Wednesday, June 30, 2004

I'm supposed to be enrolling in my 401k today. I have no idea what I'm doing. I mean, I'm really planning on winning the lottery before retirement, so is this really important?

posted at 12:27 PM

Tuesday, June 29, 2004

Lauri's World

I think vacuum cleaner manufacturers should make vacuums so that they can't suck up their own cords. I mean, make it so that it'll suck up everything else, since that's what it's supposed to do. But not the cord. I ran over mine twice this morning and had to turn it off and yank the cord out. If Lauri ruled the world... Sigh.

On a more positive note, I stopped by my neighborhood Exxon this morning for some coffee. I'm not usually one for flavored coffee, but over the past few months their featured flavor, "Golden French Toast" has been delicious. Clearly, Golden French Toast's reign has ended. Enter the "Wild Mountain Blueberry" dynasty. Sweet Jesus, it is divine! I added a little cream and sugar, and I might as well have been having a muffin with my coffee! Whoa daddy!

The Base had another round of layoffs yesterday. They cut some really good people again. Really good people who will have no problem finding work. From what I understand, everyone is busy, which means that absorbing the work of those who left means back to Sweat Shop City for the remaining bees. I'm so thankful I got out of that place when I did. Ughh.

I've got a headache. Perhaps it's the sugar overload, the liquid breakfast of wild mountain blueberries with no nutritional value whatsoever.

I got a massage this weekend. I've had some more of that back pain I wrote about a few weeks ago. At one point during the massage, the dude got up on the table with me. He was trying to stretch and apply pressure to my legs or something...I don't know. I've had some really strange massage experiences, that's for sure. I still get visits to this site from search engine users typing "panties on massage table" from that post I made about that sick-o who told me how much better the massage would be if I took my panties off. This world is full of crazies, I tell ya.

And I'm one of them.

posted at 9:38 AM

Monday, June 28, 2004

Say My Name, Say My Name

I used to have a boyfriend who said I didn't tell him that I loved him enough. I asked him how often was "enough", and he said at least once a day. So I said, "Alright." All the while, I'm thinking, what an idiot. I mean, who wants to hear "I love you" from someone who's telling you this just because you asked them to? I did love him. I wasn't in love with him, unfortunately, but he was a good person who deserved to be loved.

(By the way, the obligatory "love you" at the end of a phone call didn't count toward the once-a-day. This was the beginning of the end.)

My point in telling this story today is that I was out running some errands and saw the following pinned to a clerk's shirt:

"Take my dollar if I don't use your first name when thanking you."

WTF? So, when my clerk said, "Thanks, Ms. Brian. Have a nice day," I thought, he doesn't want me to have a nice day. He's not using my name to make me feel *special* as a customer. He just doesn't want me to take his dollar!

What idiot came up with this? I wanted to relieve him of his name-calling burden by stopping him as he was printing my receipt to say, "You know, if you don't say my name, you can keep that dollar. You look like you need a break."

Say what you mean and mean what you say. That's what I say.

posted at 4:02 PM

Saturday, June 26, 2004

Did you know that Trampoline is an Olympic sport?

Man, makes me wish I'd really stayed with that.

posted at 8:31 PM

Friday, June 25, 2004

in-flec-tion (in-'flek-sh&n), noun - 2 : change in pitch or loudness of the voice

I may have written about this before, but today I was thinking about it on the way to work. Inflection. So many of our conversations these days occur via instant messenger or e-mail. I can't begin to count how many times my thoughts have been misinterpreted because someone reading the message didn't read into it the same inflection I was intending.

Example #1 - Mom
Mom and I chat via instant messenger quite a bit. Most of the time during working hours, but sometimes in the evenings as well. I must admit that this cuts down on the phone bill quite a bit. Chat enables us to keep up-to-date on our exciting (not too often mundane) lives on a daily basis.

Example #2 - Will
Will refuses to download any form of instant messenger on his computer. Therefore, I am forced to deal with (on a daily basis) the delayed gratification of his e-mail responses. Will and I e-mail quite a bit during the day. We discuss music, books, weather, plastic penises, politics, movies, shaving, fruit, recipes, hair, pretty much anything you can purchase, the rain forest, you know, whatever comes up.

A note to co-workers or bosses: if you're reading this, please know that I am the queen of multi-tasking, and thesconversationsns do not affect my work in any way at all. Plus, you know god damned well that you do the same thing.

Back to my point (please see examples 1 and 2)... My mother and Will can type me a message, write me a note, send me a card, send me a letter, send me a damned smoke signal, and I can hear their voices in my head, as I'm reading it, because I know them so well. It's almost as if they're sitting with me. You know how this goes. You've got friends and family like this. You know them. You can hear them.

Then why is it that it is with these people (not only these two, but these are my best examples) that I most often misinterpret what they're saying? This isn't a regular thing, the misinterpretation, it's just that when it happens, it floors me. Luckily, it doesn't take long to reconcile, to figure out where I got off track in the conversation.

So that got me thinking...when Mom and Will (and Holly and Mathew and Scott and all the other people who have spent a great deal of time with me, and, well, let's be honest, LOVE me) read this blog, they can *hear* me. They know what I mean, there's not a lot of room for interpretation (or misinterpretation). And if it happens occasionally with these people via instant messenger or e-mail, then how often do those readers who don't know me very well COMPLETELY MISS THE BOAT with what I'm saying?

Then, I think, who cares. It doesn't matter.

posted at 8:31 AM

Thursday, June 24, 2004

My brother shared some news with me yesterday (since I rarely watch any), about a little boy who died this week named Mattie J.T. Stepanek. Read his story here.

Mattie published five books of poetry, and the poem Mathew shared with me this week was written, I think, when Mattie was about 10 years old. Ten years old.

About things that matter

It matters that the world knows
We must celebrate the gift of life
Every day in some way, and
We must always remember
To play after every storm.

It matters that the world knows
All children are truly blessed
With the innocent gifts of gentleness,
Trust, and compassion, which
Should guide the wisdom of grown-ups.

It matters that the world knows
We each have a song in our heart
That can inspire us in good times and
Hard times if we take the time to listen.

It matters that the world knows
Our senses can help us discover
The hidden and non-hidden
Enchantment in life, if we use them fully.

It matters that the world knows
We must choose our words and wants
Carefully, or we could forever hurt others
With these most dangerous weapons.

It matters that the world knows
Strength and value of all things created
Must be measured by character and commitment
Rather than by might and wealth.

It matters that the world knows
We must heed the valuable lessons of
Everyday life, through the celebration of
Children and Heartsongs, senses and words,
Or we could lose in our journey to the future.

It matters that the world knows
A person by my name and being existed
With a strong spirit and an eternal mindset
To become a peacemaker for all,
By sharing the things that really matter.

June 2001
©Mattie J.T. Stepanek

posted at 9:09 AM

Do people still use rotary phones? I sometimes get that automated voice response, "If you are using a rotary phone, please stay on the line." I've got a rotary phone, but it's "just for looks".

What does the "k" in "401k" stand for? Why can't it just be a 401? And what is a 401? I need a financial planner.

I officially hate my hair. I should have never cut it. I need a new "do", this one sucks.

I find it very interesting that one of my sources for new music is the WB. Some of those shows feature some great tunes. And they're so nice to tell you at the end of the show exactly whose music it is. What a grand idea!

I saw a car yesterday with real bullet holes in it.

How can anyone not like Jon Stewart and "The Daily Show". I get so pissed when I fall asleep watching it.

posted at 9:01 AM

Tuesday, June 22, 2004

Bathroom Talk

I see a lot of men coming out of the bathroom talking to each other. Out of the men's restroom at work. And I can't help but think, did they start that conversation while washing their hands, or as they were using the urinal at the same time?

And if it started at the urinal...Does it not bother them at all that while they're having this discussion, they're holding their genitals in their hands? I just find it very strange. Very strange. It's strange enough that they're standing next to each other with no barrier wall...but to be talking, having a conversation about a current work's just too much for me to handle.

I've heard from a few men I work with that one of our top executives doesn't wash his hands. And if he thinks I'll be able to focus on what he's saying anymore without thinking about his dirty hands...then he's just crazy.

It makes me a little nervous when co-workers (those I don't consider to be close friends) chat with me while I'm peeing, or while they're peeing. I mean, we're not all infants here, just lying around in diapers with the freedom to excrete whatever we want whenever we want, they put those doors and locks on those stalls for a reason!

posted at 3:41 PM

I needed a laugh today...

I think I've said before that my sister is a firefighter and paramedic. I won't say where, because I'd hate for a lawsuit to come of this post. But today, they get a call from a thirtysomething year-old woman who has been injured, an arm injury. They show up at her place, and it appears that she's been given an Indian rope burn. You remember them, from when you were a kid...where someone takes both hands, wraps them around your wrist, and twists them in opposite directions, causing a little burn on your arm. (By the way, I tried to find an image of an Indian rope burn to link here, but when you type this into the image finder on Google, you don't get what you're looking for. And I hope that "Indian rope burn" isn't culturally offensive. Like the way sitting Indian-style is. Sorry.)

So back to the story. They examine her arm, all of her fingers are working and there doesn't seem to be any real injury. Now, I should stop here and explain that my sister doesn't have much sympathy for people who cry wolf or call for an emergency where there definitely is no emergency. Maybe it's because she's seen some actual, real emergencies. Once she told me about a guy who tried to kill himself by shooting a bullet into his mouth, but he didn't succeed, he just blew the skin off his face. All of it. He was talking. No skin. Now, in comparison, this and the Indian rope burn just aren't in the same category of "emergencies".

So Holly asks her if she thinks she needs to get into the ambulance and go to the hospital, and she says no. Holly then asked her, "Well, what is it exactly that you want us to do? I mean, why did you call us?" Her response, "I want you to kick my roommate out!" Apparently, the roommate gave her the rope burn on the arm, and now that she'd been "assaulted" she needed someone to kick the roommate out. Well, as Holly explained, "Ma'am, we're the fire department. There's really nothing we can do about your roommate problem." She got angry and called 911 again (yes, she called 911 the first time about the rope burn), and told the dispatcher to send the fire chief, because these firefighters and medics weren't helping her at all.

On the way back to the station, Holly and her partners realized that this was the same woman they visited about a year ago after she called 911 because she was "in pain" from having "some rough sex" and was "a little sore down there".

WTF? Now, there are 1,000 reasons why I could never do what Holly does. She has seen and experienced things that can never be put into words, things my stomach and heart can't handle in the smallest doses. But the truth is, the main reason is, I can't deal with stupid people like this. I just can't. It would have taken everything in me to keep me from grabbing her other arm, twisting my hands in opposite directions on her forearm, and saying, "There, you crazy whore. You're all fixed up now."

They call my sister "Mean Holly" at the fire station because she really doesn't put up with much shit from the crazies. She's not Mean Holly. She's the most caring person in the world with the biggest heart of anyone I know. But I think along with her care and concern, you've got to be willing to get some real-life advice and help from her. Jeez Louise. Tax dollars, my friends. Tax dollars.

posted at 1:25 PM

Monday, June 21, 2004

I had a great weekend. I hope you did, too.

posted at 10:36 AM

Friday, June 18, 2004

Won't Someone Think of the Children???

Go See Garfield the Movie...

Have you ever seen an advertisement for a movie or other products on a tiny sticker on your banana?

What's next?

posted at 10:13 AM

It's Friday, Thank God.

Last night I came home from work after running some errands and fell asleep. I just crashed. Thankfully, my mother called and woke me up around 8-ish. I had things to do at home, and if she hadn't called, I would have slept through the night. The point of this is, that my early evening nap made it difficult to go to sleep at a decent hour last night, and for that, I'm thankful. I would have missed some damned good TV.

Vince Vaughn was on Letterman last night, and oh my, how I love him. I mean, look at him people! I think he's number one on the list. He's got to be. Sting would just be too "heavy" for me at times. I like to laugh. So there it is, Vince - #1. Sting - #2. This is a historical moment.

(While going through the Vince pictures, I found this one. Greatness!)

Also, on VH1, I caught the live music of Paul Simon and John Mayer -- together and solo. Good stuff.

So David Sedaris was in Austin yesterday...

posted at 8:58 AM

Thursday, June 17, 2004

Wi-Fi and Liquid Lunches

I'm wireless. And it's cool. And Will introduced me to this new "word", Wi-Fi. Wireless Fidelity? Interesting. Anyway, I was able to sit in a meeting today with my wireless laptop, if the need hits me, I might have to go outside and work.

So back to this meeting. It was a presentation by a research company which shall remain nameless to protect the poor lad who did the presentation.

He was drunk. Or in my boss' words, "plowed like a cotton field". At first, I thought that he was just a terrible presenter. His presentation was online, and we projected it onto the wall of the conference room. He'd go to a page and say, " can read all about that there...", slumped in his chair, no rhyme or reason to his presentation. He indicated that Monique, the French girl, would be available in about thirty minutes to talk specifically to healthcare, which is our business. I think Monique was there to save his ass.

During the presentation, I still didn't know he was drunk. I just never would have guessed. It was when we walked him out...I could smell it on his breath. He was LIT. Good Lord! Poor guy, I hope he doesn't have a problem, I hope he just really enjoyed his lunch.

posted at 2:14 PM

The Professor and La Fille Damse
Damien Rice

Well I don't know if I'm wrong
'Cause she's only just gone
Here's to another relationship
Bombed by excellent breed of gamete disease
I'm sure when I'm older I'll know what that means

Cried when she should and she laughed when she could
Here's to the man with his face in the mud
And an overcast play just taken away
From the lovers in love at the centre of stage yeah

Loving is fine if you have plenty of time
For walking on stilts at the edge of your mind
Loving is good if your dick's made of wood
And the dick left inside only half understood her

What makes her come and what makes her stay?
What makes the animal run, run away yeah
What makes him stall, what makes him stand?
And what shakes the elephant now
And what makes a man?

I don't know, I don't know, I don't know
No I don't know you any more
No, no, no, no...

I don't know if I'm wrong
'Cause she's only just gone
Why the fuck is this day taking so long?
I was a lover of time and once she was mine
I was a lover indeed, I was covered in weed

Cried when she should and she laughed when she could
Well closer to god is the one who's in love
And I walk away cause I can
Too many options may kill a man

Loving is fine if it's not in your mind
But I've fucked it up now, too many times
Loving is good if it's not understood
Yeah, but I'm the professor
And feel that I should know...

What makes her come and what makes her stay?
What make the animal run, run away and
What makes him tick apart from him prick
And the lonelier side of the jealousy stick?

I don't know, I don't know, I don't know
No I don't know, I don't know, I don't know
No I don't know, I don't know, I don't know
Hell I don't know you any more
No, no, no no...

Well I don't know if I'm wrong
'Cause she's only just gone
Here's to another relationship
Bombed by my excellent breed of gamete disease
I finished it off with some French wine and cheese

La fille danse
Quand elle joue avec moi
Et je pense que je l'aime des fois
Le silence, n'ose pas dis-donc
Quand on est ensemble
Mettre les mots
Sur la petite dodo

posted at 10:49 AM

What the..? I can't believe it.

posted at 6:38 AM

Wednesday, June 16, 2004

I just bought 182 lotto tickets.

posted at 3:21 PM


I wonder...On those commercials where they show one cut finger that has been treated with an ointment that is supposed to prevent scars, and one finger that wasn't treated...Who volunteers to be the person with the cut that leaves a scar?

Scar is a really strange word, if you say it over and over again. Scar. Hmph.

posted at 9:19 AM

Tuesday, June 15, 2004

Fruit Flies

Or they're gnats, I'm not sure which. Either way, I've got them. And they're swarming around my fruit. And it's grossing me out. How do you get rid of them? My friend Mary suggested that I put the fruit in the fridge, but there's no room. (I think this is something my mom and grandmother, and basically every other woman in my family passed on to me...The need for a well-stocked fridge.)

So back to the gnats/fruit flies. What exactly are they DOING to my fruit? That's really the big question. I mean, what if I find out three months from now that these little swarmers carry West Nile or something? They seem to like the peaches and plums more than the apples and oranges. So I've started eating them first, which is totally throwing off my fruit pattern.

My priest and his wife had their baby yesterday. It's a girl. And now the crazy biological clock issue is compounded into an addiction of some sort. I've got to get to the hospital to see (and smell) that baby! I'm out of control.

Congratulations to Doug for passing his exam, he is now a P.E. (Professional Engineer)! Whoo hooo!

That is all for now.

posted at 9:47 AM

Monday, June 14, 2004

Have you ever received an e-mail like this?

"In about 30 minutes or so I'm leaving. I need to go by the Planned Parenthood office and pick up some condom information. We've got a plastic penis and we will be practicing how to put on a condom."

I've never laughed so hard in my life. Condoms don't make me uncomfortable. I believe in sex education. It's just getting an e-mail about condoms and a plastic penis after a morning-long discussion about CDs and T-shirts that make the tears flow from my eyes and my side hurt from the belly laughing.

Oh God I love it.

posted at 2:13 PM


hug - 1 : to press tightly especially in the arms

I was thinking about hugging this weekend. And in my thought process, at first, I thought not about how wonderful it is to be hugged, or how good it feels to hug someone, but how strange hugging is. The mechanical piece of hugging -- pressing your body up against someone, wrapping your arms around him or her...

Why? Why do we walk up to someone and push our body up next to theirs, often belly-to-belly, or boob-to-boob, as a sign of affection or love? (Take sex out of the equation here.) Is it the physical manifestation of closeness that we're trying to achieve? Is hugging as close as you can possibly get to someone without it becoming inappropriate? If you think about the mechanics of it, it really is kind of strange. Why do humans need to touch body parts to communicate with or acknowledge each other? There's the hug, the handshake, the kiss on each cheek. I won't get into how I have to hold myself back from patting people on the butt sometimes. I mean, I really have to restrain myself.

And what about those people who are just "huggers"? They hug everyone. Their hugs don't mean much, in my opinion. When I hug someone, I mean it.

I think there are several types of hugs...
There's a hug between two lovers, an embrace. I think there's a certain amount of love that can be transmitted in that kind of hug. It's not sexual, it's not a kiss, it's an embrace. It's sharing in each other's breathing and scent. You know when you're getting one of these hugs. They can take your breath away.

And a child's hug...Now that's the best kind, I think. A child wrapping his or her little arms and hands around you, so sweet. So innocent. Children have no motives in their hugs. They just want to feel close, to feel safe.

Other hugs...
We hug each other when we're in pain or grieving, when we're really happy or excited. We hug the most, I think, when one of us is sad or upset. We hug each other when we celebrate and when we lose. Sometimes we sit together in an embrace, watching a movie of having a good conversation.

Every mass at my church includes an exchange of peace. Everyone gives each other either a hug or a handshake, exchanging wishes of peace. I really like this part of the mass (except when the old ladies get their make-up on my shirt. Also there's this old dude who likes to kiss me, and it makes me a bit uncomfortable.) Hugging just for the purpose of exchanging a greeting of peace is nice to me.

When I think about loved ones who have passed, the first thing that comes to mind is how I'd give anything in the world just to hug them again.

Hug your family. Hug your friends and your children. Give someone a hug when they need it. But most of all, mean it when you do it.

posted at 9:08 AM

Sunday, June 13, 2004

The GolfGirl Movie Review

I spent my weekend with my 78 year-old Aunt B. We spent a lot of time talking, her telling me old stories about her parents, my grandmother (her sister) and "good ole days" stories. It's times like these that make me wish I always had a tape recorder in my pocket. Sometimes I write them down, sometimes I just listen. One day, I will get it all on paper. They're good stories.

When we weren't talking, we were watching movies. I rented six movies this weekend and we watched all of them. Some were good, some were not-so-good. See the list below:

Calendar Girls
I thought Aunt B would like this one, and she did. It was definitely for an older audience, but I thought it was worth watching. Rating: B.

Along Came Polly
I was really excited about this one, but disappointed. I've seen both actors do a better job. Maybe it was the writing. Yeah, it was definitely the writing. Rating: C+.

Mystic River
This is an awesome movie. A little dark, but a definite must-see. I figured out the ending, which made me oh so proud. I have a love/hate relationship with movies like this. I like surprises. Rating: A+.

Girl with a Pearl Earring
The meaning and depth of this movie was lost on me. I mean, I got it, but it was so boring. I usually love movies like this. Could have used a little more dialogue and a little less of those "longing" looks from that Scarlet chick. What a pretty girl she is, though. Even with all that headgear. Rating: C-.

Runaway Jury
Aunt B read this book, and was excited to see the movie. I thought it was about par for this genre of movie. I like John Cusack and that chick from "About a Boy", so generally, I liked it. I didn't figure out the ending, only because I thought it would be a little more complicated than it was. Rating: B.

Annie Hall
I rented this because I've never seen it before and have always wanted to. I like Woody Allen, but I fell fast asleep about 30 minutes into it. Maybe I was just tired. Cannot provide accurate rating until I can stay awake through the whole thing.

posted at 5:21 PM

Friday, June 11, 2004

This IS OFFICIALLY The Trip from Hell.

(Please forgive the vagueness of some of the locations mentioned in this post. When you're trying to sell SEO to a client, you certainly don't want them searching their business name and city and ending up on your personal site. That would be just my luck. And if you are a client who happens upon this site, please just stop reading now. It's a rant about a trip I took to come see you. You were very nice. The trip made me irritable. And when I'm irritable, I write. Thank you.)

Tuesday night -- Make it Moo
My boss, a co-worker, and I met for dinner on Tuesday night at a client-recommended steakhouse. "The best place in town!", she said. Think Western Sizzler. Maybe worse. I opted for the fish, not straying from my usual "you wouldn't order a burger at a pizza joint" rebellion. According to my travel companions, the choice was actually a wise one this time. They felt that the meat was tough with no flavor. I'm glad theirs was overcooked, though, because one of them said, "I like it still cold in the middle" when she ordered it. I was preparing myself with my counting and breathing exercises while they enjoyed their ordering-to-food-arrival-drinking-and-conversation time. I was preparing myself for what would appear to be a cold blooded murder taking place at my dinner table. Thankfully, my fish wasn't bleeding. But it wasn't good, either. I enjoyed the side order of mushrooms. Always the positive thinker, I know.

So we get to the hotel that evening. Nice hotel, no complaints. In bed at a decent hour, client meetings early Wednesday morning. If you guys think I'm obsessive-compulsive at home, you should see me in a hotel room. Nothing I have belongs in that room, so making it all comfortable in its new, unfamiliar surroundings is what I'm hoping to achieve. Deciding whether my suitcase should rest on the second bed or next to the television armoire consumed quite a bit of my evening.

Wednesday -- Wha... Wha... What!???
I have a problem with tardiness. Especially when it affects my being on time for something. And more especially when I've worked to hard TO BE on time. It could be the many years of my father yelling to my mother, "Ruth Ann, you'll be late to your own funeral!" We arrive at the hospital in CT City #1, surprisingly, on time. It's because I've decided not to allow my boss any time to eat breakfast. He's terminally late.

I'm always amazed at what a good judge of character I am. But when it comes to predicting what someone will look or act like based on a relationship that has been groomed and developed via phone conversations only, I am way off every time. This was my first time to meet this client, and she was in no way what I expected. But the truth is, she was great.

Our meetings went well. The time had come to say goodbye and head from CT City #1 to CT City #2. Our instructions from the travel agent were to drive from CT City #1 to CT City #2, CT in order to fly into NY City #1 with a connection in Philadelphia. I'll give you a second to read that sentence one more time, as it's quite confusing and I want to make sure you get it all.

Before we left CT City #1, I asked for directions to the CT City #2 airport. No one could recall exactly where the airport was, but could happily point us in the right direction to get to CT City #2, indicating that there would be signs for the aiport as soon as we got into town. I trusted this, and jumped in my low riding Chevy Malibu with my boss and headed on my way.

The drive from CT City #1 to CT City #2 was an interesting one. All back roads, most of it beautiful. I could just imagine as we were driving how beautiful it must be in the fall. But at about 3:30 in the afternoon on a two lane highway, the beauty is overshadowed by the fact that you're behind every god damned school bus in Connecticut, with nowhere to pass on those beautiful, long, winding roads. Stop, go. Stop, go.

Have you ever noticed that, for the most part, all street signs are standard from state to state? In America, a stop sign or a yield sign is easily recognizable. Same as the mother-and-daughter-with-suitcases crossing sign. The big-trucks crossing sign. See? You can see them in your head as I'm describing them. But have you ever noticed that in different parts of the country, there are needs for location-specific signage? I saw one with a little man on a tractor. I can only assume this is a sign to stay alert for any Old McDonald crossings. And then a nice, leaping deer sign, which reminded me of my mother. "Watch for the deer!" she'd say to everyone leaving our house in the country. She became superstitious about it, as if the day she forgets to issue the warning, someone will encounter a leaping deer and be killed instantly. Then she would have to carry around the burden of having not warned them. The first deer leaping sign was nice. But the second was better. Someone had placed a round red sticker on the nose of this deer. So festive. I saw two stop signs in Connecticut that had "Bush" written underneath the "STOP" message. That was pretty cool. I wanted to put "Global Warming" or something underneath all the stop signs I encountered after that, never realizing until that point what a strong political message just waiting to happen that a stop sign was. There were other signs. Mostly, the signs that we were in "Deliverance" country. I was a little concerned at times.

Ironically, with all this signage, when we arrive in CT City #2 there are no signs for he airport as we had been promised. We decide to pull over at a gas station to ask for directions. My boss goes in. As soon as he gets back in the car he says, "They had no idea that CT City #2 even had an airport." This should have been a sign to me to begin slitting my wrists immediately. Next gas station, we're directed into the garage to speak to the mechanics (who have also never heard of a CT City #2 airport.) Final stop, a rental car service. We figured if they, too, didn't know about the town airport, they'd at least have a map. Finally, some sketchy directions from them and we were on our way.

I can't begin to explain the confusion and frustration of finding the CT City #2 airport once we got closer. It was nestled in a tiny neighborhood off the coast. Quaint little place. BUT HIDDEN. We passed the airport once, thinking it was some sort of barn. No wonder no one knows about this place. It's got two terminals, though. We arrive just in time. Just in time for them to tell us that the flight was delayed at least an hour. I should mention that the CT City #2 airport, as nice as it is, isn't a big fan of air conditioning. At this point, we have no idea why we didn't just drive a damned car from CT City #1 into NY City #1. But it's too late now.

We finally get on the plane bound for NY City #1. I sat next to a man who talked my ear off the entire trip about pacemakers. He doesn't have one. He sells them. He's worked for 3M, Kodak -- he used to ride his bike 17, 18 miles a day. But just can't find time for that anymore. Loves Rhode Island as a vacation spot (hell he sold me on it), and he adores his son and daughter, both successful and living in the Northeast. Loves his wife. He didn't say he loved his wife, it was the look on his face when he talked about her. I loved this man and wondered if that son of his was single.

We land in Philly and run (literally) to catch our connecting flight. We missed it. Of course! Would you have guessed otherwise??? Unfortunately, we've got to spend the next four hours in the Philadelphia airport. So we decide to eat, do some shopping. Luckily, this airport has some good shops. I bought at least three things I didn't need at the Gap (including one really cute paisley beach bag and a hair scarf. I've got grand ideas about hair scarves. I was hair-scarving when hair-scarving wasn't cool.)

We decide to walk back to our terminal. (There was also a random search in which both my boss and I were selected. The kind where they go through every one of your bags, item by item. I mean, of COURSE this happened. I was wondering why it hadn't happened 12 times sooner?) So we're heading back to our terminal and coincidentally meet up with a co-worker whom we were supposed to be meeting in NY City #1. He's all fresh and smiles -- he's just arrived and hasn't been waiting long. Asshole.

We board the plane and it's so late and so empty that I'm able to lift the armrest and curl my body into the fetal position across two seats to catch some Z's. I wake up with a headache, we've landed, it's around midnight, and it's time to rent another car and head to the next hotel.

Of course, they're out of mid-sized cars. Of course! Not that this really matters to me, it's just so typical for this trip. We get in our little Ford Focus and head to the Hampton Inn. PLEASE let the hotel be good, PLEASE. There's mildew in the shower, some kind of nasty stain on my bed on the blanket, and the data port is nowhere to be found. Plus it stinks in there. I get in bed, and feel as if the alarm goes off as soon as my head hit the pillow. I hate nights like this, but thank God I was able to sleep. I dreamt about roaches and Tilex.

Thursday -- Six Planes in Three Days
We head to the next hospital. Meetings with a politically charged group that didn't last long, thank God. It's time for us to head to Syracuse. Not because we've got meetings there. Not because there's a good flight out of Syracuse, but there's a CHEAP ONE, and that's how our company travel agents operate. I'm all for saving a buck, but this Planes, Trains, and Automobiles exercise is getting a little out of control. The original plan, outlined by our Mensa travel agents, was to stay the night in Syracuse and catch the red-eye to Chicago Friday morning, THEN head back to Dallas. My boss had had enough, though. He misses his family. We're going home tonight, no matter what the costs are. That's good, because I miss my couch.

We talk to the ticketing agent, and we can fly stand-by on a 4:45 flight into Chicago, and then head on to Dallas. It's the best news weÃ??ve heard in days! They guarantee us some seats on a late flight out of Chicago, but tell us to go ahead and sign up for stand-by when we get there, surely they can get us home sooner.

There's a little delay. That's okay, though because we're so happy to be leaving a day early, we're on the Stand-By High. We happily wait at the gate for our plane to arrive, and when it does, we begin to board. The gate agent calls us out of the crowd, which scares the shit out of us, considering that we're feeling just a LITTLE too lucky at this point, very inconsistent with the rest of our trip. I'm praying that she's just calling us to the counter for a free Tarot card reading. She is surprised we're already ticketed, because we're supposed to be stand-by. We press on, including ourselves in the line for boarding, hoping we look so much like "the rest of the crowd" that they'll let us on anyway. They let us through, and weÃ??re feeling like we're home free.

The plane starts to taxi to the runway. (You know, the word "taxi" in this context intrigues me. "Taxi" is a noun in my book. And why do only planes TAXI -- verb? I digress.) So we're moving, closer and closer to take off...I' almost asleep...and they turn off the engine. They turn off the engine and let us sit on the runway for about 15 minutes before explaining to us that they predict an hour delay due to "some weather in Chicago". So now we're sitting on this plane, all sharing one nasty little bathroom with thick, dark blue water (that I, of all people, am sitting closest to) waiting to take off for Chicago. I believe the total wait was about an hour and a half.

There are two boys sitting in front of us who mention that they've never been on a plane before. All I can think of is, "This is my sixth plane in three days..." They say they're headed to basic training or boot camp or one of those brain-washing, endurance-testing, superior-yelling camps. These boys look as if they can't be more than fifteen years old. Actually, one of them looks to be about twelve. They need to call "their recruiter" to explain the delay, but have no phone. My boss happily offers his up to them, and they make the call. Later, my boss hears the younger boy tell someone that he is, in fact, thirteen years old. Can someone please explain this to me? Where are these boys headed and why? And why is there a very nasty, greasy film on my window????

We land in Chicago. By what I thought was, at the time, the biggest stroke of luck (strange phrase, I'd like to point out), we are able to rush onto a plane scheduled to depart around 7:45. I have no idea how this happened.Butut it did. We spent only about 30 minutes tops in the Chicago airport, and I've never been happier.

We get on the plane, heading back tDEFYFW, and we're on the Stand-By High again. I get settled, start to read...And youÃ?'e not going to believe this...There's a delay because of the weather! Only this time, we sit for a long time. We don't take off until after nine. I think the Travel Gods are cursing me for scoring such great stand-by flights, for trying to cheat the airline system, for trying to get home sooner than was originally planned by my incompetent travel agent, for not shaving my legs this morning!

So now it's 10:40 PM and I'm in the air, praying that this plane isn't struck by lightning, the perfect way to end a trip that's missing only two things: John Candy and Steve Martin. I've typed five pages of words to post on bloclog that no one will ever read in its entirety. But it's documented now. What I can't help thinking is, if I were vacationing, none of this would seem so bad. It would be part of the experience. I have to learn to embrace "the experience" no matter what the context is.

Note to self: Discuss sales opportunities in the Hawaii territory with sales group. This New England small town shit is for the birds.

posted at 12:50 AM

Tuesday, June 08, 2004

Airplane coffee is the worst coffee in the world. It doesn’t matter how much sugar or milk you add to it, it always tastes the same. Clearly, someone took a piss in it.

This has been a day of ups and downs. I got up this morning on time, packed, and ready to go on time. I arrived at the airport early, my valet parking service there to greet me with a smile.

Somehow, I keep scoring first class tickets through my travel agent at work. “Well, you’ll be eligible for an upgrade on that flight, Ms. Brian” they always say. How??? I will never understand the way this works. Is it because I wait until last minute to book my travel? With a ticket that expensive, I guess they figure they OWE you a hot towel and warm meal, a reclining seat and some major ass kissing.

So I board the plane, first, of course. I’m one of The Beautiful People, now. I absolutely hate this about first class. They board you first and serve you a drink. Then everyone else boards. And everyone else walks by you and looks at you. And you’re looking at them thinking, “I wonder where she got that purse?” or “That guy smells really good.” But no matter what you’re really thinking, the look on your face says, “Sucks to be you. I’m one of The Beautiful People. This kind lady will be bringing me a hot towel later. Now get behind that curtain!”

It’s early, so I decide against the drink. They’ll be serving breakfast later, and while bloody Mary’s at my mom’s house in the morning are a requirement, I don’t think Hertz really wants you picking up your car lit up like a Christmas tree.

The man sitting next to me smells nice enough, that’s always a bonus. I really have a problem with smells, in case you didn’t know that already.

As the Inferiors board the plane, I can’t help but notice the young Asian couple with the screaming baby. The Nice Smelling Man looks at me and we exchange a look and no verbal communication, but let each other know in an instant that this is NOT acceptable in first class. Let that baby cry back there in coach! There is no crying in first class!

It’s time to go. I read a little. Rest a little. It’s time for breakfast. “Hi, would you like an omelette or pancakes for breakfast? Each dish comes with fresh fruit and your choice of a bagel or muffin!" Good God. All I can think of, rather than making the decision, is what do they do if everyone in first class asks for the same thing? Do they have enough food for a situation like that? Is one item historically more popular than the other? Are they prepared for this kind of emergency? “I’ll have an omelette, with some orange juice," I tell her. I think she’s secretly happy that I ordered my drink with my meal, so as to save her a second question.

Breakfast is good. More reading. A little nappy nap. Thank God the man in front of me doesn’t have the same issue with other people’s bare feet that I do, I’ve happily got them propped up on the back of his arm rest.

We arrive in Chicago, and the weather is beautiful from what I can see. The pilot also said so. My layover is only one hour, and it occurs to me that I’ve never been to Chicago before. Always wanted to go, and there I was. Sitting in an airport terminal. In Chicago. With nothing else to do but people watch. I thought this would be fun, but it turned out to be the most depressing people watching I’ve ever done. First there was a really big man with the roller-bag suitcase that looked like a “Going to Grandma’s” child’s suitcase. I mean, he could barely reach the handle on it, it was so low. And how did that man fit his clothes into there? Why was he carrying that bag?!?!? Then there was the woman who spoke no English, missed her flight, and was panicked, talking to the people at the check-in desk in her foreign tongue, and none of them knew what to tell her. (I, of course, couldn’t translate. I couldn’t even make out the language. I just knew she missed her flight because of the way she was freaking out. Women can tell about this stuff.)

I had to go buy a People magazine to bring me out of my airport depression. Nothing like a stories about Julia’s twins, J. Lo’s wedding plans, and Brit Brit’s trip to Paris to cure those blues from watching real life take place at the airport. Of course, I only look at the pictures.

And then it occurs to me, I really think that what someone is reading at the airport says a lot about them. I’ve got to get rid of this magazine.

We board the plane, bound for Westchester, NY. The Beautiful People first, of course. I get all situated and have my Ginger Ale, waiting to watch the Inferiors board. Here they come, the Asian couple. Baby screaming. It’s like déjà vu. What are the chances? The man sitting next to me this time smells good. He smells clean, I should say. You know, like Irish Spring soap or something. One of those harsh soaps that leave a scent (and a film, no doubt) on your skin. My mom would say that it also leaves a ring around your tub. I digress.

We sit. We wait. The flight attendant says there’s a leak of some kind. The other flight attendant called it “our little problem”. We’ll know more in 20 minutes, we just need to sit tight. It’s getting warmer. We’re asked to close the window visors to keep the temperature down. I’m feeling a little restless, but very thankful that I don’t have another connecting flight on the other end and that I’m not due at a meeting like some of the other passengers. We wait longer. Finally, they tell us to de-board the plane and head to another gate. We need another plane. I am thankful for this. And I’m glad I’m not one of those people who gets terribly upset and disturbed in situations like this. I swear I’ve got a natural form of Prozac running through my veins. Shit like this never bothers me.

The Beautiful People get off first, we head to the new gate. We wait about 30 minutes, and then board the new plane. Same seating arrangements, thank God. I was wondering how, logically, they were going to work all that out. Details, details. The plane was exactly the same. Don’t you know they were happy about that? I would be.

We board again. Get settled. Have another Ginger Ale. (Talk about superfluous! Man!) And here they come. The Asian couple. With the baby. And the baby is screaming. (I should also note that on both flights, after the beverage service, the child was carried all the way from the back of the plane to the first class bathroom to have his diaper changed. I know this, because the parent was carrying a fresh diaper and hiney wipes each time. I don’t know about you, but for me, this begs the question, is the first class bathroom bigger and nicer? I have an aversion to bathrooms with thick, dark blue water, so I’ll never know.)

Time for take off. But, sorry kids, we’re 15th in line. We won’t be heading out of here for a long time. “Yes!” I’m thinking. This is PERFECT nap time. I read a little, and doze off into my sweet sitting-position slumber.

We finally take off and it’s time for them to serve lunch. (To the front part of the plane only, of course.) Again, I have to say no to the wine, but I’ll certainly take another Ginger Ale while you’re preparing my lunch! All this Ginger Ale, it seems to me that there’s a pretty good chance that I’ll end up in that bathroom.

And then it happens. I can hear the flight attendant taking the orders of the people in front of me, "Sandwich or chicken breast?" Man, a sandwich sounds so good to me right now. I believe I’m a little excited. Then he turns to me and my Irish Spring friend. “I’m sorry, but there’s only one choice left now, the chicken breast! Would you care for some more Ginger Ale?” My worst first-class fear has become a reality. They’ve run OUT of one of the food selections. And I’m left with a chicken breast and curry pasta salad! Why on EARTH would you serve CURRY pasta salad on an airplane? Shouldn’t you serve something that MOST people GENERALLY enjoy? I’m fine, though. A - I love curry. B - I am able to think of the starving people sitting in rows six through whatever, and I’m once again thankful for my station in life. I am a Late Booker.

Now, a word or two about these hot towels. First of all, they’re hot. I mean REALLY hot. One could burn him or herself on these towels! I am genuinely concerned for the airlines and the inevitable lawsuits that will ensue if they keep distributing these. Of course, they’ve been doing it for years with no problem, I guess. They always hand me one, I rub my hands with it, thinking sarcastically to myself, “Yeah, like THIS is really going to get my hands clean." Oh the joys of OCD. The men always rub the towel on their faces. If they’re bald, they rub it up onto the head area. Maybe they forgot to bathe that morning, and this is like perfect timing for them. No, that’s not true, because Irish Spring bathed this morning, and he, too, rubbed his face with the towel.

I see no use for this towel other than to wipe off my tray table that has been stowed away in the armrest beside me. Why isn’t everyone else wiping off their tables? I will never understand this. The purpose of the hot towel is clearly to create a clean eating surface.

There goes the Asian lady. With the baby. And the wipes. And the fresh diaper. Man, that family is on a schedule! I hear that’s what happens when you have children. Schedules. Now I’m sufficiently distracted with the thought of working another’s OCD schedule into my own. Oh Lord.

Thank God we’re flying over some of that patchwork-type landscaping, because I needed to change my train of thought. Train of thought. What does that mean exactly? I will never understand these patches of land. Miles and miles of perfectly drawn lines, separating a highly organized network of geometrical shapes. When you're "down there", are you able to draw such perfect lines? I smell alien involvement.

Finally, we get to Westchester/White Plains. Officially The Smallest Airport I've Ever Been To. As I walk inside to rent my car and pick up my bag, I hear it. One of my all time favorite movies has come to life -- someone has UNINTENTIONALLY LEFT THE P.A. SYSTEM ON, AND SHE IS MAKING A COMPLETE FOOL OF HERSELF! Some chick made an announcement, forgot to turn it off, (either that or she sat on the button accidentally, we'll never know the whole truth), and is RIPPING one of her employees a new you-know-what! I mean, carrying on like nobody's business. And all I can say is that it's AWESOME.

And that was it. I get the car. I hit the road. And day one of my week-long business travel escapade is over.

posted at 9:06 PM

Monday, June 07, 2004

The Body, The Gold Box, and The Temporary Lapse in Good Judgment

It seemed like my dad and my grandmother Ganga died like three minutes apart. That's what time does to you. In reality, Ganga died in 1993 and dad in 1999.

Both of them were cremated. Just about everyone in my family has this "thing" with dead bodies. (I mean an AVERSION, not a fetish. Jeez, this is a post about my family, get your dirty mind out of here.) But no one's aversion could quite measure up to my mom's. She doesn't attend funerals where there will be an open casket. Really, she's not a big fan of the funeral altogether. Who is? But that's a different story. I was so proud of her the day dad died, what, with the entire population of my hometown wanting to come in and see him (or his body, rather.) I can just hear her now, "What IS IT with these people and this need to SEE THE BODY???"

The truth was, his brothers had to travel quite a distance to come see him, and didn't make it in time before he passed. So, leaving the body there for them was something we had to do.

This is where the story gets a little weird.

The chaplain at the hospital was Episcopalian, like us. I think he was a retired priest, actually. I digress. He came in and read the last rites to him as we all stood around The Body. It was nice. After that guy left, the four of us (mom, Holly, Mathew and I) were left standing alone, quietly, around the bed with The Body. This very loud snoring, the kind that was unmistakably my father's snore, fills the room. I would give my left arm to have a snapshot of the looks on our faces as we heard it. Eyes wide open, jaws dropping to the floor. A look of fear in my mom's eyes that I've never seen before. We actually thought, for a split second, that he was with us again. Just popped back alive, just like that. I'm not kidding. Turns out, the guy in ICU next to dad's area (a curtain pull away) had something very distinct in common with my dad... his snore. JUST LIKE HIM.

Alright, so moving on... (I'll spare you the funny story about the fire department chaplain telling us about my dad's last conversation...which was with him. What a whacko.)

So Ganga and dad were both cremated. When Ganga died, I was in high school. Mom took care of everything. Strength like you've never seen before. She took care of all the arrangements, all the planning. She took care of the arrogant, wig-wearing priest when he was being a complete asshole about HIS CHURCH. We went to the funeral home and told George (the funeral home director -- sweetest man alive) that Ganga wanted to be cremated. So he said, "Okay." And he told us how her ashes would arrive via US Mail in a few weeks. Gotta love that US postal service. They deliver, I tell ya.

Ganga's ashes arrived in a plastic bag nestled in a plastic black box with the mailing label on it. We were able to open the box up, and eventually spread the ashes over some flowers (tulips, I believe) that she planted and loved so much. Yeah, we touched the ashes. Held them in our hands, in between our fingers. Some people took little amounts of the ashes and put them away. We don't like dead bodies, but those ashes don't bother us a bit.

Fast forward to September, 1999. The Body has been taken from the snoring ICU room and transported to the funeral home. It's time for us to go take care of the arrangements, and this time, mom is a little weaker than the last time. She's tired. She's given just about all she can give -- talking to people at the hospital, answering the phone, answering the same questions over and over again. She, unfortunately, doesn't do most of the talking at the funeral home. I do. And boy, do I screw it up.

I get this bright idea that we should have TWO boxes of ashes. You know, one to have for the family in my hometown, and the other to send with his brothers back through Louisiana, to be buried with his parents near where he was raised. It all seemed so logical at the time. And I still maintain that it was. Just have the cremators (I guess that's what you call them) separate the ashes FOR you, so you don't have to worry with it. You don't need something like this to worry with when you've got a dozen casseroles at the house to eat.

The box was the issue. I started thinking back to getting Ganga's ashes in that black plastic box and how simple it seemed. So I ask George, "What are our box options, exactly?" He knew what I meant. He pointed to the lovely display of ash boxes (not to be confused with ashtrays) on the credenza on the adjacent wall. There it was. A shiny gold box. I was thinking, "There's got to be an engraving option with that thing."

"We'll take it. Two of them. Split the ashes into two of those gold boxes." We learned our lesson the first time, George, no more plastic black boxes for this family.

This is where the story gets funny. Funny ha-ha, not funny strange. Well, in my family it's funny ha-ha.

To try and make a long story short... we get the ashes. (I'll spare you all the stories about the visitation at the house and the service...) We call Uncle Frank and Uncle James, dad's brothers. They come get the ashes, and ask my brother to accompany them to Louisiana to spread the ashes near my dad's parents' graves. Why they didn't ask Holly or me to go, I'll never understand. A little jealous at the time, a little thankful a few hours later.

So, a few hours later, we get this phone call. I should back up and explain to you how big these Brian boys are. My Uncle James is the biggest. Not big "fat"... but BIG. Tall. Big, strong men. Their mother was over six feet tall. These are not small, wimpy men like my brother (who we all know will grow into his Brian bones one day, God willing.)

So the phone rings. Uncle James or Uncle Frank is on the phone. I can't tell which, really. The Brian boys have something else in common -- heavy Cajun accents behind a half-opened mouth which sounds more like a baby farm animal than a grown man speaking. Mix that with some heavy breathing caused by the fruitless efforts of beating the shit out of The Gold Box to get it opened on a hot summer day.

So I decipher that there is a problem with the box. It won't open. It's indestructible. Impenetrable. They tried banging it up against a tree, hitting it with some baseball bat-like object, they tried running over it with the car. Nothing would open it.

And it was all my bright idea.

So now, it's been almost five years and we've still not spread the ashes. We can't get into those pretty gold boxes. Really, the only option left is to bury them. The boxes. Which, doesn't that defeat the purpose?

All I know is that Dad is sitting wherever one sits when they die (in my mind, it's a big ole recliner in the sky), laughing his ASS off, saying, "What do you think about THAT, Dingbat?" He's loving it.

posted at 4:44 PM


My head has been so far up my ass today that I've not noticed until now that today is my dad's birthday. Was. Shit. I hate that tense issue.

It's all good, though. Because "head up the ass" and "What do you think of THAT, Dingbat?" (see post below) were two of my dad's favorite phrases. He had so many.

Happy birthday, Dad. 64 years it would have been. Man, that's hard to believe.

To my mama, my sistuh, and my brotha -- I love you more than you will ever know.

A quart o' milk.
A loaf o' bread.
A stick o' butta.
A pound o' sugar.

posted at 3:59 PM


I'm having a blonde day. I hope this doesn't offend any of you blondes out there (and you know who you are. I hope you're enjoying the site.) It's a euphemism. You know you like being blonde, so get over it.

Anyway, I've just caught myself saying some really dumb things today. It's really out of character for me. (Shut up, Sam, it is out of character and you know it.)

Example (one of many):
LB: You really should try my tuna fish. You'll like the way I make it. Don't worry. I don't have cooties. Well, that I know of.
VV: (Tasting.) (Liking.)
VV: Yeah, it's good. Although, I like sweet pickle relish in my tuna, not dill.
LB: I like either, really. But all I had was dill. Are you a mayonnaise or Miracle Whip person? (This conversation went on a while, about the "dressing" of the tuna. Basically, we agreed that we both like "lite" mayo. I mean, who wouldn't?)
VV: Sometimes, to give it a kick, I add tartar sauce to it.
LB: Ewwwwww. I don't like tartar sauce on anything but fish.

Yeah, that was a conversation I had with my friend Vincent at lunch. Nice. I'm not proud of it. One might think that my posting it on this web site might communicate to readers that I am proud of it. But I'm not. I just want you all to know that I'm not as perfect as you think I am.

How's that for pride?

Have a lovely Monday, kids.

posted at 3:09 PM

Saturday, June 05, 2004

My Sweet Lily

I took my cat to the vet this morning. I got a card in the mail that it was time for her booster shot. I'm really torn, usually, about giving her injections like that, considering that she's, for the most part, an inside cat. And she's so little, I fear that immunizing her (is that a word?) like that causes more harm than good. But she's been acting kind of strange lately, and I figured it was a good idea to take her in anyway.

I've written about how she is going through the railing of my balcony and walking over to the neighbor's balcony and doing God knows what over there. I think she just likes the adventure, but I've noticed over the past week that when she comes back, she's licking her chops like she does right after she's eaten. Then I started noticing that she's not been eating her food as much. Then I noticed that she upchucked some grass a couple of times last week. She's eating grass of some sort over there, and I needed to know why.

So I took her in. The vet convinced me to give her the booster shot. Of course, as soon as he saw her, he said, "Are we going to have to sedate her this time?" (This always pisses me off. She doesn't like the vet much, gets a little angry while we're there. But good Lord you don't have to SEDATE her. She's my angel.) No sedation needed, I told him. Just check her out and give her the shot and tell me why she's eating the grass.

Well, she's eating the grass, MAYBE to make herself sick. I started thinking, also, and I changed her food a few months ago from her normal Iams to some organic food I bought at Whole Foods. I thought she liked it. She's been eating it. Maybe she's just had enough and wanted the old stuff back. She is, after all, a creature of habit like you've never seen. I thought I'd give changing the food back a try to see if she'll eat any better.

So I stop by the pet store and pick up the Iams (and some of that pet grass, just as a little treat.) I empty the organic food from the bowl and fill it up with the Iams and she goes to town eating.

That's all she wanted. I opened the door to let her go outside, and she didn't even try to go to the neighbor's house. She's basically been telling me, "Change the food back, or I'm finding a new mommy next door." She's been giving me all kinds of signs and I've just not been noticing. I'm a terrible mommy.

So I could have saved a lot of time and money by just getting some new food. I'm sure the injection won't kill her (although I've heard of this happening), I'm sure the Iams is just what she needed. Poor baby.

The worst part was the car ride to the vet. She was crying, and so unhappy. I kept telling her that it was hurting me more than it was hurting her, and that I was doing it for her own good, because I loved her. She didn't want to hear any of that. I don't know how many more times I could have said, "I'm sorry."

Lesson learned: having a real child must be very hard work and heart-wrenching. And, I'm a sucker.

posted at 10:29 AM

Thursday, June 03, 2004

How many times has the YMCA had to use their First Aid kit on members as they're entering the gym, rather than injuries that happen inside the building? I busted my ass on my way inside, and I've got a big hunk of flesh out of my knee to prove it. I knew I should have gone to happy hour instead of the gym...I KNEW IT. Damn.

Ouch. :(

posted at 7:49 PM

Rain, rain, go away...

I'm ready for the sun to come out again. Plus, I left my umbrella somewhere last night and I've got no protection in these storms. I could melt, people.

I love food. That's just about all I can say about that.

I'm not liking my new haircut. I needs something else, but I'm not sure what yet. I am adult enough to admit that I am obsessed with my hair -- the health of it, specifically. And since I refuse to put any kind of styling products in it, I'm pretty confined to having a boring hairstyle.

Yeah, that's all I've got today. Random thoughts. Maybe more later. Maybe something exciting will happen. I've got my review today, after all.. mmuuuuaaahahahahahahhaahaaaaaaa....

posted at 9:03 AM

Wednesday, June 02, 2004

I hate it when people lie. Or when they play games. Or manipulate.

I know that no one really likes these things. I just know that today, they seem to be happening all around me.

posted at 10:54 AM

Tuesday, June 01, 2004

"When Cameron was in Egypt's land...Let my Cameron go..."

This, the Ferris Bueller version, has been in my head for about two weeks. I need to set it free, to let it go.

posted at 1:55 PM

I have friends...
- who I can sit with for hours and not feel pressured to talk to fill the silence.
- who mother me.
- who understand my obsessions with really small, insignificant things.
- who overthink and analyze some small, insignificant things, just like me.
- who love me, even when I don't deserve it.
- who can lift my spirits just by being close to me.
- who love me. And tell me often.
- who never judge, never lecture, never condescend.
- who teach me new things.
- who support me in all my strange endeavors and bad decisions.

With these friends, I can...
- discuss toilet paper usage. You know -- wrap, scrunch, or fold.
- laugh so hard that I cry and disturb the peace in public places.
- talk about which is worse: dry heaving or productive vomiting?
- put my socks in their face after a run, to prove to them that my feet don't stink. And they smell them.
- smell a new deodorant. Under the arms, not in the container.

That's it. I was just thinking of some of those things this morning.

posted at 10:01 AM