Tag Archives: life

A Domestic War

9 Sep

I’m at war with my vacuum cleaner.

These newfangled contraptions and their promises to get dander and dirt out of the grimy little crevices between my rug threads – they’re liars!   Liars, hounds and thieves!   It always starts out so nicely – so hopeful.  I get a shiny new vacuum that has enough suction to suck my skin right off the bone and then one day while I’m vacuuming I realize I’m not really vacuuming at all.  I’m just pushing dirt around on my floor and when I lift up the vacuum it’s all right there, staring at me.

I have serious dust bunnies.  They have beady little demon eyes and they roll around in cat dander and fur.  And when I lift up the vacuum to find them all still there, just rolling around in their own filth, I get very, very angry.  I don’t like to be mocked.

Yesterday I genuinely considered throwing my vacuum out the window.

I always complain to Dave that the vacuum doesn’t work.  He does something magical to fix it, I use it, it works, it breaks, and I complain again.  It’s a vicious, brain rotting cycle.  

Yesterday when I started up ol’ Bess, I got very excited for the potential of a freshly cleaned carpet.  I was going to have beautiful little zigzag lines in the rug and all the little tidbits would be eradicated from every crevice.   But when I started her up, she huffed and puffed and didn’t do a darn thing.  I told Dave she was broken again and he told me to check the hose.

My vacuum has this hose that goes all the way from the very bottom of it up to the top, wraps around, and then goes back down and slightly curves up once more to lead in to the chamber where all the dust bunnies make dirty love together.  And luckily for me, it was completely clogged with junk.

Now, I’m no vacuum engineer, but it appears to my commonplace brain that this is not the most efficient design possible.  

So one trash can, long straightened wire hanger, and twenty minutes later, I puff up my chest in the living room, proud that I have singlehandedly conquered the vacuum and declared my dominance over it.  

Until I plugged her in, started her up, picked her up, and saw all those beady little bunny eyes – mocking me.

(Insert vacuum-out-window dream sequence)

So I’ve had it.  I’m done.  No more newfangled vacuums.  You know what? My parents had a junky old vacuum that was loud and weighed a thousand pounds and was ugly as sin but it rocked so hard sometimes the house didn’t even accumulate debris out of fear.  I think this weekend I’ll go hunting for the biggest, clunkiest piece of junk I can find, bring it home, and shower it in glory as it sucks up every bit of grossness that has now been fermenting in the threads beneath my feet. 

I might even get one with a bag.  A BAG!  Doesn’t that sound ridiculous?

But listen – bags get full.  Because bags work.

Maybe once my floor is clean, I’ll put on Chariots of Fire theme song and live out that chuck-out-the-window dream.♣

Maybe when I get a vacuum that works, I'll just go straight to the source of the problem.

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Farewell, My Jedi Baby

8 Sep
I’m feeling quite terribly about the fact that my post today was an ode to a post I wrote and then deleted.
 
I feel like you’ve been robbed of a post.  I know I do.  So allow me to repost an oldie, but a goodie, from back in the days before my 365 Project, when I simply updated when I felt I had something to talk about.  And the day Mark Hammill came to my school definitely qualified.
 
Disclaimer: I was a little more… shall I say…liberal with my word choice back then.  Enjoy.

Farewell, My Jedi Baby

I met Luke Skywalker today.
 
Yeah, Luke Skywalker.  Not even Mark Hamill.  It was just straight-up Luke Skywalker all like “Hey, Jackie; I’m Luke Skywalker.  Let me impregnate you.”
 
Let’s get something straight.  I wouldn’t do Luke Skywalker.  One, I don’t go for blondes.  Two, I’d be self-conscious of my inability to rock his world in bed since I don’t have this whole “force” thing down.  Lord only knows what the man could accomplish with his mind.  I can’t compete with that and quite frankly, I have no interest for the toll it would take on my mental health to know that I had a chance to go at it with a Jedi and he was ultimately displeased.
 
Not to mention he’d probably make me wear his sister’s golden bikini and dog collar accessories and I simply couldn’t

This image belongs to Star Wars and folks. Unfortunately, it's from back in the day that I didn't realize I had to credit people for their images. Silly Jackie.

 handle him going all Jabba the Hut on me in bed.  I’m down with role-playing, but I have my limits.  A big gargling tub of poo with a domination complex is where I draw the line.  Yeah, I know; my bar is set pretty low.

 
Nonetheless, I will admit; when I was standing not 15 feet away from the man who saved the galaxy, I wondered if I could overcome all this if it meant I would give birth to a metachlorian-charged Jedi baby. 
 
I thought of all the benefits my Jedi baby could bring to the family: quick cooking, easy clean-up, direct access to Yoda and Samuel L. Jackson, and the ability to let me know when all is not well with the force.  Because sometimes I wonder, you know?
 
Then he started to talk about his kids.  Turns out Luke Skywalker has babies.  Three of them.  Except they don’t sound like Jedis at all.  One buys a lot of clothes and only votes so she stays in Luke’s will, one is a comic book artist, and the other, um, I spaced out for.  Cuz I was thinking of his metachlorian-charged sperm.
 
Then I realized; maybe he married the wrong woman.  Is it possible that Luke Skywalker wasted his incredible Jedi jizz on a female counterpart who is unable to supply him with Jedi babies?
 
It became alarmingly apparent that I had to save the Jedi race.  Yes, it was up to me.
 
Unfortunately, I was unwilling to submit to his roleplaying necessities or to the fact that he’s a blonde.  I don’t care if he’s the New Hope; I have a type and I stick to it.  End of story.  So there was only one thing to do; steal Luke Skywalker’s sperm.
 
As I was devising some sort of Dr. Evil-esque way to steal Skywalker’s mojo, I began to tune back into reality.  Suddenly, it became apparent to me that the man in front of me was not Luke Skywalker at all.  It was Mark Hamill.  I know this because Mark Hamill mistook an X-wing for a tie fighter, Cloud City for the Death Star, and kept referring to his stage weaponry as a “gatling gun.” Plus, he didn’t move anything with his mind.  Not once.
 
So here I am, working out the details of Operation: Jedi Baby and he’s fumbling over the most rudimentary chapters of the Star Wars Nerd Encyclopedia.  
 
I guess somewhere underneath it all I expected him to be a nerd, too.  I mean, if I know all about Luke Skywalker, shouldn’t Luke Skywalker know all about Luke Skywalker?
 
It figures.
 
I’ve waited my whole life to get a hold of some metachlorian sperm and the moment it’s within my grasp, it all falls apart. All I wanted was a Jedi Baby.  Was that really too much to ask? I wouldn’t have even made him pay child support.♣

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An Investigation of My Stupidity

8 Sep

I’m absolutely losing my mind.

Gone.  Out the window.  Never to be seen again.

This morning, I wrote up a pleading post on how I wanted the WordPress Wizards to fashion an Undo Button so that I could recover beautiful nuggets of writing that I keep losing over and over again thanks to an oversensitive touchpad and a bad case of trigger finger.

I have looked for this Undo Button several times, while attempting to restore sometimes entire paragraphs of text that gets accidentally highlighted and deleted thanks to my idiocy.

And this morning, directly after I posted my plea to WordPress, I found it.  Right up on the toolbar with a big arrow rotating backwards – the beacon of liberation from moronicness.

Do you have any idea how many times I’ve had to write entire portions of posts over again because I’ve lost them and convinced myself there wasn’t an Undo Button to save me?   Can you possibly fathom how many times I’ve searched over that toolbar praying to the blog gods for something to save me and have entirely missed it each and every time?

I’ve written over 250 posts so far this year and each and every time I’ve needed the Undo Button, my eyes and failed me.  Why? Because Microsoft Word puts it on the left side of the toolbar and WordPress.com puts it on the right. 

I’ve been conditioned to overlook it.

I’m disappointed.  First, because it took me quite a long time to draft a worthless post that went straight to the trash.  And second, because there are entire half-pages of text in the nether that could have been easily recovered if I weren’t so incredibly challenged.

…If I’m disabled, do you think someone will tell me?   Because I’m seriously starting to wonder.  Can I get tested?  Maybe I can go somewhere and have my brain examined.

Oh my goodness -what if I’m just stupid?!  I think I might be stupid and no one ever told me.  After all, I can’t trust good marks in school – schools are starting to grade with smiley faces and pictures of animals and comfort words.  Maybe they just didn’t want to tell me I was a failure.

But alas, I have discovered the truth.  Milk in the cupboard, cereal in the fridge, running into things all the time, and complete forgetfulness of where I am in conversation from time to time. 

I just stare straight forward, like a deer.

This is going to take a while to adjust to.  After all, I didn’t realize I was afflicted.  I saw all the signs, but given the nature of my affliction, I really need someone to just look me in the eye and tell me I’m a moron.

Thank goodness for my trashed post and the enlightenment it gave me.  This has truly been a life-changing day.

Oh, and now I don’t have to worry about not having an Undo Button.  You know, because it’s been there the entire time. 

Man, that’s a lot to digest before noon. ♣

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In Praise of Autumn

7 Sep
I was cold yesterday.
 
Like, genuinely cold.  Cold enough to put on another layer.  Cold enough to consider socks.  Cold enough, my friends, to entertain the idea of a scarf.
 
Autumn is coming and I’m so excited I could just pee myself.  Just one big puddle of pee around me, all the time.
 
Fall brings all the super awesome things to my life.  It brings delicious food and seasonal specialties (don’t pretend you don’t look forward to a pumpkin spice something-or-other all year long, because you do).  It’s the perfect season for clothes because I can sport my summer clothes in layers with my winter clothes.  For one beautiful moment in the year, nothing in my wardrobe is off limits.   I can wear makeup without it melting off ten minutes later.  I can do my hair without it falling apart into a humid, hot mess.  I can go for walks and be excited just to breathe autumn air.  I can – holy cow – step foot outside my apartment without my armpits instantly turning into marshlands.
 
Mmm.  Armpit swamp.
 
Road trips are fantastic because they’re chock full of beautiful, vibrant arrangements of leaves.  The air has a slight sense of musk and wetness to it that makes me want to cuddle up with a blanket or a book or a great bowl of something warm and delicious.  I dream about going out to a cabin somewhere and starting a fire where I can hang by its warmth with no one to bother me.
 
The autumn months hint at holiday cheer without bogging me down with the stress of it all.  I can happily browse for a thoughtful gift here or there without the pressure of knowing I have to have it all done right away.  I can dream of all the paid time off I’m going to take from work without actually taking it yet.  Just the thought of it is enough to get me through two months without even thinking of taking an extra day off.
 
Work begins to lighten up because folks are cashing in on vacation time before the holiday galas and events start calling them somewhere new every other evening.  People are making big, wonderful plans for the season that keeps them hopeful enough to stay in a good mood.  And the idea that holiday cheer is slowly encroaching upon them manages to turn some of the sourest sourpusses into decent fake smilers.
 
Everything is lovely when the leaves are changing.
 
I don’t think I can make it to the 23rd of this month before giving in to my excitement.  I’m already lighting a pumpkin candle every evening and dreaming about how I’ll arrange the fall decorations this year.  I’m placing blankets on every sitting surface just so I can nuzzle them later.  I’m flipping through magazines looking at amusing food to make for the season.
 
My favorite so far is tiny hot dogs wrapped up in croissants like mummies and given faces with mustard.
 
Well, that settles it.  This weekend will be spent baking, hanging decorations, and wrapping tiny wieners in bread.   I hear the forecast calls for thunderstorms.
 
Perhaps even some puddle splashing is in order. ♣♣♣

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A Writing Prison of My Own Design

6 Sep

I’m in the midst of an incredibly dry and boring writing spell and living in perpetual fear that I won’t make it to the end of the year with a post every day.   In fact, just yesterday (no lie), I was walking around the house talking about how I wished I could just quit and get out from the pressure because my brain wasn’t working.

Sounds like a good time to enter a writing contest.

Happy Lollipop Tuesday, ya’ll!

Okay so let me break it down for you.  I recently wrote a post celebrating my 2/3 completion of the one year long postaday/365 project challenge and ever since have been in the clutches of fear, paralyzed by my stupidity and have wandered on with incoherent, poopy posts.

That’s right: poopy.

Simultaneously, I’ve been wondering what on earth is to become of this monster I’ve made, as its booming success is wildly exciting but also unexpected and terrifying.  Am I supposed to keep posting next year? How often?  Under what premise? What’s to become of me?!  Somewhere, somehow, in the midst of these large life questions, I felt the sudden urge to write elsewhere as well.  

Apparently when I’m hating really hard on writing, my brain ascertains that I should do more of it.  It’s rude.  Also, masochistic.

So in the quest to think of other opportunities for pain and anguish, I considered writing contests.

That’s right: writing contests.

It just so happened that as all this was churning in my squiggly little cerebrum, I was reading Real Simple magazine – which offers straightforward articles on how to live your life more simply.   I always read and rarely act.    But if reading an article about organizing my closet can make me feel like I’m slightly more organized, it’s worth $4.99.

And as I picked and choosed which pieces of advice I wouldn’t be taking in this month’s issue, I noticed an advertisement for their Fourth Annual Life Lessons Contest.    They give you a prompt, you write 1500 words or less, and the winner gets a round trip for 2 for 2 nights in NY to see a Broadway show, lunch with the editors, the article published in the magazine, and $3000 smackos.

Unfortunately, entries have been accepted since May and only continue to be accepted until September 15th.

Yeah – that’s next Thursday.

So I’m in.  I’m doing it.  I mean, the prompt is kind of cheesy (When did you first understand the meaning of love?), but whatever.  I’m going to rock it like a big sucky hurricane.  And yeah, I only have about a week to make it happen but that’s okay too.  Because back when I was a smarty pants in college I would whip out several essays in a single evening.  And those were on comparisons and contrasts of theater in India and theater in China or on what major literary work defines our culture today and why –  so I can do this.  I just have to channel my college mojo.

So that’s my Lollipop Tuesday, folks.  Of course, there’s no immediate gratification for you in regards to my account of suckiness – but you can rest your little heads that between right this moment and 11:59pm on Thursday, September 15th, I will absolutely be sucking.  Hard.    

This blog is a monster; it’s making me do things.  Painful things.

But hey – if I win $3,000 bucks, maybe I’ll use some of it to spruce up the blog a bit.  And since the winner is announced in January, it will be a great time to decide what on God’s green earth is going to come of this blog beast for 2012 anyway. Deal?

Deal. ♣

It begins.

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Returning to the Homeland

5 Sep

This weekend I returned to the homeland to spend time with family.

For the record, my “homeland” is in the  middle of Bumblefart, Pennsylvania where the WalMarts have poles in the parking lots for the Amish to tie up their horses.

For realsies.

I’ve been frequenting the armpit of the state (always charming to me, rarely to others)  thanks to the addition of two shiny new sprogs in the family over the last two months.  The gas money is slaughtering me like a filthy, fat pig.  Apparently the oil industry giants have no sympathy for my condition.

Any good weekend home, of course, must be spent in competition.  My family was raised on board games of all shapes and sizes, as my father was once a game board artist.  That is, he did the artwork for board games designed by himself and someone else.   It made for some pretty groovy child-rearing.

Well that and the fact that my father was a Dungeons and Dragons Dungeon Master – which you can read more about here.

From the very moment I stepped foot in my brother’s house to the very moment I stepped foot outside, we were either eating or playing board games.  Of course, there were babies too – but the butt wiping and the baby holding and the rocking to sleep was a sort of side dish to the weekend’s mind games that were played in rounds of cards and battle map tiles.  It was epic.

I find it amusing that both my brothers are now grown up, married, and firing up the baby factories but when we sit around the table they are reduced to their impish, 10-year-old selves.  When we’re around the table, we’re all just kids again.   My brothers are always at war, sparring over who is the one true mental giant.  The evening is interspersed with loud, shamless flatulence, almost always courtesy of my middle brother.  I’m the youngest – the baby of the bunch – grumpy and confused when I don’t understand a new game and hoping in times of desperation that someone will take pity on my state and let me piggyback to victory.  And my father is there all the while – never truly an adult himself – chiming in and egging us on.  Because now when we’re combative, he doesn’t have to live with us and manage the fallout. 

It makes it hard to return to reality sometimes.   I find myself looking around the table and wondering why family ever moves away from each other do to anything other than be together and enjoy family.   

But then I remember how absolutely insane I go after too long with them all and I remember it’s best for all of us.

Still, it’s hard to return to my adult life once I’ve had a good healthy dose of my kid life.  I would much prefer to still be around that gaming table, fielding my brothers farts and provoking my brothers against each other.  

But alas, reality calls me.  And to the office dungeon I must return tomorrow.

Perhaps I’ll spend tomorrow night crafting that million dollar idea. ♣

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My Pet Rock

4 Sep

There’s nothing quite as beautiful as a 3-day weekend.

In fact, I took off Friday and made it 4.  Because I’m greedy.

I’m always just a bit afraid of letting myself have too much time off because it’s in those brief moments that I regain my sanity and sense of work/life balance in the world and I consider never going back.   I run through the entire thing – how much money do I have in the bank, how many months can I make it without a job, is anyone hiring in my field right now, and am I fully prepared to take the plunge and answer a lot of questions from family.

The answer to all of those things is rarely yes.

Maybe one day it will be again.   I can’t imagine how much money I would need to have saved in order to feel okay just not having income until I find a job that doesn’t suck my soul out of my body through a tiny crazy straw.

I could, of course, just look for a job while I’m still gainfully employed and just make the switch.  But every time I go back, I get brainwashed.  Brainwashed! I forget how delicious the sweet nectar of sanity is and I hunch up at my little computer desk in my windowless cave as the lack of sunlight depletes the color from my skin.

My children will be mutants – half human, half bug-eyed, pale-skinned, gangly office creatures.  They’ll shun sunlight and happiness.

I really need a get-rich-quick scheme to come through for me.  I’ve had a lot of ideas, but none so awesome as the Pet Rock.  That guy was a genius. 

It’s either that or win the lottery, and I don’t think those 1-dollar scratch offs ever got me anything but a free ticket and a second chance to be disappointed.  

So I need to get serious about my million dollar idea.  I need to dedicate more time to finding it.  If someone can take a terracotta pot, make it into different shapes, put an easy plant to grow in it, and attach a catchy jingle and retire early in life, I can certainly dream up something with a little million-dollar potential.   Or a rock that you personalize and call a pet.  A ROCK. 

There’s gotta be something I’m not getting here… something I can grab in my brain and shake the money out of. 

Then it’s hello to infinite days off. ♣

Let's hope these chairs stay there until my success. Dibs!

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My Oompa Loompa License

3 Sep

Yesterday I spent my day off at the DMV like a responsible adult and all I have to show for it is an absolutely terrible license photo.

I know, I know – lots of people have terrible license photos.  It’s a running joke.  But you have to understand that up until yesterday, I’d always taken fantastic photos for my license.  I actually take pretty awful pictures on a regular basis but the one place I could rely on looking good was the DMV.  I was proud of my driver’s license.  It looked like me on a good day – fresh and happy.   I was happy to hand it over to anyone who asked.

Those days are over.

Yesterday I ventured in to the Department of Motor Vehicles in a cute black dress and cardigan – hair down and casual and makeup natural but enhancing.  I looked good.  You know, for what I had to work with.  But when that flash went off and the woman handed me my card, I stared straight into the eyes of a fat-faced Oompa Loompa.

This is pretty accurate. You know, sans the NY part. License sample by Courtney Bolton, Flickr. Oompa Loompa sample by Extreme Pods, Flickr. Click image to visit Extreme Pods' photostream.

I was definitely orange and I was definitely round.

She asked me if the picture was okay and of course, I wanted to take another.  But there was a line of 15 people behind me who didn’t care if I looked like the creature from the Black Lagoon.  Besides, I didn’t think that being fat-faced or orange were two qualities that would be altered by another take.  Unless I went to Lowe’s, bought a few decent lights, and came back to appropriately set up the place – which, I admit, was an option in my mind.

I walked out disheartened, clutching my old, beautiful license in one hand and wanting to toss my new, terribly license in the dumpster.

I went to Burger King to get a burger to heal my wounds – which no doubt increased my chances of coming across as fat-faced and orange the next time around as well.   As I sat there, munching on processed meat and fillers, I thought of all the times in the next few years I would be asked to show my ID and how I would no longer associate it with a sense of pride.   Golly I hope the next time I go to the DMV I’m a little more photogenic.

Maybe I could just put a smiley face sticker over my face until then.

Here’s to 2015: the year that will end my shame. ♣

 

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I’m Seven Weeks and Craving Butterfingers

2 Sep

Okay, let’s talk about it.  It’s time to talk about it.

I am so completely done with the “breast cancer awareness” updates on Facebook.

Have you seen this? Have you heard of this?

Every so often, in the name of what people call “breast cancer awareness”, women private message each other a chain letter of sorts that tells them to update their Facebook status with something incredibly ambiguous that makes men wonder what the heck is going on.  It will be something like ‘write what your shoe size is, followed by a sad face”.  So all over Facebook you see women with things like “9 inches :(“.  Which, while hilariously making men doubt the adequacy of their God-given twig and berries, does absolutely nothing to help breast cancer awareness.

I’m gonna go out on a limb and say that no one looked at those status updates and figured it was about time they go get a mammogram or donate money in the name of breast cancer research.

There have been bra color updates.  There have been “I like it on the” updates, where ladies inserted where they put their purses and it sounded instead like a sexual innuendo.   And there’s the most recent: “I’m at ______ weeks and craving ______” wherein the first blank corresponds with the month of your birthday and the second is a candy bar that corresponds with the day (list comes in the chain mail). 

Ugh.

It’s like the time that everyone updated their profile pictures to cartoons in the name of Child Abuse Awareness.

What?

Anyway, I’m tired of it.  Like, super tired of it.  I don’t like the chains getting forwarded to me, I don’t like how snarky the messages are about men, and I don’t like how the most recent brainchild makes it look like every single woman is pregnant online.  

I’m a little scared to mention anything, really.  It’s kind of like the  mafia.  You get these messages with privileged information and you’re told not to tell men under any circumstances.   I’m a little afraid that in exchange for my post on this subject, women dressed in all black will show up to my apartment in the middle of the night and smother me in my sleep.

So listen  – even if they come for me, I want you to know that my judgment of stupidity shall not be silenced.  Ignore the status updates.  Please, let’s just all stop it.  If we really want to spread a message in the name of breast cancer awareness, why don’t we grab a couple friends and say if I donate, you donate? Or update your status about the next running, walking, flying, or trapeze-ing marathon so people can be aware and participate?

Listen, I have to stop now – an angry woman is approaching my doorstep and I fear she knows.

If I don’t post tomorrow, know that I have not been smothered in vain.  Just make up some stupid viral Facebook status in my honor.

Those seem to be effective. ♣

I feel aware now.

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My 2/3 Celebration: A Postadayer Reflection

1 Sep

Hey – I’ve made it 2/3 of the way.

I’ve trudged and trekked and schlepped through the murky recesses of my brain to bring you a new post every single day of this year.

…so far.

Early on I spent a lot of time freaking out about how I’d think of something to write about every day of the year.  I don’t mean to insult you, but do you realize that’s 365 posts?! 365!

That’s a lot of posts.

And though my faith in the stupidity of people (and thus, fuel for my posts) is absolutely unwavering, I was pretty concerned about running out of fresh material.  But as it turns out, things tend to reveal themselves throughout the day.  And awkward scenarios, terrible experiences, and rage-inducing conversations are oh-so-much-more bearable when I know that if all else fails at least I have something to post about that night.

That being said, let’s review some pros and cons of being a post-a-dayer.

Pros

  • An excuse to try new things
  • A way to manage stress
  • Improved command of the English language
  • When I’m ‘in the zone’ and write what I believe to be a good post, it’s an absolutely fantastic feeling.
  • My readers are incredibly funny and delightful
  • It’s a great feeling to know that someone likes something you write enough to share or recommend it to others.

Cons

  • Less sleep.  Really.  I’m a walking zombie sometimes.
  • Sometimes I really just don’t feel like posting.
  • …you know, I really thought there would be more cons.

I have this growing fear that I’m going to just start sucking really bad.  Like, really bad.  What can I possible have to say that I haven’t already said in the first 243 posts?

You know, when I first started out it was thanks to a friend of mine who took a photo every day of the year.   Seeing her dedicate herself to doing something every single day inspired me to do the same.  And when I was just beginning the journey, I asked her how I could possibly make it through the year doing something new every day.  I said the year seemed so long and so unsurmountable.

She told me I couldn’t possibly think like that and it was all about one day at a time.

When I remember that, I do all right. Because hey – I’ve gotta write tomorrow whether it’s entertaining or not.  So why sit here and fret? At least I can say I’ve done something every single day for a year without fail or excuse.

…So far.

Onward! ♣

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