested and tell K that office romances are a bad idea, but I feel like that leaves things too open-ended. Like I'm saying I would get with him if I got a new job.

Several of my friends have suggested using K to get mine. One friend said I should get mine while picturing someone else. Pfft, like I haven't done that before. And I have thought about it. Just overwhelming the awkwardness with a whirlwind sexual advance, riding him hard and leaving him a quivering pile of movie-quote-spewing man jelly. However, I forsee a couple of problems with that approach. One, that's just not nice. Two, if he's as inexperienced as I think he is (an unfair assumption, but again, oh well), it'll probably attach him even more firmly to me. That's kinda the opposite of what I'm going for. Three, I'm not about the awkward, potentially bad sex. I know there are people out there who will disagree, but to me, no sex is preferable to awkward, potentially bad sex.

I really should do the grown-up thing and tell K that I'm not attracted to him. It isn't fair to keep up the communication when I have no intention of taking things any further. BUT! I still have the niggling fear that I'm not giving him a fair chance. HOWEVER! Not attracted is not attracted, right? RIGHT?!?

Second Chances

As little as I am attracted to K, there is part of me that feels bad for not giving him more of a chance. 'Cause, honestly, there's nothing seriously wrong with him. And even though our date was pretty boring, it wasn't a disaster.

I wonder why I feel any sort of obligation. Sure, I don't want to hurt his feelings any more than I have to - because face it, rejecting him at any point from here on out is going to hurt his feelings - but his happiness isn't my responsibility. Am I falling into the "Fuck, I'm 30 and single and what if I never find anyone and is it really settling?" trap? Do I have some sort of duty to dig as deep as I can before I make a decision? Why am I such a victim of society's need to see me partnered?

Actually, I'm not a victim. There isn't anyone who is pushing me to pair up. My friends offer to/wish they could set me up, but that's because I've expressed a desire to be in a relationship. My parents don't skulk around, wishing loudly for grandchildren. I'm comfortable with the idea that a person doesn't need to be in a relationship to be happy, but I can't quite make myself believe that I wouldn't be happier with a Stimpy to my Ren.

Boring Recap of a Boring Date

OK, I know there is a handful of people who are hoping for a no-holds barred, action-filled, painfully awkward romp through dating hell. As much as I hate to disappoint my loyal readers; it wasn't anything of the sort.

When K called me earlier this evening, he seemed marginally less awkward. We agreed to meet at 7:30 to shoot some pool. And just for future reference, K: don't say you only need 15 minutes to get somewhere and then tell me you're going to be 10 minutes late. It's just not good business sense.

Honestly, the whole date was so uneventful that it doesn't bear repeating. K was a little better about asking questions and managed not to speak German to me the whole time. I beat him in three straight games. The only relative he seems to give a shit about is his dad. He likes sashimi but not sushi. When he muffed a shot he'd say Oh, bother!" with a British accent. When he had trouble sinking the 4 (the purple one), he called it the evil Barney ball. I tried not to encourage the weirdness, but sometimes I could think of anything neutral to say.

See, pretty boring. I was in fairly typical form. I tried not to censor myself too much because I wanted K to get a taste of the real Carrie G. As I did this, I came to a realization: I'm fairly certain that me being me is unbearably cute to K. No, I don't think I'm irresistible, but I got a pretty serious "You're stinkin' awesome" vibe from him. Quick example - I said something about how the family of my one ex seemed to like me better than they liked their son. K said, "Well, I can see that." This was before I explained how the ex abandoned his baby boy to hitch-hike across the US and a good portion of Canada.

As flattering as it is to have someone interested in me; I'm not going to jump all over it just because I don't currently have any other options. If I were attracted to K, I might be more willing to pursue this, but I'm not. He's a nice dude, but I don't think I have the energy to work through the awkward.

OK, How 'bout This?

Due to several complaints from my loyal readers; I have changed the font color here at Omae Mona. Hopefully this will be easier to read. If not, I'm giving up on having any color at all and it's gonna be black-on-white Times New Roman all the way.

My First Ever Book Review

A good friend lent me a book about a week ago. "OMG!" she gushed. "I laughed so hard right from the beginning. It's kind of like Buffy. It was in the romance section, but it's not really romance." Sweet, I thought, I could use a new book and I have enjoyed the odd "Paranormal Romance". I have read snappy and entertaining otherworldly stories before. I mostly treat them as a quicky Saturday read and then pass them off to the used bookstore for credit. I figured this book would be a nice bit of fluff, good for reading right before bed. The book is The Accidental Demon Slayer by Angie Fox. This book, at least what I have read so far, is, well, it's not good.

The protagianist of the book is a girl whose name I forget. Seriously, unless someone refers to her by name (OK, it's Lizzie), I have no idea what her name is. She is a preschool teacher who finds out on her 30th birthday that she the inheritor of mad demon-slayin' skillz. Her maternal grandmother, who she has never laid eyes on before (oh yeah, Lizzie is adopted), barges into Lizzie's cream-colored condo and proceeds to fling about jelly jars filled with rancid raccoon liver and manky bog water. Did I not mention that Gramma Gertie is a witch? Who drives a pink Harley and is a member of a motorcycle club called the Red Skulls?

Anyway, Gramma locks Lizzie in the bathroom as the moment of her (Lizzie's) birth approaches. For, you see, Lizzie is about to come into her demon-slayingness. Unfortunately for Lizzie, a little troll-looking demon appears on the toilet and shoots purple darts at her. Gramma'a all "Let's jump on my pink hog and skeedaddle!" Lizze is "No, I'm rational! My adoptive parents were caring-yet-distant and it made me sooooo normal. I wear khakis and oxfords! I don't curse so I say things like 'Mother fudrucker!'" Eventually Gramma manages to bully Lizzie and her talking dog, Pirate (who could always talk, it was just that Lizze was finally listening!), on to the pink Harley and they lay tracks.

The romance part of the book happens in the form of mysterious Dimitri. Dimitri spends part of his time as a griffin. Lizzie has no trouble identifying him as such. I guess the certification requirements for pre-school teachers has a section on mythology? Lizzie, who has been unfortunate in her previous romantic encounters, is instantly attracted to Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Rippling. Gramma insists he is not to be trusted.

Blahblahblah, they end up at the Red Skulls' bar/clubhouse and Lizzie fucks up a protection spell the wrinkly witches brew up for her. Dimitri shanghais Lizzie and berates her for wanting to find her doggie. There's an encounter in the woods where Lizzie feels Dimitri's kiss on her forehead straight down to her toes. At some point she is chained to a tree, struggles until she "feels like she ran a marathon" yet only a trickle of sweat runs down her back. Dimitri's hands are "callous." According to the dictionary search I did, that's an acceptable use of the word, but it did not jive with me.

Lizzie is an odd combination of disbelieving and instantly accepting. She's totally down with her biker-mama witch-bitch Gramma, but hesitates to drink the potion that would provide protection. She's wildly attracted to Dimitri, even as he magically chains her to a tree. I don't have the book in front of me, but I believe that heat pools low in her body.

I stopped reading at chapter 10 (short chapters). Lizzie is bland and annoying. Gramma is the quirky and fiesty elder relative who may have murdered someone. Dimitri is the fairly typical mysterious and slightly shady reluctant mentor/fuck-buddy. In fact, I don't even know if they got to the fuckin'. There was one kiss-with-tongue and some smoldering looks, but I wasn't really feeling the heat. Even the talking dog, Pirate, is a letdown. Ms. Fox has him speaking like a 6 year-old hopped up on pixie stix. I get that he's a Jack Russell and they are energetic and jumpy little creatures, but if you're going to have a talking dog try to give him a little depth. Yes, I just said to flesh out a talking dog character.

Um...

I really should wait 5 minutes before posting. He asked to reschedule. Now this is supposed to happen Sunday.

Blergh Part Two

Did he cancel on me?

-Yup.

Was a reason given?

-Nope.

Am I pissed?

-A little.

What happens next?

-Damned if I know.

Blergh

I did the grown-up thing in a moderately grown-up way.

Sent a text asking why he didn't call.

He fell asleep.

Did he call tonight?

No.

Will I tell him to call me?

No.

Will I still have dinner with him?

Leaning towards yes. After all, I do need to put forth some effort.

Does this make me a lame-o?

Eh. Jury's still out on that one.

What The Fuck?

I'm confused and here is why. K was supposed to call me last night. He had sent me a text message during the day asking if he could call. I said sure, anytime after 8. He seemed pretty psyched about an actual non-text conversation. We did our usual (so far as something that's been going on for less than a week is usual) texting thing and met outside at 5:30 when he was done work. I specifically said "I'll talk to you later" as I went back inside.

Moving the story along; I get home, feed the cats, make a sandwich and prepare to watch Chuck. I'm figuring that I can expect a call anywhere from 8:15 on. That's what "after 8" means to me. Perhaps you can guess what comes next. Chuck ends and Heroes starts and no phone call. Yes, I could have called him, but he asked to call me.

I was flipping to the Phils game during commercials and notice that the Phils were winning 2-1. K was told by his boss not to watch the game because when he does, the Phils lose. Superstitious nonsense, but it gave me something to say. I sent him a text saying something along the lines of "You must not be watching the game because the Phils are winning." I get nothing.

Being the moderately crazy person I am, I start wondering if maybe there was some sort of family emergency he had to deal with, or if he had gotten into a car accident on the way home from work. I'd feel pretty shitty if I found out he didn't call because he was lying in Frankford-Torresdale, doped up on morphine. At that point, I decided to let it go and find out what was what the next day.

I get to work and I don't see his car. This lends credence to my accident theory, right? And in my defense, the weather was pretty crappy last night. In the interest of honesty, I thought it more likely that he was just at home sick. Apparently not, as he texted me mid-morning about the crazy wet, snowy weather we were having. I noticed later that his car was simply parked in a different spot. One point for my powers of observation. Again, in my defense, it wasn't just one or two spots away. It was a different row entirely. Yeah, OK, I'm a loser.
K seemed much less eager today. There were definitely fewer text messages. Also, when I was getting ready to come in from my evening break, I saw him walking to his car and he didn't even look at me. In his defense, I was facing away from the building and my hood was up. I don't know what to think. Part of me is wondering why any of this bothers me at all. I barely know the guy, I haven't had a conversation with him longer than about 10 minutes, aaaaand I just realized that I'm skipping over a whole bunch of shit.

*Abridged version: K asked for my number, we started text messaging. He asked me to dinner - that's supposed to happen Thursday. He straight-up said (texted) that he was interested in me. Positive signs, no? Back to the current rant.*

I was just starting to think that I could be interested in this dude. He seems sufficiently nerdy, we are GC, approximately the same age (less important), and, superficially at least, had some stuff in common. I don't know what to do. The sensible thing would be to ask him straight-out if there was some reason he seemed stand-offish. Everyone has bad days and I shouldn't think so highly of myself to assume that I had anything to do with it, if that were the case. Then I get to thinking; if I ask him if he's going off of me that may give him the idea that I'm more invested in this than I am. Though, looking back on the ranting, it would appear that I'm at least a little invested. The trouble is that I don't know if I'm interested in him or if I'm just pleased that someone is interested in me.

Progress?

I sent my buddy J a text today, asking him what the deal was with my admirer, K. I figured that it would be nice to know if K had given up on me. J reminded me that K was awkward but J'd see what the deal was. A few minutes later I get back "Come out for your break at 5." Except in txtspk. I shot back "Why? You gonna shove him at me?" J said no(lol), but he told K I was interested, K did a little happy dance (kinda cute, I guess) and passed his number to J to pass to me.

Still with me?

Here's my problem with that: If I call K, that is effectively taking the burden off of him. The whole point of me not offering up my number, through J, was to force K to put up or shut up. I expressed all this to J when I met him outside and he agreed with me. J offered to text K, but I don't know if that's the way to go. Really, I should have given my bloody email to J and worked it that way. If K's as awkward as I fear, I certainly don't want to have a painful conversation filled with silences and nervous laughter. And before you think I'm being unkind(er), I wasn't just referring to K. At least with email you have a chance to think about what you're going to say. Sure, nuances can be missed, but how subtle is our "getting to know you" conversation going to be?

Another item to add to the list: K asked J if I have any tattoos. Yes, yes I do. Six, to be precise, and I wouldn't mind another. J only knew of my one easily visible tattoo and said so. K seemed a little put off by the idea but still wanted me to have his number. I understand not liking tattoos, but shouldn't that be pretty far down on your list? After all, my ex-husband wasn't thrilled about them, but had some of his own by the time we split. And funny how that would be less appealing than the smoking. Unless K smokes; then it wouldn't be much of an issue.

As to J telling K I was interested; I don't know that I am. I am interested in finding out if I'm interested, if you know what I mean. It's not my intention to string him along, so I kind of wish J had found another way to find out what was going on.

I dunno. Do I text him? Do I let J continue as facilitator and tell K to text me? Should I drop the email idea and accept that this guy isn't going to be able to step up? Should I just cut and run? The fatalistic part of me is saying "why bother?"

Oh, Come On!

I'm thinking that this thing with my admirer isn't going to happen. I've made some effort to be in place when he could conceivably encounter me by taking my breaks when he usually goes to lunch or is leaving for the day. Didn't work out so good for me today. I saw neither hide nor hair.

Am I disappointed? A little, I guess. While I have admitted that I had never given this guy a second look, part of me was hoping that something would come of this. I'm wondering if I should be making more of an effort. If I should ask the buddy who told me about all this to pass along my number or something. Then I go "nah". I mean, if this guy wants me he should try harder, right? It isn't my bounden duty to make thing easier for him just because I know he likes me...or is it?

This is where things get murky. Should I actively encourage this guy even though I have no idea if I am going to like him? Am I supposed to take pity on his inability to manufacture small talk? Is it my responsibility to take the next step because he managed to say hello in passing? Is the fact that I'm even asking these questions a sign that this whole thing is doomed?

Now I know there are people out there who are screaming "This is 2008! What kind of woman can't ask a guy out?" Back off, bitches. I can, and have, asked guys out. There is generally an attraction on my part when that happens. I don't ask out random guys just to keep in practice. I know it's hard to strike up a conversation, especially if there are other people around, but for the fuck of shit, I am usually alone when I see him. And, AND we are out in the parking lot. The chances of being overheard are pretty slim. Kinda easy to recognize eavesdroppers in a parking lot.

Bottom line is this: I need some face time. You, Mr. Admirer, may love me from afar, but I need a little more to go on.

Seeing Clearly

About a year ago, I went to the eye doctor for the first time in 3 years or so. My vision hadn't really gotten worse, but I decided I wanted new glasses. Also, I had a coupon for 15% off. I decided on a pair of brown plastic frames very similar to what you see to the right. You know, the sexy librarian look. I was coming off a pair of serviceable, if unexciting, pair of wire frames.

When my new glasses were finally ready, I had a bitch of a time getting them adjusted correctly. The receptionist/glasses adjuster heated and bent (wo)manfully and I finally had them contorted into a shape that was an acceptable fit for my apparently warped head. Within one week, they were sliding down my nose and twisted up enough to give me fits. I went back for readjustment and started the whole process over again. I thought I was good.

Flash forward 10 months: I hate those fucking sexy librarian glasses. Sure, they looked good but goddamn, did they hurt my poor head something fierce. I spent some time each day bending the stupid right-side ear piece in the vain hope of getting it into a position that wouldn't be painful to the point of distraction. As I was twisting and cursing, I noticed that the hinge on that side was all cockeyed. I thought I could fix it with my ever-handy mini-Leatherman, but was spectacularly unsuccessful. Finally I decided I couldn't take it anymore and broke out my old wire-frames. This happened Friday night and I've been wearing them since.

Thanks for sticking with me. Here's my point: Not one of the people I saw this weekend noticed that I wasn't wearing my old glasses. Not my gay-bff, not my parents, not my 2 closest girlfriends, and none of my coworkers. Here's a pic of wire-frames so you have a frame (heh) of reference:

The shape of my glasses isn't exactly the same as those at the left, but you can easily see that there is a significant difference in style and shape from the brown frames above.

Just so we are clear, this isn't a judgement on my friends. I'm not implying that my friends, family, and coworkers don't pay enough attention to me. I swear I'm not that kind of self-involved. It does give me an idea of how generally unobservant the average person is. I'm guessing that I'd have to show up not wearing glasses at all for people to notice. Since I've been wearing glasses for most of my life, people expect to see them on my face and don't pay any special attention to what the glasses look like.

Somebody Likes Me Update

I got a drive-by "hello" while at lunch today, and some sort of mumbled comment about either a badger or a manager while on my afternoon break. It's probably taking a lot out of him to manage that much, so I should be kind, right?

Somebody Likes Me

Apparently I have an admirer. From what my buddy tells me, the guy is nice but a little socially awkward. I'll admit that he isn't my ideal physical type, but I'm no super model. I shall not cast stones. Anyway, updates as things progress.

Where I Use The Hyphenate "Double-standard" Too Many Times

For most of my adult life I have firmly believed that men and women could get along if only they communicated better. I thought that the whole Mars/Venus dichotomy was complete bullshit, and that half the reason there were problems between the sexes was because there was far too much focus on the differences. Men and women are made up of the same things. Sure, those building blocks are present in different quantities, but it's the same junk, right? I'm starting to think that I am living in the worst kind of fantasy land.

It is becoming clear to me that the differences, while not more numerous than I thought, are weighted far more heavily than the similarities. Certain stereotypes are so far ingrained into the fabric of society that I don't believe that they will ever go away. And yes, I understand that stereotypes can come from truth, but they are often born from rumors. Studies have shown (no, I don't have a citation right now) that black men do not automatically have giant dicks, but I know many black men who are perfectly willing to embrace that bit of folklore. Blondes are not dumber than brunettes or redheads, men WILL ask for directions, women get pissed off or upset about things that have NOTHING to do with their menstrual cycle, black people DO know how to swim, gay men aren't all femmes, lesbians aren't all about flannel...you've heard them all.

The problem is that people go first to the stereotypes because it's the easiest solution. Is your girlfriend crying for no obvious reason? It is possible that she just had a lousy day and needs to release that pressure somehow. I have friends that cry about everything. It's simply their way of letting it out. Yes, I have a male friend who likes dick. I can assure you that he isn't a make-up wearing member of the lavender mafia and there is nothing limp about his wrist.

Look, I know that I'm not saying anything you haven't heard countless times before. But I have always hoped that this stuff would matter less and less over time. And as I'm looking back over this post, I realize that I have gotten completely side-tracked. I did want to talk about communication between the sexes, but I wanted to touch on the double-standard.

We all know what a double-standard is so I'm not going to give examples. Double-standards chap my ass like latex underpants. I try (focus on the try) to avoid them myself, but I know there have been times I've thought "Well, that's OK for me, but not for you." Large-scale double-standards lead to the -isms: racism, sexism, ageism, etc. Again, you already know all this. My point is that double-standards are a rather large block to this easy communication between the sexes that I believe is possible.

Messin' With the Google

This post has no purpose except to provide a Google Alert for Mike Birbiglia and Marisa from the Preston and Steve show on MMR.

You're welcome!

Site Changes

Oh hey, you probably noticed the new color scheme. Let me know what you think.

Nerd, Nerd, Nerd

This here post is about wanting nerds and what people really mean when they say they do.

I was watching Chuck the other night and it got me thinking. Chucky-boy over there is supposed to be a nerd. Smart, into videogames, awkward around the ladies, working at the Buy More fixing phones and computers with the greatest of ease. You're supposed to think that if it weren't for his fake relationship with Secret Agent Sarah he wouldn't even have a girlfriend.

But this is TV and we all know that there is never going to be an unattractive nerd as the lead in a primetime show. Unattractive nerds (or geeks) are relegated to side-kick status or are the constantly picked on loser who, 10 years later, goes bonkers and kills the people who tormented him. TV nerds are 6'2", in reasonably good shape and have a wardrobe full of ironic t-shirts and Converse sneakers.

And that, dear reader, is what people mean when they say they want a nerd. They really mean a TV/movie nerd. A sanitized, socially acceptable nerd. I'll admit, since I try not to be a hypocrite, that's pretty much what I want, too.

Update: A friend suggested that I go to Best Buy and find myself a Chuck. The whole point of this, which I apparently forgot to make, is that Chuck doesn't exist. Chances are that if I go down to my local Best Buy it will be populated with 17 year old kids that I probably wouldn't have liked when I was 17.

Skin Hunger

I love the autumn months. As I believe I have mentioned before, I am happiest when wearing jeans or sweatpants and hoodies. I like having my window open when I sleep and piling on the blankets. I love the way the air smells and how the leaves change and how the sky is once again clear blue.

I hate that as soon as October hits my allergies go into overdrive. And despite the fact that I love autumn, I get depressed. I also hate that. Maybe it's SAD. Maybe it is because I feel my single status more sharply in the colder months. I'm not quite sure why. It's not because the marjority of my relationships were during the fall/winter season - because they weren't. Maybe it's like the magical beach thing, only instead of crashing waves and tousled hair, it's fuzzy hats and swirling leaves. Which brings me to cuddle parties. Bear with me.

What are cuddle parties? If you're too lazy to click the link, keep reading - I'll give you a mini-synposis. If you already know about the phenomenon, feel free to skip past. Cuddle parties are events where people get dressed in their jammies and lay in piles with other like-minded people. It's a way to touch and be touched in a non-sexual way. Studies have shown that touch is very important in the development of newborns. I know that touching stimulates the production of oxytocin and serotonin, both feel-good chemicals. I know that I'm getting to the point where I am almost starved for touch.

Anyway, some of the girls I work with went gaga over the idea of a cuddle party and started a fake sign-up sheet for a cuddle party of their own. Someone decided it would be great fun to sign my name on the first line. When I found out, I crossed it out. For some reason, I was completely unable to joke about the idea of paying someone to cuddle with me. Anytime someone commented on the fact that I crossed out my name, I'd reply, rather testily, "I didn't sign up in the first place." Most of the girls involved in the little joke are coupled, or have children. I don't think they understand how hard it can be to be alone. Bear in mind that I'm not crying "Woe is me" because I don't have a man or a kid. I don't feel incomplete being single and childless, but there are things that I miss.

It's funny. I'm almost desperate for casual touching, but I flinch at the idea of relative strangers touching me. I think that is because I'm afraid of what my reaction would be. I don't want to throw myself at someone. That would be awkward.

This is really hard for me to write about so if things get incoherent, I apologize.

Crap. I know you, dear follower, can't tell, but I have written and deleted several attempts to explain exactly how I feel about this whole thing. I guess it comes down to this: I feel like paying to cuddle is an admission that no one (not talking about family and friends, here) will ever touch me voluntarily ever again. It's like I'm giving up on the idea of having a cuddle partner of my own. It's also hard to explain because touch and sex are so intertwined. Yes, I desire sex, but I also want touching without sex.

I feel like I'm not getting my point across. I'm willing to bet you're thinking: Jeez, why doesn't she just hug her mom more? Or her friends? Would you want to tell your mom or your friends that you need to be touched more? Shit, just thinking about having a conversation like that is ooky. Also, some of my friends are touch adverse. And honestly, my friends don't need it from me, so I don't feel right asking them for it. My poor nephew has (unknowingly) shouldered the burden of my touch-craving. He's getting too big and squirmy now to lay quietly on my belly so I can rub my chin on his soft little head, but I do get kisses and the occasional head-butt.

Brief Hereos Recap - Minor Spoiler Warning

Ok, giant gripe with tonight's Heroes: How the hell was Meredith able to make a speech while Claire is suffocating? I mean, really? They are in an enclosed space, Meredith all flamey and speechy. Claire is flashing back on the attack from Sylar. "I want to help people!" Yeah, yeah. "I want to hurt him!" Ah, so we get to the heart of the matter. Claire is all sweaty and gasping for air. Meredith is cool as anything and seemingly able to function without a ready supply of oxygen.

Other than that, it was a pretty decent episode. The focus was primarily on HRG and Sylar rounding up the baddies from Level 5, with a few brief forays into Claire/Meredith, Tracy, Hiro/Ando story lines. Thankfully, there was no more awkward sex with proto-fly Mohinder and Maya. Ucky.

On Death and Dying

I am going to preface this post by saying that I absolutely do not want bad things to happen to the ones I love. Hell, that's why they are called "loved ones", right?

I've been thinking a lot lately about the inevitability of death. I haven't quite gotten to the fatalistic point, but I'm feeling very, I don't know, laid back about the whole thing. Here's what I've got.

People die. Once we reach a certain age, we know this. Some people deal with death earlier than others, or more frequently, but at some point it greets us all. My grandpa is 93 years old and while he is in pretty good shape for a nonagenarian, I know that sooner rather than later, he is going to be gone. I will miss him but I will not rage and scream about the unfairness of it all.

OK sure, it may be easier to face the death of an old person or a terminally sick person. How would I feel if something catastrophic happened to one of my friends, or my parents? I'm not going to be specific about the fatal incident because I'm a little superstitious about that sort of thing. Anyway, something fatal happens to someone I care about. Yes, I'm sad and I cry and I wish it hadn't happened. However, if the incident in question hadn't happened, if it was thwarted in some manner, it doesn't confer immortality upon said loved one. Follow me? They are still going to die one day. This isn't to say that I wouldn't like as much time as possible with my loved ones.

Another thing I've been thinking about is how I don't think people are so much afraid of death as they are afraid of dying. It's the anticipation, the possibility of pain that frightens them. Everyone wants to go quietly in their sleep, or in some other instantaneous, pain-free way. Also, it's the idea of leaving behind unfinished things. I'll tell you something; if you're dead, it doesn't matter anymore. I don't care what it is. You. are. dead. It is the people left behind who have the tough job of it. They are the ones who have to clean up the mess and deal with the shit.

I'm sure by this point you've convinced yourself that I am an unfeeling monster who doesn't deserve loved ones. This is not true. I feel things. I also feel that it is useless to rage against something we have very little control over. That way lies ulcers.

Looking back over this I realize that it could seem like I believe in fate and predestination. I don't. I don't believe that each person is born with the day they die written down somewhere. Death is inevitable, but the method of delivery varies.

Life Was A Beach; Now It's A Bitch

Vacations are lovely. I just got back from Bethany Beach, DE and if it weren't for the fact that my car died in the Wawa parking lot, I'd still be all zoned out and relaxed.

The beach is a funny place. I used to go a lot when I was a wee'un and I loved getting buried in the sand and body-surfing. I got to eat ice cream and pancakes and play skeeball. As I got older, the beach started to have new possibilities. Namely, boys.

Now, I don't know about all of you, but I have seen lots of movies and read books where people go to the beach and magical lovely things happen. You know: boy meets girl, sparks happen, boy and girl begin tentative relationship, uh-oh! plot device to drive the couple apart, whew! it was all a misunderstanding. Kisses on the beach, fade, and done. This would be the point where I tell you that that has never happened to me.

So, regardless of my previous beachy experiences, as I drove into the first in a line of Delaware beach towns, I got all twitchy. Ooooo, the possibilities! Maybe this trip would be THE trip. Maybe I'll have the magical moment. Picture it: waves crashing, my hair perfectly tousled by the salt breeze, my cheeks nicely rosy from the sun. He is tall and bronzed and sensitive yet manly. I am the girl he has been waiting for. He cups my face in his strong hands, gazes into my eyes, and...well, you've seen the movie.

I'm sure you've figured out that this did not happen. I spent a very nice and relaxing couple of days with my parents. I read some beach-type books, ate some good food and had ice cream for lunch one day. I got a bit of a tan and managed to destress. Which was almost ruined by the fact that my car died as I was leaving Wawa earlier with my cibatta melt and iced tea. Waiting for the AAA tow truck for over an hour is a buzz kill. Much thanks goes out to my neighbor for coming out and 1) giving me a jump, and 2) hanging out with me when my car died again and giving me a ride home.

Update

I did not get fired.

I'm fairly certain that he was looking for an excuse, though. A coworker told me that he made a comment: "Aren't we missing some people on [my project]?"

Hahahahaha asshole, I was on time.

I'm off to pack for my vacation.* If anything interesting happens I'll try to post about it. I don't know if I'm going to have internet access.

*Yeah right. I'm probably gonna Stumble for another hour or so.

"I Don't Appreciate Your Tone, Young Lady!"

Today was a red-letter day. I put a crack in Stoneface's facade. If I haven't mentioned him before, Stoneface is my boss. Not the go-to-if-I-need-a-day-off boss, but the Director of the non-medical call floor.

When Stoneface first started at my place of employment, many of us were convinced that there was going to be a Falling Down re-enactment. Yup, Stoneface is a dead ringer for Michael Douglas's character: black tie, glasses, red face and all. He didn't interact much with us much. I don't think he even knew my name for the first six months he was there. This was confirmed when I discovered he referred to me as "tribal girl". For fuck's sake, the tattoo isn't even tribal, you tool.

It turns out that Stoneface does have a few topics that open him right up: sandwiches and fishing. Now, I'm all about sandwiches, but I have approximately no interest in fishing. Not that it matters, Stoneface doesn't deal well with women. He's all sorts of chummy with the male supervisors but does not get on with the 2 female ones. Well, the one crawls so far up his as that his doctor asks her what the state of his colon is; the other mostly only deals with him on an as-needed basis.

Anyway, the months pass and Stoneface loosened up a little. If by loosen up you mean cracking mean-spirited jokes and spending half the morning talking about mustard and hot sauce. There would be hour-long debates on where to order lunch and which fucking sandwich to order. As I said, I'm a sandwich fan, but come on - that's not being a foodie, that's mania.

I had decided early on not to bother cultivating anything more than a civil working relationship with this man. I don't like him and I don't like his management style. I tried the odd sally here and there; I got nada so I stopped trying. Today though, today was different.

It has been a fairly weird and shitty week. Not just for me, for everyone. The Princess was all in a tizzy and the call floor was paying the price. I had a seriously busy afternoon happening (really!) and was feeling a bit frazzled. I made a comment to one of my supervisors about how, in all actuality, anyone can do the particular job that the Princess needed done, but only people with a client specific training could do the training. I know this is coming off vague, but I don't think it's a great idea to be too specific.

Anyway, a couple minutes later, I hear the above mentioned supervisor reiterating my comment to Stoneface. I felt that the supervisor wasn't properly conveying my point to Stoneface so I interjected. I explained myself again. Apparently, Stoneface would rather have heard that from my supervisor because as I turned back to my computer, he says, "Thanks so much for your help" in a moderately sarcastic tone. I, being the level-headed individual I am, reply, "That's what I do" in a horrifically chipper tone of voice. OK, there was an undertone of brat, but it was hardly noticeable. Stoneface mutters, "That's not what it seems like."

Awwww, did scary Carrie hurt big, bad Stoneface's feelings? I'll admit to a moment of light-headedness, but then I didn't care. OK, I care that Stoneface chewed out my supervisor for not calling me on my behavior. I understand how the chain of command works, but, well, wasn't this personal? Wasn't the issue my attitude and not my work? If I were slacking off, or chronically late, I could understand Stoneface telling one of my supervisors to talk to me, but he was twisted up by my intonation. If I were him, I'd be a little embarrassed at the way I handled it. But I'm me and I have no regrets. You know, other than my supervisor getting chewed out.

I had the brief hope that Stoneface would call me into his office and snottily fire me. Nope, didn't happen. Unless he's being particularly sneaky and plans on doing the deed tomorrow morning. I'd be a bit salty if I had to haul my bratty ass into work just to get fired.

Practical Matters

Wednesday is normally a bit of a TV wasteland for me. Last night was pretty much the same except I was planning on watching the pilot of Sons of Anarchy. For those of you who don't watch TV; the show is about a biker "club" in the fictional town of Charming, CA. They are led by Hellboy, and second in command is the original founder's son, Jackson (Charlie Hunnam, super hot). Since the show is on FX at 10 pm, there is some leeway with the type of language they are allowed to use - and use it they did. I didn't count or anything, but I believe that each character who had more than one scene said "shit." Prick and asshole were close seconds.

The whole thing starts of with a raid of the Sons gun warehouse by a rival club, the Mayans. In case the name wasn't obvious enough, the Mayans are Latinos. They steal several crates of guns and then torch the place. Several of the Sons go up to the warehouse the next morning to investigate the blast, and we are made aware of the fact that the Sons have most of the local police force in their linty, leather pockets. Oh, and for those of you who have an, ahem, barbecue fetish, two people were trapped in the warehouse and were crispy-fried.

We next learn that Jackson (Jax) has a crackhead pregnant ex-wife who OD's in a puddle of melting ice cream. His son, Abel, is 10 weeks premature. In addition, the poor kid has a messed up gut and a congential heart defect. Jax deals with this by going out and pummeling, and then skewering (with a busted pool cue no less), the dude who sold the drugs to the ex-wife. And when I say skewer I mean...you know, I don't want to ruin it for anyone.

Lots of other stuff happens. Jax finds a box of his dad's stuff; journals and photos mostly, and starts to question if what the Sons have become is truly what his dad wanted. Jax's mom (Katey Segal) says some horrible things to both the female doctor (it is implied the doctor lady was involved with the biker lifestyle) who helped with little Abel, and Jax's ex. Hellboy fucks up some Mayans and Jax finally goes to see his son.

Really, I wasn't trying to do a synopsis. What I wanted to do is talk about practicality. Jax's mom did what she thought was necessary to secure a safe future for her grandson. Jax beat the caca out of the dude who sold drugs to the ex because he wanted to send a message. Of course, knocking the stuffing out of the guy after the chick had OD'd doesn't really solve anything, but he did what he thought he had to do. The Sons raid the Mayans to get the guns back and then blow the place to smithereens. Why? Because it was what needed to be done. Messages were sent. I guess we'll see next week if they were received.

How practical is too practical? I always felt that I could do what needed to be done, if it came down to it, but I don't think I could tempt someone into a fatal OD just to save a baby. I don't know if I want to know for a fact that my boyfriend, husband, whatever, killed to protect me or our life. Am I really the type of person who would want the aforementioned significant other to commit felony assault to avenge a slight against me? In the interest of complete honesty; I will admit to wanting him to want to commit felony assault for me.

Before you tap me politely on the shoulder and point out that this is a TV show, I KNOW. I know these people are made up. However, these biker clubs do exist. People like Jax, Clay and Gemma probably exist somewhere, in some form, right? There are people who will maim or kill to right a perceived wrong, or to defend what is theirs. My ex-husband was the practical sort. If you consider wanting to start an assassination business practical. No, I'm not kidding, but what I was going to mention is that I was pretty sure that he would rather kill for me than die for me.

Did any of that make sense? When does doing what needs to be done go to far? I guess that's an individual line that each person must set for themselves. After all, my too far is not your too far.

Stupid Work

You know when you're sitting somewhere and something happens? OK, I'll be more specific. I was sitting at my desk and received an email for an internal job posting. The kicker is that the job is in Ireland. So I know that in 3...2...1, everyone was going to be gabbing about it.

Sigh. It's quite a burden being so consistently right. Now the one supervisor is talking to one of my annoying coworkers about whether or not Ireland is the place to be. They are discussing beer, the Irish economy, and going on foxhunts.

I am forced to ask myself why this annoys me. It was the same thing yesterday when a bank of the overhead fluorescent briefly flickered out. I figured that someone had leaned against the master switch up in reception. Apparently my coworkers had never experienced a power failure. I'm sure that people were hoping for something catastrophic so we would be sent home, but since my monitor didn't even flicker, I wasn't so optimistic.

I still don't know why the chatter bugs me. Maybe it's because if I don't think it's a big deal, no one should. After all, aren't I the best judge of what is newsworthy or not? Stop laughing.

On a completely unrelated note, my penultimate boss had one of the lamest conversations I have ever heard with my immediate supervisor. Bear in mind that he's probably in his early 40s. He used the word "dude" more in the space of 5 minutes than I do in a week...and I say "dude" quite often. Honestly, he sounded like a wasted surfer dude. See, I just said "dude". I find it hard to muster any respect for a man who wastes half the morning talking about his day at the beach. Especially when he'll let any random person pile shit-work on his call center staff just so he doesn't have to see them sit idle for more than 2 minutes. This becomes an issue because just when someone, usually the Princess, has piled up the work, call volume increases. Oy, the frantic stomping around alone is almost worth the price of admission.

Southbound

It is so easy to claim that you are open-minded and non-biased when you aren't faced with someone who so obviously doesn't think the same way you do. It is easy to forget that other people have different value systems, morals and ethics until you're slapped in the face with their deviance.

I started thinking about this earlier today while reading a review of Traffic: Why We Drive the Way We Do (and What is Says About Us). The other thing that got me started was an incident of some ballsy driving I observed on the Boulevard. I was sitting at the light at Plaza Blvd, patiently waiting for the light to change. I was in the far right-hand lane behind a guy waiting to make the right onto Plaza. Some dude in a black pick-up shoots past me on the left, swings right onto Plaza, flips a bitch, and motors across the Boulevard to the northbound lanes. Did I mention that he was merrily honking to his buddies?

While I was kind of shocked at his maneuver, I was also mildly impressed with his cojones. I can count on one hand the times I have deliberately run a red light and this dude didn't even want to wait 30 seconds for the light to change so he could make a legal turn around. Balls, I tells ya.

The vast majority of us believe we are better than average drivers. No one wants to admit that they often don't pay close attention, or that their driving suffers when they are on the phone. I find it is rather easy to sneer at my fellow motorists and smugly think that my driving skills are far superior.

OK, I guess driving isn't so much about morals and ethics but it is still about a large group of people who have to observe certain rules and strictures in order for things to go smoothly. So many people are of the firm belief that their time is far more precious, and they are more entitled to take up space. The problem is exacerbated by each person thinking that it doesn't matter what they do because, well, who else is going to be looking out for you? That's right, no one. You gotta reach out and grab at any opportunity to speed yourself along: to make that appointment, to get your kids, to hit the 10 for 10 sale at Acme.

Whew. Alright, shake it off. Really, the thing that gets me is that I hate feeling responsible for other people. I shouldn't have to pay attention for that soccer mom in her H3, yakking away on the cell. Why isn't it enough that I pay attention and (mostly) do my best to be a good driver? Sure, I've done, and most likely will do again, some dumb-ass shit, but that's the exception. And now I know you're sitting there saying, "You just said most people think they are better than average drivers. You're no different." I guess I'm not any different, but the human animal has a great capacity to make sweeping generalizations that have nothing to do with themselves.